The White House Connection

‘Be my guest.’ The mobile phone on the table rang.

He opened it and passed it to her and she said, ‘Helen Lang.’ After a while, she nodded. ‘My thanks. I’m so sorry.’ She closed the phone and looked at Hedley. ‘Tony Emsworth just died.’

‘That’s a shame. When is the funeral?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Are we going?’

‘Of course.’ She was calm, but there was pain in her eyes. ‘I’ve had enough, Hedley. I think I’ll go back inside,’ and she walked away.

It was a fine sunny morning for the funeral at Stukeley. As it was no more than an hour’s drive from London, the church was full and Helen Lang, sitting on one side of the aisle, was almost amused to find Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Dillon on the other. On her way out, she paused to shake hands with Tony Emsworth’s nephew and his wife, who had organized things.

‘So nice of you to come, Lady Helen,’ they chorused. ‘We’ve arranged a reception at the Country Hotel just outside the village. Do come.’

Which she did. The hotel lounge was crowded. She accepted a glass of indifferent champagne and then Charles Ferguson saw her and barrelled through the crowd.

‘My dear Helen.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘My God, you still look fifty and that’s on a bad day. How do you do it?’

‘You were always a charmer, Charles, a glib charmer, but a charmer.’ She turned to Hannah at his shoulder. ‘Beware of this one, my dear. I remember when he had an affair with the Uruguayan Ambassador’s wife, and her husband challenged him to a duel.’

‘Now, Helen, that’s very naughty. This gorgeous creature is my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and this Irish rogue is one Sean Dillon, who knew Tony quite well. Lady Helen Lang.’

Dillon wore an easy-fitting Armani suit of navy blue. Helen Lang took to him at once as they shook hands. At that moment, someone called to Ferguson, who turned and moved away. Dillon and Hannah went with him.

Ferguson said hello to the man who’d called him and Dillon pulled him around. ‘Lady Lang, who is she?’

‘Oh, I soldiered with her husband in Korea. Her son, Major Peter Lang, was Scots Guards and SAS. One of our best undercover agents in you-know-where. Someone in the IRA got on to him the other year and blew him up. Car bomb.’

Hannah Bernstein was talking to someone and Ferguson was hailed again. Suddenly, it was all too much for Helen Lang and, slightly breathless, she went out on to the terrace in the February sunshine. Dillon saw her go. There was something about her, something he couldn’t define, so he went after her.

She was at the terrace balustrade tossing a couple of pills back when Dillon arrived. ‘Can I get you a glass of champagne?’

‘Frankly, I’d rather have whisky.’

‘Well, I’m your man. Will Irish do?’

‘Why not?’

He was back in a few moments with two glasses. She put hers down, got out her silver case and held it out. ‘Do you indulge?’

‘Jesus, but you’re a wonderful woman.’ His old Zippo flared and he gave her a light.

‘Do you mind if I say something, Mr Dillon?’ she said. ‘You’re wearing a Guards tie.’

‘Ah, well, I like to keep old Ferguson happy.’

She took a chance. ‘I should mention that I know about you, Mr Dillon. My old friend Tony Emsworth told me everything, and for very special reasons.’

‘Your son, Lady Helen.’ Dillon nodded. ‘I’m surprised you’d speak to me.’

‘I believe war should still have rules, and from what Tony told me, you were an honourable man, however ruthless and, may I say, misguided.’

‘I stand corrected.’

He bowed his head in mock humility. She said, ‘You rogue. You can get me that champagne now, only make sure they open a decent bottle.’

‘At your command.’

He joined Ferguson at the bar. ‘Lady Helen,’ he said. ‘Quite a woman.’

‘And then some.’

The barman poured the champagne into two glasses. ‘There’s something about her, something special. Can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Don’t try, Dillon,’ Ferguson told him. ‘She’s far too good for you.’

It was a week later that they flew from Gatwick to New York in one of her company’s Gulfstreams, and stayed at the Plaza. By that time, she knew the file backwards, every facet of every individual in it, and had also used every facility available in the company’s computer. She had the Colt .25 with her. In all her years flying in the Gulfstreams, she had never been checked by security once.

She knew everything. For example, that Martin Brady, the Teamsters’ Union official, attended a union gym near the New York docks three times a week, and usually left around ten in the evening. Hedley took her to a place a block away, then she walked. Brady had a red Mercedes, a distinctive automobile. She waited in an alley next to where he had parked it, and slipped out only to shoot him in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the Mercedes.

That had been Hedley’s suggestion. He’d heard that the mob preferred such executions with a small calibre pistol, usually a .22, but a .25 would do, and this would make the police think they had a mob-versus-union problem.

Thomas Cassidy, with a fortune in Irish theme pubs, was easy. He’d recently opened a new place in the Bronx and parked in an alley at the rear. She checked it out two nights running and got him on the third, at one in the morning, once again as he unlocked his car. According to The New York Times, there had been a protection racket operating in the area and the police thought Cassidy a victim. She’d known about all that and his complaints to the police from the computer.

Patrick Kelly, the boss of the construction firm, was even easier. He had a house in Ossining, with countryside all around. His habit was to rise at six in the morning and run five miles. She checked out his usual route, then caught him on the third morning, running with the hood of his track suit up against heavy rain. She stood under a tree as he approached, shot him twice in the heart, then removed the gold Rolex watch from his wrist and the chain from around his neck, again at Hedley’s suggestion. A simple mugging, was all.

So, everything worked perfectly. She hadn’t needed the pills as much, and Hedley, in spite of his doubts, had proved a rock. Am I truly wicked, she would ask herself, really evil? And then recalled reading that in Judaism, Jehovah was not personally responsible for many actions. He employed angels, an Angel of Death, for example.

Is that me? she asked herself. But needing justice, she could not be sorry. So she continued until that rainy night in Manhattan, when she waited for Senator Michael Cohan to come home from the Pierre and was sidetracked.

At the same time that Helen Lang was returning to the Plaza, consoling herself with the thought that she would get Cohan in London, other events were taking place there that would prove to have a profound influence not only on her, but on others she already knew.

A few hours after Lady Helen went to bed, Hannah Bernstein entered Charles Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defence, Dillon behind her.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but we’ve got a hot one.’

‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘Tell me.’

She nodded to Dillon, who said, ‘There’s an old mate of mine, Tommy McGuire, Irish-American. Been into arms dealing for years. He was caught with a defective brake light in Kilburn last night, and a rather keen young woman probationer insisted on checking the boot of his car.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘Fifty pounds of Semtex and two AK47s.’

‘How delicious,’ Ferguson replied. ‘With his record, which I’m sure he has, that should draw ten years.’

‘Except for one thing,’ Hannah told him. ‘He says he wants a deal.’

‘Really.’