Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘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 honours from Cambridge, marvellous 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.’

‘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 enquiry about staff at the Russian Embassy. 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 also to call a ceasefire.’

‘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 dry with excitement. Belov turned to her. ‘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?’