Angel of Death (20 page)

“And what about security there?” Rupert Lang demanded.

“General security will be as good as you want,” Ferguson said. “The IRA run a tight ship at these affairs. All the delegates will be shocked out of their socks when Adams produces him. He’ll have finished his speech before they have time to recover and back to Shannon and away.”

“Put that way it all sounds terribly simple,” the Prime Minister said.

“It could be,” Ferguson told him. “But with one proviso. Total secrecy. Nobody must know he’s coming; at any point in the trip, Shannon, Drumgoole, Ardmore. Nobody must know.”

“And just you and Dillon guarding him?”

“No, I’ll take Chief Inspector Bernstein as well. The three of us should suffice.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Right, let’s pray it works.” He turned to the other two. “This meeting at Ardmore should take place in a matter of days. I’ll notify you, of course, but for now, we’ll adjourn. The Brigadier is due in Washington.” He shook Ferguson’s hand. “Good luck, Brigadier. You’ve never handled anything of greater importance.”

The Lear jet left Gatwick at ten-thirty with the usual two RAF pilots, Ferguson and Dillon in the rear. The Brigadier worked his way through two newspapers for half an hour while Dillon read a magazine. Later, as they crossed the Welsh coast and moved out to sea, the Irishman made tea.

“Plenty of sandwiches in here, Brigadier, if you feel peckish.”

“Not now, later. Chief Inspector Bernstein didn’t seem too happy.”

“She feels left out of things.”

“Well that’s just too bad. I mean, someone’s got to mind the shop.” He shook his head. “Women are so unreasonable, Dillon. They don’t think like us. Different species.”

“My God, if the sisterhood heard you say that they’d tear you limb from limb. Sexist, racist, chauvinistic, and of the male variety.”

“My dear boy, you know exactly what I mean. Here’s Bernstein, brilliant and capable. First-class honors from Cambridge, marvelous police record. I mean, she’s shown herself capable of shooting a man when necessary.”

“And a woman,” Dillon said.

“Yes, I was forgetting that. So why does she now have to go into a pet because she isn’t going to Washington?”

“Maybe she just fancied meeting Pat Keogh?”

“Well she will eventually.”

“You should have made that clear.”

“Nonsense.” Ferguson handed back his mug. “ Another cup of tea and tell me what you think of all this.”

Dillon said, as he made the tea, “You mean whether Keogh turning up at Ardmore House would have any effect on Sinn Fein and the IRA?”

“Well would it? You should know. You were in the bloody movement for long enough.”

“Times change.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “And men change with them. Irish people north and south of the border, Protestant and Catholic, want peace. Oh, there are still the traditional hardliners on both sides, but if we stick with Sinn Fein and the IRA, I think you’ll find there’s groundswell support for peace. Twenty-five years is too long. Having said that, Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness, people like that who want to take the whole thing into the political arena, need all the help they can get and, yes, Keogh could help.”

“Why particularly?”

“He worked with President Kennedy in the old days, for one thing, and that’s a special kind of Irish legend. For another, his credentials are good. He’s a Catholic. Nobody can query him, which could be important if he makes the right speech.”

“Well let’s hope he does. How have you got on with the January 30 investigation?”

“Fine. I’ve disregarded all previous investigations, sifted through every piece of information, put it all on the computer, and instituted various searches. The Chief Inspector is going to check the results as they come through while I’m away.”

“Well let’s hope you turn something up,” Ferguson said and reached for another newspaper.

At that moment in the office at the Ministry of Defence the printer was churning out the latest batch of information from one of Dillon’s searches, his inquiry about staff at the Russian Embassy, as it happened. Hannah put the sheets together, mainly text information, but also photos. Amongst them was Yuri Belov’s, not that his face meant anything to her. She placed them in neat piles and left them on Dillon’s desk.

She went back into her own office, rather disconsolate, annoyed that she’d missed out on the American trip, but there was nothing to be done about that. Rain drove against the window. She wondered how Dillon and the Brigadier were getting on out there over the Atlantic, then sat down at her desk with a sigh and started to sort through the day’s mail.

When Grace Browning answered the door at the Cheyne Walk house, she found Tom Curry on the doorstep. “This is a nice surprise,” she said as she led the way through to the kitchen. “I was just making coffee.”

“Business, I’m afraid. Rupert phoned me,” Curry told her. “Something very big’s come up. He and Yuri will be round directly.”

“Have you any idea what it is?” she asked as she made the coffee.

“No. Can’t help. Just as much in the dark as you.”

“I’ll put some extra cups out then.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Curry told her and went out.

By the time she’d prepared a tray and carried it through to the drawing room they were there, the three of them, standing by the fire.

Rupert kissed her on the cheek. “Ravishing as always.”

“Save the compliments. What’s this all about?” she asked as she poured the coffee.

“Tell them, Rupert,” Belov said.

When Lang had finished recounting the details of his meeting at Downing Street, there was silence for a moment, then Curry spoke.

“Very interesting, but what are we talking about here?”

“Sinn Fein and the IRA are very close to calling at least a truce and going to the peace table,” Belov said. “If that happens there would be enormous pressure on the various Protestant groups to also call a cease-fire.”

“International pressure,” Lang said. “I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

“Peace in Ireland?” Grace said. “That wouldn’t suit you, would it, Yuri? What you’d like to see is another Bosnia.” She laughed. “What a shame. All your hopes of Ireland descending into chaos and a good Communist state emerging at the other end have gone up in smoke.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “If Keogh was assassinated on this trip, the effect would be incredible, especially if one of the Protestant Loyalist factions was to blame.”

“And you think that’s a possibility?” Tom Curry said. “Why, they wouldn’t even know he was there.”

“Yes, but we would.” Belov smiled. “And this time January 30 wouldn’t claim credit. We’d give that to the UFF or the Red Hand of Ulster.”

There was total silence now until Lang said, “The ultimate hit. My God, Yuri, you
are
ambitious.”

Grace Browning’s heart was beating fast, her mouth was dry with excitement. Belov said, “When does your show finish at the King’s Head?”

“Saturday.”

“Two days.” Belov nodded. “Since Rupert first phoned me I’ve spoken to my Dublin sources. The word is that this IRA conference will take place on Sunday afternoon.”

Grace took a deep breath. “How would I get there?”

“Very simple. Straight in and out. There’s a man who does the occasional flight for me, highly illegal, of course. His name is Jack Carson. He operates a small air taxi service from a little airfield in Kent, near a village called Coldwater. He owns a couple of twin-engined planes.”

“And he could do the Irish run?”

“No problem. He’s mainly done France for me in the past, but he did Ireland once before a year ago. It’s just like England. Scores of small landing strips out there in the countryside. I’m sure he could find one very close to this Drumgoole place. I say Drumgoole because I imagine that will be the soft spot. You can’t go after Keogh at Ardmore House with Provisional IRA gunmen all over the place.”

“But what about air traffic control and so on?” Curry asked. “I mean, you have to log flights and get permission.”

“Oh, Carson’s used to that. No flight plan means you’re a bogey on someone’s radar screen, but there are lots of bogeys up there, including birds, and if you know where to go there’s a lot of airspace that’s not controlled.”

“But the approach to the Irish coast?” Rupert Lang said. “Surely that presents a difficulty?”

“Not at all. If he hits the coast at six hundred feet, he’ll be below their radar screens.” Belov shrugged. “This man is good and he knows his business. It will work.”

“And what happens at the other end?”

“Once we know where Carson will land I’ll arrange for my people in Dublin to leave a car.”

“And then what happens?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know, but we’re talking about an Abbey, nuns, schoolchildren, not Fort Knox.”

“I still need to get close.”

“You’ll come up with something.”

“No, we will.” Tom Curry put an arm around her shoulder. “No arguments, Grace, I’m coming too.”

She turned to Lang. “What do you think?”

“He always did like his own way.” He smiled wryly. “Wish I could come along, but I rather obviously can’t on this occasion. It sounds like fun.”

Belov said, “Right. I’ll get things started with Carson, and it only remains for Rupert to keep us informed.” He smiled and held out his cup. “Could I have some more coffee?”

When the Lear jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base and Dillon and Ferguson disembarked, they were met by a young air force captain.

“Brigadier General Ferguson? Right this way, sir. There’s a helicopter waiting to take you to Otis Air Force Base. You’ll be taken from there by limousine to Senator Keogh’s house at Hyannis Port. I’ll see your bags are delivered to your hotel.”

Within five minutes they were strapped in and taking off.

“Brigadier General,” Dillon said. “You’ve been promoted.”

“No, that’s the American terminology,” he said. “We stopped using the general bit years ago.”

“I thought we’d be seeing Keogh in Washington.”

“So did I until we were halfway across the Atlantic.”

“I wonder why the change?”

“I expect he’ll tell us when he wants us to know.” Ferguson opened his briefcase, produced a map of Ireland, and unfolded it. “Now show me Ardmore House and Drumgoole again.”

When the limousine deposited them outside the Hyannis Port house, it was Mrs. Keogh who met them at the front door.

“Brigadier Ferguson? I’m Mary Keogh.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Sean Dillon.” He held out his hand and she looked, eyeing him curiously.

“Now you I’ve heard a great deal about, Mr. Dillon.”

“All bad, I suppose.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ah well, you can’t win them all.”

She turned to Ferguson. “Actually, my husband’s walking on the beach.”

“I see,” Ferguson said. “Perhaps we could join him?”

“Why not. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Of course.”

As they turned to go she called, “Brigadier?”

Ferguson paused. “Ma’am?”

“I’m not happy about this.”

“I understand, ma’am, believe me.”

She closed the door and went in. Dillon lit a cigarette. “A good woman, that one.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s go and find the Senator.”

On the beach, the surf pounded in with a great roaring and it was very windy. They saw Patrick Keogh in the distance, walking toward them, occasionally stopping to throw a stick for a black dog that ran in circles around him. As he got closer, they could see he was wearing heavy corduroy trousers and an Aran sweater.

“Brigadier Ferguson?”

“Yes, Senator.” Ferguson shook hands. “A pleasure, sir.”

“And this must be the great Sean Dillon.” Keogh held out his hand.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Senator, and isn’t that overdoing it?” Dillon said.

“Ah, but isn’t that what we Irish always do? Let’s walk awhile.”

“Of course, sir,” Ferguson said.

“I’m sorry to make John Major rush you two across the Atlantic at such short notice, but with my wife being concerned that I might get my head blown off, I decided that where security was concerned I wanted the best and your Prime Minister said that was you two.”

“Very flattering,” Ferguson said.

Dillon cut in. “No false modesty needed, Brigadier. We’ll do as good a job as anyone and better than most.” He lit a cigarette in cupped hands. “I’m a plain man, Senator, so one Irishman to another. Why are you doing this, because if the wrong people got on your case, you really could get your head blown off.”

“Dillon!” Ferguson said sharply.

“No.” Keogh put up a hand. “I’ll answer that. Jack Kennedy once said something about good men doing nothing. You know, just standing by. Well maybe I’ve stood by on too many occasions.”

Ferguson said, “I remember when you made the cover of
Time
magazine during the Vietnam War. When Khe San was besieged you insisted on flying in on a fact-finding mission and ended up manning a heavy machine gun, as I heard, and took a bullet in the shoulder.”

“There were those, especially my political opponents, who thought I was grandstanding, Brigadier. I could never compare with Bobby Kennedy. I worked closely with him. He never shirked an issue, helped guide us through the Cuban missile crisis, had the guts to stand up to the Mafia, served his country and gave his life.”

He stood gazing out to sea and Dillon said, “You think you should do the same?”

“Good God, no!” Patrick Keogh rocked with laughter. “Sean, my friend, just for once I want to get something absolutely right, something that I myself can respect, but I sure as hell don’t want to finish up face-down doing it, which is why I want you and the Brigadier.” He laughed again. “Now let’s go and have something to eat and then we can talk some more.”

They had a light meal in the kitchen, salad, salmon, and new potatoes, just the four of them around the kitchen table.