Jack Higgins - Dillon 07 - The White House Connection

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Jack Higgins - Dillon 07 - The White House Connection Page 12

by The White House Connection(lit)


  '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, a
nd 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.

  EIGHT

  London's Kilburn district houses a mainly Irish population, both Republican and Loyalist, and sometimes you'd swear you were in Belfast. The Protestant pubs with William and Mary painted on the end wall were the spitting image of those in the Shankhill, as were the Republican pubs of those in the Falls Road.

  Dillon, dressed in a black bomber jacket, scarf and jeans, faded into the drinking crowd of the latter, his Walther stuck into his waistband at the rear. That there were those who might recognize him could not be avoided, but he figured he would be all right. He was, after all, the great Sean Dillon, the living legend of the IRA, and as for anything else, it was rumours at most. But he had the Walther as insurance.

  He learned nothing of any great interest, however, until he came out of the Green Tinker and paused in a doorway to light a cigarette beside the newspaper stand. The old man huddled inside was swallowing from a half bottle. His name was Tod Ahern. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and stared at Dillon in astonishment.

  'Jesus, Sean, it's yourself.'

  'And who else would it be?'

  Tod was well drunk now. 'Are there big things doing? I saw Barry earlier. Are you and he here for some big plans?'

  Dillon smiled gently. 'Now then, Tod, you shouldn't talk about such things. The word is hush.' He smiled. 'Jack would

  be furious if he knew you'd seen him. Where was it, by the way?'

  'Going to the back of the Michael Collins. I thought he might be seeing Liam Moran. I'd just picked up my stand. I was wheeling it round.'

  'Well, keep it to yourself, Tod.' Dillon passed him a five-pound note. 'Have a drink on me later.'

  Sitting at his table, still going over his accounts, Liam Moran was aware of a slight draught of air that lifted the papers, looked up and found Dillon in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

  'God bless all here.'

  Moran almost had a bowel movement. 'Sean, it's you.'

  'As ever was.' Dillon lit the cigarette with his old Zippo. 'I'm told you had a visitor earlier, Jack Barry?'

  Moran managed a ghastly smile. 'And who's been selling you that kind of nonsense?'

  Dillon sighed. 'We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Liam. What did he want and where is he?'

  'Sean, this is a bad joke.'

  Dillon's hand found the butt of the silenced Walther in his waistband, his hand swung, and the lobe of Moran's right ear disintegrated, the blood spurting as he grabbed it.

  'Now, your right kneecap comes next. I'll put you on sticks, maybe for ever.'

  'Jesus, no, Sean!' Moran was in agony. 'He told me he was just checking on how hot things were in London these days. Said he was on his way to Germany.'

  'My arse he is,' Dillon said. 'He'll have a hidey-hole here in London. Where would that be?'

  'And how would I be knowing that, Sean?'

  'What a shame. Here goes the kneecap.'

  Dillon took aim and Moran cried out, 'St James's Stairs,

  up from Wapping. There are some houseboats. His is called Griselda.'

  'Good man yourself Dillon put the Walther away. 'Do you want me to come back?'

  'Jesus, no.'

  'Then keep your mouth shut. I'm sure you know someone who can fix that ear.' Dillon went out.

  Back in his Mini Cooper, he phoned Ferguson, and when the Brigadier answered, said, 'I may have struck gold.'

  'Tell me.'

  Dillon did. When he was finished, he said, 'I think it's too much of a coincidence he's here. What do you want me to do? Take him out? On the other hand, you could call in Scotland Yard's Anti-Terrorist Unit. They'd turn it into the Third World War.'

  'That's the last thing we need. Where are you?' Dillon told him. 'Meet me at St James's Stairs,' Ferguson said.

  'You've got to be joking.'

  'Dillon, when I was nineteen years old, I was in the Hook of Korea, where I shot five Chinese with a Browning pistol. I do tend to get bored polishing the seat of my desk at the Ministry of Defence.'

  'Oh, my, what would Bernstein say?'

  'I can take political correctness so far, Dillon. I don't particularly wish to employ her on a desperate venture in rain and darkness on the Thames in an attempt to take out one of the wont specimens the IRA has on offer.'

  'So you think he's here for Cohan?'

  'Dillon, a few days ago he was in Ulster, now he's here. What other reason could he have? Wait for me on the corner of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane,' and Ferguson put the phone down.

  Barry parked the Escort at the end of Chalk Lane in a side turning and walked down towards St James's Stairs. It was dark now, with lights on the river, more on the river side, traffic moving in the darkness. He turned at the end and walked along the line of an old jetty, passing what looked like a couple of disused lighters.

  There was a basin at the end, some old cranes standing above it, disused warehouses standing behind. Only one houseboat was on that side, the Griselda, with four on the other, two with a light that showed some sort of habitation. There was a connection with the shore, an electric cable and water pipe.

  Barry had used the boat for three years now, had last been there six months before. He'd always expected the place to be vandalized each time he'd returned, but it had never happened. For one thing, it was remote and tucked away and then the presence of the other houseboats afforded some sort of protection.

  He went across the gangplank, found the key hidden in the cabin gutter, got the steel door open and stepped inside. There was a switch to the left. The light came on, disclosing a flight of stairs. It also brought on deck lights, one in the stern, one on the prow.

  He went down, and at the bottom switched on a light, revealing the cabin. It was surprisingly spacious, with portholes on each side. There were bench seats, a table, a kitchenette at one end with an electric cooker and a basin. He paused to fill the kettle, then carried on into the bedroom.

  He placed the Gladstone bag on the bed, took out a toilet bag and a carton of cigarettes. He opened a pack, lit a cigarette and checked the closet. There were clothes in there in plastic zip-up bags, shoes, new shirts in Marks & Spencer bags, underwear, socks, everything he would need. The kettle was whistling. He went in, switched it off, sat down at the table and phoned the Dorchester with his mobile.


  'Senator Cohan,' he asked, when the switchboard replied.

  'May I say who's calling, sir?'

  'George Harrison, American Embassy.'

  A moment later, Cohan answered. 'Mr Harrison?'

  Barry laughed. 'It's me, you daft bastard, Barry.'

  'Jack?' Cohan laughed back. 'Where are you?'

  'Still in Ulster,' Barry lied. 'I spoke to the Connection. He told me all the bad news. Though I suppose it's good news for the undertakers.'

 

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