Angel of Death (21 page)

Afterwards over the coffee Keogh said, “So let’s go over it again, Brigadier.”

“Well, as I told the Prime Minister, it can all be very simple. You drop in at Shannon totally unexpected. I believe that for political reasons it’s essential that your appearance at the IRA conference at Ardmore House should be kept secret and perhaps for some time.”

“I agree.”

“But even arriving at Shannon in a private Gulfstream doesn’t mean you won’t be recognized. Ground staff, baggage handlers, who knows? And someone will talk, rumors will start, and the media will get to hear of it.”

“But too late to be able to do anything about it,” Mary Keogh said.

“Exactly.” The Brigadier nodded. “It can be said afterwards that the sole reason for the stop at Shannon was that the Senator, on a sudden whim, decided he wanted to see the Keogh Chapel. At that stage no one will know about the stop-off at Ardmore House on the way back.”

“It’s certainly slick,” the Senator said.

“But security?” his wife said. “I’m concerned about that.”

“No need to be. Dillon, myself, and Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my aide, will be with him at all times. I need hardly stress that the usual IRA efficiency will ensure security at Ardmore House.”

“And I know Drumgoole Abbey,” Dillon said. “It’s miles from anywhere in a beautiful valley. There’s the Abbey itself, the convent with its school. Just nuns and children.”

“It’ll work.” Keogh patted his wife’s hand reassuringly. “We’ll have some more coffee on the porch, then I’ll let you gentlemen go.”

Sitting there, looking down at the beach, the sea wild beyond, Mary Keogh said, “I’m intrigued, Mr. Dillon. My husband asked for your background. He’s told me about you, but there are things I don’t understand. You went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London? You acted with the National Theatre?”

“That’s right,” Dillon said.

“But then you joined the IRA?”

“I was nineteen years of age, Mrs. Keogh, and living in London with my father. Nineteen seventy-one, it was. He went to Belfast on a holiday and was killed by cross fire. British paratroopers and IRA. An accident.”

“Only you didn’t see it that way?” There was real sympathy in her eyes.

“Not at nineteen.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “So I joined the glorious cause.”

“And never looked back,” Ferguson said. “On the most-wanted list for years.”

“Is it true you tried to blow up the British War Cabinet in February ninety-one?” Keogh asked.

“Now do I look the kind of fella that would do a thing like that?” Dillon said.

Keogh roared with laughter. “Yes, actually you do, my fine Irish friend.”

Mrs. Keogh said, “I’m still puzzled. How come you changed sides?”

“I fought for what I believed in. I’m not ashamed of that, although I never approved of the bomb as a weapon. For me that was the greatest weakness in the IRA campaign. Not just the dead, but fifty thousand ordinary people maimed or injured. Women in a shopping mall, kids.” He shrugged. “In the end nothing’s worth that, not even a united Ireland. Something goes click in your head. You change.”

“I finally caught up with him in a Serb prison,” Ferguson said. “They were going to shoot him for flying medical supplies in for children. I managed to make a deal.” He shrugged. “Now he works for me.”

“And I’ll say amen to that, I couldn’t be happier on this occasion,” Patrick Keogh told them. “I’ll go and tell your driver to bring the limousine round and I’ll inform Otis you’re on your way.” He got up, moved to the door, and turned. “Oh, by the way, the President wants to meet you when you get back to Washington.”

Mrs. Keogh said her good-byes and went inside. Ferguson, Dillon, and Keogh stood by the limousine for a moment.

“Tell me, Dillon,” Keogh said. “Do you really think it will work, peace in Ireland?”

“A lot is going to depend on Protestant reaction,” Dillon said. “On how threatened they feel. There’s an old Prod toast, Senator.
Our country too
. If they think the other side will allow them that observation, there might be hope.”

“Our country too.” Keogh nodded. “I like that. It has a ring to it.” He looked solemn. “Perhaps I could use that at Ardmore.”

Ferguson said, “We’ll be seeing you soon, sir, at Shannon.”

“Only a matter of days, Brigadier.”

“And you’re happy, Senator?”

“Am I, hell.” Keogh laughed. “Frightened to death.”

“Ah well, we all get like that,” Dillon told him. “It’s a healthy sign.”

“You know I once made a speech that for various reasons didn’t appeal to a lot of people, but it appealed to me,” Keogh told them. “I said something about a man doing what he must in spite of personal consequences, that whatever sacrifices he faces, if he follows his conscience, he alone must decide on the course he must follow.”

They stood there in silence and it started to rain. Keogh flung back his head and roared with laughter. “Hell, that sounded like a campaign speech. Off you go, gentlemen, and I’ll see you at Shannon.”

He turned and went inside.

In the helicopter, Ferguson busied himself with papers from his briefcase and hardly said a word. It was later when they were being driven from Andrews in an Air Force limousine through the heavy Washington traffic that he finally put the papers away and leaned back.

“Interesting man, Patrick Keogh. Triumphs on occasion, but also tragedies and mistakes.”

“But he’s still here,” Dillon said. “He’s a survivor. He doesn’t whine when something goes wrong. He picks himself up and gets on with it.”

“You liked him?”

“Oh yes, I think he’s a man who can look in the mirror and not be afraid.”

Ferguson said, “I didn’t know you had an artistic soul, Dillon,” and at that moment they reached the White House and were delivered to the West Basement Entrance.

When an aide showed them into the Oval Office, there was no one there.

“Please wait, gentlemen,” he said.

Outside, darkness was falling and Ferguson moved to the window and looked out. “My God, but we’re part of history here, Dillon, from Roosevelt to Clinton and everything in between.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “The performance continues relentlessly. It’s like the Windmill Theatre during the Blitz in London during the Second World War. The motto was:
We never closed
.”

A private door clicked open and Clinton appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Brigadier Ferguson?” He held out his hand.

“Mr. President.”

“And Mr. Dillon?”

“So they tell me,” Dillon said.

“Be seated, gentlemen.” They did as they were told and Clinton sat behind the desk. “You’ve seen Senator Keogh, I understand, and everything’s in place?”

“Yes,” Ferguson said. “Or as far as it can be at this moment in time.”

“He’s spoken with me on the phone and seems more than happy with your plans.”

“Good,” Ferguson said.

Clinton got up and walked to the window. “A fact of life when you hold high office, gentlemen, is that in the eyes of the media everything becomes political.”

“I’m afraid it has always been so,” Ferguson told him.

“I know.” Clinton nodded. “Anything I do must have some political advantage. This has already been said about the efforts I’ve made to help with the Irish situation.” He came back to the desk and sat down. “Not true, gentlemen. Politicians are accused of many things, but for once I can say, hand on heart, that I’m interested in the outcome for its own sake, and in this case that means peace in Ireland.”

“I believe you, sir,” Ferguson said.

“Thank you and please believe Senator Keogh also. There is no personal advantage for him in this business. He’s putting himself on the firing line here because he believes it’s worth doing. As I said, I’ve talked to Senator Keogh and he seems satisfied with your plan of campaign. I’d appreciate it if you’d go over it with me now, Brigadier.”

When Ferguson was finished, Clinton nodded. “It makes sense to me.” He turned. “Mr. Dillon?”

“It could all be beautifully simple,” Dillon said, “but surprise is everything, the Senator arriving out of the blue and so on. Secrecy is essential to the whole thing.”

“Yes, I agree.” Clinton checked his wristwatch. “Midnight in London, gentlemen, which means it’s now Friday there. I’m expecting news of the timing of the IRA meeting at Ardmore House quite soon now. I’d go to your hotel and catch a little sleep now while the going’s good, Brigadier. I’ll be in touch on the instant.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Clinton pressed the buzzer on his desk and stood. “Once again, I can’t impress on you enough the importance of this mission.”

An aide came in and held the door open for them.

It was in fact only four hours later that Dillon came awake with a start in his hotel room and reached for the telephone.

“Ferguson here. I’ve got the good word, so stir yourself, Dillon, and let’s get out of here. I’ve phoned Andrews and the Lear will be ready to leave by the time we get there. I’ll see you downstairs.”

The phone went dead and Dillon hauled himself out of bed. “Wonderful,” he said. “Bloody marvelous. There must be a better way of making a living,” and he stood up and went to the shower.

As the Lear lifted and turned out over the Atlantic, Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and altered his watch. “Five-thirty in the morning London time.”

“Yes, with luck we should hit Gatwick by noon. Flight Lieutenant Jones tells me we’ll have tailwind all the way across.”

“So, what about the Ardmore House meeting? When is it?”

“Sunday afternoon at two.”

“That’s all right then. Is it okay if I sleep now?” And Dillon dropped his seat back and closed his eyes.

Hannah Bernstein was working in her office when Dillon went in. She took off her glasses and rubbed her forehead.

“Where’s the Brigadier?”

“Dropped off at Cavendish Square to change clothes. He’ll be here directly, then he wants to see the Prime Minister again.”

“Has anything been finalized?”

“You could say that. The IRA meeting is at Ardmore House on Sunday afternoon at two. Keogh will arrive at Shannon in a private Gulfstream. He’ll proceed by helicopter at once to Drumgoole.”

“And security?”

“The good Senator will be quite content with you, me, and the Brigadier.”

She smiled in delight. “So he hasn’t left me out? I thought he might.”

“Now why would he do a thing like that to you?” Dillon grinned and lit a cigarette.

“How do you get on with Keogh?”

“Fine. A decent enough stick and not at all the way some of these reporters write him up. He’s got plenty of guts to take this thing on.” Dillon nodded. “I liked him. How have we got on with the January 30 investigation?”

“I’ve pulled the printouts for you. I think it’s all done. Here, I’ll show you.” She got up and walked into the office Dillon had been using. The printouts were neatly stacked by the computer. “That lot there is the Russian inquiry you asked for, details of personnel at the Soviet Embassy.”

“Good, I’ll have a quick look.”

“A long look, Dillon, there’s a lot of it. Of course, senior personnel are at the top.” She smiled. “I’ll make some tea,” and she went back to her office.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, there was a step behind her and she turned. Dillon stood in the doorway, his face pale and excited. There was a computer printout in his hand. He laid it on her desk.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“A nicely colored photo and full details on a man called Colonel Yuri Belov, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy.”

“So?” She carried on making the tea.

“It’s been suggested he’s Head of London Station for the GRU, that’s the Russian Military Intelligence.”

“I know what it is, Dillon.” She came and stood at his shoulder. Belov, in the photo, smiled up at her.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Dillon asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say that he does.”

“Well he does to me.”

At that moment the outer door opened and Ferguson entered. “Ah, is that tea on the go? Jolly good. I’ll have a quick cup, then I’ll get off to Downing Street.”

Hannah Bernstein handed him a cup of tea. “Dillon thinks he’s come up with something to do with the January 30 inquiry, sir.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Colonel Yuri Belov.” Dillon indicated the printout. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Senior Cultural Attaché at their Embassy. I’ve seen him around on the Embassy party circuit.”

“It says here he may be Head of Station, GRU.”

“That suggestion has been mooted, but never proved, and we’ve never been involved with the GRU over here in any kind of a conflict of interest. Our dealings with the KGB, of course, have been very different.” Ferguson sipped some of his tea. “But what is this, anyway?”

“I’ve only seen him once, but it was an important once.” He turned to Hannah. “Remember when we were at the Europa? I told you I spoke to Grace Browning, the actress, and a Professor Curry?”

“So?”

“I saw them at the Dorchester the night Liam Bell was killed. She and Curry were at the champagne bar. Rupert Lang appeared, all very affectionate. Old friends kissing, that sort of thing.”

“Good heavens, man, so Rupert Lang is a friend of hers, so what?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon held up the printout. “This man joined them, Colonel Yuri Belov, possibly Head of Station GRU. Now you must admit that would make a grand scandalous plot for the Sunday papers, a Minister of the Crown and a Russian agent.”

“But I’ve told you I’ve seen the man myself on the Embassy party circuit. These people are always around.” Ferguson put down his cup. “Politicians are constantly invited to such affairs. They meet everybody, Dillon.”

Dillon said, “Just hear me out, then you can give me the sack if you want.” He turned to Hannah. “And you use your fine policewoman’s mind on it, too.”