The White House Connection

Chapter Thirteen

In Blake's office in the Basement, Dillon drank tea and ate a cheese sandwich Alice Quarmby had provided.

'You're looking good, my Irish friend,' Blake told him.

'Oh, the Concorde is no handicap. I like travelling like the rich.'

'Sean, you are rich, we all know that."

'You don't understand,' Dillon said. 'What I like about the Concorde is that someone else is paying for it. Anyway, what did you want me for?'

'Harry Parker is checking the security videos on the other side of the street from Cohan's house and the alley where the Wiley killings took place. We thought there was a chance the woman might be on them and, if so, you might be the one to recognize her.'

'I might recognize her from Wapping, but that doesn't mean I'd know who she is.'

'I know, but what else do we have to go on?'

Alice Quarmby looked in. 'I've got Harry Parker on the line. Can you speak?'

'Of course.'

Blake picked up the phone. 'Harry? How goes it?'

'All bad, Blake. I checked out the security videos. There were only three cameras that viewed the area. All of them have been recorded over. No help there at all.'

'Too bad,' Blake said. 'Well, thanks, Harry. If you can think of anything else, please let me know. I'll speak to you soon.'

Blake hung up. Dillon said, 'Another dead end?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'So I've had a free flight on the Concorde for no good reason.'

'Looks like it. Sorry, Sean. At least we can entertain you while you're here. A very important supporter of the President's, one Chad Luther, is giving the mother of all parties on Long Island this evening. You know Fitzgerald's novel, The Great Gatsby? Luther loves it. He has a mansion like Gatsby, lawns down to the sea. If you're anybody at all, you're on the guest list.'

'Let me guess,' Dillon said. 'And if you're nobody at all, you're on the guest list. If you have a ring through your nose and play the guitar indifferently, you're on the guest list.'

'You are, as usual, uncomfortably close to the truth, my friend, and it gives the Secret Service a serious headache.' Blake picked up a file of papers. 'I've had to go through the guest list myself

'Looking for what? Arabs in white sheets?'

'Don't laugh. The President is flying down in one of the Gulfstreams. There's a helicopter shuttle service for security people. That includes you and me.'

'I'm honoured.'

There was a knock at the door and Alice looked in. 'Fresh coffee? Tea?'

'No, we're fine. What about… what we talked about before?'

'We're still trawling.'

She went out. Dillon said, 'Trawling?'

Johnson hesitated for a moment, and then said, 'Oh, hell, I'm sure Hannah knows all about it. It's a special computer program, called Synod. Thousands of conversations pass through, millions of words. Insert a name, for example, and instead of going through it all, painstakingly, the computer tags it for you. Then you go back and listen to the relevant conversation.'

'Jesus,' Dillon said. 'And it works?'

'Remember Patterson? That's how we caught him.'

'So what's the name you're inserting?'

'Jack Barry.'

'You're after the Connection.'

'That's it.'

'Science and technology,' Dillon said. 'People like you and me are going to be obsolete.'

The phone rang and Blake picked it up. 'Brigadier, how are you?' He frowned. 'Of course, he's right here.' He held the phone out. ' Ferguson. For you.'

'Brigadier?' Dillon said.

'I've got some rather astonishing news for you. Listen well.'

A few minutes later, Dillon put the phone down slowly. Blake said, 'Bad news?'

'He's just told me who he thinks the mystery woman is.'

Blake sat up. 'Tell me, for Christ's sake,' which Dillon did. Afterwards, he shook his head. 'I've met that woman. A great lady. But the facts are plain. I mean, this horror story from Ulster did take place?'

'So it would appear.' Dillon slammed a clenched fist on the desk. 'Damn Jack Barry – damn him to hell.'

'Lady Helen Lang.' Blake frowned. 'Just a minute.' He picked up the guest list for Luther's party and leafed through it. 'I thought so. Here she is, a guest at Chad Luther's party tonight.'

'So?' Dillon said.

'Well, we were going anyway.' Blake frowned.

'And tell the President?'

Blake was strangely reluctant. 'What do I do? If the Brigadier's right, she's killed several people.'

'And I've just remembered something,' Dillon said. 'That function Cohan attended at the Dorchester that night he took the big fall, the Forum for Irish Peace?'

'What about it?'

'Helen Lang was there. I had a chat with her. A wonderful woman, Blake. I knew her son had died in Ulster, but not the manner of his going.'

'It would seem likely that she does.'

'It would explain a great deal.' Dillon got up, lit a cigarette and paced across the room. 'There was always something about her, from that first day at the funeral. Don't get me wrong, I liked her from the first, but I always felt uneasy.'

Blake nodded. 'I'd better have a word with the President.' He picked up the phone and rang upstairs to the Oval Office. 'Blake Johnson for the President.' He nodded. 'I see.' He put the phone down. 'He's already left for Long Island.' He thought for a moment. 'We've got time. I'll tell him then. I'd rather this be in person.'

The door opened and Alice appeared and she was excited. 'Synod's come up trumps, but my God, you aren't going to like it. It's thrown up conversations to Jack Barry as recently as the last few days. You'd better come down to the audio room.'

They sat in the small enclosed room, the huge spools of tape turning, and listened to the final conversation between the Connection and Barry. 'Lady Helen Lang. She's attending a big fat cat party tomorrow night on Long Island, so don't look for her at home.'

'I can wait,' Barry said. 'Don't worry. She's history.' The computer whirred and switched off. Alice said, 'Who would have believed it?'

Dillon said, 'You mean you know who it is?' 'Oh, yes,' Blake said. 'I'd know that voice anywhere.' He turned to Dillon. 'That's the President's chief of staff. That's Henry Thornton.'

Dillon took a moment to digest it, then said, 'It's going to knock the President for six when he knows what that bastard's been up to.'

'You can say that again.' Blake turned to Alice. 'Check his background, see if you can find a reason.' He glanced at his watch. 'I've got a few things to check myself, then book Dillon and me on the helicopter to Long Island in two hours.'

'I'll get right on it.'

She went out. Dillon said, 'A hard one, Blake, a hard one.'

'I'm an angry man, my Irish friend, I despise treachery.'

'And Ferguson?'

Blake thought about it, and nodded. 'I trust you, Sean, and I trust Ferguson. But this is for his ears only, not the Prime Minister's. It's up to the President to deal with that.'

At his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson listened, his face grave.

'It's really in Blake's hands and the President's,' he said. I'm glad you're there. I'm horrified at the identity of the traitor, of course. I'd like to take the bastard outside and shoot him myself. On the other hand, I'll be frank, Sean. We've known each other for some time.' He paused. 'Lady Helen Lang is a dear friend.'

'You don't need to go on, Brigadier. I'll do what I can."

'Thank you, Sean.'

The Gulfstream landed at Westhampton, and Lady Helen and Hedley were escorted through with a minimum of fuss. She had changed on the plane, and wore an evening outfit in black silk, a close-fitting dress and jacket. Hedley was in a grey uniform. It was just after five.

'Cocktails at six,' she said. 'Is the limousine ready?'

'Of course.'

'Tell Captain Frank I want a slot out of here back to the UK no later than ten.'

'You're sure about that?'

'Absolutely. See to it now.'

Hedley went off, leaving her in the private arrival lounge, and she got the mobile out and phoned Barry.

When he answered, she said, 'Hello, Mr Barry, it's me.'

'Yes, and I know who you are, bitch. I even know where you are, on Long Island.'

'My goodness, you are well informed.'

'It's all catching up, Lady Helen Lang. I know your London address, your house in Norfolk. What I did to your son is nothing to what I'm going to do to you.'

'Why, Mr Barry, you're quite worked up. It's not good for your heart,' she said, and rang off.

Chad Luther had started life in Charlesville, Texas, the third of six children of a farmer who was a failure from the day he was born. Five of the children had died, and the father had sunk into drink and apathy. Chad, caught in the draft, had spent two yean in Vietnam and had discovered he was a survivor. He'd returned home to find his father dead and his mother dying, and had inherited the four hundred and twenty-eight acres of farmland, bare and useless as they were – until someone discovered oil next door. The companies had descended and Chad had held out for ten million. It was the start of an empire. The ten was now eight hundred in oil, construction, and leisure parks, and Luther was in the company of the great and the good, including the President. His house on Quogue was his special pride, a magnificent mansion. There were lawns down to the sea, an inlet with a pier for his yacht and various motor boats. All life was there, as the velvet darkness descended. Lights blazed from the windows, music drifted out. Everyone who was anyone was there – and as Dillon had noted wryly, even if you weren't anyone, you were there anyway.

Luther, resplendent in a blue velvet evening jacket and ruffled shirt, greeted the President and Henry Thornton. 'A real pleasure, Mr President.'

'Glad to be here, Chad.'

'We've prepared an apartment on the ground floor.' Luther led the way, the President and Thornton following, Clancy Smith bringing up the rear. The sitting room was pleasant, with a log fire, wood- panelled walls, French windows open to the sea. The President moved out to the terrace. The water was close.

'Very nice.'

'I look forward to seeing you later at dinner, Mr President.'

'A pleasure.' Luther went out and Jake Cazalet said to his chief of staff, 'The things I do for America.'

The helicopter landed at Westhampton, where a limousine waited for Blake and Dillon. At the same time, Helen Lang was arriving at the mansion in a Lincoln driven by Hedley. She got out, straightened her skirt and stood there, her purse in one hand.

'Will I do?'

'As always.' He was wearing a plastic disc which had been sent to them to identify him.

'I'll see you later.'

She went up the steps to the open door and faced a pair of Secret Service men. 'Invitation, madam?'

She unsnapped her purse to get it out, and felt her blood run cold as her fingers brushed the pistol. God, how stupid could she have been! How had she expected to get the gun by the security people? Any moment now, they were going to inspect her purse and then what was she going to do? She froze, her hand in her purse, for what seemed an eternity, but must have only been a couple of seconds, when Chad Luther burst through the crowd. 'Don't be silly. This woman doesn't need to show her invitation. My darling girl.' He kissed her on the right cheek.

'You look marvellous, as usual. I've put you on the top table with me and the President for dinner.'

'You always were a sweetie, Chad.'

'It's easy with someone like you. Now, come on, come on, there's someone I'd like you to meet.' The Secret Servicemen started to object, but before they could say anything, Luther had swept her inside.

She smiled, took a glass of champagne from a waiter, and moved into the crowd.

Dillon and Blake arrived a little later, walked through the crowd and discovered the President besieged.

'There's no way you're going to get to him just yet,' Dillon said.

'There's time.'

There was a table plan to the dining room by the door and Dillon checked it out. 'What a shame, we're not eating.'

'Well, that's life,' Blake said. 'I've got arrangements to make. Keep an eye on our principal players.' He went off.

Dillon lit a cigarette and reached for a glass of champagne, then he walked through the crowd and out into the garden. It was cold and a little raw, a few people walking about. He stood at the balustrade and Helen Lang came up the steps.

She smiled. 'Why, it's you, Mr Dillon.'

'We do have a habit of bumping into each other. Can I get you anything?'

'A cigarette would be nice.'

He got his old silver case out and gave her one. 'There you

'And what brings you here, Mr Dillon?'

He took a chance then. 'Oh, maybe the same thing as you, Lady Helen. We have something in common, I think. A certain White House connection?'

He gave her a light from his old Zippo. Her expression didn't change. She simply said, 'How interesting.'

'It's over,' he said urgently. 'I don't know what you intend, but it's all over – '

Before he could continue, she smiled, the kind of smile that turned over the heart in him. 'Nonsense, my friend, nothing is over until I decide it is.' She smiled again. 'My poor Mr Dillon, you kill at the drop of a hat and yet you're such a good man,' and she turned and walked away.

Chad Luther managed to pull Cazalet away from the crowd surrounding him. 'The President needs a breather before dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Please.'

'Good for you, Chad,' Cazalet said, as they walked away, Clancy Smith following.

Luther took them back to the sitting room. 'Bathroom through there, Mr President, and if you need a drink I think you'll find everything you need in here.' He opened a panel in the wall and disclosed a superb mirrored bar.

' Chad, as always, you're the perfect host.'

'I'll leave you now.'

Luther went out and Clancy Smith moved into the study and did a quick inspection. He checked the bathroom, then opened the French windows to the terrace. He closed them again.

'Clancy, you're like a hound dog, you never stop sniffing,' Cazalet said.

'That's what I'm paid for, Mr President. There are Secret Servicemen in the garden. I'll be right outside.' He went into the corridor and closed the door.

Cazalet went to the bar and debated whether to indulge. He took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf, then changed his mind and replaced it. Better not. After all, it was going to be a long night. Instead, he took out a pack of Marlboros and selected one. Damn it, a man was entitled to one vice. He lit the cigarette and went and opened the French windows.

There was a half moon and the rain had stopped. That part of the house was very close to the water. There was a lawn, pine trees and a bay almost encircled by two prongs of land. By the water was a boathouse and a wooden jetty, a rather magnificent speedboat moored beside it. He could see the odd couple walking about.

It was really very lovely. He took a deep breath, and a calm and pleasant voice said, 'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'

He turned, and Helen Lang moved out of the shrubbery at the bottom of the steps.

She had walked through the garden, strangely sad, as if at the final end of things. Another of her breathless attacks had led her to sit down on a convenient bench. She'd taken two of her pills, and stayed there for a while until she felt better.

It was Cazalet she thought about. It had to be now, before the evening got too late. For a moment, she hesitated, unexpectedly uncertain. Cazalet was a good man, a hero from a rich and powerful family, who could have avoided Vietnam and yet had chosen to serve and been decorated a number of times. Who had become a solid, progressive President, untainted by the arrogance of power. Who had for many years supported a wife dying by inches from leukaemia. A good man. But Peter had been a good man, too. And time was so very short.

She got up, followed the path back to the house, was aware of French windows opening, looked up and saw Cazalet on the terrace. She hesitated, then opened her purse, her fingers brushing the Colt as she produced her silver cigarette case.

'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'

'Why, of course.' He came down the steps, his lighter flared.

She held his wrist. 'That's unusual. An old Lee Enfield cartridge.'

'A souvenir from Vietnam, but how did you know it's a Lee Enfield?'

'My husband was a colonel in the British Army. He had a similar one. You won't remember me. We've only touched hands once, at a function in Boston. I'm Lady Helen Lang.'

He smiled warmly. 'But of course. My father and yours did business together back in Boston in the old days. You married an English baronet, as I recall.'

'Sir Roger Lang.'

'Is he here with you?'

'Oh, no, he died two years ago. Our only son was killed serving in Northern Ireland, and my husband was old and frail. The shock was too great for him.'

'I'm truly sorry.'

'Yes, I believe that.'

For some reason he took her hand, and she opened her mouth to speak, and then there came a knocking at the study door. 'Excuse me,' he said, and went up the steps. On the terrace he hesitated and glanced back, but she had faded away as if she had never been there.

Dillon and Blake were standing in a corner of the crowded ballroom when Blake's mobile rang. It was Alice Quarmby.

'I checked Thornton 's background, boss, like you asked. Boy, did I come up with a lulu. Listen to this.'

She went on for several minutes, as Blake's face betrayed no expression. Finally, he said, 'Thanks, Alice, you're an angel.'

'Anything important?' Dillon asked.

'You could say that. Thornton 's our man, all right, and now I know why. I'll explain later. Right now, we'd better find the President.'

'He doesn't seem to be here.'

'There's Luther over there. He'll know where he is,' Blake said.

But when they got there, they found Luther in conversation with Henry Thornton. The two men were laughing, each holding a glass of champagne as Dillon and Blake approached. 'Hey, you two, you're not drinking,' Luther told them.

'Duty calls, Chad,' Blake said lightly. 'This is a colleague of mine from London, Mr Dillon. The President asked to see him when he arrived.'

'He's taking a rest right now.'

The chief of staff held out his hand. ' Mr Dillon, a real pleasure. Your reputation precedes you, sir.'

'That's nice to know.'

Thornton put down his glass and said to Luther, 'I know where the sitting room is, so I'll take them down. This way, gentlemen.'

He pushed through the crowd and led the way to the back corridor, where Clancy Smith sat on a chair beside the door.

'Everything okay, Clancy?'

'Apple-pie order, Mr Thornton.'

The chief of staff knocked, opened the door and led the way in.

Cazalet was still on the terrace as they crossed to the open French windows.

'Anything wrong, Mr President?' Thornton asked.

'No, I was just talking to a very unusual woman, but I seem to have lost her,' and then he smiled. 'Why, Mr Dillon.' He clasped his hand warmly. 'A pleasure to see you.'

'Not this time, Mr President, I think you really would rather kill the messenger than listen to what Blake and I have to say.'

'That bad?' Cazalet leaned against the balustrade. 'Then I'd better have a cigarette on it.' He took out a Marlboro and Dillon gave him a light from his Zippo. 'Okay, gentlemen, let's hear the worst.'

And below, concealed in the shrubbery, Helen Lang listened.

Blake said, 'You know all about the Sons of Erin, Mr President, just as we do. We always felt the killings to be the work of one person. We also felt there had to be a strong reason.'

Cazalet nodded. 'Acts of revenge for some kind of terrible act.'

'Yes, well, now we know just how terrible.' He turned to Dillon. 'Sean?'

'For years, information from British Intelligence was passed on by our White House connection to the Sons of Erin and Jack Barry. Because of such information, three years ago the members of a British Army undercover unit were all killed by Jack Barry and his boys. The commander was a Major Peter Lang. He was tortured, murdered and disposed of in a cement mixer.'

'A truly appalling crime,' Blake said.

'Let me get this straight,' Cazalet said. 'Major Peter Lang?'

'That's right.'

'But I've just been talking to a Lady Helen Lang out here. She told me her son was killed in Ireland.'

'Yes, sir,' Dillon said. 'She's his mother.'

'And she's the person responsible for the destruction of the Sons of Erin,' Blake said.

The President looked stunned, and Thornton jumped in. 'Come on, that's past belief. One woman? An old lady? I can't believe it.'

'I'm afraid there's little doubt,' Blake told him.

'Yes, she did rather well, when you think of it,' Dillon said. 'Only Jack Barry and the Connection are left now.'

Thornton said, 'What happens now? I mean, if this story is true, why isn't this woman under arrest?'

The President said, 'Blake?'

'I said there's little doubt. I'm also afraid there's no hard proof, Mr President. For obvious reasons, it would be better to handle this thing quietly. And there is something else, sir.'

'What would that be?'

'Well, inextricably involved with the whole mess is the question of the Connection himself – the traitor in the White House.'

The chief of staff said, 'Yes, but nobody knows who it is.'

'Oh, we do,' Dillon said. 'We knew your investigation wasn't getting anywhere, Mr Thornton, so Blake mounted his own.'

Blake took a small tape recorder from his pocket. 'I had the Synod computer monitor telephone calls from the White House first, then Washington, to anyone named Jack Barry. The computer picks the name out, then we can retrieve the call.'

'And it worked?' said Cazalet.

'We have recordings of a number of calls, Mr President, but just one will do.'

He put the tape recorder on the balustrade and switched it on. The voice came through clearly. 'Lady Helen Lang. She's attending a big fat cat party in Long Island, so don't look for her at home.'

'I can wait,' Barry said. 'Don't worry. She's history.'

Blake switched off the recorder, and Cazalet turned in horror to his chief of staff. 'My God, Henry, that's your voice.'

Thornton seemed to sag, and leaned back against the balustrade, head down. He stayed that way, breathing deeply, and yet, when he looked up, his eyes were glittering.

'Why, Henry, why?' Jake Cazalet demanded.

'Let me answer that. Let's see if I can get it right,' Blake said to Thornton. 'Your mother had an illegitimate half-brother born in Dublin. He was a volunteer with Michael Collins in the Easter Rising in nineteen sixteen. Executed by the Brits.'

'Shot down without mercy,' Thornton replied. 'Hunted down like a dog. Seven bullets in him. My mother never forgot and I never forgot.'

'And when you were a postgrad at Harvard, there was a girl named Rosaleen Fitzgerald from Northern Ireland, killed in a firefight in Belfast,' Blake said. 'You loved her.'

'Murdered,' Thornton told him. 'By British soldiers. The bastards!'

Dillon jumped in. 'And years later, there you were, chief of staff at the White House, and all that juicy information started to roll in from British Intelligence and it was your chance for revenge,' he said. 'Up the rebels and Ireland must be free."

'How did you get mixed up with the Sons of Erin and Jack Barry?' Blake asked.

'Oh, that was Cohan. I was invited to a Sinn Fein fundraiser in New York, just as a guest. He was drunk. Rambled on about the diners club and how they all helped the glorious cause.'

'And Barry?'

'He was in New York on business to do with arms for the IRA. Brady, the Teamsters' Union guy, knew him and introduced him to the group. That's when they started calling themselves the Sons of Erin. Cohan boasted about it. A real-life gunman.'

'And how did you connect with Barry?'

'He was in New York during the early days of the peace process under his own name, all legitimate, staying at the Mayfair. His presence was mentioned in The New York Times. It was simple. I offered him information, nice and anonymous. Just a voice on the phone.'

'And then retribution struck.'

Thornton actually smiled. 'Isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard? I mean, a woman like her? Who would believe it?'

Cazalet turned to Blake. 'This is one hell of a mess. What are we going to do?'

At that moment, Thornton put a hand on the balustrade and vaulted over.

He landed on his hands and knees, and was up and running, unaware that Helen Lang stood in the shelter of the shrubbery nearby, and had heard everything.

'You've got nowhere to go, Henry,' Cazalet shouted, and followed Blake and Dillon down the steps.

Clancy Smith, alarmed by the shouting, flung open the study door and hurried through. ' Mr President?'

'Stay close, Clancy,' Cazalet called. 'This way,' and he ran after Dillon and Blake.

Clancy immediately called in a general alert to the rest of the Secret Servicemen on duty and went after them.

Helen Lang waited until they were well ahead, then followed cautiously.

There were many guests in the garden, those who'd come out with a glass in their hand to sample the view in the evening, and the sea beyond. One of them was Hedley. Concerned about Lady Helen, he'd taken off his chauffeur's cap and worked his way round to the garden at the rear of the house. Checked there by Secret Servicemen, his identification badge had sufficed and, of course, there were the other guests in the garden. It was simple chance that he'd seen Lady Helen by the terrace, had also seen the President outside the French windows, and had watched her go up the steps to speak to Cazalet.

He had no idea what was happening up there when Thornton, Blake and Dillon appeared, and he saw Lady Helen fade into the bushes. There was only the sound of the voices, and then Thornton jumped over the balustrade. The President and the others went after him. Of Lady Helen, there was no sign. Hedley followed in the direction she must have gone.

Thornton weaved his way through the shrubbery, dropped to one knee and paused. He felt at his waist for the pistol he'd stuck there earlier. He'd planned to use it on Helen Lang that evening, but now it would have other uses. There was a certain panic now. The Secret Servicemen, alerted by Clancy, trawled the garden, alarming the guests already disturbed by the shouts they had heard. Helen was close on his heels. She had followed him from that first moment when he had vaulted the balustrade, and ducked into the shrubbery so that the others didn't know where he'd gone.

What she didn't realize was that Hedley was close behind her. The sounds of pursuit faded, and she saw Thornton come out of the shrubbery in front of her and run, crouching, down to the water. He reached the wooden jetty by the boathouse, his running steps booming. He stopped at the speedboat and started to cast off the moorings, as Helen arrived.

' Mr Thornton,' she called.

Thornton paused, then turned, a Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. The image, the woman, standing in the diffused light, was enough.

'It's you, you bitch.'

'Yes, Mr Thornton, I'm afraid it is. Everything comes around. I believe you know what happened to my son. This is what you might call payback time.'

'Well, fuck you.' Thornton arced and aimed his Smith amp; Wesson.

Helen Lang reached in her bag to find the Colt.

Hedley, close on her heels, slid in the darkness, over the stern rail of the speedboat, moved in behind Thornton and slipped on the wet deck. Thornton turned, raised his weapon to fire, and

Helen shot him in the back of the head. Thornton went down on his knees and then fell forward. Hedley stood up.

'Wait for me in the parking area. I can handle this. Just go.'

She turned and ran.

Hedley had examined the description of Chad Luther's estate supplied by his corporation's London office, and knew that there was a reef at the entrance of the bay that was only negotiable at high tide. Now it was low. He shoved Thornton 's body over on to the stern deck, went into the wheelhouse and turned on the engine. When it was going well, he jumped to the jetty, cast off and let the speedboat go. When it hit the reef at the entrance of the bay, the force was so great that the speedboat bounced into the air and fireballed.

There were cries of alarm from guests in the garden, shouts as Secret Servicemen called to each other. Hedley stood in the bushes as the President arrived with Blake and Dillon.

'Oh, my God,' Cazalet called, staring out at the fire.

Hedley faded into the shrubbery and started back, and a moment later was aware of a sudden cry, a woman's voice. Helen's voice.

'Let me go!'

'I need to look in your purse, ma'am.'

It was Clancy Smith, holding her by the right wrist in the diffused light of a garden lamp.

Hedley moved in, grabbed Clancy by the arm and pulled him away. 'You leave her be, boy.'

Clancy said, 'Secret Service, presidential bodyguard. I'm doing my job.'

'Not with this lady, you're not.'

And Clancy, a Gulf War veteran, knew trouble when he saw it. He pulled a Beretta from his shoulder holster very fast indeed. To Hedley it was like grass blowing in the wind. His left arm moved with incredible speed, knocking the silenced Beretta to one side. It discharged with a muted cough. Clancy had never known such strength.

Hedley twisted the arm. 'You were Special Forces, right?'

'Hey, fuck you.'

'You couldn't fuck your grandmother, boy. Now, me, I had three tours in ' Nam in the Marines. I made sergeant major. The Gulf War was a joyride. Now drop it.'

Clancy Smith was a brave man, but the strength was terrible. The Beretta fell and Hedley turned him around, felt for the handcuffs Clancy carried, forced up the wrists and cuffed him. Clancy fell on his face.

Hedley said, 'Don't take it personally. I've killed more people than you could ever imagine.' He turned to Helen. 'Let's go, ma'am.'

They hurried away along the path. Clancy scrambled to his feet awkwardly. A moment later, two of his colleagues found him.

Hedley handed her into the limousine, got behind the wheel and drove away. 'You okay?' She was catching her breath. 'Fine, Hedley. Back to the airport.

Phone ahead. Tell them to be ready for instant departure to

London.'

He reached for the phone. 'You saw the President?'

'Yes. A good man, Hedley. And a lucky one.'

He said nothing, just made the call and replaced the phone.

'So what was all the fuss back there? Who was that guy?'

'That was the Connection making a very bad end. He was one Henry Thornton, chief of staff at the White House.' 'Good God!' He shook his head. 'That's unbelievable.' 'There's one more thing I should tell you. They know, Hedley, about me. The President, Blake Johnson, Dillon, Ferguson. It's all over.'

He was horrified. 'But what are you going to do?'

'We'll go back to Compton Place and review the situation.' She lit a cigarette. 'Drive on, Hedley, drive on.'

She pulled out the coded mobile, phoned Barry and found him still in bed. 'It's me again,' she said. 'Just keeping you up to date.'

He sat up, reached for a cigarette and managed to stay surprisingly calm. 'Good news or bad news?'

'All bad, I'm afraid. Your Connection turned out to be a man called Thornton, the White House chief of staff. He enjoyed playing up-the-rebels because he had an uncle shot by the British after the Easter Rising, plus a girlfriend killed in a firefight in Belfast by British troops. Wrong place, wrong time.'

'And how would you be knowing all this?'

'Oh, he was run to earth by Sean Dillon and Blake Johnson. There was a confrontation at the party the President was attending. I happened to be in the garden at the right moment. I overheard everything.'

'And Thornton?'

'I shot him in the back of the head. Afterwards, he was blown to pieces in a rather large explosion. Does that sound familiar?'

There was a long silence. 'Well, now,' Barry said. 'I guess that just leaves you and me. Where would you be now?'

'Still in Long Island. I'm flying out almost at once to Gatwick, then home to Norfolk.'

' Compton Place. I know about that.'

'So I can look forward to a visit?'

'You can depend on it. I'll come flying in.'

'I'm so glad.'

She put the mobile away and Hedley said, 'You're just asking for it, Lady Helen, and others could be coming looking for you, like Brigadier Ferguson.'

'I couldn't care less, Hedley, as long as Barry finds me first.

Just pass the flask.' He did so reluctantly. She shook a couple of pills into her palm and washed them down with whiskey. 'Good. Now get me to the airport.'

On the terrace with the President, Blake and Dillon, Clancy told them what had happened.

'Okay,' Blake said. 'He was big and black and he said he served in Vietnam?'

'That's it,' Clancy said.

Dillon turned to the President. 'It has to be Hedley Jackson. The final proof, I'd say.'

Blake said to Clancy, 'You and the boys go looking.'

'There's more than five hundred people here,' Clancy said.

'Just do it.'

Clancy went out. Cazalet said, 'What happened to Thornton – a convenient accident, wasn't it?'

'If you say so, Mr President,' Dillon told him.

'Except that you don't believe in accidents?'

'Never did, Mr President.' Dillon smiled softly. 'And certainly not with this lady.'