The White House Connection sd-7

by Jack Higgins

  'You look marvellous, as usual. I've put you on the top table with me and the President for dinner.'

  'You always were a sweetie, Chad.'

  'It's easy with someone like you. Now, come on, come on, there's someone I'd like you to meet.' The Secret Servicemen started to object, but before they could say anything, Luther had swept her inside.

  She smiled, took a glass of champagne from a waiter, and moved into the crowd.

  Dillon and Blake arrived a little later, walked through the crowd and discovered the President besieged.

  'There's no way you're going to get to him just yet,' Dillon said.

  'There's time.'

  There was a table plan to the dining room by the door and Dillon checked it out. 'What a shame, we're not eating.'

  'Well, that's life,' Blake said. 'I've got arrangements to make. Keep an eye on our principal players.' He went off.

  Dillon lit a cigarette and reached for a glass of champagne, then he walked through the crowd and out into the garden. It was cold and a little raw, a few people walking about. He stood at the balustrade and Helen Lang came up the steps.

  She smiled. 'Why, it's you, Mr Dillon.'

  'We do have a habit of bumping into each other. Can I get you anything?'

  'A cigarette would be nice.'

  He got his old silver case out and gave her one. 'There you

  'And what brings you here, Mr Dillon?'

  He took a chance then. 'Oh, maybe the same thing as you, Lady Helen. We have something in common, I think. A certain White House connection?'

  He gave her a light from his old Zippo. Her expression didn't change. She simply said, 'How interesting.'

  'It's over,' he said urgently. 'I don't know what you intend, but it's all over – '

  Before he could continue, she smiled, the kind of smile that turned over the heart in him. 'Nonsense, my friend, nothing is over until I decide it is.' She smiled again. 'My poor Mr Dillon, you kill at the drop of a hat and yet you're such a good man,' and she turned and walked away.

  Chad Luther managed to pull Cazalet away from the crowd surrounding him. 'The President needs a breather before dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Please.'

  'Good for you, Chad,' Cazalet said, as they walked away, Clancy Smith following.

  Luther took them back to the sitting room. 'Bathroom through there, Mr President, and if you need a drink I think you'll find everything you need in here.' He opened a panel in the wall and disclosed a superb mirrored bar.

  ' Chad, as always, you're the perfect host.'

  'I'll leave you now.'

  Luther went out and Clancy Smith moved into the study and did a quick inspection. He checked the bathroom, then opened the French windows to the terrace. He closed them again.

  'Clancy, you're like a hound dog, you never stop sniffing,' Cazalet said.

  'That's what I'm paid for, Mr President. There are Secret Servicemen in the garden. I'll be right outside.' He went into the corridor and closed the door.

  Cazalet went to the bar and debated whether to indulge. He took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf, then changed his mind and replaced it. Better not. After all, it was going to be a long night. Instead, he took out a pack of Marlboros and selected one. Damn it, a man was entitled to one vice. He lit the cigarette and went and opened the French windows.

  There was a half moon and the rain had stopped. That part of the house was very close to the water. There was a lawn, pine trees and a bay almost encircled by two prongs of land. By the water was a boathouse and a wooden jetty, a rather magnificent speedboat moored beside it. He could see the odd couple walking about.

  It was really very lovely. He took a deep breath, and a calm and pleasant voice said, 'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'

  He turned, and Helen Lang moved out of the shrubbery at the bottom of the steps.

  She had walked through the garden, strangely sad, as if at the final end of things. Another of her breathless attacks had led her to sit down on a convenient bench. She'd taken two of her pills, and stayed there for a while until she felt better.

  It was Cazalet she thought about. It had to be now, before the evening got too late. For a moment, she hesitated, unexpectedly uncertain. Cazalet was a good man, a hero from a rich and powerful family, who could have avoided Vietnam and yet had chosen to serve and been decorated a number of times. Who had become a solid, progressive President, untainted by the arrogance of power. Who had for many years supported a wife dying by inches from leukaemia. A good man. But Peter had been a good man, too. And time was so very short.

  She got up, followed the path back to the house, was aware of French windows opening, looked up and saw Cazalet on the terrace. She hesitated, then opened her purse, her fingers brushing the Colt as she produced her silver cigarette case.

  'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'

  'Why, of course.' He came down the steps, his lighter flared.

  She held his wrist. 'That's unusual. An old Lee Enfield cartridge.'

  'A souvenir from Vietnam, but how did you know it's a Lee Enfield?'

  'My husband was a colonel in the British Army. He had a similar one. You won't remember me. We've only touched hands once, at a function in Boston. I'm Lady Helen Lang.'

  He smiled warmly. 'But of course. My father and yours did business together back in Boston in the old days. You married an English baronet, as I recall.'

  'Sir Roger Lang.'

  'Is he here with you?'

  'Oh, no, he died two years ago. Our only son was killed serving in Northern Ireland, and my husband was old and frail. The shock was too great for him.'

  'I'm truly sorry.'

  'Yes, I believe that.'

  For some reason he took her hand, and she opened her mouth to speak, and then there came a knocking at the study door. 'Excuse me,' he said, and went up the steps. On the terrace he hesitated and glanced back, but she had faded away as if she had never been there.

  Dillon and Blake were standing in a corner of the crowded ballroom when Blake's mobile rang. It was Alice Quarmby.

  'I checked Thornton 's background, boss, like you asked. Boy, did I come up with a lulu. Listen to this.'

  She went on for several minutes, as Blake's face betrayed no expression. Finally, he said, 'Thanks, Alice, you're an angel.'

  'Anything important?' Dillon asked.

  'You could say that. Thornton 's our man, all right, and now I know why. I'll explain later. Right now, we'd better find the President.'

  'He doesn't seem to be here.'

  'There's Luther over there. He'll know where he is,' Blake said.

  But when they got there, they found Luther in conversation with Henry Thornton. The two men were laughing, each holding a glass of champagne as Dillon and Blake approached. 'Hey, you two, you're not drinking,' Luther told them.

  'Duty calls, Chad,' Blake said lightly. 'This is a colleague of mine from London, Mr Dillon. The President asked to see him when he arrived.'

  'He's taking a rest right now.'

  The chief of staff held out his hand. ' Mr Dillon, a real pleasure. Your reputation precedes you, sir.'

  'That's nice to know.'

  Thornton put down his glass and said to Luther, 'I know where the sitting room is, so I'll take them down. This way, gentlemen.'

  He pushed through the crowd and led the way to the back corridor, where Clancy Smith sat on a chair beside the door.

  'Everything okay, Clancy?'

  'Apple-pie order, Mr Thornton.'

  The chief of staff knocked, opened the door and led the way in.

  Cazalet was still on the terrace as they crossed to the open French windows.

  'Anything wrong, Mr President?' Thornton asked.

  'No, I was just talking to a very unusual woman, but I seem to have lost her,' and then he smiled. 'Why, Mr Dillon.' He clasped his hand warmly. 'A pleasure to see you.'

  'Not this time, Mr President, I think you really would rather kill the messenger
than listen to what Blake and I have to say.'

  'That bad?' Cazalet leaned against the balustrade. 'Then I'd better have a cigarette on it.' He took out a Marlboro and Dillon gave him a light from his Zippo. 'Okay, gentlemen, let's hear the worst.'

  And below, concealed in the shrubbery, Helen Lang listened.

  Blake said, 'You know all about the Sons of Erin, Mr President, just as we do. We always felt the killings to be the work of one person. We also felt there had to be a strong reason.'

  Cazalet nodded. 'Acts of revenge for some kind of terrible act.'

  'Yes, well, now we know just how terrible.' He turned to Dillon. 'Sean?'

  'For years, information from British Intelligence was passed on by our White House connection to the Sons of Erin and Jack Barry. Because of such information, three years ago the members of a British Army undercover unit were all killed by Jack Barry and his boys. The commander was a Major Peter Lang. He was tortured, murdered and disposed of in a cement mixer.'

  'A truly appalling crime,' Blake said.

  'Let me get this straight,' Cazalet said. 'Major Peter Lang?'

  'That's right.'

  'But I've just been talking to a Lady Helen Lang out here. She told me her son was killed in Ireland.'

  'Yes, sir,' Dillon said. 'She's his mother.'

  'And she's the person responsible for the destruction of the Sons of Erin,' Blake said.

  The President looked stunned, and Thornton jumped in. 'Come on, that's past belief. One woman? An old lady? I can't believe it.'

  'I'm afraid there's little doubt,' Blake told him.

  'Yes, she did rather well, when you think of it,' Dillon said. 'Only Jack Barry and the Connection are left now.'

  Thornton said, 'What happens now? I mean, if this story is true, why isn't this woman under arrest?'

  The President said, 'Blake?'

  'I said there's little doubt. I'm also afraid there's no hard proof, Mr President. For obvious reasons, it would be better to handle this thing quietly. And there is something else, sir.'

  'What would that be?'

  'Well, inextricably involved with the whole mess is the question of the Connection himself – the traitor in the White House.'

  The chief of staff said, 'Yes, but nobody knows who it is.'

  'Oh, we do,' Dillon said. 'We knew your investigation wasn't getting anywhere, Mr Thornton, so Blake mounted his own.'

  Blake took a small tape recorder from his pocket. 'I had the Synod computer monitor telephone calls from the White House first, then Washington, to anyone named Jack Barry. The computer picks the name out, then we can retrieve the call.'

  'And it worked?' said Cazalet.

  'We have recordings of a number of calls, Mr President, but just one will do.'

  He put the tape recorder on the balustrade and switched it on. The voice came through clearly. 'Lady Helen Lang. She's attending a big fat cat party in Long Island, so don't look for her at home.'

  'I can wait,' Barry said. 'Don't worry. She's history.'

  Blake switched off the recorder, and Cazalet turned in horror to his chief of staff. 'My God, Henry, that's your voice.'

  Thornton seemed to sag, and leaned back against the balustrade, head down. He stayed that way, breathing deeply, and yet, when he looked up, his eyes were glittering.

  'Why, Henry, why?' Jake Cazalet demanded.

  'Let me answer that. Let's see if I can get it right,' Blake said to Thornton. 'Your mother had an illegitimate half-brother born in Dublin. He was a volunteer with Michael Collins in the Easter Rising in nineteen sixteen. Executed by the Brits.'

  'Shot down without mercy,' Thornton replied. 'Hunted down like a dog. Seven bullets in him. My mother never forgot and I never forgot.'

  'And when you were a postgrad at Harvard, there was a girl named Rosaleen Fitzgerald from Northern Ireland, killed in a firefight in Belfast,' Blake said. 'You loved her.'

  'Murdered,' Thornton told him. 'By British soldiers. The bastards!'

  Dillon jumped in. 'And years later, there you were, chief of staff at the White House, and all that juicy information started to roll in from British Intelligence and it was your chance for revenge,' he said. 'Up the rebels and Ireland must be free."

  'How did you get mixed up with the Sons of Erin and Jack Barry?' Blake asked.

  'Oh, that was Cohan. I was invited to a Sinn Fein fundraiser in New York, just as a guest. He was drunk. Rambled on about the diners club and how they all helped the glorious cause.'

  'And Barry?'

  'He was in New York on business to do with arms for the IRA. Brady, the Teamsters' Union guy, knew him and introduced him to the group. That's when they started calling themselves the Sons of Erin. Cohan boasted about it. A real-life gunman.'

  'And how did you connect with Barry?'

  'He was in New York during the early days of the peace process under his own name, all legitimate, staying at the Mayfair. His presence was mentioned in The New York Times. It was simple. I offered him information, nice and anonymous. Just a voice on the phone.'

  'And then retribution struck.'

  Thornton actually smiled. 'Isn't that the craziest thing you ever heard? I mean, a woman like her? Who would believe it?'

  Cazalet turned to Blake. 'This is one hell of a mess. What are we going to do?'

  At that moment, Thornton put a hand on the balustrade and vaulted over.

  He landed on his hands and knees, and was up and running, unaware that Helen Lang stood in the shelter of the shrubbery nearby, and had heard everything.

  'You've got nowhere to go, Henry,' Cazalet shouted, and followed Blake and Dillon down the steps.

  Clancy Smith, alarmed by the shouting, flung open the study door and hurried through. ' Mr President?'

  'Stay close, Clancy,' Cazalet called. 'This way,' and he ran after Dillon and Blake.

  Clancy immediately called in a general alert to the rest of the Secret Servicemen on duty and went after them.

  Helen Lang waited until they were well ahead, then followed cautiously.

  There were many guests in the garden, those who'd come out with a glass in their hand to sample the view in the evening, and the sea beyond. One of them was Hedley. Concerned about Lady Helen, he'd taken off his chauffeur's cap and worked his way round to the garden at the rear of the house. Checked there by Secret Servicemen, his identification badge had sufficed and, of course, there were the other guests in the garden. It was simple chance that he'd seen Lady Helen by the terrace, had also seen the President outside the French windows, and had watched her go up the steps to speak to Cazalet.

  He had no idea what was happening up there when Thornton, Blake and Dillon appeared, and he saw Lady Helen fade into the bushes. There was only the sound of the voices, and then Thornton jumped over the balustrade. The President and the others went after him. Of Lady Helen, there was no sign. Hedley followed in the direction she must have gone.

  Thornton weaved his way through the shrubbery, dropped to one knee and paused. He felt at his waist for the pistol he'd stuck there earlier. He'd planned to use it on Helen Lang that evening, but now it would have other uses. There was a certain panic now. The Secret Servicemen, alerted by Clancy, trawled the garden, alarming the guests already disturbed by the shouts they had heard. Helen was close on his heels. She had followed him from that first moment when he had vaulted the balustrade, and ducked into the shrubbery so that the others didn't know where he'd gone.

  What she didn't realize was that Hedley was close behind her. The sounds of pursuit faded, and she saw Thornton come out of the shrubbery in front of her and run, crouching, down to the water. He reached the wooden jetty by the boathouse, his running steps booming. He stopped at the speedboat and started to cast off the moorings, as Helen arrived.

  ' Mr Thornton,' she called.

  Thornton paused, then turned, a Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. The image, the woman, standing in the diffused light, was enough.

  'It's you, you bitch.'


  'Yes, Mr Thornton, I'm afraid it is. Everything comes around. I believe you know what happened to my son. This is what you might call payback time.'

  'Well, fuck you.' Thornton arced and aimed his Smith amp; Wesson.

  Helen Lang reached in her bag to find the Colt.

  Hedley, close on her heels, slid in the darkness, over the stern rail of the speedboat, moved in behind Thornton and slipped on the wet deck. Thornton turned, raised his weapon to fire, and

  Helen shot him in the back of the head. Thornton went down on his knees and then fell forward. Hedley stood up.

  'Wait for me in the parking area. I can handle this. Just go.'

  She turned and ran.

  Hedley had examined the description of Chad Luther's estate supplied by his corporation's London office, and knew that there was a reef at the entrance of the bay that was only negotiable at high tide. Now it was low. He shoved Thornton 's body over on to the stern deck, went into the wheelhouse and turned on the engine. When it was going well, he jumped to the jetty, cast off and let the speedboat go. When it hit the reef at the entrance of the bay, the force was so great that the speedboat bounced into the air and fireballed.

  There were cries of alarm from guests in the garden, shouts as Secret Servicemen called to each other. Hedley stood in the bushes as the President arrived with Blake and Dillon.

  'Oh, my God,' Cazalet called, staring out at the fire.

  Hedley faded into the shrubbery and started back, and a moment later was aware of a sudden cry, a woman's voice. Helen's voice.

  'Let me go!'

  'I need to look in your purse, ma'am.'

  It was Clancy Smith, holding her by the right wrist in the diffused light of a garden lamp.

  Hedley moved in, grabbed Clancy by the arm and pulled him away. 'You leave her be, boy.'

  Clancy said, 'Secret Service, presidential bodyguard. I'm doing my job.'

  'Not with this lady, you're not.'

  And Clancy, a Gulf War veteran, knew trouble when he saw it. He pulled a Beretta from his shoulder holster very fast indeed. To Hedley it was like grass blowing in the wind. His left arm moved with incredible speed, knocking the silenced Beretta to one side. It discharged with a muted cough. Clancy had never known such strength.