The White House Connection

Chapter Six

In his office at the White House, Blake greeted Alice with enthusiasm. He'd managed to sleep on the plane, and had had one of those difficult breakfasts that took no notice of time differences, but he badly needed to shower and change, which he did the moment he got to the office – he so frequently had to sleep there overnight that he kept a change of clothes ready.

When he got to his desk, shaved, shampooed and resplendent in a blue, flannel suit, Alice handed him coffee with approval. 'That's taken ten years off you.'

'Look at my in-tray.'

'I've done my best. Tell me what happened.'

Blake ran the Basement in a most peculiar way. He had only one member of staff, which was Alice. Every time there was work to do, he pulled in members of a secret list: friends from FBI days, usually retired or invalided out; experts of every kind, from university professors to old comrades from Vietnam; whatever or whoever was necessary. He operated things like a Marxist cell system. Nobody knew what anyone else was doing. Except Alice. Who was outraged now by his story.

'It beggars belief that there is a spy in the White House.'

'Why not? We've had them everywhere else. The Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI

'Okay, I take your point.' She poured him another coffee.

'Too much is on computers these days, that's the real problem, and in spite of every precaution, it's too easy to get at.'

'Yes, life's a bitch,' Blake said. 'Speaking of which – did you get anywhere with the Sons of Erin?'

'Not much. Jack Barry's in the CIA and FBI files, but that's the only mention of the Sons of Erin.'

Blake sat there frowning. 'But he definitely mentioned them.' He laughed suddenly. 'I've just remembered something Dillon said. That the Sons of Erin sounded like an Irish theme pub.'

She laughed. 'It's a thought.'

'Okay, so let's take a different route. Pubs, restaurants, dining clubs. See what you can do.'

'I hear and obey, o master.'

She went out and Blake got down to the paperwork.

It was no more than an hour later that she returned. 'My God, it was so easy, once I looked in the right place.' She had a piece of paper in her hand. 'The Sons of Erin. It's listed under Irish dining clubs. Operates out of a bar and restaurant called Murphy's. It's in the Bronx.'

Blake looked at the address, then checked his watch. 'I can just make the shuttle to New York. Phone, get me a seat, get me a car, and book me a suite on the government. Something befitting my dignity.'

She was laughing uproariously as she went out.

Murphy's was on Haley Street. It was just after three when Blake's car drew up outside. It hadn't the usual Irish theme pub look to it, all green and gold harps. This was older, more solid.

'Wait here, George,' Blake said to his driver, got out and walked to the door.

Inside it was dark and very old-fashioned, with dining booths and lots of mahogany panelling. A couple of people were finishing a late meal in one of the booths, but the lunchtime trade was through. The barman was old, seventy-five at least, his sleeves rolled up, reading spectacles on the end of his nose as he checked the sports page of The New York Times.

'Hi, there,' Blake said. 'I'll have a Bushmills whiskey and water.'

'Well, you've got taste at least.' The old man reached for a bottle.

Blake said, 'With a name like Dooley, I should have. It was a friend told me to look in here. A guy called Barry.'

The old man pushed the drink across. 'I don't recall him.' 'Have one yourself.' The old man took a large one and downed it quickly.

'He told me he used to be in a dining club here called the Sons of Erin.'

'Jesus, that was just a handful of guys, four or five of them. Nothing special about it except for the Senator.'

'The Senator?'

'Sure, Senator Michael Cohan. Real nice guy.'

'Hey, that's very interesting. Who were the others?'

'Oh, let's see now… Patrick Kelly, he ran a lot of construction work near here… Tom Cassidy, he had a string of Irish pubs… Who else?' He frowned.

'Have another?'

'Well, thank you. Don't mind if I do.' He poured the drink, drank half of it, and nodded. 'Brady – Martin Brady. Teamsters' Union guy. Say, I heard he got knocked off the other week.'

'What do you mean?'

'Wasted. Someone made a hit when he was coming out of the union gym one night.' He leaned closer. 'I heard he had mob troubles. Know what I mean?'

'Yeah, sure… So, tell me, when do the Sons of Erin meet? I mean which night?'

'Oh, it isn't some kind of regular thing. Just now and then. They haven't had a meet here in months.'

'Really?' Blake slipped a twenty over the bar. 'Guess I missed my chance then. Nice talking to you. Keep the change.'

'Well, thank you.'

Outside, in the car, he called Alice on his mobile. 'Take this down.' He gave her the names of the members of the dining club. 'Check the New York Police Department computer for details of the murder of Brady. I'm on my way to the Pierre now. I'll check back with you in an hour.'

'Why don't 1 ever get the Pierre? Why you?'

'Because I'm a very important man, Alice.'

'You know, it's your overwhelming ego that makes you so attractive.' She put down the phone.

He was having coffee and sandwiches in his room when she phoned back. 'Are you sitting down?'

'That bad?'

'You could say that. You wanted me to check out Brady's murder?'

'That's what I said.'

'Well, I decided to put them all through the NYPD computer, in case this Sons of Erin thing provided a link.'

'And did it?'

'You could say that. There's no mention of the group as such, but Brady, Kelly and Cassidy are all in there.'

'Go on.'

'They were all shot to death, Blake. Brady first, some kind of mob street shooting. Cassidy three nights later, rumours about a protection racket, Kelly three days after, a robbery while he was out for a run at his place in Ossining.'

'My God,' Blake said, stunned. 'And not a word.'

'There were newspaper reports, but they were all separate – nothing to link them together. If you didn't know about the Sons of Erin, you'd have no reason to think they weren't what they seemed to be.'

'That's true.'

'Are you going to tell the police?'

'I'm not sure. What about Senator Cohan?'

'He's not on the NYPD computer, but then again, he's still alive. He was on Larry King Live! last night.'

'What for?'

'Oh, Irish peace as usual. Everyone's into it at the moment. He's going to London to put his six cents worth in to stay hot with his Irish-American voters. What do you want me to do?'

'Those presidential warrants we keep in the office, the blank ones with the President's seal and signature. Fill one out in the name of Captain Harry Parker, fax me a copy here.' He gave her the room fax number.

'Who is this guy?'

'A product of zero tolerance on the streets of good old New York. He runs a special homicide unit – top detectives, fancy computers. I knew him when I was in the FBI.'

'So he owes you one?'

'It doesn't matter. Once I present him with that warrant, he's mine. I'll be in touch.'

Next he phoned Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence in London. As it was eight o'clock in the evening there, he was rerouted to the Cavendish Square flat.

'You're not going to like this,' he said to Ferguson, and gave him the bad news, including the Sons of Erin background.

Ferguson said, 'Someone would appear to mean business.'

'You could say that. I've been thinking about Ryan's death in London. After all, he was connected with Barry as well. Could you get details from Scotland Yard? We know Dillon thought the killer was a woman, but I was wondering about the weapon that was used.'

'Right away. I'll be back to you in half an hour.'

He telephoned records at Scotland Yard, then phoned Dillon. 'You'd better get round here fast.'

Dillon was there in ten minutes, was admitted by Kim and went upstairs, as Ferguson 's fax machine was pumping out two sheets.

'What's happening?' Dillon asked.

Ferguson was reading the sheets. He looked up and passed them over. 'The report on Ryan when they took him out of the river. An unusual gun killed him. Look for yourself

Dillon did, then nodded. 'Colt. 25. A woman's gun, but deadly when used with hollow-point cartridges.' He handed the fax back. 'So what?'

'I've just had Blake on from New York. He's found the Sons of Erin, Dillon – and most of them are dead. Three of them, shot to death within a seven-day period, and all within the last couple of weeks.'

Dillon whistled.

'The only one left as far as we know is Senator Michael Cohan of New York… Jesus! And he's due over here in a few days for some Irish peace thing at the Dorchester. That's all we need, an American Senator knocked off in London. The Prime Minister is certain to give us the job of looking after him.'

'So what now?' 'I'll speak to Blake and give him the facts.'

In his room at the Pierre, Blake listened intently, then nodded. 'I'm going over to see a top homicide specialist, tonight if possible. Here's my room fax number. Send the material and I'll let you know what I find out. Is Dillon there?' 'I'll put him on.'

'So what's your hunch on this one, my Irish friend?'

'Well, you've heard the old saying. Once is okay, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action, and this is four.'

'You really think it's the same person? A woman!'

'I know one thing. Someone or some group wanted the Sons of Erin stiffed, and four out of five is good going. If I were this Senator Michael Cohan, I'd be worried sick.'

'So would I. I'll stay in touch.'

Dillon put the phone down. 'So, we wait and see,' he said to Ferguson. 'Will you tell the Prime Minister?'

'Not yet.'

'And Carter?'

'Bugger Carter. Now have a nightcap with me and be off with you.'

In his office at One Police Plaza, Harry Parker was considering going home. It had been a hard day. Three drug-related shootings, six wearying interrogations and a mountain of paperwork. He was thinking of dropping in at his favourite bar when the phone rang.

'Harry, that you?'

'Who is this?'

'Blake Johnson.'

'Why, you old dog. I haven't seen you since the Delaney investigation – what was that, two years ago, three? They tell me you've left the FBI.'

'I've gone up in the world. I'll tell you when I see you.'

'And when would that be?'

'Oh, I'd say around fifteen minutes.'

'But I was just leaving.'

'Harry, what if I told you I'm speeding towards you on presidential business?'

'I'd say you were full of shit.' There was only silence, and

Parker said, 'You are, aren't you? Tell me that you are, Blake.' And then, every instinct acquired over twenty-five years on the street alerted him. 'Jesus, what am I getting into?'

'Something fascinating, I assure you. Just put the coffee on.'

Harry Parker sat there, thinking about it. He was forty-eight years of age, a 224-pound black man from Harlem who'd gone to Columbia on a scholarship and hadjoined the force immediately afterwards. A policeman was all he'd ever wanted to be and he'd never minded night shifts and seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had.

She'd left him ten years earlier, had married a Baptist preacher in Georgia, but it still left Harry with his son, a doctor, and a daughter who was a fledgling reporter for the local CBS station, a single mother who'd borne him a granddaughter two years earlier.

He picked up the phone and called the deli across the street. 'Hey, Myra, Captain Parker. I've got to work late. Send over grilled cheese sandwiches for two, fries, and coffee.'

He opened a drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then lit one. He was supposed to have stopped, but what the hell, it was probably going to be a long night. He stood at the window, looking out at the rain, and the phone rang.

'Captain Parker, a Mr Johnson to see you.'

'Send him up.'

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, but when it opened it was a boy from the deli.

'Put it on the table over there,' Parker said, and Blake Johnson appeared in the doorway.

'Hey, that smells good. I've hardly had anything to eat all day.'

'So now you want to steal mine.' Parker waved the boy away. 'You might as well sit down then.'

They took chairs opposite each other in the corner, the low table between them, and Blake took a sandwich. 'Excellent.'

Parker took the lid off one of the coffees. 'Feel free. Just leave me to starve. You're looking disgustingly well, so tell me what this is about.'

Blake took an envelope from his pocket. 'Read that.' He reached for another sandwich.

Parker opened the envelope and took out the fax. 'Jesus, a presidential warrant.'

'Only the fax copy. The real article is on its way to you by presidential messenger.'

Parker was astonished. 'Blake, I've never even seen one of these things, only heard of them. I know you're not FBI any more, but what are you? CIA, Secret Service?'

'Neither, Harry. I work for the great man himself.'

'Which means?'

'My department is very special, very secret, Harry. I report to the President only, which explains the warrant. In this matter, you no longer owe allegiance to the New York Police Department or the Mayor. You owe allegiance to one person only, the President of these United States. Do you accept that?'

'Do I have a choice?'

'No, this is a matter of national security I'm handling, to which your professional expertise is essential.'

Suddenly, Harry Parker felt great. He reached for a sandwich and smiled. 'I'm your man, Blake, I'm your man. Tell me all.'

Later, sitting in front of his computer, sleeves rolled up, he said, 'I'll feed in all this London stuff on Ryan.' His fingers tapped the keys. 'Okay, now let's start on the members of the Sons of Erin.' Rain drummed against the window and Parker's fingers moved nimbly. 'Number one, Martin Brady, Teamsters' Union. Came out of the union gym one night and was shot in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the car. That's a typical mob execution, and we know they had it in for him.'

'Yeah, ' Blake said. 'But for that kind of hit, doesn't the Mafia emulate the CIA? They usually use a small calibre like a. 22.'

Parker's fingers moved over the keys. 'You're right, but in this case, it was a Colt. 25, with hollow-point bullets.' He sat back. 'Jesus, let me go back to those facts on Ryan.' He tapped away. 'Colt . 25.'

'Would that be a coincidence?' Blake asked.

'Hell, no. I'll put the images in for a match and I smell there is one.'

'Let's have a look at the other ones.'

Parker went back to work. 'Three days later, Cassidy comes out of his new restaurant in the Bronx at one in the morning. Police intelligence said there was a protection racket operation and figured he was a victim.' He tapped again and shook his head. 'This is fucking unbelievable. The weapon involved was a Colt. 25.'

'One to go,' Blake told him.

Parker went to work. 'Patrick Kelly, construction millionaire, in the habit of rising at six a.m. and going for a five-mile run. Found shot in the heart at his country home in Ossining. Always wore a fifteen-thousand-dollar gold diver's watch and gold chain round his neck. Both missing.' He turned to Blake. 'Listed as an armed robbery gone bad.'

'So now check the weapon used.'

Parker did as he was told, waited for the result, then nodded. 'Beautiful. The same weapon, from London to New York.' He turned. 'What do you think?'

'I think the killer was very smart, except for using the same weapon. You notice the pattern here that cleverly offers an explanation for each killing. Brady, the Mafia; Cassidy, a protection racket; Kelly, a robbery.'

'As you say, smart, and as the killings had no apparent link, maybe this business of the same gun would never have come out except for you, but there's a puzzle here.'

'The fact that in London, my associate said that the person who shot Ryan was a woman?'

'Hell, no, the fact that the Colt used in London was the Colt used in three murders in New York. Now that astounds me. Who in the hell gets through airport security these days with a weapon?'

Blake nodded slowly and then brightened. 'Maybe people who use private planes, Harry, important people, rich people who are waved through.'

'For God's sake, what is this all about?' Parker asked.

'I can't tell you, but I promise that when I can you'll be the first to know.'

'Well, thanks very much.'

Blake stood up. 'It's the best I can do, Harry. Now I've got to see the President,' and he walked out.

In London, it was well past midnight, but he phoned Ferguson anyway and found the Brigadier in bed. ' Curiouser and curiouser, Brigadier.'

Ferguson, fully awake, sat up. 'Tell me.'

Blake did. 'What do you think?' he asked when he was finished. 'Some Loyalist group which had the target of taking out the Sons of Erin?'

'Blake, dear boy, I'm an old dog, long in this business, and I go by instinct. One gun in London and New York means one killer. I'd stake my life on it.'

'But a woman? It's incredible.'

'I'm old enough to know that nothing is incredible in this life. You'll be seeing the President?'

'Yes.'

'Senator Michael Cohan is due in London in a few days. Point that out to the President. Maybe he should stay home.'

' New York, London.' Blake shrugged. 'They both seem to be pretty dangerous places these days.'

At the same time, in a safe house on the cliffs of County Down, Ulster, Jack Barry was having a drink in the kitchen when his coded mobile rang. It was the Connection.

'Where in the hell have you been?' Barry demanded.

'I'm a busy man, my friend. Blake Johnson turned up in Washington , so I presume you're on the run.'

'You can say that again. Sean Dillon and some woman chief inspector came with him. I lost two men, but managed to slip them.'

'Good. No mention of our arrangement, I trust?'

'Of course not,' Barry lied.

'Excellent. I'll keep you posted.' The Connection rang off.

Barry cursed. He hated not knowing who he was dealing with, but then none of the Sons of Erin did. They only knew each other. He thought for a moment, then used his coded mobile to call Senator Michael Cohan. They'd met in the States several times and got on well. Cohan loved it all: the hair-raising stories, the action by night, the glamour.

Cohan answered at once. 'Who is this?'

'Barry. Did I catch you at a bad time?'

'Yes, there's a party here. I've taken refuge in my study. I meant to phone you myself, but I've just gotten back from Mexico. Just got bad news. Apparently, Martin Brady was murdered, some street killing, they say it's the mob.'

'That's a coincidence. Tim Pat Ryan got it the same way the other day.'

'Is that a fact?' the Senator said. 'Mind you, he was a true gangster, that one.'

'What about Kelly and Cassidy?'

'I haven't talked to them in a couple of months. Maybe I should – ' A door crashed open in the background, and there was drunken laughter. 'My God, here they come. I'll be in touch,' and he rang off.

Blake had arranged an Air Force plane for the following morning. The brief flight was uneventful. The weather was squally, March again, but the young major in charge of transportation was all efficiency.

'The chief of staff is with the President at Nantucket, sir. He ordered us to send you on your way by helicopter.'

'Beach landing?' Blake asked.

'That's it, sir.'

'Hell, I did enough of those in ' Nam.'

'Before my time, sir. If you'll come this way I've got sandwiches and coffee. Departure thirty minutes from now.'

He held his umbrella high and Blake followed him across the tarmac.

The old clapboard house on Nantucket had been in the Cazalet family for years. It held every possible memory for the President. Childhood, school vacations, and twice, it had been a place to grow strong again after being wounded in Vietnam. Other, bitter memories were there, too: his wife's slow demise from leukaemia and then the terrorist threat following his discovery of a wonderful daughter late in life – the Comtesse Marie de Brissac, now in Paris teaching art at the Sorbonne.

He had always loved the beach in any kind of weather, was walking there now with Henry Thornton and a Secret Service man, Clancy Smith, trailing them, the President's flatcoat retriever, Murchison, pounding in and out of the water. They all wore storm coats against the wind, which was blowing hard.

The surf roared in, it was good to be alive and Washington was far away.

The President stopped and waved his hand twice, and Clancy, who knew what that meant, shook a Marlboro from his pack, lit it inside his coat and passed it across.

'I've said it before,' Thornton told him. 'Do that on television and you'll lose votes.'

'It's a free country, Henry. It may not be healthy, but it doesn't make me a bad person.' He leaned down and fondled Murchison's ears. 'Now if I beat this wonderful dog – that would be different.'

There was a roaring in the distance. Clancy listened via his earpiece. 'Helicopter coming in, Mr President. It's Blake Johnson.'

'That's good,'Jake Cazalet said. 'Let's find out what happened in Ireland,' and he led the way along the beach to the distant house.

In the living room, Blake sat opposite the President and Thornton leaned by the fireplace. 'The Prime Minister and I had a conversation on this matter, as you know, but the whole thing seemed so implausible. The man Barry, for example.'

'Only too real, sir, and boasted about his sources, which have to be in the White House. The plain fact is Barry knew who I was, knew I worked for you.'

'Knew everything, it would seem. But leaks from my White House? I can't believe it.'

'It happens all the time, Mr President. Ask any journalist about his sources,' the chief of staff said. 'There's no reason to think we're immune.'

'And so much information is accessible,' Blake said. 'Everything's on the computer these days. We've got all kinds of safeguards in place, but I can access the CIA at Langley if I need to, and I'm sure that if they really try hard, they could access the Basement files. Even this conversation is being recorded.'

'Oh, God, that's right – that security thing you had to install, right?' the President asked.

'Correct, sir, and it is linked by direct line to Washington.'

'Coded, of course,' the chief of staff said with some irony.

'Supposedly picked up by the Records Department at the White House and filed as indicated.'

'On a computer,' Thornton said. 'And the curse of the system is that there are a lot of people around who can access any computer known to man.'

'And there are a lot of people employed at the White House,' Cazalet said. 'Although this Connection of Barry's implies an Irish dimension or some sort of IRA sympathy.'

'But, Mr President, that covers a lot of possible ground,' Thornton said. 'Even my mother was Irish-born. She came from County Clare as an infant. It was my father's family, the Thorntons, who were English.'

'My grandmother on my mother's side was a Dublin woman.' Cazalet smiled and turned to Blake. 'What about you?'

' Mr President, Johnson is English enough, but I take the chief of staff's point. It's always been said that around forty million people in the country's population are of Irish stock. If you consider people like yourself and the chief of staff who have some sort of Irish past in their family history, then God knows how many it touches.'

'A considerable proportion of the White House staff, I should think,' Thornton put in.

'You can say that again. Needless to say, I'll leave no stone unturned. However, I've left the really bad news till last.'

'You mean it gets worse?' The President shook his head. 'Better get on with it, Blake.'

As Blake gave his account of the lives and deaths of the Sons of Erin, the President and the chief of staff sat horrified.

When Blake was finished, Cazalet said, 'This passes belief. Is the Prime Minister in possession of all these facts?'

'Not all, Mr President. Brigadier Ferguson felt he should wait until I'd completed my investigation.'

Cazalet sat there, frowning, then turned to Thornton. 'A drink is very definitely indicated here. Make mine a Scotch and water, no ice. You gentlemen feel free to indulge yourselves.'

He went and opened the French window and breathed deeply in the cold air. Thornton gave him his Scotch. 'May I make a point?'

'Please do.'

'I think we're shying away from Senator Cohan here.'

'Explain.'

'There's an implication of some mysterious Connection presumably passing out choice items of information on the Irish situation to the Sons of Erin, and a strong suspicion that Tim Pat Ryan was their connection in London.'

'So?' Cazalet said.

'These were bad guys, Mr President. They must have been if they were involved with Jack Barry. Which means that Senator Cohan is a bad guy.'

'I'd already thought of that,' the President said. 'Could he be the Connection?'

'I doubt it,' Blake said. 'If he were, why go public by being a member of the dining club?'

'That makes sense.'

Cazalet frowned, and Thornton said, 'What do we do?'

'Officially, nothing,' the President said. ' Cohan'll deny any involvement and proof would be difficult.'

'Can you forbid him to go to London?'

'What for? If he's a target, he's a target in both London or New York. Besides, despite what he says in the papers, his visit is not on my behalf. It's to make him look good to the voters.'

'So what happens?' Thornton asked. 'What do we do?'

The President turned to Blake. 'First, tell Ferguson to inform the Prime Minister of the recent turn of events. I'll discuss it with the PM at an appropriate time.'

'And Senator Cohan?'

'What's that fine old British phrase Dillon uses? Put the boot in?'

'That's it, Mr President.'

'Well, put the boot into Senator Cohan. Frighten him, send him running, watch every move. With luck, something might turn up.'

'At your command, Mr President. I'd better get back. I held the helicopter over.'

'It can wait. Lunch, gentlemen, and then you can return to a troubled world, Blake.'

It was some three hours later that Senator Michael Cohan received a phone call at his New York office.

'It's me,' the Connection told him. 'With some bad news, Senator. I'm afraid the Sons of Erin have fallen upon bad times. They're all dead. Brady, Cassidy, Kelly, Ryan. All dead. And interestingly enough – all killed by the same gun.'

Cohan was aghast. 'This is terrible! I can't believe it. I heard about Brady and Ryan, but – Kelly and Cassidy, too. For God's sake, what's going on?'

'You've heard of the Last of the Mohicans?' The Connection laughed. 'Well, you're the last of the Sons of Erin. I wonder where the axe will fall next? The President knows of your involvement, by the way.'

'I'll deny it. I'll deny everything. How do you know this?'

'I've told you before. Anything that comes into the White House, I know.'

'Who are you? God, I wish I'd never gotten involved.'

'Well, you did, and as to who I am, that'll have to remain one of life's great mysteries. I could be using a voice distorter. I could be your best friend, I could be a woman. In fact, they think it was a woman who killed Ryan in London.'

'Damn you!'

'Taken care of. Now, listen carefully. The President has authorized Blake Johnson to speak to you, tell you something about what's going on, advise you to take to the hills.'

'What shall I do? I'm due in London in three days.'

'Yes, I know. In my opinion, I think you should go. I don't think it'll be any more dangerous for you there than here, and while you're away, I'll see what I can do about our problem.'

'You're sure?'

'Of course. When Johnson sees you, just play dumb. You ate together once in a while and you have no idea what's going on.'

'But who's doing all this? Is it the fucking Protestants?'

'More likely British Intelligence. That means you'll be safe in London.'

'How do you make that out?'

'Because you're an American Senator, and whatever else, they won't want you to buy it in London.'

'I'll try and believe that.'

'Good. I'll be in touch. I'll handle it.'

Henry Thornton put the phone down.

Panicky, and when a man panicked, he could do anything. A liability now, Cohan. With any luck, that mysterious killer out there would take care of him. If not… maybe he'd have to have help. As for Barry, he'd leave that for a while. See what happened to Cohan.

He went to the sideboard and poured a whiskey, Irish, of course. He'd told the President the truth. His sainted mother had been born in County Clare. What he hadn't mentioned was that she had had an illegitimate half-brother by her father, a volunteer with Michael Collins in the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin. He'd been executed by the Brits, and Thornton had grown up with the man's name in his ears.

But there was much more than that. Doing postgraduate work at Harvard in 1970, Thornton had met a lovely Irish Catholic girl from Queen's University, Belfast, named Rosaleen Fitzgerald. She'd been the absolute love of his life. They'd spent one idyllic year, true love way beyond sexuality, and then it had happened. She'd gone home for the summer vacation, and had been in the wrong Belfast street at the wrong time, a firefight between Brit paratroopers and the IRA that had left her dead on the sidewalk.

His hatred of all things British had become absolute. Growing up, even with all the success, all the money, it had meant nothing, and then had come the chance to strike back.

He sipped the whiskey. 'Fuck you,' he said softly. 'I'll have my day.'

At his office in Manhattan the following day, Cohan received Blake with enthusiasm, heard him out with appropriate sounds of horror and disbelief, and walked him to the door with grave shakes of his head. He promised to be careful in London, but no, he had to go. It was for a very important cause, and he'd promised.

'Please keep me up to date,' he said to Johnson, shaking his hand and staring sincerely into his eyes.

Blake promised that he would.

Afterwards, Blake spoke briefly to the President, and then phoned Ferguson in London. 'What will you do?' he asked.

'I'll see the Prime Minister. Place all the new facts before him, and wait to hear the outcome of his chat with the President.'

'And Cohan?'

'You tell me the President won't forbid him to come, so he will come. I'll have the job of protecting him.'

'And what do you think will happen?'

'As I told you, I'm an old dog, long in this business. I go by instinct, and every instinct tells me he will die in London.' Ferguson hung up.

London