The White House Connection

Chapter Eight

London's Kilburn district houses a mainly Irish population, both Republican and Loyalist, and sometimes you'd swear you were in Belfast . The Protestant pubs with William and Mary painted on the end wall were the spitting image of those in the Shankhill, as were the Republican pubs of those in the Falls Road.

Dillon, dressed in a black bomber jacket, scarf and jeans, faded into the drinking crowd of the latter, his Walther stuck into his waistband at the rear. That there were those who might recognize him could not be avoided, but he figured he would be all right. He was, after all, the great Sean Dillon, the living legend of the IRA, and as for anything else, it was rumours at most. But he had the Walther as insurance.

He learned nothing of any great interest, however, until he came out of the Green Tinker and paused in a doorway to light a cigarette beside the newspaper stand. The old man huddled inside was swallowing from a half bottle. His name was Tod Ahern. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and stared at Dillon in astonishment.

'Jesus, Sean, it's yourself.'

'And who else would it be?'

Tod was well drunk now. 'Are there big things doing? I saw Barry earlier. Are you and he here for some big plans?'

Dillon smiled gently. 'Now then, Tod, you shouldn't talk about such things. The word is hush.' He smiled. 'Jack would be furious if he knew you'd seen him. Where was it, by the way?'

'Going to the back of the Michael Collins. I thought he might be seeing Liam Moran. I'd just picked up my stand. I was wheeling it round.'

'Well, keep it to yourself, Tod.' Dillon passed him a five-pound note. 'Have a drink on me later.'

Sitting at his table, still going over his accounts, Liam Moran was aware of a slight draught of air that lifted the papers, looked up and found Dillon in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

'God bless all here.'

Moran almost had a bowel movement. 'Sean, it's you.'

'As ever was.' Dillon lit the cigarette with his old Zippo. 'I'm told you had a visitor earlier, Jack Barry?'

Moran managed a ghastly smile. 'And who's been selling you that kind of nonsense?'

Dillon sighed. 'We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Liam. What did he want and where is he?'

'Sean, this is a bad joke.'

Dillon's hand found the butt of the silenced Walther in his waistband, his hand swung, and the lobe of Moran's right ear disintegrated, the blood spurting as he grabbed it.

'Now, your right kneecap comes next. I'll put you on sticks, maybe for ever.'

'Jesus, no, Sean!' Moran was in agony. 'He told me he was just checking on how hot things were in London these days. Said he was on his way to Germany.'

'My arse he is,' Dillon said. 'He'll have a hidey-hole here in London. Where would that be?'

'And how would I be knowing that, Sean?'

'What a shame. Here goes the kneecap.'

Dillon took aim and Moran cried out, 'St James's Stairs, up from Wapping. There are some houseboats. His is called Griselda.'

'Good man yourself Dillon put the Walther away. 'Do you want me to come back?'

'Jesus, no.'

'Then keep your mouth shut. I'm sure you know someone who can fix that ear.' Dillon went out.

Back in his Mini Cooper, he phoned Ferguson, and when the Brigadier answered, said, 'I may have struck gold.'

'Tell me.'

Dillon did. When he was finished, he said, 'I think it's too much of a coincidence he's here. What do you want me to do? Take him out? On the other hand, you could call in Scotland Yard's Anti-Terrorist Unit. They'd turn it into the Third World War.'

'That's the last thing we need. Where are you?' Dillon told him. 'Meet me at St James's Stairs,' Ferguson said.

'You've got to be joking.'

'Dillon, when I was nineteen years old, I was in the Hook of Korea, where I shot five Chinese with a Browning pistol. I do tend to get bored polishing the seat of my desk at the Ministry of Defence.'

'Oh, my, what would Bernstein say?'

'I can take political correctness so far, Dillon. I don't particularly wish to employ her on a desperate venture in rain and darkness on the Thames in an attempt to take out one of the wont specimens the IRA has on offer.'

'So you think he's here for Cohan?'

'Dillon, a few days ago he was in Ulster, now he's here. What other reason could he have? Wait for me on the corner of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane,' and Ferguson put the phone down.

Barry parked the Escort at the end of Chalk Lane in a side turning and walked down towards St James's Stairs. It was dark now, with lights on the river, more on the river side, traffic moving in the darkness. He turned at the end and walked along the line of an old jetty, passing what looked like a couple of disused lighters.

There was a basin at the end, some old cranes standing above it, disused warehouses standing behind. Only one houseboat was on that side, the Griselda, with four on the other, two with a light that showed some sort of habitation. There was a connection with the shore, an electric cable and water pipe.

Barry had used the boat for three years now, had last been there six months before. He'd always expected the place to be vandalized each time he'd returned, but it had never happened. For one thing, it was remote and tucked away and then the presence of the other houseboats afforded some sort of protection.

He went across the gangplank, found the key hidden in the cabin gutter, got the steel door open and stepped inside. There was a switch to the left. The light came on, disclosing a flight of stairs. It also brought on deck lights, one in the stern, one on the prow.

He went down, and at the bottom switched on a light, revealing the cabin. It was surprisingly spacious, with portholes on each side. There were bench seats, a table, a kitchenette at one end with an electric cooker and a basin. He paused to fill the kettle, then carried on into the bedroom.

He placed the Gladstone bag on the bed, took out a toilet bag and a carton of cigarettes. He opened a pack, lit a cigarette and checked the closet. There were clothes in there in plastic zip-up bags, shoes, new shirts in Marks amp; Spencer bags, underwear, socks, everything he would need. The kettle was whistling. He went in, switched it off, sat down at the table and phoned the Dorchester with his mobile.

'Senator Cohan,' he asked, when the switchboard replied.

'May I say who's calling, sir?'

'George Harrison, American Embassy.'

A moment later, Cohan answered. ' Mr Harrison?'

Barry laughed. 'It's me, you daft bastard, Barry.'

'Jack?' Cohan laughed back. 'Where are you?'

'Still in Ulster,' Barry lied. 'I spoke to the Connection. He told me all the bad news. Though I suppose it's good news for the undertakers.'

Cohan shuddered. 'You always see a joke in everything.'

'As we used to say in Vietnam, if you can't see the joke, you shouldn't have joined. Look on the good side. You're in luxury at the Dorchester, your every need taken care of. You're well out of New York at the moment.'

'The Connection said he'd take care of things. Can you imagine this suggestion that a woman got to Ryan? Is that crazy?'

'Well, the good news is I'm leaving for New York myself in an hour. That's why I thought I'd call you. The Connection wants me there to help clean this mess up.'

'Is that a fact?'

Barry was lying smoothly now. 'I'm driving down to Shannon. I'll catch the New York plane from there.'

'Let's hope you can sort things out.'

'I'll keep in touch. Let you know where I'm staying. What's your room number?' Cohan gave it to him. 'Good. You going out tonight?'

'No, I'll take it easy. Big night tomorrow.'

'Sounds right to me. Stay well.'

Cohan put the phone down, aware of a feeling of considerable relief. He opened the bottle of complimentary champagne and poured a glass. If anyone could handle this whole sorry mess, it was Barry.

Barry took out an excellently tailored black suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He laid them down on the bed, went back into the saloon, reheated the kettle and made coffee in a mug. When it was ready, he went up the companionway and stood on the deck at the rail thinking about things.

How to do it was the thing. Access to the Dorchester was no problem. After all, he'd be dressed like a whiskey advert and he had Cohan's room number. All he needed to do was knock on the door, drop him and be on his way. If he left the do-not-disturb card on the door, they wouldn't find him for hours, possibly not until the morning.

Feeling suddenly quite cheerful about it, he went back below. He took off his bomber jacket, pushed the Browning into his waistband and put the kettle on again. He checked out the clothes, took the shirt out of its plastic envelope and unfolded it. The kettle whistled again and he changed his mind about more coffee. He switched it off, found a bottle of Scotch in a cupboard, poured one into a paper cup and went back on deck.

It was raining now, silver lances in the yellow light of the deck lights, and he stood under the slightly tattered awning, smelling the river, the damp, nostalgic for something he didn't understand. There was a sudden slight cough and he turned, his hand sliding inside the bomber jacket to feel for the butt of the Browning.

A man was standing at the end of the gangway with an umbrella over his head, smiling down at him. 'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Waiting in his Mini Cooper at the junction of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane, Dillon had an eye out for the Daimler and had been totally astonished when a black cab had drawn up and Ferguson had got out and paid the driver. He'd carried an umbrella, which he didn't bother to put up, hurried along the pavement and got in beside Dillon.

'Filthy night.'

'You in a cab? I can't believe it. I suppose you'll claim the fare on expenses?'

'Don't be flippant, Dillon. What do you intend?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Are you carrying?'

'What would you expect?' Ferguson asked wearily, and produced an old. 38 Smith amp; Wesson automatic. 'I also have these.' He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

'You are hopeful, old man.'

'All right, let's get on with it,' and Ferguson got out and put up his umbrella.

They walked down Chalk Lane side by side, the Brigadier's umbrella protecting them. When they reached the basin, they paused in the doorway of one of the old warehouses.

'One houseboat on this side, four on the other,' Ferguson whispered. 'Lights in the nearest and two of the others. Which is which?'

Dillon took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket. ' Nightstalkers. Miracle of modern science.' He focused them on the first houseboat and passed them to Ferguson. 'Take a look.'

Ferguson did so and the houseboat emerged in every detail, although in a greenish tint, the name Griselda clear on the prow. 'Excellent. I could have done with those in the trenches on the Hook. What's your plan?'

'I'm a simple man, and the lights being on, I presume it is Barry.'

'So?'

Dillon examined the Griselda again. 'I don't think we'll get anywhere by stepping on board and shouting down the companionway, "Come out with your hands up." I noticed there's a stern hatch.'

'Yes, well, I'd like to point out that there could be a certain amount of noise in doing that, Dillon. Lifting the hatch, I mean, which could also be locked on the inside.'

'Brigadier, you've got to travel hopefully. I'll have a go and you wait here for me.'

'Oh, I see, keeping the old man safe, are we?'

Dillon didn't bother to answer, simply handed him the Night-stalker and faded into the darkness beside the warehouse wall. Ferguson focused the night sight, saw Dillon slide over the stern rail and move to the hatch. It lifted and Dillon slipped inside.

As Ferguson lowered the Nightstalker, Jack Barry emerged from the companionway. Ferguson checked him out, the paper cup in one hand, the butt of the Browning sticking out of his waistband. Ferguson thought of Dillon down there trying to make his way through unfamiliar territory, and made his decision. He put the Nightstalker in his pocket, took out the Smith amp; Wesson, and held it against his back in his left hand. He walked along the quay, and paused at the gangway, umbrella held high.

'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Ferguson started down the gangplank and his left hand emerged holding the Smith amp; Wesson.

Wyatt Earp, the great American marshal, once said that what had made his reputation as a gunfighter was when a young cowboy had tried to shoot him in the back in the darkness of Dodge City at fifty paces. Earp had turned and fired as a reflex, without taking aim, and shot the gun from the boy's hand, a total fluke.

Jack Barry did the same now, pulling the silenced Browning out, firing from the hip, catching the Smith amp; Wesson in Charles Ferguson's hand and blowing it away. Dillon, easing in through the hatch above the shower room, had heard Ferguson, took out his Walther, dashed through the kitchen and saloon, and went out headfirst into Barry, as Ferguson fell back to the deck.

Dillon rammed the Walther into Barry's back. 'Drop it, Jack, or I'll blow your spine in two.'

Barry froze. 'Why, Sean, it's you.'

Ferguson got to his feet. Dillon said, 'Are you okay, Brigadier?'

Ferguson was holding his wrist, which was bleeding. 'Just a scratch. I'm fine.'

Barry leaned over and placed the Browning on the deck, then as he straightened, he lifted his right elbow into Dillon's face, turning sideways so that Dillon's reflex shot went into the deck. Dillon dropped the Walther and they closed together, Barry staggering back as they struggled furiously. When they went over the rail, it was still together.

And it was cold, the kind of shock that numbed the brain, and the current was fierce. Dillon kicked Barry away as he surfaced, felt himself swept against the stern anchor chain and grabbed at it. As he turned, he saw Barry being carried away.

'Fuck you, Dillon!' he called, and was gone.

Dillon hung on, then hauled himself along the chain to the other side of the Griselda and reached for a ring bolt on the wall.

'Dillon?' Ferguson called.

'Here.' Dillon pulled himself to a ladder.

He sat on the old quay, streaming water, and Ferguson said, "Do you think he's gone?'

'Only elsewhere, Brigadier. I'll confirm he's gone when I've shot him between the eyes at very close quarters, but not before.'

'What now?'

'Let's go below. I'm wet through and I could do with some dry clothes.'

In the shower room, Dillon stripped and towelled. In the small bedroom he helped himself to underwear and jeans and a sweater far too large, then joined Ferguson in the saloon. He nodded to the black suit, white shirt and tie.

'Nice gear, Brigadier. I mean, if you were going to circulate at a great hotel like the Dorchester, you'd really pass dressed like that.'

'You don't think he's at the bottom of the Thames?'

'No, probably on the other side by now, but he won't be turning up at the Dorchester. You see, Jack isn't a patriot, he's a very practical man, and a British prison is the last thing he needs. He came, he failed.'

'I know. Strange, Dillon. When you told me he was here, I said it had to be for Cohan. I couldn't think of any reason that could bring him here from Ulster. But why? Barry runs the Sons of Erin. Why would he want to eradicate the last member of the New York branch?'

'Because that's exactly what Cohan is. He's a problem to you, he's a problem to the President. Maybe he's a problem to the Connection, too.'

Ferguson was suddenly cheerful. 'My dear boy, you sometimes have a perfect facility for hitting the nail on the head. Let's go.'

Dillon said, 'And the boat?'

'Wherever he goes, if he's still on the planet, he won't come back here. Just turn the lights out. I'll have a recovery team check it out tomorrow.'

But Ferguson was wrong. Barry surfaced at St James's Stairs. He hauled himself up a ladder and started back to the basin. The lights were still on in the boat. He crouched there in the darkness, wet and cold. After a while, the lights went out below and Ferguson and Dillon appeared. The deck lights went out, they came up the gangway and walked away, talking.

When the sound of the voices had faded, he hurried across, went below and stripped hurriedly. He towelled, found fresh clothes and dressed. Then he pulled on the bomber jacket, which still had his mobile in one of the pockets. He reached under one of the benches, pulled up a plank, rummaged inside and took out a Smith amp; Wesson revolver. He slipped it in a pocket and left, switching off the lights.

He walked away through the rain, not at all depressed, actually laughing out loud. What a bastard Dillon was, and it was nice to have a face to put on Ferguson 's name after all these years. It was all a game, after all. He understood that, so did Dillon and Ferguson, but did the Connection? He reached the Escort, got in and drove away.

Dillon pulled up outside Ferguson 's flat in Cavendish Square. 'I suppose it means we don't have to worry about Cohan for the rest of his stay.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'He's no samurai, our Jack, he has no intention of committing suicide. Now that he knows we're on to him, if he was here for Cohan, he's on his way.'

'You say if

'Let's wait and see.'

'And our mystery assassin – your woman?'

'Let's wait and see there also.'

Ferguson nodded. 'Nine o'clock. My office.' He got out and Dillon leaned through the window.

'Charles? You will have that wrist seen to, won't you? None of that British stoicism, I hope.'

Ferguson smiled. 'Don't worry, Sean, I'm not daft. Now be off with you.'

Dillon drove away.

The weather was terrible as Barry drove out of London. Heavy, heavy rain. For some reason though, he still felt incredibly cheerful, as he stopped on the motorway at a Little Chef, had an all-day English breakfast and bought half a bottle of Scotch in the shop.

He drank a quarter of it on his way down to Roundhay, where he found the little airstrip dark and quiet, except for a light in the barn. He drove in beside the Chieftain and found Docherty sitting on a stool reading a newspaper.

'Did it go well, Jack?' he asked.

'Don't ask. Just get me out of here. Can you do it?'

'I'm your man.'

Ten minutes later, the Chieftain lifted into the night, Barry sat back, opened the half-bottle of whiskey again and drank. Then he took out his mobile and rang the Connection.

'It's me, Barry.'

'Where are you?'

'On my way from England to Ireland in a small plane and lucky to be here.'

'Tell me.'

Which Barry did.

Thornton said, 'How would they know about your houseboat, for God's sake?'

'I don't know. All I know is that they did and I'm lucky to be getting the hell out of it.'

'And Cohan?'

'He can take his chances, as far as I'm concerned,' and Barry rang off.