Читать книгу The White House Connection - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 11

At the Ministry of Defence, Hannah Bernstein’s efforts at trawling the computer proved useless. She even tried Dublin and British Army Headquarters at Lisburn, in Northern Ireland, but nothing. So, the matter was shelved. Ryan’s death was a seven-day wonder; the newspapers spoke of rivalry between gangs in the East End and other parts of London. No one at Scotland Yard was shedding tears, underworld contacts proved useless, the case was shelved. Left open, of course, but shelved.

At Compton Place, Helen ate well, took long walks and got plenty of fresh air. She also practised at the pistol shooting range in the old barn, a reluctant Hedley giving her the benefit of his expertise. She had never realized how good he was until one afternoon, after supervising her, he picked up a Browning, one of many handguns her husband had accumulated over the years, and loaded it. There were seven cardboard targets at the far end of the barn, each a facsimile of a charging Chinese soldier, a legacy of the old colonel’s time in the Korean War.

‘I want you to watch.’

He was about thirty feet away. His hand swung, he fired rapidly and shot each target through the head. She was amazed and showed it as the sound died away.

‘Incredible.’

‘But I’m a trained soldier. Now, you, you’re good, but handguns are unreliable unless you get close.’

‘How close?’

He slammed a fresh clip into the butt of the Browning and handed it to her. ‘Come with me.’ He led her to the large centre target. ‘Right, put it against his heart and pull the trigger.’ She did as he ordered. ‘Now you get it, that close.’

‘I was about twelve feet away from Ryan.’

‘Sure, but you could have missed and he might have got you.’

‘All right, but I’d still like to return to the table and try again from there.’

‘Be my guest.’ The mobile phone on the table rang.

He opened it and passed it to her and she said, ‘Helen Lang.’ After a while, she nodded. ‘My thanks. I’m so sorry.’ She closed the phone and looked at Hedley. ‘Tony Emsworth just died.’

‘That’s a shame. When is the funeral?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Are we going?’

‘Of course.’ She was calm, but there was pain in her eyes. ‘I’ve had enough, Hedley. I think I’ll go back inside,’ and she walked away.

It was a fine sunny morning for the funeral at Stukeley. As it was no more than an hour’s drive from London, the church was full and Helen Lang, sitting on one side of the aisle, was almost amused to find Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Dillon on the other. On her way out, she paused to shake hands with Tony Emsworth’s nephew and his wife, who had organized things.

‘So nice of you to come, Lady Helen,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve arranged a reception at the Country Hotel just outside the village. Do come.’

Which she did. The hotel lounge was crowded. She accepted a glass of indifferent champagne and then Charles Ferguson saw her and barrelled through the crowd.

‘My dear Helen.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘My God, you still look fifty and that’s on a bad day. How do you do it?’

‘You were always a charmer, Charles, a glib charmer, but a charmer.’ She turned to Hannah at his shoulder. ‘Beware of this one, my dear. I remember when he had an affair with the Uruguayan Ambassador’s wife, and her husband challenged him to a duel.’

‘Now, Helen, that’s very naughty. This gorgeous creature is my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and this Irish rogue is one Sean Dillon, who knew Tony quite well. Lady Helen Lang.’

Dillon wore an easy-fitting Armani suit of navy blue. Helen Lang took to him at once as they shook hands. At that moment, someone called to Ferguson, who turned and moved away. Dillon and Hannah went with him.

Ferguson said hello to the man who’d called him and Dillon pulled him around. ‘Lady Lang, who is she?’

‘Oh, I soldiered with her husband in Korea. Her son, Major Peter Lang, was Scots Guards and SAS. One of our best undercover agents in you-know-where. Someone in the IRA got on to him the other year and blew him up. Car bomb.’

Hannah Bernstein was talking to someone and Ferguson was hailed again. Suddenly, it was all too much for Helen Lang and, slightly breathless, she went out on to the terrace in the February sunshine. Dillon saw her go. There was something about her, something he couldn’t define, so he went after her.

She was at the terrace balustrade tossing a couple of pills back when Dillon arrived. ‘Can I get you a glass of champagne?’

‘Frankly, I’d rather have whisky.’

‘Well, I’m your man. Will Irish do?’

‘Why not?’

He was back in a few moments with two glasses. She put hers down, got out her silver case and held it out. ‘Do you indulge?’

‘Jesus, but you’re a wonderful woman.’ His old Zippo flared and he gave her a light.

‘Do you mind if I say something, Mr Dillon?’ she said. ‘You’re wearing a Guards tie.’

‘Ah, well, I like to keep old Ferguson happy.’

She took a chance. ‘I should mention that I know about you, Mr Dillon. My old friend Tony Emsworth told me everything, and for very special reasons.’

‘Your son, Lady Helen.’ Dillon nodded. ‘I’m surprised you’d speak to me.’

‘I believe war should still have rules, and from what Tony told me, you were an honourable man, however ruthless and, may I say, misguided.’

‘I stand corrected.’

He bowed his head in mock humility. She said, ‘You rogue. You can get me that champagne now, only make sure they open a decent bottle.’

‘At your command.’

He joined Ferguson at the bar. ‘Lady Helen,’ he said. ‘Quite a woman.’

‘And then some.’

The barman poured the champagne into two glasses. ‘There’s something about her, something special. Can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Don’t try, Dillon,’ Ferguson told him. ‘She’s far too good for you.’

It was a week later that they flew from Gatwick to New York in one of her company’s Gulfstreams, and stayed at the Plaza. By that time, she knew the file backwards, every facet of every individual in it, and had also used every facility available in the company’s computer. She had the Colt .25 with her. In all her years flying in the Gulfstreams, she had never been checked by security once.

She knew everything. For example, that Martin Brady, the Teamsters’ Union official, attended a union gym near the New York docks three times a week, and usually left around ten in the evening. Hedley took her to a place a block away, then she walked. Brady had a red Mercedes, a distinctive automobile. She waited in an alley next to where he had parked it, and slipped out only to shoot him in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the Mercedes.

That had been Hedley’s suggestion. He’d heard that the mob preferred such executions with a small calibre pistol, usually a .22, but a .25 would do, and this would make the police think they had a mob-versus-union problem.

Thomas Cassidy, with a fortune in Irish theme pubs, was easy. He’d recently opened a new place in the Bronx and parked in an alley at the rear. She checked it out two nights running and got him on the third, at one in the morning, once again as he unlocked his car. According to The New York Times, there had been a protection racket operating in the area and the police thought Cassidy a victim. She’d known about all that and his complaints to the police from the computer.

Patrick Kelly, the boss of the construction firm, was even easier. He had a house in Ossining, with countryside all around. His habit was to rise at six in the morning and run five miles. She checked out his usual route, then caught him on the third morning, running with the hood of his track suit up against heavy rain. She stood under a tree as he approached, shot him twice in the heart, then removed the gold Rolex watch from his wrist and the chain from around his neck, again at Hedley’s suggestion. A simple mugging, was all.

So, everything worked perfectly. She hadn’t needed the pills as much, and Hedley, in spite of his doubts, had proved a rock. Am I truly wicked, she would ask herself, really evil? And then recalled reading that in Judaism, Jehovah was not personally responsible for many actions. He employed angels, an Angel of Death, for example.

Is that me? she asked herself. But needing justice, she could not be sorry. So she continued until that rainy night in Manhattan, when she waited for Senator Michael Cohan to come home from the Pierre and was sidetracked.

At the same time that Helen Lang was returning to the Plaza, consoling herself with the thought that she would get Cohan in London, other events were taking place there that would prove to have a profound influence not only on her, but on others she already knew.

A few hours after Lady Helen went to bed, Hannah Bernstein entered Charles Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defence, Dillon behind her.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’ve got a hot one.’

‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘Tell me.’

She nodded to Dillon, who said, ‘There’s an old mate of mine, Tommy McGuire, Irish-American. Been into arms dealing for years. He was caught with a defective brake light in Kilburn last night, and a rather keen young woman probationer insisted on checking the boot of his car.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘Fifty pounds of Semtex and two AK47s.’

‘How delicious,’ Ferguson replied. ‘With his record, which I’m sure he has, that should draw ten years.’

‘Except for one thing,’ Hannah told him. ‘He says he wants a deal.’

‘Really.’

‘He says he can give us Jack Barry,’ Dillon told him.

Ferguson went very still, frowning. ‘Where is McGuire?’

‘Wandsworth,’ Hannah said, naming one of London’s bleaker prisons.

‘Then let’s go and see what he has to say,’ and Charles Ferguson stood up.

Wandsworth Prison was one of the toughest in the country, what was known as a hard nick. Ferguson saw the governor and served him with the kind of warrant that made that good man sit up. No one was to see McGuire except those designated by Ferguson, not even Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist section, and certainly not anybody from Military Intelligence in Northern Ireland or the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Any deviation from such a ruling could have sent the governor himself to prison for breaching the Official Secrets Act.

Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Dillon waited in an interview room and a prison officer delivered McGuire and withdrew on Ferguson’s nod. McGuire almost had a fit when he saw Dillon.

‘Jesus, Sean, it’s you.’

‘As ever was.’ Dillon offered him a cigarette and said to the others, ‘Tommy and I go back a long way. Beirut, Sicily, Paris.’

‘IRA, of course,’ Ferguson said.

‘Not really. Tommy was never one for direct action, but if there was a pound or two in it, he could get you anything. Automatic weapons, Semtex, rocket launchers. Got away with a lot because of his Yank passport and the fact that he always acted as an agent for foreign arms firms. German, French.’ He gave McGuire a light. ‘Still fronting for old Jobert out of Marseilles, but then you would. He has the Union Corse protecting him.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Worse than the Mafia, that lot.’

‘I know who they are, Dillon.’ She looked at McGuire with total contempt. ‘Two AK47s and fifty pounds of Semtex were found in your car last night. Samples, I presume? Who were you going to see?’

‘No, you’ve got it wrong,’ McGuire told her. ‘I mean, I didn’t know they were there. I was told there would be a car waiting for me at Heathrow when I got in. The key under the mat. It must have been a setup.’

Ferguson said coldly, ‘We’ll leave now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ McGuire said. ‘You were right about the stuff in the car being samples. They were from Jobert to Tim Pat Ryan. When I flew in, I phoned to arrange the meet and discovered he was dead.’

‘Indeed he is,’ Ferguson said. ‘But there was some mention of Jack Barry.’

McGuire hesitated. ‘Barry used Tim Pat Ryan as a front man in London. It was Ryan who fixed things up. I can give you Jack Barry. I swear it. Just listen.’

‘Get on with it, then.’

Hannah said, ‘So you know Jack Barry?’

‘No. I’ve never met him.’

‘Then why are you wasting our time?’

‘Let me,’ Dillon said and offered McGuire another cigarette. ‘You’ve never met Jack Barry? That’s good, because I have, and he’d cut your balls off for fun if you crossed him. Let me speculate. Jack inherited the Sons of Erin from dear old Frank Barry, alas no longer with us. The Sons of Erin would kill the Pope, which isn’t surprising as our Jack is one of the few Protestants in the IRA. However, he’s had a falling-out with Dublin, Sinn Fein and the peace process. Probably thinks they’re a bunch of old women.’

‘So I hear.’

‘So let me speculate again. His source of arms from Dublin has dried up. However, there’s family money in his background, he’s rich in his own right, so he’s dealing direct with Jobert. Semtex, guns, whatever, and you’re the middle man. Ryan was in London, but, alas, no more.’

‘That’s right,’ McGuire said eagerly. ‘I’m supposed to meet Barry in Belfast in three days.’

‘Really?’ Ferguson said. ‘Where exactly?’

‘I’m to book in at the Europa Hotel and wait. He’ll send for me when he’s ready.’

‘Send for you where?’ Hannah Bernstein asked.

‘How the hell would I know? I’ve already told you, I’ve never even met the guy.’

The room went very still. Ferguson said, ‘Is that really true?’

‘Of course it is.’

Ferguson stood up. ‘Serve the warrant on the prison governor, Chief Inspector. Deliver the prisoner to the Holland Park safe house.’

She pressed the bell and the prison officer entered. ‘Take him back to his cell and get him ready to leave.’

McGuire said, ‘Have we got a deal?’ but the prison officer was already hauling him out.

Dillon said, ‘Are you thinking what I am, you old bugger?’

‘You must admit it would be a wonderful sting,’ the Brigadier said. ‘When is McGuire not McGuire? This could lead us directly to Barry and, oh, how I’d love to lay hands on that one.’

‘There is one thing, sir,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘McGuire is an American and it’s too easy to spot a phoney American accent. Who are we going to get to play him? We need someone who can pass as American and who can handle himself.’

Ferguson said, ‘That’s a good point. In fact, it would seem to me there’s an American dimension to all this. I mean, the President wouldn’t be too happy to find out in the middle of peace negotiations for Ireland that there was an American citizen trying to sell arms to one of the worst terrorists in the business.’

Dillon, devious as usual, was ahead of him. ‘Are you suggesting that I speak to Blake Johnson?’

It was Hannah who said, ‘Well, that’s what the Basement is for, sir.’

‘Who knows?’ Dillon said. ‘Blake might feel like a holiday in Ireland. Who better to play an American than an American – especially one who can shoot a fly at twenty paces?’

‘Sometimes you really do get it right, Dillon.’ Ferguson smiled. ‘Now let’s get out of this dreadful place.’

Blake Johnson was still a handsome man at fifty, and looked younger. A Marine at nineteen, he’d left Vietnam with a Silver Star, a Vietnamese Cross of Valor and two Purple Hearts. A law degree at the University of Georgia had taken him into the FBI. When President Jake Cazalet had been a Senator and subject to right-wing threats, Blake had managed to get to him when a police escort had lost him, shot two men trying to assassinate him, and taken a bullet himself.

It had led to a special relationship with the man who became President, and an appointment as Director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, a cloak for the President’s private investigation squad, the Basement. Already during the present administration, Johnson had proved his worth, had engaged in a number of black operations, some of which had involved Ferguson and Dillon.

It was hot that afternoon, when Blake arrived at the Oval Office and found the President signing papers with his chief of staff, Henry Thornton. Blake liked Thornton, which was a good thing, because Thornton basically ran the place. It was his job to make sure the White House ran smoothly, that the President’s programmes were advancing through Congress, that the President’s image was protected. The pay was no big deal, but it was the ultimate prestige job. Besides, Thornton had enough money from running the family law firm in New York before joining the President in Washington.

Thornton was one of the few men who knew the true purpose of the Basement. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hey, Blake, you look thoughtful.’

‘As well I might,’ Blake said.

Cazalet sat back. ‘Bad?’

‘Let’s say tricky. I’ve had an interesting conversation with Charles Ferguson.’

‘Okay, Blake, let’s hear the worst.’

When Blake was finished, the President was frowning and so was Thornton. Cazalet said, ‘Are you seriously suggesting you go to Belfast, impersonate this McGuire and try to take Barry on his own turf?’

Blake smiled. ‘I haven’t had a vacation for a while, Mr President, and it would be nice to see Dillon again.’

‘Dear God, Blake, no one admires Dillon more than I do. The service you and he did for me – rescuing my daughter from those terrorists – I’ll never forget that. But this? You’re going into the war zone.’

Thornton said, ‘Think about it, Blake. You’d be going into harm’s way and is it really necessary?’

Blake said, ‘Gentlemen, we’ve worked our rocks off for peace in Northern Ireland. Sinn Fein have tried, the Loyalists have talked, but again and again it’s these terrorist splinter groups on both sides who keep things going. This man, Jack Barry, is a bad one. I must remind you, Mr President, that he is also an American citizen, a serving officer in Vietnam who was eased out for offences that can only be described as murder. He’s been a butcher for years, and he’s our responsibility as much as theirs. I say take him out.’

Jake Cazalet was smiling. He looked up at Thornton, who was smiling too.

‘You obviously feel strongly about this, Blake.’

‘I sure as hell do, Mr President.’

‘Then try and come back in one piece. It would seriously inconvenience me to lose you.’

‘Oh, I’d hate to do that, Mr President.’

In London in his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson put down the red secure phone and touched the intercom button.

‘Come in.’

A moment later, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein entered.

‘I’ve spoken to Blake Johnson. He’ll be at the Europa Hotel the day after tomorrow, booked in as Tommy McGuire. You two will join him.’

‘What kind of backup will we have, sir?’ Hannah asked.

‘You’re the backup, Chief Inspector. I don’t want the RUC in this or Army Intelligence from Lisburn. Even the cleaning women are nationalists there. Leaks all over the place. You, Dillon and Blake Johnson must handle it. You only need one pair of handcuffs for Barry.’

It was Dillon who said, ‘Consider it done, Brigadier.’

‘Can you guarantee that?’

‘As the coffin lid closing.’