'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
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 fmish-
ing 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?'
&nb
sp; '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?'
Jack Higgins - Dillon 07 - The White House Connection Page 9
