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

‘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 shook it, 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 towards 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, Joseph and Mary, 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.’