Angel Of Death

WASHINGTON
LONDON
1994
TEN

It was raining in Washington, driving in from the river through the late afternoon as the large sedan moved along Constitution Avenue toward the White House. In spite of the weather, there was a sizable crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue, not only tourists but a fair smattering of journalists and TV cameras.

The chauffeur lowered the glass screen that separated him from the rear. “It’s going to be difficult getting at the front without them recognizing you, Senator.”

Patrick Keogh leaned forward. “Let’s try the East Entrance.”

The sedan turned up East Executive Avenue, pulled up at the gate where the guard, recognizing Keogh at once, waved them through. The East Entrance was used frequently by White House staff and by diplomatic visitors who wanted to avoid the attention of the media.

Keogh got out and said to the chauffeur, “Don’t know how long I’ll be on this one,” and went up the steps.

When he got inside he found a Secret Service agent on duty, a young Marine lieutenant in razor-sharp uniform talking to him. The lieutenant snapped to attention. “Good evening, Senator.”

“How did you know I’d use this entrance?”

“I didn’t, Senator. I have a colleague at the front entrance as well.”

Keogh smiled amiably. “Now that’s what I call sound strategic thinking.”

The young man smiled back at him. “If you’ll follow me, Senator, the President’s waiting.”

When they entered the Oval Office, the room was in half-darkness, curtains drawn, most of the light coming from a table lamp on the massive desk and a standard lamp in one corner. It was a room entirely familiar to Keogh with its array of service flags, a room he had visited many times to speak to more than one President. A different one now behind the desk, Bill Clinton, but it was the other occupant of the room, at ease in a wing-back chair, that surprised Keogh. John Major.

“Ah, there you are, Patrick. I appreciate you coming at such short notice,” Clinton said. “I believe you two know each other?”

“Mr. Prime Minister.” Keogh held out his hand as John Major stood up. “A real pleasure.”

“Senator,” John Major said.

“Please be seated, Patrick, and we’ll get to it,” Clinton told him. “By the way, there’s coffee over there if you’d like.”

“I think I would. I’ll help myself,” which Keogh proceeded to do. He finally returned to the desk area and took a spare chair. “Yours to command, Mr. President.”

“I’d like to believe that’s true, and in a way it makes what I’m going to ask you especially difficult.”

Patrick Keogh paused, the cup to his mouth, and then he smiled, that slightly lopsided grin that had always been a personal feature, and his face was suddenly suffused with immense charm.

“Can’t wait, Mr. President. I can tell this is going to be real special.”

“It is, Patrick. In fact, it’s probably more important than anything you’ve been involved in in your entire political life.”

“And what would it be concerned with?”

“ Ireland and the peace process.”

Keogh paused, his face serious, and then he quite deliberately emptied his cup and put it on the small table beside him.

“Please go on, Mr. President.”

“We know how hard you’ve worked behind the scenes with other committed Irish Americans toward achieving peace in Ireland,” John Major said. “And the visits to Ireland of former Congressman Bruce Morrison and his friends have proved a real help in the necessary consultations.”

“It’s nice of you to say so, Prime Minister,” Keogh said. “But it’s no burden. The killing has gone on too long. This thing in Ireland must come to an end. Now what is it you want me to do?”

“We’d like you to go to Ireland for us,” the President said.

“Good God!” Keogh’s head went back and he laughed. “Me go to Ireland? But why?”

“Because, to use that old Irish phrase, you’re one of their own. You’re as Irish as the Kennedy family. Hell, I’ve read about what happened when President Kennedy went there in nineteen sixty-three and visited the old Kennedy farm.” Clinton looked at a paper in front of him. “Dunganstown. You were with him.”

Patrick Keogh nodded. “His great-grandfather left there back in the nineteenth century at the same time mine did to become a cooper in Boston.” He smiled at John Major. “No offense, Prime Minister, but the English didn’t leave large numbers of Irish much option in those days except to get out.”

“True,” John Major said. “In self-defense I’d point out that many came to England and prospered. It’s estimated at least eight million of the English population are Irish or of Irish descent.”

“That’s right,” Keogh said. “But the American tradition is especially strong. You know that year I went to Berlin with Jack Kennedy and he made the famous speech. He challenged the Communist system. He said ‘Ich bin ein Berliner.’ At that moment in time he was the most famous man in the world.”

“Absolutely,” John Major said. “And deservedly so.”

“Then he went to Ireland, to Dublin, and stayed at our Embassy in Phoenix Park. Then Wexford and on to Dunganstown and Mary Kennedy Ryan’s cottage. First cousins, second cousins, every kind of cousin.” Patrick Keogh laughed. “They all turned up, and the crowds. When he visited New Ross, the town shut down, and then he spoke to the Irish Parliament.” Keogh shook his head. “When he left at Shannon Airport, thousands turned out to see him go. Women were crying.”

“I know,” Clinton said. “By the way, the Irish Prime Minister sends his regrets. He’d hoped to be with us, but the peace movement has gathered such momentum in Ireland he just couldn’t leave.”

“I understand,” Keogh said. “So what is it you want me to do?”

Clinton turned to John Major. “Prime Minister?”

“As the President has said, we’d like you to go to Ireland. Let me explain. The peace process has moved very fast. Gerry Adams for Sinn Fein and John Hume have between them started a genuine groundswell toward peace in the communities.”

“Do you believe this to be true of the Protestant Loyalists as well?” Keogh asked.

“Yes, in the generality. The hardliners on both sides will still be a difficulty, and if the IRA do stand down a further problem will be in persuading the other side that it’s genuine, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” John Major smiled. “I call it the Paisley bridge.”

Keogh grinned. “Now that is one hell of a bridge to cross.”

President Clinton said, “But first and foremost, we need a cease-fire from the IRA. Adams and Sinn Fein have tried hard and so have Bruce Morrison and his friends, but it’s a question of persuading the hardliners to agree. It can’t be partial, it must be total. All or nothing.”

“The thing is,” Major said, “there’s the prospect of a secret meeting in Ireland soon, all sections of the IRA getting together, even splinter groups like INLA. Now if you could attend that meeting, throw your weight behind Adams, John Hume, and the peace movement, the effect might be incalculable.”

“Your name means a lot over there,” the President said. “It might just tip the balance.”

Keogh shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Why should they listen to Patrick Keogh? I’ve not been exactly everybody’s cup of coffee for some time now.”

“It’s worth a try, Patrick, don’t put yourself down.” Clinton got up and paced around. “Politics is so often just a game. No one knows that better than the three of us, but now and then – not very often perhaps – but now and then, something comes along that’s worth everything. I think that after twenty-five years of war in Ireland we might just have a chance this time of doing something about it, and I sure as hell would hate to see that chance go.”

There was silence for a moment, Keogh sitting there, frowning, and then he sighed. “I’d find it difficult to argue with that. So how am I going to get in on this meeting?”

“Nothing official,” Clinton said. “Look around this office. You don’t see my National Security Adviser, no CIA presence, no one from the FBI or Justice and State. The Prime Minister and I believe that this should be under wraps until it’s actually happened.”

“And how in the hell do we do that?”

“I’ve given the matter some thought,” Clinton said. “And then the other day I saw something rather interesting in the Washington Post. There was a report that mentioned a stained-glass window of your great-great-uncle, who was a Catholic bishop, and which was recently installed at Drumgoole Abbey. It’s a convent run by the Little Sisters of Pity, I understand.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“This stained-glass window is in a small chapel, the Keogh Chapel. I understand you helped create a foundation to assist in the development of the school the Little Sisters run there?”

“I was fortunate enough to be able to interest a few business associates in the work there.”

“But you’ve not visited the place yet?”

“I will when I can,” Keogh told him.

“Why not now, Patrick?” Clinton said. “Let’s say you go to Paris on holiday. The press won’t get too excited about that. You go via Ireland, put down at Shannon Airport and proceed onwards by helicopter to Drumgoole Abbey, announcing that you want to visit the Chapel.”

“You see the point,” John Major put in. “The press and TV are caught on the hop. You’re on your way before they know it’s happening.”

“That’s right,” Clinton said. “If you turn up, they’ll lay on a service at the abbey, turn out the kids from the boarding school, and wave you off as you fly back to Shannon, only on the way you’ll put down at a place called Ardmore House. That’s where the Sinn Fein and IRA meeting will take place. You’ll do your thing…”

“For good or ill,” Keogh said.

“For good, Patrick, I’m certain of it, then back to Shannon and onwards to Paris.”

Keogh nodded slowly. “Totally secret, the whole thing.”

“Absolutely. You see, the visit to Drumgoole Abbey would take care of any reports of you being sighted at Shannon, provide an explanation. The Mother Superior wouldn’t be told of your visit until you were on the way.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

There was another pause and John Major said gently, “Is there a problem, Senator?”

“Only if this doesn’t stay top secret,” Patrick Keogh said. “I’m aware that the American Ambassador in Dublin has received death threats from hardline Protestant Loyalist groups. I understand she’s been referred to as ‘that Kennedy bitch.’ God knows what they’d call me.”

“Yes, we are very concerned about the other side’s attitude in all this,” John Major said. “But we can’t let that stand in the way of our negotiations.”

“Of course not,” Keogh said. “But if news got out about what I’m supposed to be trying to achieve, there are those on the Orange side of the line who might think it would make sense to remove me permanently from the scene. Let’s face it, the murder of Liam Bell doesn’t exactly fill one with hope.”

Clinton went back to his chair behind the desk and sat down. “God knows, this wouldn’t be a picnic, and we are asking you to put yourself on the line. That’s why I suggest following the procedure I’ve laid out. All very low key. Only a very small circle of people will know.”

“What about the IRA conference? They’ll know.”

John Major said, “Gerry Adams wants things to happen now, no doubt about that. I’m sure we can work something out. For example, what if you were introduced as a total surprise?”

“I like it,” Clinton said. “The shock effect would be tremendous. So what do you think, Patrick?”

“I’m not sure.” Keogh sighed. “I can’t argue with the importance of all this, but you’re asking me to go into the war zone and I’m getting old.” He smiled that wry smile again. “Okay, maybe I’m kind of scared at the prospect, but I do have my family to consider. I would have to consult my wife, and she’s gone down to our house at Hyannis Port. We’re only three miles down the beach from Ted Kennedy.”

“How long do you need?”

“Twenty-four hours?”

John Major said, “I leave at noon tomorrow.”

“Right, I’ll be in touch before then.”

He stood up and Clinton pressed the buzzer for the aide. “I’ve given instructions to the commanding officer at Andrews Air Force Base to grant you every facility. If you want to go to Hyannis Port tonight, they’ll speed you on your way.”

“That’s kind, Mr. President.” Keogh held out his hand to John Major. “Prime Minister. We’ll speak to-morrow.”

The door opened behind him, the Marine lieutenant appeared, and Patrick Keogh turned and went out.

He didn’t even bother to go to his Washington home, simply told his chauffeur to take him to Andrews Air Force Base and spoke to the commanding officer on the car phone to let him know he was coming. On the way he changed his mind and told his chauffeur to divert to Arlington National Cemetery. It was raining harder now, so he took an umbrella his chauffeur provided and walked to President Kennedy’s grave. He stood there for quite some time, lost in thought, and an aging lady who also held an umbrella over her head walked up.

“What a man,” she said. “The greatest President this century.”

“I couldn’t disagree with that,” Keogh said.

“He gave people hope,” she said. “That was his greatest gift, and he had courage. On top of that he was a war hero. Amazing.”

“He certainly was.”

She glanced sideways. “Excuse me, but do I know you? You look familiar.”

Patrick Keogh gave her that immensely charming smile. “No, I don’t think so, I’m nobody special,” and he turned and walked away.

At Andrews they provided a helicopter but pointed out that the Cape Cod area was not good that evening, with heavy fog at Hyannis Port. The best they could offer was a flight to Otis Air Force Base on Cape Cod itself and onward transportation by limousine. He had no quarrel with that and found himself on his way within twenty minutes, drifting out across the Potomac as dusk settled on the horizon.

He tried to read the Washington Post, but his brain refused to take it in. He could think of only one thing, the situation outlined to him by the President and the British Prime Minister. It came to him with sudden clarity that he was faced with the most important decision of his life.

In London it was almost midnight and Dillon was working away at his desk, checking computer printouts. It was very quiet. Suddenly the door opened and Hannah Bernstein entered. She was wearing a raincoat.

“I don’t believe this. I’ve been trying to contact you all night. Why didn’t you have your answerphone on?”

“I hate those bloody things.”

“I then had the crazy thought that you might still be here.”

He ignored her, checking a printout. “So you were right then.” He put the printout down and sat back, swivelling in the seat. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“Carl Jung used to speak about something he called synchronicity, events having an apparent coincidence in time and the feeling that some deeper motivation is involved.”

“And what’s that got to do with January 30?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The ould head’s pounding from it all. All those hits with the Beretta, that’s no coincidence, it’s a fact. Four IRA men stiffed – that’s a fact, no chance there.”

“So?”

He lit a cigarette. “Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Now why, I asked myself, why two, and then good old Bert Gordon gives us the reason for the Silsev and Sharp hit. Drugs.”

“And why was Ashimov killed?”

“I don’t know, but it’s synchronicity that we go to Beirut and find another KGB officer on the make, this time flogging plutonium.”

“You’re not suggesting a connection?”

“Only in that it indicates that the KGB, or whatever they call themselves now, seem to be dipping their fingers into every racket available.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“That there might be a Russian connection somewhere, so I’ve asked the computer to check everything for me as regards the Soviet Embassy in London. Personnel – the lot.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “Any other coincidences you want to check?”

“Strange you should say that, but there is, and for the life of me I can’t think what it is.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you really do need a night’s sleep.”

He stood up and reached for his jacket. “My place or yours?”

“Where shall I kick you, Dillon, just tell me?” she said. “Now come on. I’ll drop you off,” and she led the way out.

When the limousine reached the Hyannis Port house from Otis Air Force Base, Patrick Keogh was tired, and the last few miles through thick fog had been a real strain. The driver, an Air Force Sergeant, declined the offer of a cup of coffee and started back immediately.

Keogh stood there for a moment and suddenly a wind blew in strongly from the sea, tearing the fog into tatters, and he could see the white surf on the edge of the beach. On impulse, he walked down there and stood listening to the waves thundering in, the wind in his face.

A voice called, “Pat, are you there?” It was his wife and he turned and saw her a few yards away, a flashlight in her hand. “Are you all right? Is anything wrong? They phoned me from Otis to say you were on your way. I heard the car.”

He put an arm around her and kissed her. “My head was feeling a little thick. You know what helicopters are. I just felt like a blow. We’ll go in now.”

In the kitchen he poured a little Scotch whisky into a glass and added Branch water while Mary made coffee. A literary agent by profession, she was nobody’s fool, but more than that she was a woman with a woman’s uncanny instinct to sense when things weren’t right.

She poured coffee. “You shouldn’t have this, you won’t sleep.”

“I won’t sleep anyway, not tonight.”

She sat on the opposite side of the table. “Tell me about it, Pat.”

So he did.

When he was finished she said, “It could be a can of worms. They’re asking you to put yourself on the line. Even the IRA can’t control all their people. There are splinter groups, real crazies. Look at those INLA people who killed Mountbatten, and these Protestant Loyalists are just as bad. Ulster Volunteer Force, Ulster Freedom Fighters, then there’s the Red Hand of Ulster. They’re the kind of fanatics who’d kill Queen Elizabeth if they thought it would advance their cause, and they’d still call themselves Loyalists while doing it.” She shook her head. “It’s a mad, crazy world over there. So much killing, so many years of brutality.”

“Which is why it has to stop.” He reached for the coffee pot. “It takes courage to make that decision. By the way, I went to Arlington before I came down. After all, it was Jack Kennedy who got me into politics. I felt close.”

“You always will be.”

“But while we’re on the subject of heroes…” He gave her a wry smile. “Where I’m concerned, some would say I have made a considerable number of errors, but not this time. This time I’m going to stand up and be counted.”

“You’re going to go?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can I go with you?”

“No.”

She sighed. “I see.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, proud of you, actually.”

“Good.” He stood up and reached out a hand. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll fly back to Washington in the morning and inform the President and John Major of my decision.”

It was a fine bright morning with a patchy sky, the Washington streets cleared by the rain, as Keogh’s sedan once again turned into the White House by the East Entrance. When Keogh went in, the Marine lieutenant from the previous evening was waiting.

“Good morning, Senator.”

“Don’t they ever give you any time off?” Keogh asked.

“Seldom, sir.” The young officer smiled. “I’m a fourth-generation Marine, Senator, Path of Duty and all that. If you’ll come this way, the President and the Prime Minister are in the Rose Garden.”

As Keogh joined them, Clinton turned and smiled. “You must have got up early.”

“You could say that, but I wanted to catch you both together before the Prime Minister left.”

“You’re going to go?” Clinton said.

“Yes, I think you can count on that. What kind of time scale are we talking about?”

Clinton turned to John Major, who said, “Quite soon. The next few days. Obviously the Irish Prime Minister must know, and Gerry Adams.”

“We’ll let you know at the soonest possible moment, Patrick,” Clinton told him.

“That’s fine. I’m at your disposal.”

“There is, of course, the question of your personal safety,” Clinton said.

Patrick Keogh smiled wryly. “Mr. President, I’m a big target. Having said that, I don’t take kindly to the idea of a dozen Secret Servicemen surrounding me at all times.”

“But you must have some security.” Clinton was shocked.

“Yes, well maybe we should look to our British cousins for that. They are, after all, the experts where Ireland is concerned.” He turned to John Major. “Wouldn’t you agree, Prime Minister?”

“I’m afraid so,” John Major replied.

“Right, let’s examine the problem. I land at Shannon, helicopter to Drumgoole, drop in at Ardmore House, then back to Shannon. I hardly need the SAS to take care of that. Who would you recommend, MI5?”

“No, as the operation takes place in a foreign country, it would be MI6, Senator.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Keogh said. “Come on, Prime Minister, I’m putting myself on the line, so who have you got? Who’s your best?”

“My best is rather unusual,” John Major said. “What some people call the Prime Minister’s private army. For some years now there has been such a group specifically targeting terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only.”

“I like the sound of that. Are they any good?”

“Extremely good though rather ruthless. The unit is commanded by Brigadier Charles Ferguson.” John Major hesitated. “There is one unusual thing I should tell you. Ferguson ’s right-hand man is called Sean Dillon. He was a feared IRA enforcer for years, then in ninety-one he tried to blow me up at Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting.”

Patrick Keogh laughed his delight. “The dog. And now he’s working for you?”

“And Ireland, in his way. Like most of us, he thinks it’s gone on too long.”

“Good.” Keogh nodded and turned to Clinton. “Mr. President, I’ve agreed to go, but these are my terms. I want Ferguson and this man Dillon taking care of me when I’m there.”

Clinton glanced at Major and the Prime Minister nodded. “No problem.”

“To that end I’d like to meet them as soon as possible. Can you have them over here fast?”

“Would tomorrow suit?” John Major asked and they all started to laugh.

In London, Charles Ferguson sat in his office and listened to the Prime Minister on the secure phone as he crossed the Atlantic.

“Of course, Prime Minister,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

He put the phone down and sat there frowning for a moment. Finally he picked up the internal phone and spoke to Hannah Bernstein. “Get in here and bring Dillon.”

He got up, went to the map wall, fiddled around until he was finally able to pull down a large-scale map of Ireland. He was examining it when Hannah Bernstein and Dillon entered.

“Do you know where Drumgoole Abbey is?” Ferguson asked Dillon.

“And what decent Catholic doesn’t?” Dillon moved beside him and pointed. “Have you taken to religion, Brigadier? Little Sisters of Pity there. Very holy.”

Ferguson ignored him. “ Ardmore House.”

Dillon frowned slightly. “Naughty, Brigadier, very naughty. The Provisional IRA have been known to meet there on more than one occasion.”

“And will again, only this time they’ll have a special guest whose welfare we’ll be responsible for.”

“May I ask who that might be, sir?” Hannah Bernstein inquired.

“Of course you may, my dear. It’s Senator Patrick Keogh,” he told her.