The White House Connection

Chapter Ten

'What in the hell is this?' Cohan demanded shocked at the appearance of this grandmother-looking person with a gun. And she looked familiar somehow.

'Nemesis, Senator, that just about sums it up.'

'Now look here.' He was blustering now. 'If it's money you want.. .'

She laughed. 'No, that's not it. Remember those old movies with the highwayman demanding your money or your life? In this case, I'd prefer your life. I have money.'

Cohan was horrified. 'Who are you?'

'Sit down and I'll tell you.'

He subsided into one of the sofas, shaking like a leaf. 'What is this?'

'I think it's what they call in those old gangster movies on television, payback time.'

'But what have I done?'

'Oh, nothing personally. I'm sure you have clean hands, you're a typical politician, but you did connive, along with the rest of the Sons of Erin.'

Cohan had never been so terrified. 'Oh, my God, it is you! But why? Why?'

She took out her silver cigarette case one-handed, got one in her mouth and lit it. 'I had a son, Senator, a brave and gallant young man. Let me tell you what his ending was because of the stupid fantasy games you and your friends got up to.'

When she was finished, Cohan was ashen-faced. He sat there, huddled in the corner of the sofa. She poured another whiskey and passed it to him.

'It's unbelievable,' he said.

'But true, Senator, your worst nightmare. I shot Tim Pat Ryan here in London, went to New York and got your friends Brady, Kelly and Cassidy.'

He swallowed the whiskey. 'What do you want?'

'Let's start with some questions. The Connection. Who is he?'

'A voice on the phone, I swear it.'

'But surely you have some clue?'

'No! He knows things, but I don't know how he knows them! He never says!'

'And Jack Barry? Where would he be?'

'Somewhere in Northern Ireland, that's all I know.'

'But you were talking to him, I heard you.'

'A special phone, a coded mobile. It has a number, but it can't be traced.'

'Really?' She picked the mobile up. 'What's the number?' He hesitated and she raised the Colt.

He gave it to her.

Barry was having supper when his mobile rang. 'Who is this?' Helen Lang said, 'Nobody special, Mr Barry, but I will be in touch.'

She put the mobile in her purse, moved to the desk, quickly noted the number on a note pad and put that in her purse also.

She had switched the Colt to her left hand so that she could write, and Cohan, seizing his chance, threw his glass at her and plunged through the curtains to the terrace.

It was stupid, really. He had nowhere to go. There was a small fountain, a fish spouting water, and a step beyond, the terrace wall. He peered over, looked at the ribbon of light moving along Park Lane, and below the ledge spotted an iron ladder going down, obviously for maintenance purposes. He quickly sat astride the coping, one foot feeling for the ladder, just as Helen Lang came through the curtains, the Colt ready.

'No, for God's sake, no!' he screamed, and then his foot slipped and he was falling.

Helen looked down, saw a sudden stoppage of traffic, horns honking, the sound drifting up. She turned at once, went through the suite to the door, opened it and went out. A few moments later, she was descending to the foyer. She walked through to the ballroom, took a glass of champagne from a tray held by one of the waiters by the door, and mingled.

Nemesis was the right word. It hadn't needed her on this occasion. Cohan had paid an inevitable price. Everything came around, a law of life. She hadn't needed to do it herself, only that it should be done. It was enough. She saw a great deal of movement down at the main door, caught a glimpse of Ferguson and Dillon and then was aware of a pain in her chest. She found her pill box, swallowed two with a gulp of champagne and walked towards the ballroom entrance.

'Perhaps he's gone up to his suite,' Dillon said as they finished their search of the ballroom, and then there was the sound of horns from outside the ballroom, a considerable disturbance. Hannah said to Ferguson, 'I'd better see what the trouble is, sir.' The traffic had slowed noticeably, and Hannah immediately saw the cause of it. There were people on the pavement surrounding a body, and a single motorcycle cop was standing beside his machine and calling it in. Hannah flashed her ID.

'Chief Inspector Bernstein, Special Branch. What happened?'

'I was just passing, guv. He fell from up the top, nearly hit a passing couple. The woman is in shock over there. I've called an ambulance and backup.'

Hannah leaned down and recognized Cohan at once. She straightened. 'I know this man, Constable, he's a guest at the hotel. You stay shtum , no answers to any questions, not to the press, not to anyone. This is a red alert. You know what that means?'

'Of course I do, guv.'

'I'm going inside, but I'll be back.'

They checked out Cohan's suite, the three of them, with a decidedly shaken duty manager. Hannah said, 'Not a thing, no sign of a struggle.'

'I agree, Chief Inspector,' Ferguson said. 'But did he fall or was he pushed?' He turned to Dillon. "What do you think?'

'Oh, come on, Brigadier, who believes in coincidence in our business?'

'Yes, I agree.' Ferguson nodded. 'She must be one hell of a woman.'

'I'm inclined to agree,' Dillon nodded.

Ferguson said to the duty manager, 'Keep this suite locked and secure. You'll have police here to do forensic tests quite soon.'

'Of course, Brigadier.'

Ferguson turned to Dillon. 'You break the bad news to Blake, and obviously through him, to the President. I'll handle the Prime Minister.'

'The great pity it is, your knighthood going down the drain like this,' Dillon said.

Ferguson smiled. 'I always knew you were on my side, Dillon.'

In spite of the close proximity of the house in South Audley Street, Lady Helen had arranged for Hedley to wait for her in Park Lane in the Mercedes. She pushed her way out through the curious onlookers, passing what was left of Senator Michael Cohan. Hedley saw her coming, jumped out and got the rear door open. She got in, he climbed behind the wheel and drove away.

'Just drive around, Hedley, it's been a heavy night.' She lit a cigarette.

'What happened?'

She told him everything. 'So, Cohan's gone and I'm actually left with a link with Jack Barry.' She held up the mobile. 'I'll try him again, shall I?'

Barry grabbed at the phone when it rang. 'Who is this?'

'Nemesis,' she said. 'But first, some hot news. Senator Michael Cohan took a fall from the seventh floor of the Dorchester in Park Lane. I'm using his mobile.'

More than at any time before in his life, Jack Barry was shaken rigid. 'What are you telling me?'

'That Senator Michael Cohan is lying on the pavement in Park Lane outside the Dorchester Hotel. It's like a bad Saturday night in Belfast. Police, ambulances, onlookers, but then you know about this kind of thing.'

Strangely enough, Barry wasn't angry. He actually knew a kind of fear. 'Who in the hell are you?'

'Brady, Kelly, Cassidy in New York, Tim Pat Ryan in London, and now Senator Michael Cohan. That's who I am.' She laughed. 'That just leaves you and the Connection.'

Barry took a deep breath. 'Okay, so who are you? Loyalist freedom fighters? Red Hand of Ulster? Protestant scum?'

'Actually, it may surprise you to know that I'm a Roman Catholic, Mr Barry. Religion doesn't come into it and I'm surprised you say Protestant scum. You're a Protestant yourself.

So was Wolfe Tone, who invented Irish Republicanism; so was Parnell, who came close to achieving a United Ireland.' She was enjoying herself now. 'Then there was Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, Sean O'Casey, all Prods.'

He cut in, angry now. 'What kind of shite is this? I don't need a fugging history lesson. What's it about? Who are you?'

'The woman who is going to execute you, just like I executed the others. Justice, Mr Barry, is what it's about, a rare commodity these days, but I intend to have it.'

He listened to her soft, measured voice, entirely the wrong kind of voice for what he was hearing. His anger increased. You're mad.'

'Not really. You butchered my son in Ulster three years ago, and executed his friends, four of them, including a woman. You wouldn't remember, Mr Barry, I'm sure. You've got so much blood on your hands, it's hard to remember which corpse is which.' She was giving him too much information, but it was all right. A plan was forming in her mind.

Barry had never felt so frustrated. 'Look, Cohan's mobile is to use to you. It's coded. Any calls are untraceable.'

"Yes, but I can at least speak to you.'

"Okay, so what is it you want?'

"It's quite simple. As I said, you butchered my son in Ulster three years ago. I'm going to butcher you.'

He felt a sudden touch of fear again. 'No way. You're crazy, lady!'

'At least I can talk to you when I want on this very useful bone. We could even arrange a meeting. I'll be in touch.'

'Anytime, you bitch. You got a time and place, just name it,' but she had already rung off.

Lady Helen said, 'Pass me the flask, Hedley.' He did so. She took a swallow and passed it back. 'Excellent. I feel great.' She got out her silver case, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ' Marvellous. Drive round for a while. The Palace, Pall Mall.'

The rain had increased again, the wipers clicked backwards and forwards. Hedley cruised the traffic carefully.

'I like driving in the rain,' she said. 'It's a safe, enclosed feeling. It's as if the rest of the world doesn't exist. Do you like the rain, Hedley?'

'Rain?' He laughed out loud. 'Lady Helen, I saw too much of it in ' Nam. Patrolling in the swamps of the Mekong Delta, leeches applying themselves to your more important bits and those monsoon rains sluicing down.'

'Just hearing about it makes me shiver. Find a pub. I feel like a drink.'

Which he did, a very respectable place called the Grenadier close to St James's Place. They'd used it before. The landlord, Sam Hardaker, was an old Grenadier Guards sergeant and knew Hedley from his days at the Embassy.

'A real pleasure, Lady Helen.'

'Nice to see you, Sam. I don't expect you have such a thing as a bottle of champagne?'

'One in the fridge. Non-vintage, but Bollinger. Promised to a Grenadier Guards officer at the Palace, but he'll have to do without.'

She and Hedley sat in a corner booth, Sam brought the Bollinger in a bucket and produced two glasses. He uncorked and poured. Lady Helen tasted it.

'Heavenly.' She smiled as Sam filled the glasses. 'They say that if you're tired of champagne, you're tired of life.'

'I wouldn't know,' Sam said. 'Being a beer man myself.'

He retired and she lit another cigarette. 'All right, Hedley?'

He nodded. 'Just fine, Lady Helen.'

She raised a glass. 'To us, then. To love and life and the pursuit of happiness.' He raised his glass and they touched. 'And damnation to Jack Barry and the Connection.'

Hedley drank some of his champagne and put the glass down. 'You wouldn't really try to meet that bastard?'

She lit another cigarette, frowning, considering the point. 'The only way to see him, Hedley, would be somehow to bring him to me.'

Hedley nodded. 'Okay, so let's say you brought him down just like the others. What then? That still leaves the Connection, and you'll never know who he is – none of them did.'

'Pour me another glass of champagne and let's take a philosophical viewpoint to all this.' She leaned back. 'Politics, Hedley, are responsible for so many ills. Take the situation we are so involved with. Forget about the Sons of Erin and the Connection. The whole thing starts with governments having a dialogue. Events couldn't have proceeded without dialogue between the British and American governments, the Prime Minister and the President and their cosy chats on the telephone.'

'So?' Hedley said.

'If they hadn't agreed to pool information, there wouldn't have been all that juicy stuff from the Intelligence Services for the Connection to poach.' She reached for the bottle and poured him another glass. 'So, where does ultimate responsibility lie?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Ultimate power, Hedley, holds the final responsibility in this case. If the White House was involved, ultimate power lies with the President himself.' She glanced at her watch. 'Oh, it's late. Let's go.'

Hedley handed her into the Mercedes, went round and got behind the wheel. As he drove away he said, 'For God's sake, what are you saying?'

'I've secured an invitation to Chad Luther's party at his Long Island estate next week. The President is the guest of honour, I understand.'

Hedley swerved. 'My God, you wouldn't!'

She frowned, and then laughed. 'Oh, good heavens, Hedley, do you think I mean to assassinate him? Oh dear, oh dear, what must you think of me?' She shook her head. 'I haven't gone over the edge, Hedley. No, I meant that I could always discuss it with him.'

'Discuss it? You mean, lay the whole thing on the table, everything you've done? The killings? Hell, he'd have you arrested.'

'You don't see it, do you?' She lit a cigarette. 'It's his White House, so it's his mess. He doesn't want it out in the open any more than I do. This whole White House Connection business would be an enormous scandal. It could imperil his presidency. It would certainly damage the peace process in Ireland that he's worked so hard for. He has to unmask the Connection.' She gazed at Hedley. 'Or who knows what might leak to the press?'

Hedley was aghast. 'You mean, you'd blackmail the President? You'd be willing to go that far?' He shook his head. 'You've got the bad guys, Lady Helen. Let it go. Just let it be.'

'I can't,' she said. 'I'm on borrowed time, Hedley, much more so than you realize, and this is too important. So Long Island it is. If you're not happy with that, then don't come.'

'Hey, I don't deserve that.'

'I know you don't. You've been solid as a rock. My truest friend.'

'I don't need a snow job, that's all I'm saying.'

'So you'll come?'

He sighed. 'Where else would I go?' He changed gears. 'You're not still going to carry that Colt in your purse, are you?'

'Of course I am,' she said. 'Who knows.' She smiled. 'I might meet the Connection.'

Blake listened to what Dillon had to say. When the Irishman was finished, Blake said, 'Takes me back to my FBI days and the most-wanted list. The kind of killers who are obsessive.'

'So, you think the same person got Cohan as got the others?'

'Of course I do. I believe in coincidence as much as you do.'

'So that means the woman?' Dillon said.

'I suppose it does.'

'How does that fit in with FBI or CIA statistics? I mean, we know of women involved in terrorist movements in the past -the Baader-Meinhof gang in Germany, the IRA, the Palestinians – but it's still a minority classification.'

'So?'

'If we accept the idea, it means that a single woman is responsible for the total demise of the Sons of Erin. She's killed five people.'

'Sean, my friend,' Blake said, 'have you got a better suggestion?'

'Actually, no, but I think it would be useful if you put some more work in with your police friend, Captain Parker.'

'Such as?'

'I haven't the slightest idea, but cops are cops. They smell things other people don't. If he sniffs around what's left of the good Senator, there might be some useful information.'

'Okay, leave it with me.'

Blake rang off, sat there thinking about it and phoned the President. 'You've heard about Cohan?'

'I could hardly avoid it,' Cazalet said. 'It's all over CNN.'

'Can I see you?'

'Come straight up.'

The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office in shirt sleeves signing papers passed to him by the chief of staff. Thornton, also in shirt sleeves, looked up and grinned lopsidedly. 'You look glum, Blake, and no wonder.'

Cazalet leaned back. 'We'll finish these later. So, what now, Blake?'

'God knows,' Blake told him.

'You do think he was pushed?' Thornton asked.

'Of course he was pushed, or else he panicked and jumped.' Blake was exasperated. 'Come on, gentlemen, you know the background, you know the score. Do you really believe this was an accident, Cohan simply leaning too far out over his balcony?'

Cazalet said, 'So let's simplify it. There's somebody out there who's killed the five American members of this Sons of Erin.'

'Closed it down, I'd say,' Thornton put in.

'So what's left?' Cazalet asked.

'Jack Barry hiding out in Ulster, and the Connection here in Washington.'

Thornton said, 'But is this of any importance in view of what's happened?'

'Let's put it this way,' Blake said. 'The Connection's power didn't derive solely from the classified information which came his way. That information was only of use because he had people to act on it.'

'And they're all dead,' Cazalet said.

'Not Barry. He's still alive and kicking and more dangerous than any of them. With the Connection still in place and Barry out there as his gun hand, we've still got a big problem.'

'What do you suggest?' the President said.

'I thought I'd check Cohan's New York background. My friend, Captain Parker, might be able to come up with something.' Blake looked at Cazalet. 'And I think it's time for a full-bore investigation right here in the White House, Mr President.'

'Good. I agree,' Cazalet told him. 'You check on Cohan.' He turned to Thornton. 'And you see what you can come up with here, Henry. If there's a White House leak, then I think that's a matter for my chief of staff.'

'I'll get right on to it, Mr President,' Thornton said, and he and Blake walked out together.

As they moved along the corridor, Blake said, 'What do you intend?'

'God knows. We need to keep the lid on this. It's political dynamite. You do your thing, Blake. I'll start doing background checks on everyone in this place. I'll put the Secret Service on it.'

'Will you tell them why?'

'Good God, no, not at the moment. We'll just do a discreet check. If nothing shows up, we'll think again. Stay in touch.'

Blake moved on and Thornton watched him go, smiling, no fear in him at all. It was strange how excited he felt.

Blake reported the interview to Ferguson, and Ferguson spoke briefly to the Prime Minister on the phone.

'It really does seem to be getting out of hand, Brigadier.'

'I obviously take full responsibility for what happened last night.' Ferguson told him.

'I don't need that, Brigadier,' the Prime Minister said. 'Not your fault, not my fault, but let's get it sorted,' and he put the phone down.

Ferguson, at his desk, said to Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, east he isn't asking for a scapegoat.'

"What now, sir?' Hannah asked.

It was Dillon who provided the answer. 'It's all up to Blake, I'd say.'

'Yes, I think you could be right,' Ferguson said.

Thornton phoned through to Barry. ' Cazalet, Thornton and Blake Johnson just had a little talk in the Oval Office.'

'Should I get excited?' Barry asked. 'Just tell me.'

Thornton did. When he was finished, Barry said, 'Ah, that's tame stuff. What is there for them to find out about Cohan in New York? Was he into girls, did he use men's toilets too much? Come on!'

'I agree. It's a negative exercise. I don't think we have anything to worry about.'

'We?' Barry said. 'They know exactly where I am. They don't know a damn thing about you.'

'And it will stay that way as far as I'm concerned. So don't go getting any ideas in your head, Barry. Remember, even if they get to you, it won't help them get to me.'

'Bastard,' Barry told him, and Thornton rang off.

Barry lit a cigarette and moved to the window. The rain drove against it. One thing he hadn't told the Connection, of course, was the matter of Cohan's mobile and the fact that the mystery woman was linked to him. It was a bizarre kind of psychological umbilical cord. He turned and looked at his own mobile on the table. Strange how he almost wanted it to ring. To hear her voice.

She was at that precise moment driving back to Norfolk, sitting in the rear seat of her Mercedes for once, the only light the one from the dashboard and the headlights cutting into the dark. She felt very calm, very comfortable. It was that safe, enclosed feeling again.

Music was playing softly, just loud enough to hear. She'd told Hedley to put the tape on, one of her husband's favourites, Al Bowlly , the most popular British crooner of his day, more popular in England in the nineteen thirties than Bing Crosby. Killed in the Blitz.

'I like this one,' she said. '"Moonlight on the Highway". Rather appropriate, but not your cup of tea.'

Hedley said, 'You know my tastes, Lady Helen. I'm strictly an Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie man.'

'A strange man, Al Bowlly.' She lit a cigarette. 'Apparently he was from South Africa, but some people said from the Middle East. In England, he took ten years off his age. Became a big band singer. Women adored him. He dined at the Savoy with the aristocracy, was friends with the most notorious gangsters in London.'

'Some guy,' Hedley said.

'He believed in his personal destiny, especially during the Blitz in London in nineteen forty, when the Nazis tried to bomb us out of the war. One evening, he was walking up a London street when a bomb fell. The blast went the other way. He was unharmed.'

'Hell, that happened to me more than once in ' Nam.'

' Bowlly interpreted it as a sort of sign from heaven. He believed it meant he was invincible.'

'And what happened?'

'Oh, a few weeks later, there was an air raid warning. Everybody at the apartment block was supposed to go down to the cellars. He stayed in bed. Nothing to fear, you see.'

'And?'

'They found him dead in bed. The blast from a falling bomb had blown his door off its hinges.'

'Which hit Bowlly?'

'Exactly.'

Hedley drove in silence for a while and finally said, 'Look, what was the point of that story?'

'Fate, I suppose, and how it can't be avoided. You think you've avoided Death in one place and he finds you in another.'

'Sure, I can see that, but I don't see how it affects you.'

'Oh, I do, Hedley.' She leaned back. 'The story illustrates the inevitability of things.'

'Like you taking on the President of the United States? I can't buy that, Lady Helen, I surely can't.'

'Remember the sign another President had on his desk? The buck stops here? Well, he was right.' She peered out at the dark. 'Oh, look where we are. I need tea and a sandwich. Let's stop.'

They were at an old-fashioned truck stand at the side of the road, one they'd stopped at before, the flap up against the rain. It was almost two in the morning, two roadliner trucks parked nearby, the drivers eating in their cabs. Hedley ordered steak sandwiches on white toast and tea, hot and strong. She joined him, watching the woman who ran the place frying the steaks.

'Smells good, Hedley.'

'It always does, Lady Helen.'

She bit into the sandwich, juice running down her cheek and the woman leaned over and offered a paper napkin. 'There you go, love.'

Rain poured off the canopy, she finished the sandwich and drank the strong bitter tea and when she was finished, said, 'Let's go-'

She sat in the passenger seat beside him. 'You think I'm crazy, Hedley.' It was a statement.

'I think you're going too far, Lady Helen.'

She lit another cigarette. 'Most people take the other way in life, let things go, all good manners and politeness. I remember once sitting in the corner of a London restaurant with a man who'd been my accountant. Next to us were four women, all smoking, one of them in a wheelchair. My friend whispered that he couldn't take the smoke, would have to leave. The woman in the wheelchair said loudly that it was a pity some people couldn't learn a little tolerance.'

'What happened?'

'I put him in a taxi, then went back and told the woman in the wheelchair that at least she was alive, whereas my friend with lung cancer had three weeks to live.' She frowned. 'Why am I telling you this? Probably because it was the first time I really stood up, in a public sense, to be counted. I couldn't stand by.'

'Just like you couldn't stand by over the Sons of Erin. Okay, I see that. Only, the President?' He shook his head.

'You don't see anything, Hedley. You're a lovely man, but like most people, you see only what you think you do. You look at me and think I'm the woman I've always been. It's not true. I'm a woman in a hurry, Hedley, because I have no time to lose.'

'Hey, don't say things like that.'

'It's the truth, Hedley, I'm going to die. Not tonight and not tomorrow, but soon, too soon, and I've got things to do, and by God, I'm going to do them. I'm going to Long Island to face the President, and I've got Barry on the end of that coded mobile any time I want him. All I have to do is reel him in.' She took out her pill bottle and shook two into her palm. 'So pass that whiskey flask and put your foot down. We could be home by three.'

But the weather became even worse, the rain torrential, and when they drove down the hill overlooking the village, it was a scene of chaos, the water overflowing a foot deep in the street, and men struggling at the lock gate.

Hedley pulled in at the pub. Old Tom Armsby was putting sandbags at the door and Hetty was helping him. She looked up as the Mercedes stopped and Lady Helen opened the door.

'Looks bad.'

'It is bad, and all down to the Parish Council. The mean bastards wouldn't find the money to fix that lock gate after the last time, when Hedley saved us. Much more of this and every cottage in the village will be flooded.'

Lady Helen turned to Hedley. 'They're ordinary folk, most of them pensioners. It would ruin them.'

'I know.' He got out into the rain, took off his chauffeur's tunic and rolled up his sleeves, standing there in a pool of water. 'What's that phrase where you have a sense that you've been here before?'

' Deja vu. It's French.'

'Yes, it would be.'

He turned and went towards the men struggling at the lock gate and she got out and waded after him. There was a young man in the turbulent waters below. He was obviously half-dead, but he tried to go under again and was thrown back up, retching.

'Get him out of here,' Hedley ordered. The boy was plucked from the water and dragged up the bank. 'Where's a crowbar?'

Someone held one out. Hedley took it and, without hesitation, plunged in. He surfaced, took a deep breath, went down and felt for the iron clasps on the gate that had been temporarily repaired after the previous occasion. He forced the crowbar in, worked at it, then had to surface, gasping for breath.

He went down again, twice, three times, always more difficult, and then the clasp gave, the gates started to open and then the force of the water drove them wide. Hedley surfaced to a ragged cheer, for already the flood waters were subsiding.

Willing hands pulled him from the water. He got to his feet and stood there in the rain, and Hetty Armsby ran over with a blanket and put it round him.

'Oh, you wonderful bastard. Come on into the pub, and the rest of you as well. To hell with the law tonight.'

Everyone moved forward, and Lady Helen joined Hedley. 'Don't let it go to your head. I wouldn't be as blasphemous as to say you walk on water, but they just might change the name of the church to St Hedley.'

The following morning at Compton Place, the weather was still dreadful, an east wind driving in the rain, waves breaking across the long flat sands of Horseshoe Bay.

Helen, wrapped up in storm coat and hood, cantered her mare through pine woods that broke the worst excesses of the storm, paused in the shelter of the wall of an old ruined chapel and lit a cigarette with difficulty in her cupped hands.

She looked out at the churning sea, and remembered a visit to friends in Long Island some years before, not in the fashionable summer, but late winter, just like this. She'd been shown Chad Luther's mansion, a palace of a place, lawns running into the waters of the Sound, no one in residence, so she didn't enjoy a conducted tour. Chad had invited her many times, mainly because he liked money and she had more than he did. She had never accepted, for a simple reason. She didn't like him. Vulgar, vain, conceited.

She pulled herself up and said softly, 'Come on, my dear, who are you to make such judgements? Somebody must love him. Though God alone knows who.'

Which still left Long Island in her mind. She shook the reins and galloped away.

Hedley had driven down to the village to see the state of the game. It was still raining hard and the water in the slot was high, but there were no problems. He called at the village shop, filled out a grocery order and drove back to the house. There was no sign of Lady Helen. He left the groceries in the kitchen, went out into the yard and heard the sound of pistol fire coming from the barn. When he went in, she was standing shooting at the targets with the Colt. 25.

He said, 'So I take it we are still going to Long Island and the Colt will still be in your purse?'

'Day after tomorrow,' she said, and reloaded. 'I'll use one of the company Gulfstreams. We can land at Westhampton Airport in Long Island. Very convenient.'

'I still wish you weren't taking the gun, though.'

'As I told you, I want to be ready for anything. For whatever opportunity arises. You don't need to come if you aren't happy.'

'Oh, but I do need to come.' He picked up a Browning from the selection of weapons on the table and fired very rapidly at the targets, shooting four of them through the head.

'Showing off again, Hedley?'

'No,' he said. 'Just checking I'm on form so I can make sure you're on form. After all, what if you meet the Connection?'

'So you'll come? You're with me?'

'Oh, I'll come all right. Someone's got to watch out for you.' He took the Colt from her, checked it and handed it back. 'Okay, take your stance and remember what I told you.'

New York,

Washington