Angel of Death (19 page)

Patrick Keogh gave her that immensely charming smile. “No, I don’t think so, I’m nobody special,” and he turned and walked away.

At Andrews they provided a helicopter but pointed out that the Cape Cod area was not good that evening, with heavy fog at Hyannis Port. The best they could offer was a flight to Otis Air Force Base on Cape Cod itself and onward transportation by limousine. He had no quarrel with that and found himself on his way within twenty minutes, drifting out across the Potomac as dusk settled on the horizon.

He tried to read the
Washington Post
, but his brain refused to take it in. He could think of only one thing, the situation outlined to him by the President and the British Prime Minister. It came to him with sudden clarity that he was faced with the most important decision of his life.

In London it was almost midnight and Dillon was working away at his desk, checking computer printouts. It was very quiet. Suddenly the door opened and Hannah Bernstein entered. She was wearing a raincoat.

“I don’t believe this. I’ve been trying to contact you all night. Why didn’t you have your answerphone on?”

“I hate those bloody things.”

“I then had the crazy thought that you might still be here.”

He ignored her, checking a printout. “So you were right then.” He put the printout down and sat back, swivelling in the seat. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“Carl Jung used to speak about something he called synchronicity, events having an apparent coincidence in time and the feeling that some deeper motivation is involved.”

“And what’s that got to do with January 30?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The ould head’s pounding from it all. All those hits with the Beretta, that’s no coincidence, it’s a fact. Four IRA men stiffed — that’s a fact, no chance there.”

“So?”

He lit a cigarette. “Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Now why, I asked myself, why two, and then good old Bert Gordon gives us the reason for the Silsev and Sharp hit. Drugs.”

“And why was Ashimov killed?”

“I don’t know, but it’s synchronicity that we go to Beirut and find another KGB officer on the make, this time flogging plutonium.”

“You’re not suggesting a connection?”

“Only in that it indicates that the KGB, or whatever they call themselves now, seem to be dipping their fingers into every racket available.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“That there might be a Russian connection somewhere, so I’ve asked the computer to check everything for me as regards the Soviet Embassy in London. Personnel — the lot.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “Any other coincidences you want to check?”

“Strange you should say that, but there is, and for the life of me I can’t think what it is.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you really do need a night’s sleep.”

He stood up and reached for his jacket. “My place or yours?”

“Where shall I kick you, Dillon, just tell me?” she said. “Now come on. I’ll drop you off,” and she led the way out.

When the limousine reached the Hyannis Port house from Otis Air Force Base, Patrick Keogh was tired, and the last few miles through thick fog had been a real strain. The driver, an Air Force Sergeant, declined the offer of a cup of coffee and started back immediately.

Keogh stood there for a moment and suddenly a wind blew in strongly from the sea, tearing the fog into tatters, and he could see the white surf on the edge of the beach. On impulse, he walked down there and stood listening to the waves thundering in, the wind in his face.

A voice called, “Pat, are you there?” It was his wife and he turned and saw her a few yards away, a flashlight in her hand. “Are you all right? Is anything wrong? They phoned me from Otis to say you were on your way. I heard the car.”

He put an arm around her and kissed her. “My head was feeling a little thick. You know what helicopters are. I just felt like a blow. We’ll go in now.”

In the kitchen he poured a little Scotch whisky into a glass and added Branch water while Mary made coffee. A literary agent by profession, she was nobody’s fool, but more than that she was a woman with a woman’s uncanny instinct to sense when things weren’t right.

She poured coffee. “You shouldn’t have this, you won’t sleep.”

“I won’t sleep anyway, not tonight.”

She sat on the opposite side of the table. “Tell me about it, Pat.”

So he did.

When he was finished she said, “It could be a can of worms. They’re asking you to put yourself on the line. Even the IRA can’t control all their people. There are splinter groups, real crazies. Look at those INLA people who killed Mountbatten, and these Protestant Loyalists are just as bad. Ulster Volunteer Force, Ulster Freedom Fighters, then there’s the Red Hand of Ulster. They’re the kind of fanatics who’d kill Queen Elizabeth if they thought it would advance their cause, and they’d still call themselves Loyalists while doing it.” She shook her head. “It’s a mad, crazy world over there. So much killing, so many years of brutality.”

“Which is why it has to stop.” He reached for the coffee pot. “It takes courage to make that decision. By the way, I went to Arlington before I came down. After all, it was Jack Kennedy who got me into politics. I felt close.”

“You always will be.”

“But while we’re on the subject of heroes . . .” He gave her a wry smile. “Where I’m concerned, some would say I have made a considerable number of errors, but not this time. This time I’m going to stand up and be counted.”

“You’re going to go?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can I go with you?”

“No.”

She sighed. “I see.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, proud of you, actually.”

“Good.” He stood up and reached out a hand. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll fly back to Washington in the morning and inform the President and John Major of my decision.”

It was a fine bright morning with a patchy sky, the Washington streets cleared by the rain, as Keogh’s sedan once again turned into the White House by the East Entrance. When Keogh went in, the Marine lieutenant from the previous evening was waiting.

“Good morning, Senator.”

“Don’t they ever give you any time off?” Keogh asked.

“Seldom, sir.” The young officer smiled. “I’m a fourth-generation Marine, Senator, Path of Duty and all that. If you’ll come this way, the President and the Prime Minister are in the Rose Garden.”

As Keogh joined them, Clinton turned and smiled. “You must have got up early.”

“You could say that, but I wanted to catch you both together before the Prime Minister left.”

“You’re going to go?” Clinton said.

“Yes, I think you can count on that. What kind of time scale are we talking about?”

Clinton turned to John Major, who said, “Quite soon. The next few days. Obviously the Irish Prime Minister must know, and Gerry Adams.”

“We’ll let you know at the soonest possible moment, Patrick,” Clinton told him.

“That’s fine. I’m at your disposal.”

“There is, of course, the question of your personal safety,” Clinton said.

Patrick Keogh smiled wryly. “Mr. President, I’m a big target. Having said that, I don’t take kindly to the idea of a dozen Secret Servicemen surrounding me at all times.”

“But you must have some security.” Clinton was shocked.

“Yes, well maybe we should look to our British cousins for that. They are, after all, the experts where Ireland is concerned.” He turned to John Major. “Wouldn’t you agree, Prime Minister?”

“I’m afraid so,” John Major replied.

“Right, let’s examine the problem. I land at Shannon, helicopter to Drumgoole, drop in at Ardmore House, then back to Shannon. I hardly need the SAS to take care of that. Who would you recommend, MI5?”

“No, as the operation takes place in a foreign country, it would be MI6, Senator.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Keogh said. “Come on, Prime Minister, I’m putting myself on the line, so who have you got? Who’s your best?”

“My best is rather unusual,” John Major said. “What some people call the Prime Minister’s private army. For some years now there has been such a group specifically targeting terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only.”

“I like the sound of that. Are they any good?”

“Extremely good though rather ruthless. The unit is commanded by Brigadier Charles Ferguson.” John Major hesitated. “There is one unusual thing I should tell you. Ferguson’s right-hand man is called Sean Dillon. He was a feared IRA enforcer for years, then in ninety-one he tried to blow me up at Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting.”

Patrick Keogh laughed his delight. “The dog. And now he’s working for you?”

“And Ireland, in his way. Like most of us, he thinks it’s gone on too long.”

“Good.” Keogh nodded and turned to Clinton. “Mr. President, I’ve agreed to go, but these are my terms. I want Ferguson and this man Dillon taking care of me when I’m there.”

Clinton glanced at Major and the Prime Minister nodded. “No problem.”

“To that end I’d like to meet them as soon as possible. Can you have them over here fast?”

“Would tomorrow suit?” John Major asked and they all started to laugh.

In London, Charles Ferguson sat in his office and listened to the Prime Minister on the secure phone as he crossed the Atlantic.

“Of course, Prime Minister,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

He put the phone down and sat there frowning for a moment. Finally he picked up the internal phone and spoke to Hannah Bernstein. “Get in here and bring Dillon.”

He got up, went to the map wall, fiddled around until he was finally able to pull down a large-scale map of Ireland. He was examining it when Hannah Bernstein and Dillon entered.

“Do you know where Drumgoole Abbey is?” Ferguson asked Dillon.

“And what decent Catholic doesn’t?” Dillon moved beside him and pointed. “Have you taken to religion, Brigadier? Little Sisters of Pity there. Very holy.”

Ferguson ignored him. “Ardmore House.”

Dillon frowned slightly. “Naughty, Brigadier, very naughty. The Provisional IRA have been known to meet there on more than one occasion.”

“And will again, only this time they’ll have a special guest whose welfare we’ll be responsible for.”

“May I ask who that might be, sir?” Hannah Bernstein inquired.

“Of course you may, my dear. It’s Senator Patrick Keogh,” he told her.

The following morning Ferguson reported for a breakfast meeting at Downing Street. When he was shown into the study, the Prime Minister, Carter, and Rupert Lang were having coffee.

“Ah, there you are, Brigadier. I’ve already filled in the Deputy Director and Mr. Lang on my discussions with the President and Senator Keogh.”

“I see,” Ferguson said gravely. “I would remind you that you stressed absolute secrecy in this business. As I understood you, both the President and Senator Keogh were adamant about that.”

“I can assure you that no one else outside of this room will know about the affair,” the Prime Minister said. “To be frank, I’m not mentioning it to the Cabinet, not even to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. That may seem strange considering the fact that I’ve informed Mr. Lang, but he, after all, is here in another capacity as a member of this rather special committee.”

“Don’t you trust us, Ferguson?” Carter demanded belligerently.

“Silly questions don’t need an answer,” Ferguson said. “But as I see it, Senator Keogh’s offered to put his head into the mouth of the lion. That shows considerable courage. I want to make sure he has every chance of taking it out again.”

“You really do think he could be in danger?” Rupert Lang asked.

Ferguson sat there frowning. The Prime Minister said, “Brigadier?”

“Well let’s look at it this way, Prime Minister. Say you were a Protestant terrorist group who didn’t want the peace initiative to work. Can you think of a better way of ruining it than killing Patrick Keogh, one of the Kennedy old guard, perhaps the most respected Senator in Washington?”

Simon Carter nodded. It was almost with reluctance that he said, “He’s right, and it wouldn’t just be the IRA up in arms, but the entire Irish nation.”

Rupert Lang said, “I’d have thought the same argument would apply where IRA extremists are concerned.”

“Explain,” the Prime Minister said.

“I’ve seen the reports, we all have. There are plenty of hardliners in the IRA who don’t agree with Gerry Adams and his supporters politicizing the struggle. There are plenty who still want to go down the path of the gun and the bomb. There might well be amongst them people who would see the advantage in killing Keogh.”

“And why would that be?” John Major asked.

“Because the automatic assumption would be that the Protestants were responsible,” Ferguson said. “I think you’ll find all negotiations would break down, and pretty permanently.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Carter said.

The Prime Minister nodded thoughtfully. “Then we’ll just have to see that it doesn’t happen, and that’s your department, Brigadier.”

Carter interrupted. “The Security Services would be happy to help. We do have considerable expertise on the ground in Ireland. I hardly need to stress that.”

“But not in the Republic,” John Major said and smiled slightly. “That would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”

“A technicality, as you know, Prime Minister. MI6 operates there all the time.”

“Not on this occasion. Senator Keogh has been specific about his security, as I told you.” He turned to Ferguson. “Does the assignment give you any problems?”

“Not at all, Prime Minister. Senator Keogh arrives out of the blue at Shannon. Helicopter trip to Drumgoole, where the Mother Superior won’t even know he’s coming until he’s on the way. Let’s say half an hour on site, then on to Ardmore House where only Gerry Adams will be expecting him.”