The White House Connection

Chapter Five

The Lear jet flew over at midnight and they found Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Parry waiting for them, ready for a seven o'clock departure. It was all very official. The Lear carried RAF rondels and Lacey and Parry wore RAF flying overalls with rank insignia.

'Nice to see you again, Mr Johnson,' Lacey said and turned to Dillon, who was last up the steps. 'Are we going into action again, Sean?'

'Well, let's put it this way. I wouldn't book that holiday in Marbella,' Dillon said, and went up the steps.

They took off and climbed to thirty thousand and turned across the Irish Sea. Hannah found the tea and coffee flasks and Dillon three cups.

'You said Ferguson expects us like yesterday at the Ministry of Defence?'

'That's what he said.'

'How did he sound?'

'Neutral.'

Dillon poured tea into his cup. 'Oh, dear, that's when he's at his wont.'

The big surprise was Ferguson in the Daimler limousine waiting at Farley Field. Lacey took them across, providing what shelter he could with a large golf umbrella.

'Get in, for heaven's sake, and let's get on with it. Nice to see you, Blake. Sit beside me.' Hannah and Dillon took the jump seats and she pressed the button to close the dividing window. 'Right, let's hear the worst,' Ferguson carried on. 'You do the talking, Dillon, the Irish are good at that.'

'You'd never believe his sainted mother was from Kerry,' Dillon told Blake, 'but there you go and here I go.'

He went through the events in Belfast and at Spanish Head, leaving nothing out. Ferguson listened, his face grave, until Dillon was finished.

'What a mess. He actually knew you weren't McGuire, and that was only arranged within the last few days.'

'More than that, Brigadier. He knows about the Basement, boasted about his inside source.' 'But who could that be?'

'Has to be someone in the White House. A lot of people operate out of there one way or another.'

'But the Basement is supposed to be very hush-hush,' Ferguson said.

'Just like your outfit, Brigadier, but how many people know about it?' Blake observed. 'Computer accessing is another problem. We've even had kids hack in.' 'So have we,' Ferguson agreed.

'And we do ourselves when we can, sir,' Hannah pointed out. ' Paris, Moscow…'

'Even Washington,' Dillon said. 'So, you've no clues?' Ferguson asked Blake. 'Not really. I had to use the Travel Bureau, that's a polite name for the Forging Department. I wanted a passport as Tommy McGuire in case Barry wanted to see it. Then there were travel arrangements. Plane tickets, the room at the Europa, all as McGuire.'

'And all on computers,' Hannah said.

'But it still leaves the one incontrovertible fact that he knew who you were. I don't like it.' Ferguson showed a spark of anger. 'Don't like it at all. And you can bet the President won't like it either.'

'You can say that again,' Blake said with feeling.

Ferguson nodded. 'So what's to be done?'

It was Dillon who said, 'I've been thinking about McGuire. There might be more than he's told us.'

'What makes you think that?' Hannah asked.

'There always is with people like him, you've been a copper long enough to know that.' He turned to Ferguson. 'Let me have a go at him.'

'Does that mean beating it out of him?' Hannah demanded.

'No. Just putting the fear of God in him.'

Ferguson nodded. 'Right, it's all yours.'

'Good,' Dillon said. 'This is what we'll do…"

The safe house at Holland Park was a mid-Victorian mansion behind high walls. It looked innocuous enough, but had the kind of security that made it impregnable. McGuire had been amazed at the comfort. His own room, en suite, television, excellent food. What he didn't know was that he was on screen even when he went to the toilet.

Occasionally he was taken down to a drawing room that was very pleasantly furnished with an open fire and an even larger television. He was served a more than decent meal. There was even a bottle of Chablis. The guard was just as decent, Mr Fox, who didn't wear a uniform, just a navy blue suit. Of course, McGuire didn't realize that Fox carried a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson Magnum in a holster under his left arm, just as he didn't appreciate that the large gold-framed mirror provided a perfect view for anyone in the next room, which on this occasion meant Ferguson, Blake and Hannah Bernstein.

They watched McGuire finishing his lunch, Fox standing against the wall. There was a knock at the door, Fox unlocked it and Dillon walked in.

'Well, you seem to be doing all right, Tommy,' he said. McGuire stared at him. 'It's you. What do you want?' 'Oh, just to bringyou up to date on what happened in Ulster.' He lit a cigarette, took the half-bottle of wine from its bucket and poured it into McGuire's empty glass. He sampled it. 'Not bad. Yes, we missed out on Jack Barry. He managed to fly the coop. We got rid of two of his men, Daley and Bell . Do they mean anything to you?' 'Never heard of them.'

'The strange thing was that Barry was expecting my American friend Blake, the man who was impersonating you. He knew everything about him, knew he worked for the President, claimed to have inside intelligence sources.'

'Look, none of this has anything to do with me,' McGuire said. 'I told you everything I know about Barry. If you lost him, that's your problem.'

'Well, a problem it certainly is, old son, but yours, not mine. You see, I think you're a terrible liar. I believe you know a lot more than you're telling.'

'That's bollocks. I've told you everything I know.' 'Really? All right, we'd better let you go.' 'Let me go?' McGuire was astonished.

'Well, you did put us on to Barry. Bad luck he slipped us, but not your fault, and let's face it, it isn't the kind of thing we would want advertised in open court.' He nodded to Fox. 'Bring in the Chief Inspector.' 'Certainly, sir.'

Fox went and opened the door and called and Hannah entered, an official-looking document in one hand. 'Collect the prisoner's things and deliver him to Heathrow Airport,' she told him and turned to McGuire. 'Thomas McGuire, I have here a warrant for your deportation as an unwanted alien. According to records, you entered the country on an illegal flight from Paris and you will be returned there. I have no idea how the French authorities will treat you.'

'Now look here,' McGuire began, and Dillon interrupted him.

'Good luck, Tommy. You're going to need it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Jack Barry has a lot of friends all over Europe and the Middle East – the PLO, the Libyans, people like that. He's even done business with the Mafia over the years.'

'What's that got to do with me?'

'He knows my friend Blake Johnson wasn't you, so I presume he'll want to know what you were playing at. He's going to want your balls, Tommy, so good luck.'

He turned away and McGuire said, 'For God's sake, he's a sadist, that one. I mean, he killed one guy in Ireland by putting him through a cement mixer.'

There was silence. Hannah said, 'Is that a fact, Mr McGuire?'

He looked at her, then Dillon, then sat down. 'I'm not stirring.'

'Then talk,' Dillon told him.

The door opened, and Ferguson and Blake entered. 'All right, man, get on with it,' Ferguson said.

'Give me a cigarette, for God's sake.'

Dillon offered him one from his old silver case and gave him a light. 'Let it all hang out, Tommy. You'll feel much better.'

'As I told you, I'd never met Barry personally, but he dealt with Jobert in Marseilles and I worked for Jobert, so I used to meet guys Barry sent over from Ireland on arms business. There was one, a man called Doolin, who I had dealings with in Paris. Patrick Doolin.'

Dillon broke in. 'I know that name. Found hanging in his cell at the Maze Prison.'

'That's him,' McGuire said. 'We went out on the town one night in Paris, ended up having supper on one of those dining boats that ply up and down the river, decent food, plenty to drink. He got pissed out of his mind. Started going on about Barry and what an animal he was.'

The story had a certain fascination and they all waited. ' Doolin said he used to chauffeur for Barry. I think it must have been about three years ago it happened. He was driving him somewhere at night and Barry was drunk and on something, I mean really high. He told Doolin he'd just stiffed five British Army undercover agents, four men and a woman. Said he'd put one of them through a cement mixer. I think the others were shot. I can't recall.'

'My God,' Hannah said.

'What else?' Dillon was relentless.

'You know he runs the Sons of Erin? He said that the coup was thanks to the New York branch, with a little help from someone he called the Connection.'

'The Connection?' Ferguson asked.

'Yes, someone way on the inside. Apparently, he told Doolin it was just like in the old days, when Mick Collins had detectives at Dublin Castle working for him.'

'It would seem he told Doolin a lot,' Hannah said.

Ferguson nodded. 'Keep him safe, Mr Fox. We'll be in touch.'

'Brigadier.'

Ferguson turned to the others. 'All right, let's go.'

Sitting in his office an hour later with Blake, Ferguson was surprised when Hannah came in, Dillon behind her.

'I've found something, sir,' Hannah told him. 'Three years ago, an undercover squad in Ulster was taken out, four men and a woman. The leader, Major Peter Lang, was the subject of a car bomb so huge no remains were found. Here are the details on the other four. It has to be what Barry was referring to.'

'Dear God, Peter Lang, my old friend Roger Lang's boy,' Ferguson said. 'You met his mother, Lady Helen Lang, at Tony Emsworth's funeral.'

'The lovely lady on the terrace,' Dillon said. 'With that kind of proof, I'd say we're on to something. So what's the next move?'

'I think I should have words with the President,' Blake said.

Ferguson shook his head. 'Not yet, Blake. I know you're a free agent, but please hold back, just for now. There are things I'd like to do here.' He turned to Hannah. 'Was there any back-up information, any connection with Barry?'

'No, sir, and I must tell you I've accessed both MI5 and MI6.'

He sat there, brooding. 'Phone Simon Carter at once. His ears only. Ask him what he knows about Frank Barry and the Sons of Erin and any sort of inside leak, possibly from the White House.'

'Certainly, sir.' She went out.

Ferguson stood up. 'There's a good canteen here, Blake. Let's get a sandwich and await events.'

They were sitting at a corner table half an hour later when Hannah came in and sat down. 'He was his usual irate self, sir. Well, almost.'

'What do you mean?' Ferguson asked.

'He seemed sort of shocked. In a way, I got the feeling he knew all about it, but he couldn't have.'

'That devious bugger could lie to the Almighty,' Dillon told her.

'I must say, he came back damn quick. Gave me Jack Barry's history and that's all, everything we already know.'

'And nothing about Washington or the Sons of Erin?' Blake turned to Dillon. 'Is Carter still Deputy Director of the Security Services?' 'Absolutely.'

'Then if he doesn't know anything…' Ferguson said to Hannah, 'Get him on your mobile.' She did so and passed it across. 'Simon,' Ferguson said. 'I must see you. The terrace at Westminster in thirty minutes.' 'Now look here, Ferguson…'

'Just finalizing a report for the Prime Minister. I'd welcome your input,' and Ferguson switched off and sat there thinking about it. Finally, he said, 'I'll take you, Blake, as the President's representative. That will impress him, and you, Dillon, because you always unbalance him.'

'If ever a man hated me, it's dear old Carter.' 'Yes, well, I like to have him on edge.' Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'You're the computer genius, my dear. Check everything that could possibly have a significance.' He stood up. 'Let's be on our way, gentlemen.'

The House of Commons, together with the House of Lords, is a remarkable institution, and not only because of its extraordinary history as the seat of government for the United Kingdom. Its location on the Thames is unique, but it is its facilities which are extraordinary. Twenty-six restaurants and bars provide not only excellent food, but some of the cheapest in London.

Even someone with Ferguson 's pull had to stand in line as the queue inched forward to be checked thoroughly by the largest policemen in London. They finally made the Central Lobby, moved in through a maze of corridors and found the entrance to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.

It was the chilly end of March weather, but sunny enough for them to have the awnings open. There were plenty of people about, members of the House of Lords at one end, members of the Commons at the other, foreign visitors and guests of every description.

'Thank God you're wearing a jacket, Dillon. Makes a change. At least you look respectable.'

Dillon waved to a waiter who had glasses of champagne on a tray. 'Are you with the Japanese delegation, sir?'

'What else?' Dillon passed a glass to Blake, another to Ferguson, who accepted with reluctance, and took one himself.

They stood at the parapet and looked down at the Thames. 'How good is the security?' Blake asked.

'Five-knot current down there,' Dillon said. 'Even a Navy SEAL would have problems.'

'But not this little bastard,' Ferguson told Blake. 'Floated in here the other year when your President and the PM were meeting, just to show Carter the security precautions were no good. Turned up as a waiter and served them canapes.'

Blake exploded into laughter. Dillon said, 'Carter was not best pleased.'

'Well, he wouldn't be, would he?' Blake said, and at that moment Carter appeared.

He made a face when he saw Dillon. 'For God's sake, Ferguson, do we have to have this little swine here?'

'God save your honour,' Dillon told him. ' ' Tis a kindness for you to see me, a grand man like yourself.'

'Dillon is here because I need him, so that's that. This is Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal security man.'

'Yes, I know of Mr Johnson.' Carter shook hands reluctantly.

'To business,' Ferguson said. 'Chief Inspector Bernstein asked you for information relevant to Frank Barry and the Sons of Erin.'

'I told her everything I know. She's probably checked it out for herself on our computer. I know you do that.'

'And so do you. So, you know nothing about an American connection with Barry, possibly in the White House?' 'If I had, I'd have told you.'

Ferguson turned to Blake. 'You do the honours. Tell him everything.'

When Blake was finished, Carter was remarkably calm. 'Much of this could be nonsense. Why believe McGuire? Why accept what the wretched Doolin said?'

'On the other hand, when Blake was in Barry's hands, Barry said he had excellent sources,' Dillon pointed out.

'And he must have, because he was expecting me. He knew I wasn't McGuire,' Blake put in.

Carter seemed to have nothing to say and Ferguson waved to the waiter with the champagne. 'Another, gentlemen. Even you might do with one, Carter.'

'If you say so.'

'One final point. The undercover group wiped out by Jack Barry three years ago. Major Peter Lang and company? You made no mention of that to Chief Inspector Bernstein.'

'Because she didn't ask me. The facts are there on the computer for all to see. However, there has never been any suggestion that Barry and the Sons of Erin had anything to do with that affair. Trawl all you like, Ferguson, there is no such file. Now, is there anything else? I'm a busy man.'

'Not really. I'll tell the Prime Minister you've been as cooperative as usual.'

Carter frowned. 'You mean to involve the PM in this matter?'

'You, of all people, know my unique position in that respect. The Prime Minister's private army, isn't that what you call my department?'

'Damn you!' Carter exploded, and turned on his heel.

'There you go then,' Dillon grinned. 'What next?'

'I've already fixed a meet with the Prime Minister this afternoon,' Ferguson said. 'I'll take you in with me so that he can share your input, Blake. You, Dillon, will stay in the car as usual.'

Dillon smiled at Blake. 'Nothing changes and I know my place.'

Back at the Ministry of Defence, they found Hannah Bernstein still at the computer. 'Anything to report?' Ferguson asked.

'I did come across one interesting thing, sir. According to various sources, the Security Services have been less than generous over the past two yean with sensitive information having to do with Irish operations as regards our American friends. The word was that such material did seem to end up in the hands of Sinn Fein on a regular basis.'

'So what's been happening?' Ferguson asked.

'Oh, the general flow hasn't stopped, but it would seem that the quality of the material has left a great deal to be desired. Frankly, it's been the kind of stuff you could get from the political page of the better newspapers. A few titbits thrown in occasionally

Dillon cut in. 'But no more details of undercover operations?'

'So it would appear.'

'But if this was an official SIS attitude,' Blake said, 'wouldn't you have known about it?'

'I'm the last person they'd tell,' Ferguson said. 'They've always hated my privileged position with the Prime Minister. Placed every obstacle in my way, offered as little cooperation as they've been able to get away with.'

'I know the feeling,' Blake said. 'I have my own problems with the CIA and the FBI.'

'So what we're saying is that Carter and his people knew about what happened three years ago,' Dillon said. 'Maybe not straight away, but at some stage.'

'I'd say so.' Ferguson nodded and turned to Hannah. 'Put your fine Cambridge mind on it, Chief Inspector.'

'We have two facts that are certain, sir. Something made them start treating our American friends with enough suspicion to offer innocuous material and disinformation. I'd say at an earlier stage they probably heard about what happened, but decided it was simply beyond proof.'

'And the second fact?'

'That there isn't a file, at least not now. If the Deputy Director says so, I believe him.'

'Do you?' Blake asked Ferguson.

'Oh, yes, it fits. They play their own games, you see. With the peace process so important, they would decide they didn't want to give the Prime Minister a problem, because that would have involved the President and given him a problem. It would have also brought me in and involved you.'

'The bastards,' Blake said.

'Yes, but they weren't losing anything if they were sending your people useless information,' Ferguson said. 'We dealt with the Nazis during the Second World War in the same way, conned the Abwehr rotten.'

'All the same, it makes you wonder who's running the country,' Dillon said.

Hannah nodded. 'So what do you intend?'

'To see the Prime Minister. I've no choice, just as Blake has no choice. President Cazalet will expect a report on the Barry affair and I can't see Blake telling him less than the whole truth.'

'Exactly,' Blake agreed.

'And the question of the SIS involvement, sir?' Hannah asked.

'But there isn't one. No file, no knowledge of anything untoward. Astonishment at McGuire's story and delicate hints that it's all rubbish.'

'So that's it?' Hannah said.

'Not at all. I'll see the Prime Minister, bring him up to date, and from now on, handle this whole business my way.' 'And God help Simon Carter,' Dillon said.

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at Downing Street. Ferguson said, 'I don't think we'll be long.'

'Sure and I'm used to waiting when we come to this place.' Dillon grinned at Blake. 'I'm useful when they need a hired gun, but an embarrassment to the great man in there all the same.'

'I'd read The Times if I were you. It's very instructive,' Ferguson said, and got out, followed by Blake.

The policeman saluted, the door swung open and an aide smiled a welcome. 'Brigadier, Mr Johnson. The Prime Minister expects you.'

He took them upstairs past the portraits of all the previous Prime Ministers, then along a corridor, knocked briefly at the study door and opened it. The Prime Minister was sitting behind his desk, stood up and came round to shake hands with Ferguson.

'Brigadier.'

'Prime Minister. When you came to office, we discussed the peculiar circumstances of my position with you. Do you recall my mentioning that the President had a similar outfit working for him?'

'The Basement?'

'Yes, Prime Minister. This is Blake Johnson, who runs it.'

The PM shook hands with Blake. 'Be seated, gentlemen. You did indicate this was a matter of grave importance.'

'Very much so,' Ferguson said.

'Then tell me.'

When Ferguson was finished, the Prime Minister sat there, frowning. 'An incredible story. What happens next?'

' Mr Johnson will have to report to his President. I would suggest he does that when he gets back to my office.'

'I agree. As it happens, I have to speak to the President on matters concerning the peace process in Ireland later this evening. I'll discuss this affair with him and make it clear I have complete faith in you and Mr Johnson.'

'And what about the position of the Deputy Director of the Security Services?'

'What position?' The Prime Minister's face was calm. 'They know nothing, Simon Carter was definite on that score. "No file" was his phrase. Good. This would appear to be exactly the kind of thing my predecessors expected you to handle, Brigadier, so handle it.'

'You have my word, Prime Minister.'

He and Blake stood, the door opened as if by magic, and they were escorted out.

As it happened, Blake was unsuccessful in trying to speak to the President. He was finally routed to the chief of staffs secretary, who told him that the President was in Boston making a speech. Afterwards he was going down to his house on Nantucket for a three-day break. Next, Blake spoke to his secretary, Alice Quarmby, and because he was using the Codex Four line, he was able to speak openly.

'I was worried about you,' she said.

'You should be. That bastard Barry slipped the net, but he almost got me. This Sons of Erin outfit he runs – he spoke of a New York branch. Check it out and see what you can find.'

'Right away.'

'I need to get back fast, so see if there's anything military leaving the UK later today.'

'I'll call you back.'

In Ferguson 's office they had a final discussion. It was Hannah who stated the obvious. 'There's nothing more we can do over here.'

'Yes, it's up to you, old son,' Dillon said. ' New York branch of the Sons of Erin.' He laughed. 'Sounds like one of those Irish theme pubs.'

Blake frowned. 'You know something, that's not a bad idea.'

'Which still leaves you with the mystery of the White House,' Hannah told him. 'Like one of those Agatha Christie murder mysteries.'

'The thing about those mystery novels, my dear,' Ferguson said, 'was that they were always very simple.'

'The butler did it,' Dillon said.

'No, but there were usually no more than a dozen people staying at the country house for the weekend and it had to be one of them.'

The phone rang. He listened, then nodded. 'Hang on.' He looked at Blake. 'Your secretary checked with air transport and we have an RAF Gulfstream flying to the States this evening. They could drop in at Farley Field and pick you up there.'

'Just the ticket,' Blake told him.

Ferguson said, 'Confirmed,' and put the phone down.

'That's it then.' Dillon grinned. 'It's all up to you now, old son. We'll be waiting with bated breath.'

Washington,

Nantucket,

New York