The White House Connection

She lit a cigarette and sat back. He was an animal, Ryan, just like Barry and the others, guilty at least by association, and the thought of what had happened to her son wouldn’t go away. She stubbed out her cigarette, went to the couch and lay down.

The great psychologist Carl Jung spoke of a thing called synchronicity, the suggestion that certain happenings are so profound that they go beyond mere coincidence and argue a deeper meaning and possibly a hidden agenda. Such a thing was happening at that very moment at Charles Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Square. The Brigadier sat beside the fireplace in his elegant drawing room. Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein was opposite, a file open on her knees. Dillon was helping himself to a Bushmills at the sideboard. He wore a black leather bomber jacket, a white scarf at his neck.

‘Feel free with my whiskey,’ Ferguson told him.

‘And don’t I always,’ Dillon grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Brigadier.’

Hannah Bernstein closed the file. ‘That’s it, then, sir. No IRA active service units operating in London at the present time.’

‘I accept that with reluctance,’ he told her. ‘And of course our political masters want us to play it all down anyway.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes long for the old days before this damn peace process made things so difficult.’ Hannah frowned and he smiled. ‘Yes, my dear, I know that offends that fine morality of yours. Anyway, I accept your findings and will so report to the Prime Minister. No active service units in London.’

Dillon poured another Bushmills. ‘Not as far as we know.’

‘You don’t agree?’

‘Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. On the Loyalist side, we have the paramilitaries like the UVF, and then the LVF, who’ve been responsible for all those attacks and assassinations, we know that.’

‘Murders,’ Hannah said.

‘A point of view. They see themselves as gallant freedom fighters, just like the Stern Gang in Jerusalem in forty-eight,’ Dillon reminded her. ‘And then on the Republican side, we have the INLA and Jack Barry’s Sons of Erin.’

‘That bastard again,’ Ferguson nodded. ‘I’d give my pension to put my hands on him.’

‘Splinter groups on both sides. God knows how many,’ Dillon told them.

‘And not much we can do about it at the moment,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘As the Brigadier says, the powers that be say hands off.’

Dillon went to the terrace window and peered out. It was raining hard. ‘Well, in spite of all that, there are bastards out there waiting to create bloody mayhem. Tim Pat Ryan, for example.’

‘How many times have we turned that one over,’ Hannah reminded him. ‘He’s got the best lawyers in London. We’d have difficulty getting a result even if we caught him with a block of Semtex in his hand.’

‘Oh, sure,’ Dillon said. ‘But he’s definitely supplied active service units with material in the past, we know that.’

‘And can’t prove it.’

Ferguson said, ‘You’d like to play executioner again, wouldn’t you?’

Dillon shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t be missed. Scotland Yard would break out the champagne.’

‘You can forget it.’ Ferguson stood up. ‘I feel like an early night. Off you go, children. My driver’s waiting for you in the Daimler, Chief Inspector. Good night to you.’

When they opened the door, it was raining hard. Dillon took an umbrella from the hall stand, opened it and took her down to the Daimler. She got in the rear and put the window down a little.

‘I worry about you when things get quiet. You’re at your most dangerous.’

‘Be off with you before I begin to think you care.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll see you at the office in the morning.’

He kept the umbrella and walked rapidly away. He had a small house in Stable Mews only five minutes away and as he walked in the front door, he felt strangely restless. The place was small, very Victorian: Oriental rugs, polished woodblock floors, a fireplace with an oil painting by Atkinson Grimshaw, the great Victorian artist, above it, for Dillon was not without money, mostly nefariously obtained over the years.

He poured another Bushmills, stood with it in his hand, gazing up at the Grimshaw, thinking of Tim Pat Ryan. He had too much nervous energy to sleep and he checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. He walked to the sideboard, took the stopper out of the decanter and poured the glass of whiskey back.

He went to the shelves of books in an alcove, took three out and opened a flap behind, removing a Walther PPK with a silencer already fitted. He replaced the books, checked the weapon and put it into the waistband of his jeans, snug against the small of his back.

He took the umbrella when he left the house, for the rain was relentless, and lifted the garage door, where an old Mini Cooper in British racing green waited. The perfect town car, so small and yet capable of over a hundred with the foot down. He got in, drove to the end of the mews and paused to light a cigarette.

‘Right, you bastard, let’s see how you’re doing,’ and he drove away.

At the same moment, Helen Lang, dozing on the couch, came awake, aware of Tim Pat Ryan’s face, the last photo she had looked at in the file. She sat up, face damp with sweat, aware that in the dream he had been hurting her, laughing sarcastically. She stood up, went to the desk and stared down at the open file, and Tim Pat Ryan looked back at her.

She picked up the Colt and weighed it in her hand. There was an inevitability to things now. She stood in the hall, pulled on a trenchcoat and rain hat, opened the shoulder bag that hung on the hall stand, found some cash, then put the Colt in her pocket, took down her umbrella and let herself out.

She hurried along South Audley Street, the umbrella protecting her from the driving rain, intending to go to the Dorchester nearby. There were always cabs there, but as it happened, one came along on the other side of the road. She waved him down and darted across.

‘Wapping High Street,’ she said, as she climbed inside. ‘You can drop me by the George,’ and she sat back, tense and excited.

Hedley had retired with no intention of sleeping, had simply sat in an armchair in the basement flat in the darkness, for some reason afraid for her. He had heard her footsteps in the hall, was up and waiting at the foot of the stairs. As the front door opened and closed, he grabbed his jacket, went up and had the door open. He saw her hurrying along the pavement, the umbrella bobbing, the wave of the hand for the cab. He’d left the Mercedes at the kerb, and was at it in an instant and switched it on. As the cab passed on the other side of the road, he went after it.

Dillon reached the Tower of London, St Katherine’s Way, and moved into Wapping High Street. He passed the George Hotel, turning into a maze of side streets and finally parked on a deadend turning. He got out, locked the door and walked rapidly between the tall decaying warehouses, finally turning on to China Wharf. There were few ships now, only the occasional barge, long-disused cranes looming into the sky.

The Sailor was at the end beyond the old quay. He checked his watch. Midnight. Long past closing time. When he paused in the shadows, the kitchen door at one side opened, light flooding out. Tim Pat Ryan and a woman.

‘See you tomorrow, Rosie.’

He kissed her cheek and she walked away rapidly, passing Dillon safe in the shadows. He moved to the nearest window and peered in. Ryan was sitting at the bar with a glass of beer, reading a newspaper, totally alone. Dillon eased open the kitchen door and entered.

The saloon was very old-fashioned and ornate with a mahogany bar and gilded angels on either side of a great mirror, for The Sailor dated from Victorian times, when sailing ships had moved up the Thames by the dozen each day to tie up and unload at the quay. There were rows of bottles on glass shelves, beer pumps with ivory handles. Ryan was proud of it and kept it in apple-pie order. He loved it like this at night, all alone, reading the Standard in the quiet. There was a slight eerie creaking of a door hinge, a draught of air that lifted the paper. He turned and Dillon entered the bar.

‘God save the good work,’ Dillon said cheerfully. ‘There’s hope for the world yet. You can actually read.’

Ryan’s face was like stone. ‘What do you want, Dillon?’

‘“God save you kindly” was the answer to that,’ Dillon said. ‘And you an Irishman and not knowing.’

‘You’ve no right to be here. I’m clean.’

‘Never in a thousand years.’

Ryan stood and opened his jacket. ‘Try me. I’m not carrying.’

‘I know. You’re too clever for that.’

‘You’ve no right to be here. You’re not even Scotland Yard.’

‘Granted, but I’m something more. Your own worst nightmare.’

‘Get out now.’

‘Before you throw me out? I don’t think so.’ Dillon lifted the bar flap, went behind, reached for a bottle of Bushmills and a glass and filled it. ‘I won’t drink with a piece of dung like you, but I’ll have one for myself. It’s cold outside.’