The White House Connection

Chapter Four

As frequently happened in Belfast, a cold north wind drove rain across the city, stirring the waters of Belfast Lough, rattling the windows of Dillon's room at the Europa, the most bombed hotel in the world. He looked out over the railway station, remembering the extent to which this city had figured in his life. His father's death all those years ago, the bombings, the violence. Now the powers that be were trying to end all that.

He reached for the phone and called Hannah Bernstein in her room. 'It's me. Are you decent?'

'No. Just out of the shower.'

'I'll be straight round.'

'Don't be stupid, Dillon. What do you want?'

'I phoned the airport. There's an hour's delay on the London plane. I think I'll go down to the bar. Do you fancy some lunch?'

'Sandwiches would do.'

'I'll see you there.'

It was shortly after noon, the Library Bar quiet. He ordered tea, Barry's tea, Ireland 's favourite, and sat in the corner reading the Belfast Telegraph. Hannah joined him twenty minutes later, looking trim in a brown trouser suit, her red hair tied back.

He nodded his approval. 'Very nice. You look as if you're here to report on the fashion show.'

'Tea?' she said. 'Sean Dillon drinking tea, and the bar open. That I should live to see the day.'

He grinned and waved to the barman. 'Ham sandwiches for me, this being Ireland. What about you?'

'Mixed salad will be fine, and tea.'

He gave the barman the order and folded the newspaper. 'Here we are again then, sallying forth to help solve the Irish problem.'

'And you don't think we can?'

'Seven hundred years, Hannah. Any kind of a solution has been a long time coming.'

'You seem a little down.'

He lit a cigarette. 'Oh, that's just the Belfast feeling. The minute I'm back, the smell of the place, the feel of it, takes over. It will always be the war zone to me. The bad old days. I should go and see my father's grave, but I never do.'

'Is there a reason, do you think?'

'God knows. My life was set, the Royal Academy, the National Theatre, you've heard all that, and I was only nineteen.'

'Yes, I know, the future Laurence Olivier.'

'And then my old man came home and got knocked off by Brit paratroops.'

'Accidentally.'

'Sure, I know all that, but when you're nineteen you see things differently.'

'So you joined the IRA and fought for the glorious cause.'

'A long time ago. A lot of dead men ago.'

The food arrived. A young waitress served them and left. Hannah said, 'And looking back, it's regrets time, is it?'

'Ah, who knows? By this time, I could have been a leading man with the Royal Shakespeare Company. I could have been in fifteen movies.' He wolfed down a ham sandwich and reached for another. 'I could have been famous. Didn't Marlon Brando say something like that?'

'At least you're infamous. You'll have to content yourself with that.'

'And there's no woman in my life. You've spurned me relentlessly.

'Poor man.'

'No kith or kin. Oh, more cousins in County Down than you could shake a stick at, and they'd run a mile if I appeared on the horizon.'

'They would, wouldn't they, but enough of this angst. I'd like to know more about Barry.'

'I knew his uncle, Frank Barry, better. He taught me a lot in the early days, until we had a falling out. Jack was always a bad one. Vietnam was his proving ground and the murder of Viet-cong prisoners the reason the army kicked him out. All these years of the Troubles, he's gone from bad to worse. Another point, as you've read in his file, he's often been a gun for hire for various organizations around the world.'

'I thought that was you, Dillon.'

He smiled. ' Touche. The hard woman you are.'

Blake Johnson entered the Library Bar at that moment. He wore black Raybans, a dark blue shirt and slacks, a grey tweed jacket. The black hair, touched by grey, was tousled. He gave no sign of recognition and moved to the bar.

'Poor sod. He looks as if he's been travelling,' Dillon said.

'I've said it before and I'll say it again, Dillon, you're a bastard.' She stood up. 'Let's go and wait for him.'

Dillon called to the barman, 'Put that on room fifty-two,' and followed her out.

Rain rattled against the window as Dillon got a half-bottle of champagne from the fridge and opened it. 'The usual Belfast weather, but what can you expect in March?' He filled three glasses, and took one himself. 'Good to see you, Blake.'

'And you, my fine Irish friend.' Blake toasted him and turned to Hannah. 'Chief Inspector. More fragrant than ever.'

'Hey, I'm the one who gets to make remarks like that,' Dillon said. 'Anyway, let's get down to it.'

They all sat. Blake said, 'I've read the file on Barry. He's a bad one. But I'd like to hear your version, Sean.'

'It was his uncle I knew first, Frank Barry. He founded the Sons of Erin, a rather vicious splinter group from the beginning. He was knocked off a few years ago, but that's another story. Jack's been running things ever since.'

'And you know him?'

'We've had our dealings over the years, exchanged shots. I'm not his favourite person, let's put it that way.'

'And we're certain that he hasn't met McGuire?'

'So McGuire says,' Hannah told him. 'And why would he lie? He wants an out.'

'Fine. I've memorized all that stuff you sent on the computer. McGuire's past, this French outfit he works for, Jobert and Company, and this Tim Pat Ryan who nearly finished you off in London, Sean. Intriguing that – a woman as executioner. But as for Barry – I'd like to hear about him from you, everything, even if it is on file.'

Dillon complied and talked at length. After a while, Blake nodded. 'That's about it then. I'm going to need my wits about me with this one.'

'There's one more thing you should know about the Barrys. First of all, they're an old Protestant family.'

'Protestant?' Blake was incredulous.

'It's not so unusual,' Dillon said. 'There are plenty of Protestant nationalists in Irish history. Wolfe Tone, for example. But in addition to that, his great-uncle was Lord Barry, which made Frank Barry the heir, except that he's dead, as you know.'

'Are you trying to tell me Jack Barry is the heir apparent?' Blake asked.

'His father was Frank's younger brother, but he died years ago, which only leaves Jack.'

'Lord Barry?'

'Frank didn't claim the title, and Jack certainly hasn't. It would give the Queen and the Privy Council problems,' Hannah told him.

'I just bet it would,' Blake said.

'But Jack takes it seriously.' Dillon nodded. 'An old family, the Barrys. Lots of history there. There's a family estate and castle, Spanish Head, on the coast, about thirty miles north of Belfast. It's owned by the National Trust now. Jack used to rhapsodize about it years ago. So – our Jack's a complicated man. Anyway, let's get down to it. McGuire is to wait in the bar between six and seven for a message that his taxi is ready.'

'Destination unknown?'

'Of course. I figure he'll be waiting somewhere in the city, with lots of ways out in case of trouble. The dock area, for example.'

'And you'll follow?'

'That's the idea. Green Land Rover.' Dillon passed him a piece of paper. 'That's the number.'

'And what if you lose me?'

'It's not possible.' Hannah Bernstein put a black briefcase on the table and opened it. 'We've got a Range Finder in here.'

'Follow you anywhere. The very latest,' Dillon told him.

The Range Finder was a black box with a screen. 'Watch this,' Hannah said, and pressed a button. A section of city streets appeared. 'The whole of Northern Ireland 's in there.'

'Very impressive,' Blake told her.

'Even more so with this.' She opened a small box and took out a gold signet ring. 'I hope it fits. If not, I've got another bug that you can pin anywhere you want.'

Blake tried the ring on his left hand, and nodded. 'Feels good to me.'

'No weapon,' Dillon said. 'There's no way of fooling Barry's people in that respect.'

'Then you'd better be right behind me.'

'Oh, we'll be there and armed to the teeth.'

'So the general idea is I lead you to Barry and you jump him? No police, no backup?'

'This is a black one, Blake. We snatch the bastard, stick a hypo in him and get him to the airport, where a Lear jet will take us to Farley Field.'

'And afterwards?'

'Our Holland Park safe house in London, where the Brigadier will have words,' Hannah put in.

'Grand drugs they have these days,' Dillon said. 'He'll be telling all before you know it, although the Chief Inspector doesn't like that bit.'

'Shut up, Dillon,' she said fiercely.

Blake nodded. 'No need to argue, you two. I'm happy to be here and the President's happy. No problem. I'm in your hands and that's good enough for me.'

The Library Bar was a popular watering hole for those in business who liked a drink before going home, and was quite busy when Blake went in just after six. Blake sat at the bar, ordered a whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Tense, but in control. For one thing, he had enormous faith in Dillon. It got to six-thirty. He ordered another small whiskey, and as the barman brought it to him, a porter came in with a board saying McGuire.

'That's me,' Blake told him.

When he went down the steps to the red taxi, it was raining hard. He got in the back and noticed to his astonishment that the driver was a grey-haired woman.

'Good night to you, sir,' she told him in the hard Belfast accent. 'You just sit back and I'll tell you where you're going.'

She drove away and Dillon, at the wheel of the Land Rover parked nearby, Hannah beside him, followed.

The woman didn't say a word, simply drove down to the docks, passing through an area of desolation and decaying warehouses. She pulled into a space beside an old Ford Transit van.

'There you are, sir, out you get.'

Blake did exactly as he was told. She drove away. Blake stood there in the rain, waiting, and the rear door of the Transit opened and two men jumped out. One was in a bomber jacket, the other, a bearded man, wore an Australian drover's coat down to his ankles. Both carried handguns.

' Mr McGuire?' the bearded one said. 'I'm Daley and this is Bell, Daley and Bell. Sounds like a cabaret act, only it isn't. One wrong move, as they say on television, and you're dead. Assume the position.'

Blake put his hands on the Transit and spread his legs. He was thoroughly checked. Satisfied, Daley said, 'In the back and let's go'

The bench seats were comfortable enough. Daley sat opposite him and Bell locked the door and got behind the wheel. He drove away.

Blake said anxiously, 'Look, what is this? I'm here in good faith and I expected to see Mr Barry.'

'And he can't wait to see you,' Daley told him, 'but it'll be a while yet, so have a cigarette and enjoy the trip.'

Dillon, having seen the taxi turn in before, had pulled into a side turning, got out and approached on foot. Now he ran back to the Land Rover and got behind the wheel.

'They've transferred him. White Ford Transit,' he told Hannah, and a few moments later was following it through the evening traffic.

The rain was relentless, and as night fell, it was obvious that they were moving out of town.

'So it's not Belfast,' Hannah observed.

'So it would appear.'

They came to a place where temporary lights had been set up because of roadworks. The traffic had turned from two lanes to one.

'Damn!' Hannah said.

'Just open the box, girl. We'll be all right.'

She had the briefcase on her knee, lifted the lid and went to work. The map was clear, even more so as it grew darker. The Transit had disappeared, but that didn't matter. Time passed and they were still going north.

Hannah said, 'Where in the hell are we going?'

'God knows,' Dillon told her. 'But I do have the glimmering of an idea.'

'Such as?'

'We're heading north and the Antrim coast is close. What about Spanish Head?'

'But that's crazy. You told us it was owned by the National Trust.'

'Yes, but these places don't open to the public till Easter.'

'You can't be serious.'

'Just keep your eye on that screen and we'll see.'

There were a couple of windows in the Transit. They were proceeding along a coast road and, for the moment, the rain had stopped and the sky was stormy with a half-moon. They finally turned into a side road and paused at the gate. A notice said 'Spanish Head National Trust'.

There was a cottage on the other side, a light at the window. Bell sounded the horn, and a door opened and an old man appeared. He hesitated, and Bell called, 'Punch the bloody button, Harker, and let us in.'

The gate was obviously electronic. The old man opened a box by the door, fiddled inside, the gate swung back and Bell drove through. Blake saw a castle above steep cliffs, towers, battlements, all very spectacular. It was only as they got closer that Blake saw that it was only a large country house built in nineteenth-century Gothic style. The Transit came to a halt, Bell got out, came round and opened the door. Blake followed Daley out and found himself in a courtyard.

'This way, Mr McGuire,' Daley told him.

Bell opened a massive oak front door and led the way in. There was a huge entrance hall, a flagged floor, an open fireplace and flags draped from poles: the Irish Republican tricolour, the Union Flag and, surprisingly, an old flag of the Confederate States of America.

'This way.'

Daley led the way up the sweeping stairs and Blake followed, Bell bringing up the rear. They passed along a wide corridor, portraits everywhere, and Daley finally opened a great mahogany door. They passed into a library. There were more portraits, a log fire in a great fireplace, book-lined walls and French windows standing open. A man stood there, looking out, a glass of wine in his hand. He was tall, with good shoulders, wearing a black sweater and jeans. When he turned, the face was handsome enough, dark, brooding and yet cruel.

' Mr McGuire? Jack Barry.'

The voice was still American, and Blake said, 'My pleasure.' He tried to sound a little weak and shaken. 'I was kind of worried.'

'Oh, stuff all this pretence, Mr Johnson. I know very well who you are. Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal minder. You run the Basement, isn't that what you call it? Here, have a glass of Sancerre.' He took a bottle from an ice bucket, filled a glass and offered it. 'There you go. I have it on good authenticity that the real McGuire is in the hands of Brigadier Charles Ferguson and Sean Dillon. And that my other dealer in London, Tim Pat Ryan, is very dead indeed.'

Blake savoured the wine. 'Eighty-six, maybe eight.'

'Seven,' Barry said. 'So you know my old friend Sean Dillon?'

'Friend?'

'A slight exaggeration. However, let's get down to facts. I have excellent sources, but there are things you could tell me, including details about that old bastard Charles Ferguson's operations.'

'Well, I guess you can kiss my ass,' Blake told him.

Barry poured another glass of Sancerre. 'I thought you might take that attitude.' He nodded to Daley. 'I think the Soak Hole might do here, Bobby. It's cold out there and starting to rain again. Try him for an hour and see where it gets us.'

It was raining hard as Daley and Bell took Blake down through the grounds towards the cliffs, and sheet lightning flickered over the water, the waves raging below. They started down a track, Bell leading the way, a lamp in his hand. Halfway down, he paused.

'This is it.'

White spray erupted with a hollow roar. Daley pushed Blake forward. 'In you go. There's a ledge ten feet down. You'll be okay. As it's a cold night, I'll let you keep your clothes on.'

Blake hesitated, then started down. There were steps of a kind, then a platform. The spray cascaded up and he caught his breath. God, but it was cold.

Daley said to Bell, 'Watch him, I'll be back.'

He started up to the castle.

'I was right, then,' Dillon said, as he and Hannah approached the castle. 'Spanish Head it is.'

He coasted up to the gate and paused, the engine still ticking over. Hannah got out and tried to open the gate without success.

'No joy, it must be electronic. Give me a moment.'

There was a small stile to one side intended for pedestrians. As she climbed over, the door opened and an old man appeared. 'Here, you can't do that. This is private.'

'Not any more it isn't.' She took her Walther from her shoulder bag and put it under his chin. 'Do whatever you have to to open the gate and be quick about it.'

He was terrified and showed it. He went to the box and pressed the button and the gate opened. Dillon drove through, pulled in to a parking spot to one side and switched off.

He got out and pushed the old man into the porch. 'Now let's see if I've got this right. You'll be the caretaker. Is anyone else in the cottage?'

'I'm a widower.'

'And your name?'

' Harker, John Harker.'

'Well, I think you've been a naughty boy, Mr Harker. Closed from September till Easter, and you allow unauthorized guests like my old friend Jack Barry.'

'I don't know what you mean.' The old man was shaking.

Dillon produced his Walther and said cheerfully, 'Maybe your memory will improve if I stick this behind your right kneecap and pull the trigger.'

Harker gave in instantly. 'His lordship's at home, I'll grant you that, and what can I do about it, an old man like me?'

'His lordship, is it?' Dillon laughed. 'How often is he here?'

'On and off during the winter months and there are others who know, estate workers from the village.'

'Who will keep their mouths firmly shut, I shouldn't wonder,' Hannah said.

'What else can we all do?' the old man said. 'These are desperate times and his lordship is not a man to cross.'

'A bullet in the head, is it?' Dillon asked.

'No need for that, not with the Soak Hole to teach a man a lesson. Tim Leary died in it last year.'

'And what would the Soak Hole be?'

'It's a kind of funnel in the cliffs. The sea explodes up through it. His lordship puts people down there to teach them a lesson.'

'Good God!' Hannah said.

'I shouldn't imagine he's got anything to do with it,' Dillon told her, and turned to Harker. 'To business. A white Ford Transit van. It arrived a little earlier, right?'

Harker nodded. 'It went down to Belfast this afternoon. Came back about forty minutes ago.'

'Who was in it?'

'Bobby Daley and Sean Bell, two of his lordship's men when it went, just Bell at the wheel when it came back.'

'And you were curious and went up the drive to see what was what.'

Harker was startled. 'How did you know?' i know everything. What happened?'

'I was some distance away, but I saw Bell open the van's rear door and Bobby Daley got out with another man, and the three of them went inside.'

'And you, being curious, went closer, stood under a tree or whatever, and waited.'

Again, Harker was astonished. 'And how would you be knowing that?'

'Because I'm Irish, you daft bugger, I'm from County Down, I have the second sight. There's also the fact that you're wet through because you were standing in the rain. Now who does Barry have up at the castle?'

'Only Daley and Bell.'

'Good man. Now we'll walk up there nice and quiet and you lead the way. Some suitable back path would do nicely.'

'Anything you say, sir.'

Lamps set in various parts of the grounds gave a certain amount of light as they walked along a narrow path through shrubbery and lush woodland, the castle battlements looming beyond. Suddenly, Harker paused.

'I think someone's coming,' he whispered.

They moved into the trees, and a moment later, Daley moved out of another path and started towards the castle. 'That's him,' Harker whispered. 'That's Bobby.'

Daley carried on towards the castle and Dillon said, 'Where's he been, that's the thing?'

'There's only the cliffs and the Soak Hole down there.'

Dillon turned to Hannah. 'Why would Barry not make the meet in Belfast? Why go to all the trouble of hauling Blake up here? It doesn't make sense.'

'Only if it stinks,' she said.

'I agree.' Dillon turned to Harker. 'The Soak Hole it is, and be discreet.'

Sean Bell sheltered under a tree at the side of the track, the lamp on the ground at his feet. He was distinctly unhappy, already wet from driving rain, and couldn't even smoke, since the cigarettes disintegrated in seconds. There came a hollow booming sound like some dinosaur in pain, as the Soak Hole erupted high into the air. He wondered how the American was doing. He wouldn't last long on a night like this.

There was a click as the silencer on the end of Dillon's Walther nudged Bell 's right ear, and Dillon said, 'The hard way, Mr Bell, is to blow your brains out, so be good.'

'Who the fug are ye?' Bell gasped, as Dillon ran his hands over him and recovered a. 38 revolver.

' Webley. 38. Long past its sell-by date. You must be hard up, you lot,' and he stuffed the weapon in a pocket of his bomber jacket. 'Dillon's the name.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Tonight's bad news for you. I suspect you've got an American friend of mine somewhere nearby.'

He ground the Walther in again and Bell cried out in pain. 'He's in the Soak Hole. The entrance is just down the track.'

'And why would he be in there?'

'Barry knew he wasn't what he seemed. We were waiting for him.'

'Really? Well, lead the way.'

Bell picked up the lamp and walked down the track, stepping back as the Soak Hole thundered white spray high into the night.

'Watch him,' Sean told Hannah, and walked to the edge of the steps leading down. 'Are you still there, Blake? It's Dillon.'

Blake, on the platform and hanging on to a rusting iron bolt, colder than he had ever been in his life, shouted back, 'What kept you?'

'Come away up,' Dillon called.

A couple of minutes passed, and then Blake appeared, climbing slowly. 'Jesus, Dillon, that was bad. I feel terrible. Takes me back to a tidal swamp I once spent six hours in back in Vietnam.'

'What happened?'

'Barry knew everything. My name, the President, the Basement. He said he had excellent sources, but wanted any facts I had to disclose about you and Ferguson.'

'Let's go up to the castle and oblige him.'

'Only too happy,' Blake said. 'Just one thing.' He turned to

Bell, who was standing at the top of the steps. 'Here's for you, you bastard.' He punched Bell very hard, and he went backwards headfirst with a cry. A moment later, the Soak Hole fountained.

'Can we go now?' Dillon asked.

'My pleasure.'

Blake led the way up to the courtyard and paused at the massive front door. Dillon said to Harker, 'Down to the gate, Da, sit inside and hold your tongue. Do that and I won't shoot you. Is it a bargain?'

The old man scuttled away. Hannah said, 'Has anyone got a spare pistol here?'

Dillon produced the Webley. 'I think this should be in a museum, but it will probably do the job.'

'Then let's get on with it,' Blake said and opened the door.

In the library, Daley put another log on the fire, and Barry stood by the French windows staring out as the rain drove against them. 'A desperate night, Bobby. I wonder how Mr Johnson is getting on.'

'Better than you think,' Blake said, easing the door open and leading the way in.

They all stood in a kind of tableau and Barry threw back his head and laughed. 'Dear God, it's you, Sean.'

'As ever was, Jack, come to haunt you. Charles Ferguson wants words, even more so after what I've heard from my friend here. An inside source of information? It could only be at White House level. You really are a naughty boy.'

'Always was, Sean, always was. I presume Bell has gone the way of all flesh?'

'Absolutely.'

'Ah, well, comes to us all. Pour Mr Johnson a brandy, Bobby, a large one. I expect he needs it.' He raised his glass to Blake. 'One old Vietnam hand to another.'

'Not really. I killed, but not in the way you did.' Blake took the brandy from Daley and looked at the paintings on the wall. 'Would that be a Confederate uniform there?'

Barry looked at the portrait. 'Yes. The stout gentleman on the end there was Francis the First. Made his money in Barbados in the eighteenth century. Sugar and slaves. Came back and bought a title. They were all called Francis. That's where Frank comes from.' 'Until you?'

'Yes, Jack for John. The one who fought for the Confederacy was killed at Shiloh. In letters home he said he'd chosen that side because grey suited his eyes.'

'That would figure, if he's anything like you,' Blake said. 'But let's get down to business. You knew I was coming in place of McGuire.'

'What happened to him?'

'As you well know, he's in a safe house in London emptying his guts,' Hannah said. 'The dog.'

'Yes,' Dillon told him. 'But they usually are. So, you know everything, it appears.'

'Always did, you know that, always one step ahead. That's what keeps me going.'

'And you wanted information about Brigadier Ferguson, so we hear,' Hannah said.

'Well, I would, wouldn't I? Always the old fox, that one.' 'You'll be seeing him soon enough,' Dillon told him. 'I'm sure you'll have an interesting conversation.'

'I'm certain we will.' Barry turned to the ice bucket and poured more Sancerre. He moved and stood at one side of the fireplace. 'Give Mr Johnson another brandy, Bobby. I'm sure he could do with it.'

Daley went to the sideboard and reached for the brandy decanter, then he pulled open a drawer and turned, a gun in his hand.

'There you go. Tables turned, I think,' Barry said.

But Dillon's hand was already under the back of his bomber jacket; his hand swung up, and there was a dull thud as he shot Daley in the heart, hurling him back against the sideboard, still clutching the decanter as he crashed to the floor.

Hannah cried out, and Dillon turned to see a section of the wood panelling beside the fireplace swing open, and Barry simply stepped back. There was a click as Dillon ran to it, but the panelling was immovable.

'Damn his eyes!' Blake said.

'I should have known,' Dillon told him. 'He'd never have used this place without an escape route or two. It's a rabbit warren. We'll never catch him now.'

Hannah looked down at Daley. 'What about him? Should we call the

RUC?'

'That's the last thing we need.' There was an Indian rug on the floor, and Dillon rolled the body up in it. 'Help me get him on my shoulder.'

Blake did as he was told. 'Now what?'

'Let's get out of here. I'll dispose of the evidence. He can join Bell in the Soak Hole.'

He led the way down to the hall and Blake got the massive door open. Rain dashed in and Dillon said, 'The grand night it is for dirty work. I'll see you at the gate,' and he strode away.

When Blake and Hannah reached the cottage, there was no sign of Harker, although the light was still on. They got into the Land Rover out of the rain and Dillon appeared a few minutes later. 'All done and dusted. The paths of the wicked all reach a sticky end.' He went to the cottage door and kicked on it. It opened and Harker peered out. 'We lost them,' Dillon told him.

'His lordship and Daley took off through some secret passage.'

'There's a few of those up there.'

'Anyway, no need for Barry to know of your part in this. Keep your mouth shut and you'll be all right. It never happened.'

'Damn right I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll open the gate for you.'

Dillon got behind the wheel of the Land Rover and drove out and started along the coast road.

'Now what?' Hannah demanded.

'You can call the Lear jet to pick us up in the morning. Ferguson likes to hear bad news as soon as possible, you know that.' He spoke over his shoulder to Blake. 'What about you? Is it back to Washington ?'

'No, I think I should follow this through. I'll come to London with you and help you brave Ferguson 's wrath.'

'Right, then next stop the Europa and some decent room service.'