The President’s Daughter

by Jack Higgins

  When Nelson Harker turned onto Flower Street, he was more than a little drunk and soaked to the skin in the heavy rain. With cash in his pocket, he’d really hung one on and had also paid for the services of two prostitutes right off the street, just the way he liked it. He stumbled on the uneven pavement and paused, swaying.

  “Excuse me.”

  He turned and found a small one-armed man in a raincoat staring intently. Harker peered at him. “What do you want, you little creep?”

  Teddy’s hand was on the butt of the Colt in his raincoat pocket. With all his being he wanted to pull it out and shoot the bastard – but suddenly he couldn’t. Some providential second sight had filtered in through the rage. It was not a question of morality. In Vietnam he had killed for poorer reasons, but if this all went wrong and he ended up in police hands, the ensuing scandal would bring down the President himself, the one human being he valued most. Jesus, what had he been thinking?

  He took a deep breath. “Well, excuse me. I was only going to ask the way to Central.”

  “Go on, fuck off,” Harker said and lurched drunkenly away.

  Teddy walked off briskly, turning from one street to another until he reached the sedan. A mile further on, he had to cross the river. He paused halfway, got out, and dropped the Colt into dark waters. It was unregistered, untraceable, but that didn’t matter. It would sink in the mud and be there for all time, a memorial to what had almost been the stupidest action in his entire life.

  “Damn fool,” he said softly. “What did you think you were playing at?” and he got in the sedan and drove away.

  Dillon was enormously impressed with the Gulfstream. It was so quiet as to be unbelievable. There were enormous club chairs that tilted for sleep, a settee at one side, and the tables were maple wood veneer. He’d already noticed the galley and the crew-rest quarters, and there was even a stand-up shower.

  “You do yourself well,” he said to Johnson.

  “It’s the best,” Blake said. “The best in the world, and that’s what I need. It can even use runways half the length of those required for commercial airliners.”

  “I like the way they’ve done the five after Gulfstream,” Dillon said. “Roman with a V.”

  “That’s style for you,” Blake told him. “We also have a state-of-the-art satellite communications system.”

  “I’ll try that right now.”

  Captain Vernon’s voice came over the speaker. “We’re cruising at fifty thousand feet and we have a brisk tail wind. By the way, Ireland is five hours ahead of us, so I suggest you adjust your watches.”

  Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon. “There you go, gentlemen. Sing out if you want anything. I’ll serve dinner in an hour if that suits.”

  “Well, a large Bushmills whiskey would go down fine right now,” Dillon told him. “If you have such a thing.”

  “We’ve got everything.” Kersey was back with the Bushmills in seconds. “Okay, sir?”

  “Very okay,” Dillon said.

  After Kersey had gone, closing the door to the galley, Blake said, “You wanted to make a call?”

  “Yes, to my old friend Liam Devlin, the greatest expert on the IRA alive. He helped us out considerably with the Irish Rose affair, remember?”

  “I surely do.” Blake was adjusting his watch. “But it’s two-thirty in the morning over there.”

  “So I’ll wake him,” and Dillon picked up the phone.

  In bed at his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin was aware of the phone’s incessant ringing. He cursed, switched on the light, and picked up the phone, checking the time on the bedside clock.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you know what time it is, whoever you are?”

  “Oh, shut up, you old rogue, and listen, will you? It’s Sean – Sean Dillon.”

  Devlin pushed himself up. “You young devil. Where are you calling from?”

  “A Gulfstream making its way across the Atlantic, Liam. I’ve a friend with me and we need you.”

  “Is this an IRA thing?” Devlin asked.

  “Worse, much worse, but Dermot Riley’s involved, only not on IRA business.”

  “Sure, and he’s doing fifteen years in Wandsworth Prison.”

  “He was until he offered Ferguson a deal, the whereabouts of another Active Service Unit in London and an arms dump.”

  “And you believed him?” Devlin laughed out loud. “And he did a runner on you?”

  “Something like that, but much more complicated, and like I said, not IRA business. I need to get to him, Liam. It’s desperately important. Nose around and see what you can find out.”

  “Well, there’s always his cousin, Bridget O’Malley down at Tullamore. Her farm’s near the Blackwater River.”

  “Could be or he might think that too obvious. We’ll see you at Kilrea around nine-thirty. He was using the name Thomas O’Malley, by the way.”

  “Fine. Can I go back to sleep now?” Devlin asked.

  “Sure, and when have you ever done anything except what you wanted to do?” Dillon asked and put the phone down.

  Devlin sat there thinking about it. From what Dillon had said, this was special, very special, and at his age that excited him. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. His doctor had tried to get him to cut down, but what the hell did it matter at his age? He got up, found a robe, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Is that you, Michael?” he asked. “Liam Devlin here.”

  “Jesus, Liam, you’re up late.”

  “And you.”

  “Well, you know I’ve taken to the novel-writing, and I like to work through the night.”

  “I heard that and I also heard you have breakfast at the Irish Hussar around seven o’clock most mornings.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’ll join you. I need to pick your brains.”

  “And I know what that means, you old sod. I’ll see you then and we’ll have a crack.”

  Devlin put the phone down, switched off the kettle, and made a pot of tea, whistling softly.

  On the Gulfstream, they had an excellent meal of fillets of lemon sole with potatoes and a mixed salad followed by Italian ice cream with hazelnuts. They shared a bottle of Chablis.

  Afterwards, Dillon said, “I wonder what the poor sods in first-class are getting tonight on the commercial flights. That was great.”

  “We aim to please.” Blake drank some of his coffee. “Devlin seems an extraordinary individual. Are all the stories I’ve heard true?”

  “Probably. He was a university graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. A scholar and a poet and one of the most feared gunmen the IRA ever had. In the Spanish Civil War, he fought against Franco and was taken prisoner by the Italians, who handed him over to the Nazis in Berlin.”

  “And he worked for them?”

  “Well, he was no Fascist, but the IRA were dickering with Hitler at the time. They thought that England losing the war would be Ireland’s opportunity. Devlin parachuted into Ireland for the Abwehr and only got back to Berlin by the skin of his teeth.”

  “Then what? Is there any truth in the old legend about a German attempt to kidnap Churchill with Devlin as a middle man?”

  “Norfolk, nineteen forty-three,” Dillon said. “Crack force of German paratroopers. Devlin was there all right, but the attempt failed. Once again, he got out by a small miracle.”

  “But you said he was anti-fascist?”

  “They paid him well and the money went to funds for the organization. He once said he’d have tried to snatch Hitler if someone had paid him enough. He knew them all personally. Himmler, General Walter Schellenberg. He was even instrumental in saving Hitler from assassination by the SS late in the war.”

  “Good God!” Blake said.

  “The idea was it was better keeping him alive and cocking things up, whereas with the SS in charge the war might have gone on longer.”

  �
��I get the point.”

  “Hitler gave him the Iron Cross First Class. Devlin falls about laughing when he tells you that.”

  “And then the Troubles?”

  “Yes. He was one of the original architects of the Provisional IRA. On the British Army’s most-wanted list.”

  “Which is when you met him?”

  “He taught me everything I know, but Liam was an old-fashioned revolutionary and I was going through a Marxist phase; all purity of violence, being young and foolish. Shots were exchanged, but no great harm done. We made up in recent years.”

  “A strange man.”

  “A great man, the best I’ve ever known.”

  Blake nodded. “This name on your false passport, Martin Keogh. Any significance?”

  Dillon shrugged. “An alias I’ve used on and off for years.”

  Blake nodded. “So you think Devlin might be able to help us find Riley?”

  “If anyone can. Once we have Riley, we haul him back to London to identify that phoney lawyer from the Wandsworth security cameras. Once we have his face, we’ll move on to his identity.”

  “You sound confident!”

  “I am. With luck, he could be a stepping stone to Judas.”

  Blake nodded slowly. “It’s not much.”

  “It’s all we’ve got, and another thing. If we do find that place where Judas is holding her, it won’t do any good to call in the Navy Seals or any kind of special forces. He’ll kill her stone dead at the first sound.”

  “You mean you’d want to go in on your own?”

  “I’d need backup,” Dillon told him. “But I did see a fair amount of the interior. I know she’s on the third floor and things like that.”

  “But one man.” Blake shook his head. “That’s crazy.”

  “He only has five Maccabees with him,” Dillon said. “And no indication of staff. But then he wouldn’t have staff for obvious reasons. So, five plus Judas is six.”

  “And you’d do that on your own?”

  “Why not? You’ve heard the old joke about the tailor in the fairytale by the Brothers Grimm? Five at one blow? I’ll make it six.”

  “That was flies on a slice of jam and bread,” Blake said.

  “Same difference.” Dillon called Kersey. “Another Bushmills and I’ll turn in.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “You know,” Blake said, “there’s one thing that really bugs me about the whole business.”

  “And what’s that?” Dillon asked, taking the drink that Kersey brought.

  “From what Marie de Brissac told you, the general knew from that anonymous letter only that his wife had spent the night with an American officer. He didn’t know it was Jake Cazalet.”

  “So it would appear.”

  “So only Marie and her mother and the President knew the secret.”

  “You’re forgetting Teddy Grant.”

  “Okay, but that means only three left when the countess died. So how in the hell did Judas find out?”

  “God knows. All that matters is he did.” Dillon switched off the overhead light. “I’m going to sleep while the going’s good,” and he tilted back his seat.

  Devlin parked his car on a quay on the River Liffey and walked through soft rain to the pub called the Irish Hussar. It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place with booths and a mahogany bar with a mirror behind it, rows of bottles on the shelves. Normally much favored by Republicans and Sinn Fein supporters, at that time in the morning the clientele were mainly workers of every kind tucking into a full Irish breakfast. He found his quarry, one Michael Leary, in the end booth just starting his meal.

  “Liam, you old dog.”

  “Same to you,” Devlin told him.

  A young woman, all smiles, for Devlin was a great favorite, came to the table. “And what can I get you, Mr. Devlin?”

  “The same and lots of breakfast tea, and mind I can stand the spoon in it.” He turned to Leary. “Is the work going well, Michael?”

  “That thriller I did sold nicely in the airports. To be honest, Liam, I’ve cleared fifty thousand pounds in the past twelve months and it seems to be climbing.”

  “And still working through the night?”

  “It’s the leg. I get a lot of pain. Can’t sleep,” and he banged it with his fist.

  Leary, an active member of the Provisional IRA for more than twenty years, had lost the leg when a bomb he was supposed to run across the border in an old truck had exploded prematurely, killing his two companions and taking his leg. At least the incident had kept him out of a British prison, but it had brought an end to his career as an active member of the Movement.

  The young woman brought Devlin his breakfast and a pot of tea and withdrew and he started to eat.

  “What is it, Liam? What do you want?” Leary asked.

  “Fifteen years ago when I was sixty and should have known better, I saved your life in County Down. When the RUC peelers shot you in the shoulder, I got you over the border.”

  “True,” Leary said, “but false as my left leg in one respect. You weren’t sixty, you were seventy.”

  “A slight digression from the truth, but you owe me one and I’ve come to collect.”

  Leary paused, frowning slightly, then resumed eating. “Go on.”

  “We both know you’re still heavily connected with the organization. You were still running the intelligence section in Dublin for the Chief of Staff until the peace process started.”

  Leary pushed his plate away and the young woman came and took it. “Is this IRA business, Liam?”

  “Only indirectly. A favor for a friend.”

  “Go on.” Leary filled his pipe from a pouch.

  “You’ve still got your ear to the ground. Would you know if Dermot Riley got back in one piece? You see, last I heard, he was in Wandsworth Prison doing fifteen years, then it seems he got out. I understand that when last seen, he was using an Irish passport in the name of Thomas O’Malley.”

  “Who saw him?”

  “My friend, but it’s confidential.”

  “Well, there’s more than one would like to see Dermot, including the Chief of Staff. All right, he’s back. He passed through security at Dublin airport three days ago in the identity of Thomas O’Malley. A security man recognized him. As he’s one of our own, he simply checked him through, then reported the matter to the Chief of Staff.”

  “And what did he do?”

  “Put in a call to London, then sent two enforcers, Bell and Barry, to pay a visit to Bridget O’Malley on her farm by the Blackwater River. That was yesterday. She swore he hadn’t been there. Thought he was still in prison, so they came back.”

  “Knowing those two, I’m surprised they didn’t try burning her with cigarettes.”

  “You think he’s there, Liam?”

  “Or thereabouts. Where else would he go?”

  There was a pause as Devlin drank his tea, and finally Leary said, “The thing is, it stinks. We have friends everywhere, you know that, even at Wandsworth Prison. It seems Riley was booked out on a warrant signed by Brigadier Charles Ferguson a few days ago.”

  “Do you tell me?” Devlin lit a cigarette.

  “And we all know who his strong right hand is these days – Sean Dillon. Would he be this friend of yours, Liam?”

  Devlin smiled. “Now how would I be knowing a desperate fella like that?”

  “Come off it, Liam. You taught him everything you know. You used to say he was your dark side.”

  Devlin got up. “A grand breakfast, and you the successful author now, Michael, I’ll let you treat me. If you run into Dermot Riley, I’d like a word.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Liam. Even the living legend of the IRA can come to a bad end.”

  “Jesus, son, at my age who cares? Oh, and you can tell the Chief of Staff when you phone him that this isn’t an IRA matter. He has my word on it.”

  He walked away and Leary sat there thinking about it and then it came to him. Why would Fer
guson take Riley out of Wandsworth? Obviously for some sort of deal, and Riley had done a runner or if he hadn’t, was he in Ireland on a false passport to do some job or other for Ferguson?

  In any case, only one course of action was open and he got up and left, walking quickly to his car.

  He sat in the parlor of the small suburban house that was the Chief of Staff’s home. His wife served tea and the Chief sat there stroking the cat on his lap, listening.

  When Leary was finished, the other man said, “Get hold of Bell and Barry and send them to me.”

  “And Liam?”

  “Nobody likes him more than I do, but if the old bugger turns up there, especially if Dillon’s with him, then Bell and Barry can stiff them both.”

  Devlin’s cottage at Kilrea was next to the convent. The garden was a riot of color and the cottage itself was Victorian, with Gothic gables and a steeply pitched roof. Blake Johnson and Dillon arrived in a rental car from Dublin Airport at nine-thirty.

  “This is nice,” Johnson said.

  “Yes, he likes his garden,” Dillon said and rang the bell.

  The door opened and Devlin appeared in black sweater and slacks. “You young bastard,” he cried and hugged Dillon tightly, then he smiled at Blake. “And who might this be?”

  “A friend from Washington, Blake Johnson.”

  “A friend, is it? Well, I’ve been around long enough to recognize a peeler when I see one. That’s Belfast for policeman, Mr. Johnson, but come into the kitchen. I’ve had breakfast, but I’ll make you some coffee. Which variety of cop are you?”

  “I used to be FBI,” Johnson said as Devlin filled the kettle.

  “And now?”

  Johnson glanced at Dillon, who said, “Let’s say he does for the President what Ferguson does for the Prime Minister.”

  “That must be a tall order.” Devlin smiled. “All right, sit down and tell me about it.”

  Which Dillon did, Blake Johnson making a point or two here and there. When they were finished, Devlin said, “Not good, not good at all, and I can see where you’d need Riley.”