by Jack Higgins
'Fine, Mr President,' Thornton said. 'But where does it leave us? No further forward.'
'Have you got anywhere with your own investigation?'
Thornton said, 'I'm afraid not.'
Cazalet nodded, frowning. 'I suggest you speak to Brigadier Ferguson, Blake, bring him up to date. Is there anything else you can do?'
'I've been wondering whether any of the premises near the alley where the two shootings took place might have anything on their security videos for the time in question.'
'That would show the woman?'
'Perhaps. A long shot.'
'Okay, pursue that, and as I say, bring Ferguson up to date.' Cazalet nodded. 'Perhaps it might even be an idea to have Dillon over.'
'But how would that help, Mr President?' Thornton asked.
'Well, he did catch sight of the mystery woman in Wapping after the Tim Pat Ryan shooting.'
'A glimpse only,' Blake pointed out.
'Yes, but the same glimpse on a security video could match up. What else have we got?'
'Not very much, Mr President.'
'So, to other matters. This party of Chad Luther's day after tomorrow in Quogue.' He turned to Thornton. 'Any special problems, Henry?'
'None, Mr President.' He turned to Blake. 'Good old Chad is our biggest fund-raiser and he'll have all the world and his wife there.'
'Will you use Air Force One, sir?' Blake asked.
'No. I'll go down in one of the Gulfstreams.' The President nodded. 'Pursue your inquiries, but I want you to join up with the security arrangements, too, and come to Long Island. Take the helicopter.'
'Forgive me, Mr President, but I'll have Sean Dillon here by then.'
'Bring him with you, by all means. I'd appreciate seeing him again.' Cazalet smiled. 'But now, I really must get on. Good old Henry here will be breathing fire and smoke before I know where I am.'
Thornton laughed appreciatively, and Blake withdrew.
Back in his office, he spoke to Harry Parker and raised the question of security videos. Parker said, 'That's a good point. Thinking about things after you left, it occurred to me, too. I'll check.'
'That's that, then,' Blake said. 'I saw the President, told him everything about our talk with the girl. He said he appreciated your help, Harry.'
'Hey, don't fuck with me.'
'It's the truth, Harry. I'll keep you posted.'
Harry Parker sat there at his desk, frowning, thinking about what Blake had said. Then his phone rang again, and a woman's voice said, 'Captain Parker?'
'Who is this?'
'I have the President for you.'
Parker sat there in total astonishment, gripping the phone, and the President said, 'Harry Parker? Jake Cazalet.'
Parker managed to mumble, ' Mr President?'
'Just wanted to thank you for your efforts. Blake Johnson has filled me in. I know the fact of a presidential warrant must have given you a problem. It goes against the grain of all your service experience. But I'm personally immensely grateful for the help you've given without hesitation in a most serious and confidential matter.'
' Mr President, I am yours to command.'
'Blake handles a very special unit on my behalf, Captain, and frankly, there are more demands on its services all the time. I know it would be asking a lot to ask a long-serving NYPD captain to make a move at this time in his career, but I wonder if you'd be interested?'
Parker managed to stay calm. 'I said yours to command, Mr President, and I meant that.'
'Excellent. Not right away, but you'll be hearing from Blake in the future.'
The phone clicked off. Harry Parker sat staring at his own and then replaced it. He got up, went to the window, and looked out at New York in the rain. A whole new life beckoned, at a time when other guys were thinking about retirement.
He went back to his desk, opened the second drawer and took out a highly illegal Romeo y Julietta Cuban cigar, bit off the end, lit it and sat down.
'Well, now.' He was grinning all over his face. 'Well, now.'
It was evening in London when Blake spoke to Ferguson. He gave the Brigadier a total resume of what had happened, the interview with the Wiley girl, what the President had said.
Ferguson listened, then said, 'So, as regards hunting down our mystery woman, we're left with the slim chance that some Park Avenue security video might feature her?'
'I'm waiting to hear. The President feels it might be worth having Dillon here. He's the only one who's ever glimpsed this woman. Perhaps he could match it to a glimpse on video.'
'I doubt it, but I'll have him on his way on the next available flight.'
'I appreciate that, sir.'
'Good, stay in touch.'
Ferguson put the phone down, thought about it, then rang transportation at the Ministry of Defence. 'Brigadier Ferguson here. What's the quickest flight to Washington?'
'Concorde in the morning, sir.'
'Well, Her Majesty's government will just have to spring for it, I suppose. Book Dillon on it. If it's full, throw someone off'
Next he phoned Stable Mews. There was no reply. He tried Dillon's mobile and did better. The Irishman's voice was clear against a background of voices and music.
'And who is this disturbing my early evening?' Dillon demanded.
'Me, you silly bastard. Where are you?'
' Mulligan's.'
Ferguson hesitated, then gave in. 'Well, the oysters are appealing, even if you aren't, Dillon. I'll be there in twenty minutes.'
Dillon sat in the upstairs bar of Mulligan's Irish restaurant in Cork Street, not too far from the Ritz Hotel, and devoured a dozen oysters and a bottle of Cristal champagne to help things along. Ferguson came up the stain and pushed through the crowd.
'So there you are.' He picked up the Cristal bottle. 'What happened to the Krug?'
A young Irish girl appeared. 'Is there a problem?' she asked Dillon in Irish.
'A decent girl from Cork who understands me,' Dillon told him, and smiled at the girl as he replied in Irish. 'Don't be put off, my love. He looks like the kind of English lord who'd put his boot to you, but his sainted mother was from Cork. Give him a dozen oysters and a pint of Guinness.'
She gave him a smile and vanished to the kitchen. Ferguson said, 'I didn't understand a word, but you're going to feed me?'
'Of course. Now what's up?'
'You, at dawn, then it's Heathrow for the Concorde to Washington .'
Dillon still smiled, but the grey eyes didn't. 'Tell me.'
Forty minutes later, the Brigadier swallowed his last oyster, an expression of ecstasy on his face. 'Superb! Only an Irish bar could do oysters like this. So, Dillon, what do you think?'
'About Blake and where we are? God knows. I knew we were dealing with a woman, because I'd seen her. Now this girl's story confirms what any kind of sense always indicated, that it wasn't some organization after the Sons of Erin, but some individual seeking revenge. But for what?'
'Perhaps you'll come up with something over there,' Ferguson said.
'I always believe in travelling hopefully.' Dillon poured him a glass of Cristal. 'Mind you, one thing does intrigue me.'
'What would that be?'
'We know all these facts about the whole Sons of Erin business and yet the Secret Intelligence Service knows nothing. Just the usual stuff on Barry, but nothing more. A great big blank. It smells to me of one of those it-didn't-happen jobs as far as Simon Carter and company are concerned.'
'You could be right.'
'I always am,' Dillon said.
In his office in the Basement, Blake sat thinking. Finally, he pressed a buzzer for Alice. She came in and sat down.
'You look as if you've got a problem.'
'The leak. The White House leak. There has to be more we can do on it.'
'So you don't have much faith in the chief of staff's efforts?'
'It's not that. I just feel we're missing something. Look, Alice, say you're the Connection. The Sons of
Erin are all gone. You're left with one person to talk to -Jack Barry.'
'So?'
'So remember when we tracked down that Pentagon spy a couple of years ago? Patterson?'
Comprehension dawned. 'You mean Synod?'
'Exactly. Why not set the Synod computer to tracking some calls. Insert the name Jack Barry. See what crops up.'
'We're tracking Northern Ireland?'
'No, I would suspect coded mobiles at that end, so that's no good. Stick with Barry and see what comes up. The White House first, then Washington.'
'Millions of calls, Blake. That's what Synod covers.'
'But it will tell us where any calls to someone called Barry originate from. Let's try it, Alice. What have we got to lose?'
In Washington, Thornton phoned Barry. 'I have more intelligence for you. Blake Johnson managed to track down a young woman in New York with quite a story.' 'Well, tell me.' Which Thornton did.
When he was finished, Barry said, 'The old bitch, just let me get my hands on her.'
'Don't get so worked up. You don't even know who she is.'
'Neither do you.'
'And neither does Johnson nor the President nor your old pal Dillon in London. By the way, Dillon is due here soon, to see if he can recognize the woman from security videos.'
'I keep wondering how you know all this.'
'I've told you before, I have my sources. You let me worry about my end. Just you worry about your own.'
'All right. So what about the woman?'
'Leave it with me. Maybe I can come up with something.'
That evening, Thornton started to trawl his computer. He had the ability to access most things, probably anything when he had the time. To start with, he went into CIA records of Protestant Loyalist paramilitary groups in Northern Ireland. He ran Jack Barry through, as well as every IRA and Sinn Fein activist from Gerry Adams to Martin McGuinness.
Jack Barry had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, was known to have visited the States under three false names during the same period. This still left what had happened to the Sons of Erin, from Tim Pat Ryan to Senator Cohan. There was no way of denying a deliberate campaign to wipe them out.
Why would that be? He nodded to himself. Vengeance, but for what reason? What could they have been responsible for? He thought about it and the one thing that made sense was what the woman had said to Barry: you butchered my son in Ulster three years ago, executed his friends, four of them, including a woman.
He went back three years earlier on the computer, looking for information to the White House from Brit Intelligence and then he remembered. His first big coup. The undercover group in Ulster. In those halcyon days, the Brits had been encouraged by their own government to give the fullest information to the White House. The information had streamed in and was only one of many things he had passed on to Barry. He returned to the computer, tapped the keys and brought it all back.
Jason, a lieutenant in the Marine Commandos, shot in Londonderry. Archer, a lieutenant in the Military Police, a car bomb in Omagh. There was a woman lieutenant, also Royal Military Police, shot in the street in Belfast. A young acting captain of infantry, chosen apparently because his mother was from Ulster.
Which left one. Thornton sat there thinking about it, then tried the fifth member of the group and its commander. Major Peter Lang, Scots Guards and SAS, killed in South Armagh by a car bomb of such devastating power that no body had ever been discovered. He sat there thinking about it and knew he was on to something, reached for the phone and rang Barry's coded mobile.
Barry, asleep, came awake churlishly. 'Who is this?'
'Tell me,' Thornton said. 'The undercover group of Brit officers you took out three years ago.'
'What is this?'
'The woman said you butchered her son and executed four more, including a woman. I've just remembered myself. I sent you the information in the good old days when the Brits trusted us.'
Barry sat up. 'I remember now.'
'And the commander, a Major Peter Lang? According to the records, he was killed by a car bomb so big that even his bits and pieces were never recovered.'
Barry reached for a cigarette. 'He didn't die in a car bomb. We blew his car up with a big charge to confuse the opposition.'
'What did you do?'
'What do you want to know for? You never asked for details then.'
'It's important. Tell me.'
'He was very English upper-class, a hard bastard. Got him coming out of a pub. One of the lads had served in the Scots Guards and recognized him.'
'What did you do?'
'Put the screws on him. It's all coming back. He had a great South Armagh accent. I mean, it all stank to high heaven.'
'So you tortured him?'
'Something like that.' Barry snapped. 'What's so special with this guy?'
'And why did you blow up his car and pretend?'
Barry laughed. 'The boys left him in such a mess, we put him through this big concrete mixer we found on a motorway bypass they were building in the area.'
The thought of it was so nauseating that even Thornton had to catch his breath.
'What's so important?' Barry asked.
'I might be on to something. I'll phone you back.' Thornton rang off.
He went back to Peter Lang, Scots Guards, SAS, Military Cross for unspecified reasons, the father, Sir Roger Lang, a colonel in the Scots Guards. Then came the information that took his breath away. The mother was Lady Helen Lang, an American citizen, born in Boston. The rest of the details flowed across the computer screen. Her companies, her immense wealth. Her addresses in London and Norfolk. There was even an end piece on her chauffeur, a Vietnam vet.
Thornton sat there, staring at the screen, then went to a cupboard, found a bottle of Southern Comfort, and poured a large one. He went to the window, savouring the drink, and looked out at what had turned into an evening of rain and sleet. One thing was certain. He had found the mystery woman.
Barry had got out of bed at the safe house in County Down, found a robe and made tea in the kitchen. He was working his way through the previous day's Belfast Telegraph when the phone went again.
'Just shut up and listen,' Thornton said. 'You killed Major Peter Lang of the Scots Guards and SAS. His father was Sir Roger Lang, Scots Guards, and his wife – and this is the good bit – was Lady Helen Lang. I think she's the woman who's spoken to you, the one who said you butchered her son. It all fits: the timing, the identity of the other four.'
Barry exploded. 'The bitch. She's dead meat. What I did to her son is nothing to what she gets.'
'Okay, don't go through the roof. What will you do?'
'Where does she hang out?'
' London and Norfolk.' Thornton gave him the addresses.
Barry said, 'I'll check out where she's going to be. I've friends in London who'll handle that.'
'And?'
'My private flying system. I'll go over with some of the boys and take care of her.'
'That's good to know. Clear the decks, that's what I like.'
'You can depend on it. Leave it to me.'
Thornton put the phone down and sat there, thinking about it. For some reason, he still felt uneasy. Now why should that be?
The following morning, the Concorde lifted off at Heathrow for Washington, and Dillon accepted a glass of champagne and sat there, thinking about it himself. In a strange way, he felt a connection with the mystery woman. It was still an incredibly intriguing situation. Why all those deaths? What was the reason?
They were no further forward, really. All the Wiley girl had done was confirm the existence of the woman, confirmed her ability to kill.
But why, why, why? That was what really fascinated him and there was no answer.
It was the following morning, round about the time Dillon was reaching Washington, that Thornton, trawling on Helen Lang's whereabouts, was stunned to note that she was booked to land at Westhampton Airport at Long Island in her privat
e Gulfstream the following afternoon. He sat there, thinking about it. The question was why, and the obvious answer was Chad Luther's party. He accessed the right side of the computer again, looked for Luther's guest list and there she was. He thought about it, then phoned Barry again.
'Lady Helen Lang. She's attending a big fat cat party tomorrow night on Long Island, so don't look for her at home.'
'I can wait,' Barry said. 'Don't worry. She's history.'
Lady Helen, at the South Audley Street house, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, as Hedley took the bags upstairs. He appeared as the kettle boiled and she made tea.
'Anything you want me to do?'
'Not really. We'll leave from Gatwick in the morning, land in Long Island in the afternoon, and carry on to Chad Luther's place.'
'Are we staying over?'
'I'd have thought I might need to leave in a hurry.'
Hedley refused to be drawn. 'Whatever you say, Lady Helen,' and he turned and went out.
Ferguson, at his desk, rang through to Hannah Bernstein and called her into his office. 'How are you getting on with your fresh computer investigation?'
'I'm still looking, sir. The thing I can't understand is that we know a great deal about the Sons of Erin and what they got up to, but we don't have any information on the specific act that would explain a personal vendetta on the part of this woman.'
'So you agree with Johnson and Parker about that.'
'Oh, yes, sir. You spend years on the street, sir, you investigate one rotten crime after another…"
'And you get a nose for it, a copper's nose?'
'Exactly, sir. Unlike in an Agatha Christie novel, when I visit the scene of the crime and take a look at who is involved, in most cases I can pick out who it is almost straightaway.'
Ferguson smiled. 'I'm with you on that, Chief Inspector, so what does it leave us? What does that fine Cambridge-educated mind tell you?'
'That central to all this is Jack Barry, but all the computer tells us is his background of offences. No mention of his connection with the Sons of Erin, or indeed any mention of the Sons of Erin, and that doesn't make sense, sir.'