The White House Connection

Chapter Seven

At Compton Place, it was raining. Lady Helen Lang was out riding, heavily protected by storm coat and rain hat. The wind blew in across the North Sea all the way from Holland, churning the waves into surf that pounded on the shingle beaches. She cantered through pine woods down to the sand dunes of the estuary, reined in her mare and let the rain bring her to life.

'Come on, Dolly.' She patted the mare's neck. 'Let's go home.'

She didn't need to dig her heels in. Dolly took off like a rocket and galloped through the pine woods, swerving at a touch of the rein and taking a two-bar gate as if she were in the Grand National. Helen cantered into the stable yard at the house and found Wood there. The chief groom at a racing stable close by, he looked in by arrangement, not so much for the money, but mainly because, like everyone else, he felt protective of Lady Helen.

He held Dolly as she dismounted. 'A good run, milady?'

'Excellent.'

'I'll give her a rub down and some oats, then.'

'I'm very grateful.'

She moved to the kitchen door and Hedley opened it. 'You've been galloping again.'

'What do you want me to do, roll over and die?' She smiled. 'Don't be an old fuddy-duddy. I'll go and shower and then you can take me to the village for a pub lunch.'

After she'd gone, Hedley made himself a cup of coffee. He heard Wood drive off, went and opened the kitchen door and stood looking out at the rain. It was like a dream, everything that had happened since that night in Wapping, since she had killed Ryan. And then New York. Brady, Kelly, Cassidy.

He shuddered. What could he do? As she had once said: go to Scotland Yard? And what would he say? My mistress has murdered four men who had some sort of responsibility for the butchery of her son and the assassination of four others in Ulster? On top of that, she shot two lowlifes trying to rape a girl in Manhattan? No, even thinking along those lines was a waste of time.

There was no way he could ever do anything to harm her. She simply meant too much to him. And there was another thing, too. He had killed many people in Vietnam, some for good reasons, some for bad, and he knew one thing beyond dispute. If he ever had the mysterious Connection in his sights, he would kill the man himself without compunction.

Showered and changed, Helen Lang went into her study and sat before the computer. She really was very expert now, and soon had Senator Cohan's travel arrangements on her screen, including his date of arrival, and, even, in a bit of luck, the number of his suite at the Dorchester Hotel. Apparently, he reserved the same one every time he was there. She considered all the facts, then went down to the kitchen, where she found Hedley.

She took her sheepskin down from behind the door. 'All right, Hedley, food awaits. Let's be off,' and she opened the door, went out into the courtyard and walked to the Mercedes parked in the open barn.

The pub, as usual at that time of year, was quiet. It was very old England in the saloon bar, great stone flags for a floor, a low, beamed ceiling. There was a log fire burning in the open hearth and the long bar was made of oak, with beer pumps and a range of bottles behind. There were only four locals at the bar, the usual gnarled old straw dogs. She was greeted with enthusiasm. One man even doffed his cap. Hedley was just as well received.

The barmaid was a middle-aged woman called Hetty Armsby, and the eighty-five-year-old man sitting on the end stool reading the London Times was her father, Tom.

' The Times, is it?' Helen asked.

'I like to keep up to date,' he said. 'Keep my brain active. The Times gives you the facts. For instance, all this Irish business at the moment, though why the Yanks are involved I'll never know.'

'Pint for Hedley and your dad and a gin and tonic for me,' she said to Hetty.

'And you'll be wanting food?'

'Shepherd's pie and that bread you bake yourself.' Helen took out a cigarette and Hedley gave her a light. 'Oh, I don't know, Tom. I'm a Yank, remember.'

'Well, that isn't your fault, Lady Helen,' and he cackled.

'You old rogue. Just look at the wall.'

Hanging there was a series of framed black-and-white pictures of aeroplanes. Several were of German Dorniers, and two were of American B 17 bombers, one in the surf off Horseshoe Bay, the other nose down where it had crash-landed, the crew standing beside it in flying gear.

'True enough,' Tom told her. 'A grand bunch of lads, that. We got them in here while they were waiting for trucks from their base. Drunk out of their minds, they were, by the time those trucks came. We've had one or two back over the years. Mind you, a long time ago. Mostly passed on, I reckon.'

Hetty appeared with a tray. 'Over here, Lady Helen. Nice table by the fire.'

She laid everything out. Lady Helen and Hedley sat down and ate. 'Good, Hedley?'

'You know it's good,' he told her. 'Sometimes it's still hard for me to fathom. I was a kid in Harlem, scratching a living, on hard times, then there was 'Nam, and all those years later, I live in one of the most ancient parts of England and sit in a pub like it's out of a Jane Austen novel, eating a thing called shepherd's pie.'

'And you like it.'

'Love it, Lady Helen, and I love these crazy people.'

'Well, they love you,' she said. 'So that's okay.'

They finished the meal and she ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea. 'Much better for you than coffee, Hedley, and I want your brain clear.'

'And why would that be?'

'Senator Cohan arrives at the Dorchester the day after tomorrow.'

He took a deep breath. 'You really mean it, don't you?'

'Of course.' She took a small plastic bag from her pocket, opened it and produced a key. 'Remember when they were fitting the new stove in the kitchen in South Audley Street, and they were making such a racket, and I stayed overnight at the Dorchester?' She smiled. 'I'm just a weak woman who enjoys luxury. Well, that's the key to the suite.'

Hedley took it. 'So?'

'You've often boasted of your wide range of rather dubious friends. When we lost those keys for the old stables, the deadlocks, you produced one that opened all of them. Said you'd got it from a friend in London. I asked you if he was a locksmith. You said not exactly.'

'That's true.'

'Well, we're leaving for South Audley Street tomorrow. One of the joys of the English aristocratic system, as you well know,

Hedley, is that one gets invited to everything, and I'm due at the Dorchester ballroom the day after tomorrow.'

He was resigned to it by now. 'So what do you need?'

'This friend of yours to have a look at that key. I know it's computer-coded, and won't open a thing now, but based on something dear Roper once told me – well, I'm sure if your friend is as good as I think he is, he can produce a passkey.'

Hedley sighed. 'If you say so.'

'Oh, but I do. Don't let me down. Now finish your beer and we'll go.'

It was the following afternoon when Hedley came up from Covent Garden tube station. It was, as always, one of the most crowded parts of London. Hedley worked his way through the crowds until he came to Crown Court, a narrow little alley with four or five shops. One of them said: Jacko – Locksmith. The bell tinkled as Hedley went in.

A curtain at the rear parted and an old white-haired black man came through. 'Damn my eyes, it's you, Hedley.'

'That it is, Jacko.'

'We'll have a drink on it.' Jacko produced a half-bottle of Scotch from under the counter, then two paper cups, and poured. 'Isn't life the damnedest thing? You and my Bobby get posted on Embassy Guard here, so he sends for me to come to live in London. Then they pull him away to that stinking Gulf War and he gets wasted.'

'Here's to you, Jacko.' Hedley drank the whiskey. 'Always thought you'd go home.'

'Where's home? Hell, I still play great trombone, and London 's got better jazz clubs than New York. You got a purpose to this visit?'

Hedley produced the key. 'You familiar with these things?'

Jacko only glanced. 'Yeah, sure. It's a hotel key. What about it?'

'Could you make me a passkey, a general key, out of it? One that would open any door in the hotel?'

'My friend, I never figured you for a guy who worked the hotel racket, but yes, I can do such a thing. The hotel people think these things are foolproof, but not if you know what you're doing. I can do the job in about five minutes.'

'Good. Then do it. And, no, I'm not in any kind of hotel racket, but this is real important.'

'Then consider it done.' Jacko opened the bottle and poured. 'Have another.'

He went back through the curtain while Hedley finished the whiskey and then appeared a few minutes later. 'There you go'

The key looked just the same. Hedley said dubiously, 'Is this kosher?'

'If I were Jewish, I'd say on my life, but I'm just an old trombone player from Harlem. Hedley, I don't know the hotel, I don't want to know, but one thing is certain. This will open any door in the fucking place.'

'What do I owe you?'

'What are friends for? Use it in good health.'

Michael Cohan took the Concorde from New York to London. He preferred it to the Jumbo, but then anyone would. Three and a half hours, a smooth and perfect flight, excellent food and free champagne. The seats were smaller, but the speed made up for that. There was no movie, but that was the last thing he was concerned about, because the thoughts going around in his brain provided his own personal cinema of the mind and it wasn't funny. He'd tried to phone Barry twice on the coded mobile, but got no reply, though that wasn't surprising. The Irishman was constantly on the move, and mobile phones were not something you switched on all the time, especially in Barry's case, when you were on the run.

It was a mess, though, the way things had worked out. So stupid, the whole thing. His Irish-American voters had always been crucial, and Brady had been a first-class fund-raiser for him because of his power in the Teamsters' Union. It was he who had introduced him to Kelly and Cassidy.

There was a natural progression to receiving funds for the IRA. Not just for Noraid, but for other groups with Dublin links. Everybody was doing it. Most of his Irish-American voters felt strongly about the situation in Ireland. The IRA were heroes – romantic heroes.

He remembered the early days at Murphy's, the drinking, the singing of rebel songs. It was exciting, romantic, and then there had been the night Brady had introduced Jack Barry, in New York on business for the organization back there in Dublin. A real live IRA gunman.

Barry had regaled them with his stories of gun battles with British paratroopers, life on the run, and had suggested how they could help. It was Brady with his work on the New York docks for the Teamsters who was of real importance. The possibilities of smuggling arms to Ireland had been obvious. Cohan and Kelly had concentrated on the fund-raising and Cassidy on the purchase of suitable weapons. Cohan remembered their first coup: fifty ArmaLite rifles smuggled in a Portuguese boat to Ireland.

They were already calling themselves the Sons of Erin at Barry's suggestion, had established the dining club at Murphy's with a plaque on their own booth, all out in the open, no reason not to. And then when Barry had come to New York again, he had mentioned his mysterious mentor, a voice on the phone the previous year when Barry had been staying in splendour at the

Mayfair Hotel on IRA business. When Barry had asked who he was, he'd simply said: 'Call me the Connection, because that's what I am.'

Astoundingly, he could provide information from British Intelligence by way of Washington, information crucial to the struggle in Ireland. Again, because of Brady's waterfront connections, arrangements were able to be made to smuggle IRA men on the run out of Ireland to New York. The smuggling of arms had also continued.

The really serious business had started when the Connection had passed details of British Intelligence operations in New York and Boston, including identities of operatives, all part of the shadow war being fought between the British and the IRA in Ireland.

This was where Brady, because of his union work, and Cassidy with his construction business, had come into their own. They both had serious connections with mob interests. Favours were owed. The right kind of accidents took place, the Brits lost people and couldn't make a fuss. After all, they shouldn't have been there in the first place, although a lot of that kind of thing seemed to have tailed off in the past year, and Cohan had always stood well clear of any violence.

He'd always been a link man when needed, had met Tim Pat Ryan twice when on London trips. It had all worked, and then the damn roof had fallen in. Still, he was in the clear, whatever Blake Johnson implied. So he frequented Murphy's Bar, so what did that prove? How in the hell had he been so stupid, and yet there had been an inevitability about it from the beginning. Nothing to be done about it now. The Connection had promised to take care of it and he'd taken care of everything in the past well enough.

So Brady, Kelly, Cassidy and Ryan were dead meat. Cohan shuddered and waved for another glass of champagne and tried to comfort himself with the thought that the other guys had been one thing, but he was a United States Senator. United States Senators didn't get shot, did they?

Ferguson was with the Prime Minister again at Downing Street, on his own this time. The Prime Minister listened carefully to Ferguson 's resume of the whole business.

'Of course, as the President has pointed out to me in our conversation, there isn't a thing anyone can do legally about Senator Cohan. His membership of the Sons of Erin damns him in our eyes, but on the surface he can claim, as he apparently does, that he frequented this Murphy's Bar quite innocently.'

'Agreed, Prime Minister,' Ferguson nodded. 'But he's here now and the thing is, what do we do with him?'

'Try and keep him alive, of course. I'm dropping the whole thing in your lap, Brigadier.'

'And the Deputy Director and the Security Services?' 'You are in charge,' the Prime Minister told him firmly. 'I now realize the Security Services have not been as forthcoming as they could have been in the past, and I don't like that.' He smiled. 'You've been in this job a long time, Brigadier. I think I now know why one of my illustrious predecessors gave it to you in the first place.' 'So I have full authority?'

'Absolutely. Now, do excuse me. I'm due at the House.' As Ferguson stood and the door behind him opened, the Prime Minister added, 'By the way, this function at the Dorchester, the Forum for Irish Peace that Cohan is attending tomorrow night. I'm looking in at ten. You'll be there, of course.'

Ferguson nodded. 'I think you can take that for granted, Prime Minister,' and he followed the aide out.

Hannah Bernstein and Dillon were waiting in the Daimler. Ferguson got in and it drove away. As the security gates opened, he said, 'Just as I thought, it's our baby. Carter is to have no involvement.'

'Which leaves us in the deep you-know-what if the Senator comes to a sticky end,' Dillon pointed out.

'My dear boy, it was ever thus.' Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein. 'When is he due in?'

She checked her watch 'Only took off forty minutes ago, sir.' 'Fine. Check his movements, the data at the hotel, his limousine, that sort of stuff. There's not too much we can do, as this is not really official. We can't alert the hotel or pull in extra security guards during his visit.'

'There'll be plenty of security at the Forum for Irish Peace tomorrow night,' Hannah said.

'Of course.' Ferguson frowned. 'But I'm uneasy and why is that?'

'I'm sure you'll tell us,' Dillon said.

'Well, I've never been happy since the Ryan shooting and then discovering the same gun was used in New York. I don't think it's a conspiracy, some execution squad. I have a feeling there's an executioner out there.' 'The Irish woman.'

'Or a woman with an Irish accent,' Dillon said. 'A needle in a haystack in London. Eight million Irish in the UK. A hell of a diaspora.'

'Well, I have infinite faith in you, so you can start with Kilburn,' Ferguson told him.

'And Senator Cohan?' Hannah asked.

'I'll speak to him when I'm ready. Now, as this rogue here is wearing a jacket and tie for once, I'll take you to the Garrick for lunch.'

But already events were happening which would change everything. Earlier that morning, Thornton had considered the situation of Cohan in London, and the longer he did, the more unhappy he became. What guarantee was there that the mysterious killer would strike in London ? None at all, and yet Cohan had become a liability. The man really would have to go. It was four o'clock in the morning, American time, when he phoned Barry. The Irishman was still at the safe house in County Down.

'It's me,' Thornton said. 'Listen, I've got some bad news for you,' and he ran through the whole story. 'There's even a possibility the shooter could be a woman.'

'Is that a fact? Well, I wish to Christ I could get my hands on her. She'd take a long time to die. So Cohan is the only one left?'

'That's it, and panicking. The thing is, his cover as a member of the Sons of Erin is blown. The President knows through Blake Johnson, the Prime Minister knows through Ferguson and company. He's become expendable.'

'So you want him taken out?'

'He's arriving in London later today to attend some Irish peace affair at the Dorchester tomorrow. He's staying at that hotel. It would be convenient if this unknown assassin got to him, don't you think? Maybe he – or she – could use some help.'

"So you want me to do it for you?'

'And for yourself. It clears the board nicely. There'd be only you and me left. I believe the Belfast flight to London only takes an hour and a half.'

'There's no need for that,' Barry told him. 'There's an air taxi firm not forty minutes from here, based at an old World War Two feeder station. It's been a quick way to England for me for years. Run by an old RAF hand named Docherty. Cunning as a fox.'

'So you'll do it?'

'Why not? It will give me something to do. It's raining and I'm bored.'

Barry put the phone down, excited, and looked out of the window. No need to call in the boys. A one-man job this, in and out. He picked up the phone and rang Docherty at Doonreigh.

The place was dark and dreary in the heavy rain as he drove up there an hour later. There were two old aircraft hangars, their doors open. In one was a Cessna 310, in the other a Navajo Chieftain. Barry parked and got out. He was wearing a tweed cap, a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and carried an old-fashioned Gladstone bag in one hand.

Smoke came from the chimney of the old Nissen hut. The door opened, and Docherty appeared. He was fifty and looked older, his hair thin, his face weathered and lined. He wore RAF flying overalls and flying boots.

'Come in out of the rain.'

It was warm inside from the old-fashioned stove. There was a bed in the corner, some lockers, a table and chairs and a desk with charts open on it.

'So they still haven't caught up with you, Jack?'

'That'll be the day. Is that tea on the stove?'

'Good Irish whiskey, if you like.'

'You know me. Not while I'm working. So, I want to be in London no later than six this evening.'

'And out again.'

'No later than midnight. Can you do it?'

'I can do anything, you know that. I never ask questions, I mind my own business, and I've never let you down.'

'True.'

'All right. Five thousand, that's what it costs.'

'Money's not a problem,' Barry said. 'As no one knows better than you.'

'Fine. There's a place like this in Kent, about an hour from

London. Roundhay, very lonely, out in the country. I've used it before. I've already telephoned the farmer who owns it. A grand for him, and he'll leave a car you can drive up to London. False registration, the lot.'

'Just another crook,' Barry said.

'Aren't we all? Except you, Jack. A gallant freedom fighter for the glorious cause, that's you.'

'I'll kick your arse, Docherty.'

'No, you won't, because you can't fly planes.'

'So you'll get us there in spite of all this air traffic security?'

'When have I ever failed? Now let's get moving. It's got to be the Chieftain, by the way. The Cessna needs some spare parts.'

He opened the Navajo's Airstair door, dropped the steps and Barry followed him up. Docherty closed the door and locked it. 'There's a following wind, Jack, so it'll take two hours with luck. It's the usual March weather, lots of rain, but that's good. Don't wet your pants when I go hedge-hopping. That's to avoid the radar. Do you want to sit with me?'

'No, I'll read the paper.'

Docherty strapped himself in and started the engines, first port, then starboard. The Navajo moved out into the rain, coasted to the end of the strip and turned into the wind. He boosted power and they surged forward, lifted off and started to climb.

Docherty was as good as his word, for they hit Roundhay at only five minutes over two hours and came in under low cloud and heavy rain. A barn stood nearby, its doors opened, an old Ford Escort car outside. Docherty taxied inside and cut the engines.

'What about you?' Barry asked, as they got out.

'I'll be okay. I'll take a walk up to the farm and pay my debts.'

'You mean you'll give him a thousand in cash?'

'He's the kind of man you keep happy. I never know when I might need him again.'

He turned and walked away across the airstrip and Barry got into the Escort. The keys were in the ignition, but before he started the engine, he removed a Browning from the Gladstone bag, took out the clip, loaded the weapon, and pushed it inside his bomber jacket. Only then did he drive away.

He made good time, for as evening approached, traffic was coming out of London, not in. The car was no big deal, an old Ford Escort, but nice and anonymous. He thought about things on the way. The place to make the hit, for example. Well, that was obvious, since Cohan was staying at the Dorchester. Getting in was easy. All he needed were the right kind of clothes, and he had those in plenty.

For some years Barry had had a bolt-hole in London. Not an apartment, but a boat moored on the Thames close to St James's Stairs in Wapping. He had everything there: a wardrobe and arms stashed away. He had been careful never to mention it to anyone. He'd always remembered his old Ulster grandmother's saying, when she used to come over to the States to stay with them: Always remember, Jack, a secret is no longer a secret if one other person knows about it. She'd died badly of cancer during the early days when he'd first returned to Ulster. She'd been a patient at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, the world's best on shotgun wounds, because they had to be.

He was on the most-wanted list at the time. When he said he was going to see her, the boys had told him he was crazy, and implored him not to. But none of that mattered to Barry. He'd gone on his own, got into the hospital's back entrance, and stolen a doctor's white robe and plastic identity tag from the rest room.

He'd found her room and, for a while, sat there holding her hand. She couldn't talk much, except to say, 'I'm glad you're here, Jack.'

'It's where I should be, Gran.'

And then her grip had tightened. 'Take care, be a good boy,' and she had slipped away.

The tears, the rage, had overwhelmed him then. He'd left, and against all advice, attended her funeral four days later, standing in the rain, a Browning in his pocket, wishing someone from the Security forces would try to take him.

And why should that be? The great Jack Barry, Lord Barry, Silver Star and bronze in ' Nam, Vietnamese Cross of Valor, a Purple Heart. How many Brit soldiers had he killed, how many Loyalists in bombings, although a Prod himself?

At the end of the day, the image that would not go away was of an old woman who had fiercely loved him. Even now, at the wheel of the Escort, his throat prickled and angry tears started to his eyes.

He was into London at five, worked his way through to Kilburn, parked and found what he was looking for, a pub called the Michael Collins. The painting on the wall – an Irish tricolour and Collins with a gun upraised – said it all. He didn't go in the bar, but walked round to the courtyard at the rear, opened the kitchen door and entered. A small grey-haired man was seated at a table in the sitting room, reading glasses on his nose, going over some accounts. His name was Liam Moran and he was a London organizer for Sinn Fein.

'Jesus, it's yourself, Jack.' His eyes bulged.

'As ever was.' Barry went to a sideboard, opened a bottle of whiskey and poured one. 'Is there much action at the moment?'

'Hell, no, not with the peace process. The Brits are playing it cool in London and so are the boys. What in the hell are you doing here, Jack?'

'Oh, no harm intended, just passing through. On my way to Germany ,' Barry lied. 'Just thought I'd check in and see how the general situation was.'

Moran was agitated. 'Dead calm, Jack, I promise you.' 'Peace, Liam.' Barry swallowed his whiskey. 'What a bore. I'll be in touch,' and he went out.