Dead Halt

Chapter Eight

“A penny for them.”

Fiona looked around at Mullen who had entered the lounge silently behind her. “It’s nothing.”

Mullen crossed to the window and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Hey, since when do we have any secrets from each other?”

“It’s hardly a secret. I was just thinking that, under different circumstances, this could have been a pretty romantic setting. A chalet in the Swiss Alps with a blizzard raging outside. All that’s missing is the bearskin rug and a bottle of vintage champagne.”

“And Sean,” Mullen added softly.

She stared thoughtfully into the darkness beyond the window then ducked out from under Mullen’s arm and went to the hearth to toss another log onto the open fire. “Dom did well to get this chalet for us at such short notice. Nobody’s going to find this place in these conditions. And, according to the weather forecast, the blizzard’s here for the night.”

Mullen sat down in front of the fire and held out his hands toward the flames. “We got here just in time. Another ten minutes and I’d have had to put down somewhere on the mountain.”

“You were fantastic up there tonight,” Fiona said, sitting in the armchair opposite him. “I still don’t know how you managed to keep the chopper steady in those crosswinds.”

“Frankly, neither do I,” Mullen replied, pouring himself a small brandy from the bottle on the table beside him. “The winds can get pretty strong at times along the Irish coast but they’re nothing compared to the conditions we experienced out there tonight. But at least the blizzard held off until we’d put down here. If the storm had set in half an hour earlier we’d have had to abort the operation. Controlling a chopper in high winds is one thing but being caught in a blizzard is another matter altogether.”

“What are you going to do about the chopper?”

Mullen took a sip of the brandy. “Leave it out there. It’s probably half submerged in the snow by now. By the time it’s spotted from the air we’ll be long gone. And it’s clean so there’s nothing to tie us in with McGuire.”

The door opened and Kerrigan entered the room, towelling his wet hair. It was obvious that he had been drinking. He tossed the towel aside then pulled up the third armchair and sat down. “Ah, that’s better. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a bath so much in my life. I feel almost human again.”

“Brandy?” Mullen asked, holding up the bottle.

“Make it a double,” Kerrigan said, running his hand through his hair.

Mullen handed the glass to Kerrigan then raised his own glass toward Fiona. “You certainly put on quite a show out there tonight. But then you always were one of the best shots in the organization.”

Fiona touched her coffee mug against Mullen’s glass. She had been a teetotaler since leaving university. “We all did well tonight. It was always going to be a difficult operation even without the added problems of the adverse weather conditions. But we pulled it off without a hitch. I know the Army Council will be pleased with the results.” She raised her mug toward Kerrigan. “Good work, Liam.”

“Sure,” Kerrigan snorted. “Working the goddamn spotlight. Big deal.”

“That was an important part–”

“Don’t patronize me.” Kerrigan cut angrily across her words. “It’s done, let’s leave it at that. Hugh, give me another drink. To hell with it, give me the bottle. I’ll pour it myself.”

“You’ve already got a bottle. There were two bottles on the table when we arrived. Now there’s only one. I haven’t taken the other bottle and Fiona doesn’t drink. That leaves you.”

“A brilliant deduction, Holmes,” Kerrigan snarled, rising to his feet and hurling the empty glass angrily into the fire. “I didn’t realize I had to ask your permission whenever I wanted a drink.”

Mullen eyed Kerrigan contemptuously. “Look at you. We haven’t even been here an hour and already you’re pissed.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Kerrigan shot back sarcastically. “You’re always bitching about my drinking but you’ve never tried to stop me, have you? You’re all mouth, Hugh. And that’s all you ever will be. You don’t have the guts to stand up to me, do you? Well, do you?”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mullen said, getting to his feet.

“That’s enough!” Fiona snapped. “Sit down and stop acting like a couple of adolescent kids.”

Mullen’s eyes flickered toward Fiona. He knew she was right. But he was damned if he was going to be humiliated by Kerrigan. Not in front of her.

“Hugh, sit down!” she commanded, stressing each word in turn.

Mullen exhaled sharply then slowly sat down again, his eyes fixed on Kerrigan’s face.

“Liam, you too.”

“I’ve taken my last order from you,” Kerrigan said to her, his eyes blazing. “The operation’s over and I’ll do as I please from now on.”

“Really?” she replied contemptuously. “I remember the last time you crossed me. You didn’t come out of it very well, did you?”

“You caught me by surprise,” Kerrigan retorted defensively. “I promise you it won’t happen again.”

“You’re right, it won’t,” she replied, then slipped her hand under the cushion behind her and withdrew a Colt .45, one of the pistols included in the consignment which had been delivered to Lynch’s house earlier that evening. She levelled it at Kerrigan. “I don’t want to see your face again until we leave in the morning. Now get out.”

Kerrigan looked from the pistol in her hand to the cold aloofness in her eyes. “You’d kill me too, wouldn’t you?”

Fiona said nothing.

Kerrigan stormed out of the room, slamming the door angrily behind him.

“He’ll be back,” Mullen said, staring at the door.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? You humiliated him, Fiona. Nobody does that to Liam, especially not when he’s had a drink.”

“What should I have done? Let him beat the hell out of you?”

“Your faith in me’s really touching,” Mullen replied, stung by her words.

“Come off it, Hugh. You’re no street fighter. He could have taken us both on and still won. He was right about me catching him by surprise at the boarding house. But you can bet he’s learnt from that.”

“This is turning out to be some night,” Mullen said, pouring himself another drink.

“We’ve still got the edge. I’m armed. All the other weapons are still in the helicopter. He couldn’t get to them even if he wanted to. Not in these conditions. No, I don’t think he’ll trouble us again tonight.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So do I, for his sake,” Fiona replied, picking up her mug and drinking down the remainder of the coffee.

“For his sake?” Mullen repeated.

“If he sets foot in my room tonight I’ll kill him.”

Mullen felt a shiver run down his back. He drank the brandy but checked himself as he was about to refill the glass. He had the feeling he was going to need a clear head for whatever lay ahead that night. He only wished he knew what to expect …

Mullen woke suddenly. The light was still on. The dog-eared paperback he had been reading was lying on the floor by the bed. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He looked at his watch. It was almost two a.m. He’d only been asleep for a couple of hours. He swung his legs off the bed, rubbed his eyes sleepily, then stood up. What had woken him? Had someone banged on the door? He crossed to the door and opened it. The hall was deserted.

Then he heard a noise. It had come from somewhere outside the chalet. Fear gripped him. What if it was the police? But how could they have found them? He switched off the light then moved cautiously to the window. Tweaking back one of the curtains, he peered out into the darkness. The blizzard was over. Everything was still. Then he saw it. A single beam of torchlight coming from beyond the pinetrees in the exact spot where he had left the helicopter. It had to be the police. Was the chalet already surrounded? Suddenly the beam swung around toward the chalet. He pressed himself against the wall, his face only inches away from the window, as he peered tentatively toward the light. A hunched figure was moving slowly toward the chalet, the beam shifting unsteadily with every jarring step. Mullen felt a brief surge of relief. Surely the police would have been on skis for easier mobility: it had to be either Fiona or Kerrigan out there. The silhouette’s build suggested Kerrigan and Mullen felt a renewed sense of alarm. Why would Kerrigan have gone out to the helicopter unless to arm himself? He let the curtain fall back into place and hurried out into the hall. The front door opened and Kerrigan entered, his head still bowed against the biting wind. He was carrying an AK-47 in his gloved hand.

“What the hell’s that for?” Mullen snapped.

Kerrigan went into the lounge without answering him. When Mullen entered the room he found Kerrigan standing in front of the fire. The AK-47 was now propped against the wall. Kerrigan peeled off his leather gloves then crouched down in front of the fire and extended his hands toward the flames. “Dom and Ingrid are dead.”

“What?” Mullen said in disbelief.

“You heard,” Kerrigan snapped.

“You’re still drunk, Liam. Go and sleep it off.”

“I’m not drunk,” Kerrigan replied, looking around at Mullen.

Mullen had to admit that Kerrigan didn’t seem drunk, but he did look agitated. Very agitated.

“I couldn’t sleep so I came through here to watch a bit of telly,” Kerrigan continued. “The news came on. And one of the reports was about Dom and Ingrid. They’re dead, Hugh. Dead.”

“And I suppose the news was conveniently in English. Or perhaps you just happened to have the necessary phrase book handy to translate the report?”

“I didn’t need any damn phrase book!” Kerrigan snarled. “A picture of Dom and Ingrid came up on the screen. It was one of the snaps you took at their wedding reception. Then there was a live report from outside the house. Christ, man, the reporter was standing almost exactly where you parked the car. As he was talking two bodies were brought out on stretchers from the house behind him. And the sheets were pulled up over their faces. In my book, that means you’re dead. And I know who killed them.”

Mullen sat down slowly and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “Dom and Ingrid dead? God, no.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I know who killed them. Fiona.”

“What are you talking about?” Mullen snapped back. “She was with us all the time.”

“Oh no she wasn’t. She stayed behind when we went out to the car. Remember?”

“And how was she supposed to have killed them? All the guns were in the boot of the car. Remember?”

“She killed them. Who else could have done it?”

“You don’t have a shred of evidence–”

“I may not have the evidence, but I know why she did it,” Kerrigan cut in. “Dom told me confidentially that he was going to call the Army Council and tell them he thought she was cracking under the pressure of being in charge of the operation. They would have listened to him. And that would have put paid to her chances of running a cell of her own one day. She obviously found out somehow and that’s why she had to silence him. It’s the only logical explanation. But I’m damned if I’m going to let that bitch talk her way out of this when she gets back home. Because she will. The Army Council think she’s so bloody great, they’d believe anything she tells them. I’m not going to let her get away with it. Not this time.”

“I’ve always known you despised her but even I didn’t think you could sink this low. God, you disgust me. I know Dom would never have plotted against her like that. He loved her as if she were his own sister. If he’d had something on his mind, he’d have confronted her with it. I can’t believe you could say something like that with Dom only hours dead. You’re sick, Liam. This obsession’s going to destroy you.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about obsession,” Kerrigan snorted contemptuously. “What about your obsession with Fiona? You’ve wanted her since you first laid eyes on her. But you don’t have Sean’s good looks and quick wit so she was never interested in you. So instead you’ve tagged along behind her like a little puppy, believing all that crap she fed you about you being her confidant and best friend. If you want her so badly why don’t you just ask her her price? Every whore has a price.”

Kerrigan sidestepped Mullen’s lunging punch and brought his elbow up sharply into the small of Mullen’s back, propelling him face first into the wall. He followed through with two vicious kidney punches which left Mullen on his knees, gasping for breath. Kerrigan was turning to get the AK-47 when he saw Fiona standing in the doorway, the Colt .45 in her hand.

“Don’t even think it,” she said menacingly. “Now step away from the gun. Slowly.”

Fiona noticed Kerrigan’s eyes flicker toward the AK-47. She knew he was wondering whether he could get to it before she pulled the trigger. But she was a good shot. One of the best. No, he wouldn’t risk it. He stepped away from the AK-47, his hands half raised in the air. She glanced across at Mullen. He was doubled over on the floor with his back to them, still struggling to catch his breath. Perfect. She smiled coldly then shot Kerrigan in the chest. He was punched back against the wall and was still raising his head to look at her when she shot him again, this time through the heart. His body slid lifelessly to the floor, the disbelief still mirrored in his sightless eyes. She kicked the AK-47 away from his outstretched hand and checked for a pulse.

Mullen struggled to his feet, his face still twisted in pain. “Is he dead?”

She nodded slowly then slumped into the armchair behind her. “I told him to get away from the gun. But he wouldn’t move. He just stood there. Then he made a grab for it. I had to shoot him, Hugh. I had no choice. You must understand that.”

Mullen took the Colt from her fingers, placed it on the table and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “I heard you tell him to get away from the gun. You gave him every chance. If you hadn’t shot him he’d have killed us both.”

She sat back and closed her eyes tightly. “Sean’s going to be devastated. He and Liam were really close.”

“That wasn’t the Liam Sean knew. He hasn’t been himself these last few days. And tonight’s news finally sent him over the edge. You heard what happened?”

She nodded. “I could hear the two of you from my bedroom. Do you really think Dom and Ingrid are dead?”

“Liam seemed very sure of his facts,” Mullen replied softly.

“Oh God.” She rubbed her moist eyes then suddenly looked Mullen in the face. “You don’t think I–”

“I know you didn’t kill them,” Mullen replied quickly.

“I heard Liam say something about Dom calling the Army Council. I didn’t catch everything he said though.”

Mullen told her.

“Why would he do that? If Dom had something on his mind, he’d have talked it out with me. He’s always done that–” She trailed off and swallowed quickly. “He always did that with me in the past.”

“No, I don’t think he would have called the Army Council either. It was Liam’s last attempt to try and turn me against you.”

“The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“Agreed. What are we going to do about Liam?”

“Leave him here,” she replied. “If we tried to bury the body the disturbed snow would be seen from the air. And if whoever did kill Dom and Ingrid are after us as well, then we don’t want to encourage them to find this place in a hurry. Certainly not until we’ve got a chance to report back to the Army Council. Then at least they can investigate the matter more fully.”

“What are you going to tell them about Liam?” Mullen asked.

“The truth. What else can I do? I only hope they believe me. He was a valued member of the organization.”

“I’ll back you up, you know that.”

“You’re a good friend, Hugh. Thanks for always being there for me.”

“That’s what friends are for.” Mullen moved to the door. “I know I’m not going to get to sleep for a while. You want a coffee?”

She nodded. “Please. But not in here.”

“I’ll take it through to my room,” Mullen replied as he went off to the kitchen.

Fiona slumped back in the chair and cast a sidelong look at Kerrigan’s body. A job well done. She had known she would have to kill him as soon as she’d overheard him talking to Lynch the previous afternoon. But she had still needed him to help kill McGuire. After that, he was as good as dead. She couldn’t let him report back to the Army Council about the conversation he’d had with Lynch. It would have been too risky. She suddenly remembered what Kerrigan had said about Mullen being infatuated with her. But then she’d known that for years. Kerrigan had been right, she did feed Mullen crap about him being her confidant and best friend. But it kept him happy. It made him feel wanted. A little puppy, following her wherever she went. She smiled to herself. Well, as long as he followed her for just a little bit longer. Then, like Kerrigan, he would become expendable. And when that time did come, she certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about killing him either …

Maurice Palmer replaced the receiver then got to his feet and left his study, closing the door behind him. He was a tall, angular man in his early fifties who had been commander of Scotland Yard’s elite anti-terrorist squad for the past four years.

His wife, Sheila, looked up from the Times crossword she was doing when he entered the lounge. Her eyes followed him as he crossed to the drinks tray and poured himself a small Scotch. Although he didn’t show it, she knew he was agitated. It was the only time he would take a drink. He sat down in his favorite armchair and held the glass between the palms of his hands, his eyes fixed on an imaginary spot on the wall above her head. She never questioned him about his work. And he never ventured anything. But she still worried whenever he was troubled. And she had done a lot of worrying in thirty-two years of marriage …

“Finished?” he asked suddenly, indicating the newspaper in her lap.

“No, there’s a couple of stinkers I can’t begin to fathom out,” she replied, shaking her head in frustration. “You might be able to make something out of them. I know I can’t.”

He held up his hand when she extended the newspaper toward him. “I wouldn’t be much use to you tonight. My mind’s elsewhere.”

“So I noticed,” she said, glancing toward the glass still clenched between the palms of his hands.

“You should have been the detective, not me,” he said with a smile and placed the glass carefully on the table beside him.

“Why don’t you go for a walk?” she asked. “You know it helps you think.”

“No, I need to stay by the phone.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Two minutes to ten. He used the remote control to activate the television in the corner of the room. He always watched ITV’s “News at Ten.” Sheila Palmer folded the newspaper over, placed it on the carpet beside the chair and turned her attention to the screen.

The telephone rang and Palmer rose quickly to his feet to answer it.

“Good evening, Commander. It’s Sergei Kolchinsky. Can we talk?”

“Not on this line. I’ll transfer the call to my scrambler line.” Palmer pressed a button on the telephone, replaced the handset, then went through to the study and picked up the receiver on his desk. “We can talk now, Mr. Kolchinsky.”

“Good.”

“I’ve been expecting your call ever since I received the report on what happened in Switzerland earlier tonight.”

“So you’ve been fully briefed?” Kolchinsky asked.

“Yes, Keith Eastman called me twenty minutes ago.”

“Then you’ll know that one of my operatives was injured in the fiasco,” Kolchinsky said angrily.

“Keith told me. How is she?”

“She needed seven stitches to a gash on her neck. She’s being kept in hospital overnight for observation. She was lucky by all accounts. The doctor treating her said that had the projectile struck her on the head and not on her neck, it could have been fatal.”

“I’m just glad she’s all right.”

“Michael Graham was absolutely livid when he phoned his report through to me earlier this evening. And he has every right to be. This is now the third time that the IRA have been quicker to the draw than us. In the first two instances there was an element of doubt over the IRA’s source of information. It’s possible that Graham could have been overheard talking to Roche in the bar. And they could have fled the boarding house after seeing the pictures of Mullen and Kerrigan on the front page of the morning newspaper. But after tonight, it all falls into place. You have a mole in your organization, Commander. And it’s either Keith Eastman or John Marsh.”

“Or one of your operatives,” Palmer shot back.

“Michael and Sabrina were only given the address of the chalet once they touched down in Zurich,” Kolchinsky was quick to reply. “And as Michael pointed out, all they needed to know in London was that McGuire was in Switzerland. The chalet’s exact location wouldn’t have meant anything to them. Only Eastman and Marsh knew the address from the very beginning. And before they left for Heathrow Airport either Eastman or Marsh had already made the call claiming that there was a bomb on board the Airbus, giving the IRA cell time to catch another flight to Switzerland ahead of them. Which puts Michael and Sabrina in the clear.”

“Keith and John are two of my most trusted men. That’s why I assigned them to the case. I still believe the IRA obtained the address of the chalet from a source outside this organization.”

“Be that as it may, Commander, Jack Scoby arrives in London tomorrow afternoon. We’ve already lost McGuire, heaven help us if anything should happen to Scoby.”

“I’m still very skeptical about this theory of yours, Mr. Kolchinsky. I mean, what would the IRA have to gain by killing him? My God, it would be tantamount to suicide. The American public would turn against them in their droves and that would seriously affect the financial support they receive from the States.”

“We can’t afford to be complacent, Commander. If Scoby is killed over there and it comes out later that both UNACO and the anti-terrorist squad had been forewarned of a possible attempt on his life and hadn’t taken the necessary steps to protect him, then heads will roll. Starting with ours.”

“I may be skeptical but I’m still taking it seriously, Mr. Kolchinsky. Very seriously.” Palmer exhaled deeply and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’ll have their offices and homes searched before they return from Switzerland tomorrow. Not that I expect to find anything. But rest assured I’ll call you if we do come up with something.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Good night, Mr. Kolchinsky.”

“Good night.”

Palmer replaced the receiver then sat back in his chair and chewed his lip pensively as he pondered the best way to initiate the investigation. He decided against using any of his own men. That could be misconstrued as biased, especially if nothing was found to incriminate either man, which he was certain would be the case. He would bring in outside help; another department. The Special Branch. He had been in charge there before taking over at the anti-terrorist squad. The head of Special Branch was an old friend. And the men there still held him in high esteem. He knew he could count on them being impartial and, above all, discreet. He would have to clear it first with the Commissioner. But he saw that as little more than a formality. Obtaining search warrants would be a far more difficult task. Especially at that time of night. But he was determined to play it by the book. In the unlikely event of something being found that could link one of them to the IRA, it was imperative that the paperwork should be in order.

He had a feeling that he had a very long night ahead of him.

The Scobys lived in a two-story mansion on Long Island. It was surrounded by a ten-foot wall and guarded twenty-four hours a day by armed security men. One of the guards approached Whitlock’s white BMW as he brought it to a halt in front of a pair of towering wrought-iron gates. A closed-circuit television camera, mounted on top of the wall, slowly panned the car while a security guard inside the house fed the BMW’s registration number into a computer to check its ownership.

“Good evening,” the guard said with a quick smile as he peered into the car. He looked from Whitlock to Paluzzi, who was in the passenger seat, then back to Whitlock. “Can I help you folks?”

“C.W. Whitlock. We have an appointment with Mr. Scoby at eight o’clock.”

The guard checked both men’s identity cards then handed them back. He unclipped a two-way radio from his belt and spoke into it. Moments later the gates were opened from inside the house. “Follow the road. It’ll take you right into the courtyard.”

Whitlock thanked him and drove into the grounds as the gates closed behind them. He kept to the driveway, which continued for another two hundred yards, until he reached the gravel courtyard.

A somber-looking butler was waiting for them in front of the house. “If you give me the keys, sir, I’ll have the car parked in one of the garages for you.”

Whitlock handed the keys to the butler who led them up the steps and into the house. The hall was lined with portraits of previous American Presidents. But as Whitlock cast his eyes over the gallery of faces he suddenly realized that all the pictures were of Republican Presidents. There wasn’t a Democrat amongst them. He smiled to himself. It was typical of an outspoken right-wing Republican politician to hold all Democrats in contempt. Especially the Presidents …

The butler led them into a small lounge. “If you’d care to wait here, someone will be along shortly.”

Whitlock picked up a copy of Time magazine from the coffee table and sat down in the nearest armchair. Paluzzi crossed to the window and looked out over the spacious lawn which led down to a diamond-shaped swimming pool. Although illuminated by a powerful overhead floodlight, the pool was empty. The tennis court beside it was in darkness.

“He must have a bit of money behind him to afford something like this,” Paluzzi said at length.

Whitlock looked up and nodded. “Don’t forget that he was one of the most successful lawyers in New York before he decided to run for the senate.”

“His father was a judge, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Judge Arthur H. Scoby. Another outspoken Republican. He died last year.”

The doors swung open and Ray Tillman entered the room. He shook hands with Whitlock who then introduced him to Paluzzi.

“The senator’s not back yet, I’m afraid,” Tillman told them. “He rang about an hour ago to say he’d be late. He asked me to apologize to you for not being here to meet you in person. He’s stuck in a meeting with some of the city’s leading financiers at a hotel over on Fifth Avenue. It’s always the same when a new senator gets elected. The financiers want to test the water, see what kind of deals they can get out of him. But knowing Jack, they’ll be coming out empty-handed tonight. They’ve leeched off the Democrats for too long. I’m sorry, you’re not Democrats are you?”

“We’re not Americans,” Whitlock replied diplomatically.

“Neither are most Democrats, judging by their tepid foreign policies.” Tillman laughed then clapped his hands together. “Please, why don’t you come through to the lounge?”

They followed Tillman to a room at the end of the hallway. The doors were open. A tall, elegant woman was standing at the bay window. She looked around when Tillman ushered them into the room. Melissa Scoby, now in her late thirties, had lost none of the beauty and poise which had once made her one of the most coveted models in both Europe and America. She had married Scoby when she was twenty; a year later their son, Lloyd, had been born. He was now in his first year of reading law at Harvard University.

“Mr. Paluzzi will be traveling with us to London tomorrow,” Tillman said once the introductions were over.

“Then I’m sure we’ll be in very capable hands,” she said with a faint smile, looping her hand through Paluzzi’s arm and leading him to the sofa. “How long have you been in America, Mr. Paluzzi?”

“A couple of months,” Paluzzi replied.

She sat down. “And which part of Italy are you from?”

“Pescara. It’s a holiday resort on the east coast.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she replied. “I lived in Milan for six months when I was modeling over there. Are you married?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a six-month-old son, Dario.”

She nodded then looked up at Tillman. “Ray, a drink for our guests.”

“Of course. Gentlemen?”

“Just a soft drink for me,” Whitlock replied. “I’m driving.”

“Mr. Paluzzi?” Tillman asked.

“A beer would be fine,” Paluzzi answered.

Tillman went to the sideboard and opened one of the doors. Inside was a mini-bar. He took a Budweiser and a Pepsi from the fridge then closed the door again. He had just handed the drinks to Whitlock and Paluzzi when the door opened and Jack Scoby entered.

“I’ll have a Jack Daniels, Ray,” Scoby announced, removing his jacket and draping it over the back of the nearest chair. “Make it a double. God, what a day.” He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek then turned to Whitlock and extended a hand in greeting. “Good to see you again.”

Whitlock shook Scoby’s hand then introduced him to Paluzzi.

“He’s going to be your bodyguard in London, darling,” Melissa Scoby said, glancing at Paluzzi out of the corner of her eye.

There was a knock at the door and the butler entered the room. “There’s a phone call for you, Mrs. Scoby.”

“Who is it, Morgan?” she asked, mildly irritated.

“It’s Master Lloyd. Would you like me to put the call through to you here, madam?”

“No, I’ll take it in the hall.” Melissa Scoby stood up, smoothed down her skirt, then followed the butler from the room.

Tillman handed Scoby his drink. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” Scoby replied absently.

“Now, Jack. It’s important.” Tillman looked down at Whitlock. “Would you excuse us? It shouldn’t take long.”

“Please, go ahead,” Whitlock said.

Scoby and Tillman left the room.

“I feel uncomfortable with her,” Paluzzi said, looking across at the closed doors.

“She’s known to be a bit of a flirt,” Whitlock said. “Don’t worry though, she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her chance of becoming the First Lady one day. She’s far too shrewd for that.” He took a sip of the Pepsi then placed the glass on the table beside him. “What I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record.”

“Of course,” Paluzzi replied, sitting forward.

“You may have noticed earlier that Tillman didn’t offer her a drink. She doesn’t touch alcohol. Not anymore.”

“Are you saying she was once an alcoholic?” Paluzzi said in amazement.

“Not in so many words. She did drink heavily for several years, but always in the privacy of her own home. That’s why it never reached the Press. Her friends always rallied around her, protected her, and they eventually persuaded her to go to one of those clinics to dry out. She’s now completely reformed.”

“Why did she drink?”

“Boredom and loneliness. Well, that’s how her friends saw it. Publicly, Jack and Melissa are the perfect couple. But it’s only a pretense. The marriage is far from stable. Scoby’s a workaholic. He’s always put in a fourteen-, fifteen-hour day, ever since he graduated from Harvard. Which doesn’t exactly leave much time for his wife. But she’ll never leave him. She’s far too smart for that. She’ll stick by him because she’s just as obsessed as he is about reaching the White House one day.”

“And their son?”

“Like father, like son. And he doesn’t get on too well with his mother by all accounts.”

“Why wasn’t any of this included in our assignment dossiers?” Paluzzi asked.

“Because it’s irrelevant to the case. UNACO has a mole on Capitol Hill who knows everything there is to know about the different politicians up there. But it took some serious digging on his part to uncover any of this. Scoby has some very powerful connections on Capitol Hill who’ll close ranks around him the moment there’s a whiff of scandal about him, or any of his family. They’re obviously protecting him for when he’s ready to run for President.”

Paluzzi sat back in his chair and took a sip of beer. “What if she tries to flirt with Mike? After all, he’s the one with the looks.”

A slow smile spread across Whitlock’s face. “Now that would be worth paying to see.”

Tillman removed the folder from his attaché case and placed it on the desk in front of Scoby. Scoby looked up at him but said nothing. He still couldn’t believe what Tillman had just told him. They had gone to such extraordinary lengths to ensure that every meeting between Tillman and Miguel Cabrera was held in the utmost secrecy. Nothing had been left to chance. Why had they bothered? Hell, they might as well have met in Navarro’s office for all the good it had done them. But his anger was still directed more at Navarro than it was at the Colombian. It was an anger born out of fear. He had devised the entire operation himself. He had negotiated his own percentage which would have been forwarded to the juntas in South and Central America. He had been in charge from the outset. Now it was Navarro who was calling the shots, and that frightened him. The manipulator had become the manipulated …

“Do you want to listen to any of the tapes?” Tillman asked.

“What the hell for?” Scoby shot back furiously.

“I just thought–” Tillman trailed off with a despondent shrug.

Scoby opened the folder and flicked through the photographs. He shook his head in disbelief then glared at Tillman. “I can’t believe you let this happen under your very nose. Christ, Ray, how many meetings did you have with that bastard? Ten? Twelve? And each time he not only managed to get you on film, he also got everything you said on tape. Didn’t you ever suspect anything?”

“Don’t you think I’d have mentioned it if I had?” Tillman retorted angrily.

Scoby threw the photographs onto the desk then got up and moved to the window. “Well, thanks to your incompetence Navarro’s now running the show. And there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it without incriminating ourselves.”

“We can still make it work, Jack. As Navarro said, the Mafia are going to be taking all the risks once the shipments are cleared through customs.”

“Why don’t I feel reassured?” Scoby closed the folder and looked across at Tillman. “So what happens now?”

“I’m meeting Navarro next Tuesday to give him our answer.”

“You might as well have given it to him this afternoon. It’s not as if we’ve got any say in the matter. We’ve been screwed and that’s all there is to it.” Scoby gestured to the box of tapes. “Burn them.”

“And the folder?”

“No, I want to look at that more carefully. If we are going to be forced to play by Navarro’s rules, then the least we can do is give him a run for his money.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s dealing with Jack Scoby. I’m going to squeeze everything I possibly can out of this deal. It’s not as if I’ve got anything to lose, is it?” Scoby smiled coldly then moved to the door. “Put the folder in my briefcase. I’ll have a look at it once we get to London. I’ll see you in the lounge. We mustn’t forget our guests now, must we?”

“I can’t believe it.”

Maurice Palmer sat behind the desk in his study, his face drawn and pale. In front of him lay the evidence that he had been dreading from the moment he called in the Special Branch to check on Eastman and Marsh. One of them had been working in collusion with the IRA.

“I’m sorry, Maurice, but it’s there in black and white,” replied Commander Richard Carter, head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. Carter lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray on the desk. “You thought a lot of him, didn’t you?”

“A future departmental head at the very least. Who knows after that? He could have made it all the way to the top.” Palmer indicated the cigarette in Carter’s mouth. “Give me one of those, will you?”

“I thought you’d given up,” Carter said, tossing the pack onto the desk.

“So did I,” Palmer retorted, helping himself to a cigarette.

Carter lit it for him. “Well, at least he’s been unmasked before he can do any more damage.”

“He’s done enough damage already,” Palmer snapped, his anger showing through for the first time since Carter had broken the news to him. “I trusted him like a son, and this is how he repays that trust. Who knows how much damage he’s caused over the years or how many innocent lives have been lost because of his betrayal?”

“Only he can answer that, Maurice,” Carter replied.

“Oh, he will,” Palmer shot back, stabbing the cigarette at Carter. “You can be damn sure of that.”

“Have you thought about how you’re going to break it to the Commissioner?”

“Very gently,” Palmer replied tersely. “I’ll inform him once they’ve returned from Switzerland. I want as much information as possible before I do speak to him.”

“I don’t envy you,” Carter said grimly. “It’s a pretty horrific breach of security.”

“To say the least.” Palmer tapped the ash from the cigarette into the ashtray and glanced at his watch. Five-seventeen a.m. “You’d better get back home before Phyllis wakes up.”

Carter stifled a yawn and nodded in agreement. He stubbed out the cigarette then got to his feet. “Keep me informed, will you?”

“You’re just after the job, aren’t you?” Palmer said with a forced smile.

“What else?” Carter replied, returning the smile. He reached across the desk and patted Palmer on the arm. “You’ll be OK. These things happen. The Commissioner will make a lot of noise when you tell him but by the time you see him again he’ll have forgotten all about it.”

Palmer walked Carter to the front door. “Thanks for coming round, Richard, I appreciate it.”

“You’d have done the same for me. Give my love to Sheila, will you?”

“Of course. Good night, Richard.”

“Night, Maurice,” Carter said as he strode briskly over to the unmarked police car which was waiting for him.

Palmer closed the door and returned to the study. He gathered up the evidence, replaced it in the folder, then pulled the telephone toward him. He found Kolchinsky’s home number then lifted the receiver and dialed out.