'Has to be someone in the White House. A lot of people operate out of there one way or another.'
'But the Basement is supposed to be very hush-hush,' Ferguson said.
'Just like your outfit, Brigadier, but how many people know about it?' Blake observed. 'Computer accessing is another problem. We've even had kids hack in.' 'So have we,' Ferguson agreed.
'And we do ourselves when we can, sir,' Hannah pointed out. 'Paris, Moscow...'
'Even Washington,' Dillon said. 'So, you've no clues?' Ferguson asked Blake. 'Not really. I had to use the Travel Bureau, that's a polite name for the Forging Department. I wanted a passport as Tommy McGuire in case Barry wanted to see it. Then there were travel arrangements. Plane tickets, the room at the Europa, all as McGuire.'
'And all on computers,' Hannah said.
'But it still leaves the one incontrovertible fact that he knew
who you were. I don't like it.' Ferguson showed a spark of anger. 'Don't like it at all. And you can bet the President won't like it either.'
'You can say that again,' Blake said with feeling.
Ferguson nodded. 'So what's to be done?'
It was Dillon who said, 'I've been thinking about McGuire. There might be more than he's told us.'
'What makes you think that?' Hannah asked.
'There always is with people like him, you've been a copper long enough to know that.' He turned to Ferguson. 'Let me have a go at him.'
'Does that mean beating it out of him?' Hannah demanded.
'No. Just putting the fear of God in him.'
Ferguson nodded. 'Right, it's all yours.'
'Good,' Dillon said. 'This is what we'll do..."
The safe house at Holland Park was a mid-Victorian mansion behind high walls. It looked innocuous enough, but had the kind of security that made it impregnable. McGuire had been amazed at the comfort. His own room, en suite, television, excellent food. What he didn't know was that he was on screen even when he went to the toilet.
Occasionally he was taken down to a drawing room that was very pleasantly furnished with an open fire and an even larger television. He was served a more than decent meal. There was even a bottle of Chablis. The guard was just as decent, Mr Fox, who didn't wear a uniform, just a navy blue suit. Of course, McGuire didn't realize that Fox carried a.38 Smith & Wesson Magnum in a holster under his left arm, just as he didn't appreciate that the large gold-framed mirror provided a perfect view for anyone in the next room, which on this occasion meant Ferguson, Blake and Hannah Bernstein.
They watched McGuire finishing his lunch, Fox standing
against the wall. There was a knock at the door, Fox unlocked it and Dillon walked in.
'Well, you seem to be doing all right, Tommy,' he said. McGuire stared at him. 'It's you. What do you want?' 'Oh, just to bringyou up to date on what happened in Ulster.' He lit a cigarette, took the half-bottle of wine from its bucket and poured it into McGuire's empty glass. He sampled it. 'Not bad. Yes, we missed out on Jack Barry. He managed to fly the coop. We got rid of two of his men, Daley and Bell. Do they mean anything to you?' 'Never heard of them.'
'The strange thing was that Barry was expecting my American friend Blake, the man who was impersonating you. He knew everything about him, knew he worked for the President, claimed to have inside intelligence sources.'
'Look, none of this has anything to do with me,' McGuire said. 'I told you everything I know about Barry. If you lost him, that's your problem.'
'Well, a problem it certainly is, old son, but yours, not mine. You see, I think you're a terrible liar. I believe you know a lot more than you're telling.'
'That's bollocks. I've told you everything I know.' 'Really? All right, we'd better let you go.' 'Let me go?' McGuire was astonished.
'Well, you did put us on to Barry. Bad luck he slipped us, but not your fault, and let's face it, it isn't the kind of thing we would want advertised in open court.' He nodded to Fox. 'Bring in the Chief Inspector.' 'Certainly, sir.'
Fox went and opened the door and called and Hannah entered, an official-looking document in one hand. 'Collect the prisoner's things and deliver him to Heathrow Airport,' she told him and turned to McGuire. 'Thomas McGuire, I have here a warrant
for your deportation as an unwanted alien. According to records, you entered the country on an illegal flight from Paris and you will be returned there. I have no idea how the French authorities will treat you.'
'Now look here,' McGuire began, and Dillon interrupted him.
'Good luck, Tommy. You're going to need it.'
'What do you mean?'
'Jack Barry has a lot of friends all over Europe and the Middle East — the PLO, the Libyans, people like that. He's even done business with the Mafia over the years.'
'What's that got to do with me?'
'He knows my friend Blake Johnson wasn't you, so I presume he'll want to know what you were playing at. He's going to want your balls, Tommy, so good luck.'
He turned away and McGuire said, 'For God's sake, he's a sadist, that one. I mean, he killed one guy in Ireland by putting him through a cement mixer.'
There was silence. Hannah said, 'Is that a fact, Mr McGuire?'
He looked at her, then Dillon, then sat down. 'I'm not stirring.'
'Then talk,' Dillon told him.
The door opened, and Ferguson and Blake entered. 'All right, man, get on with it,' Ferguson said.
'Give me a cigarette, for God's sake.'
Dillon offered him one from his old silver case and gave him a light. 'Let it all hang out, Tommy. You'll feel much better.'
'As I told you, I'd never met Barry personally, but he dealt with Jobert in Marseilles and I worked for Jobert, so I used to meet guys Barry sent over from Ireland on arms business. There was one, a man called Doolin, who I had dealings with in Paris. Patrick Doolin.'
Dillon broke in. 'I know that name. Found hanging in his cell
at the Maze Prison.'
'That's him,' McGuire said. 'We went out on the town one night in Paris, ended up having supper on one of those dining boats that ply up and down the river, decent food, plenty to drink. He got pissed out of his mind. Started going on about Barry and what an animal he was.'
The story had a certain fascination and they all waited. 'Doolin said he used to chauffeur for Barry. I think it must have been about three years ago it happened. He was driving him somewhere at night and Barry was drunk and on something, I mean really high. He told Doolin he'd just stiffed five British Army undercover agents, four men and a woman. Said he'd put one of them through a cement mixer. I think the others were shot. I can't recall.'
'My God,' Hannah said.
'What else?' Dillon was relentless.
'You know he runs the Sons of Erin? He said that the coup was thanks to the New York branch, with a little help from someone he called the Connection.'
'The Connection?' Ferguson asked.
'Yes, someone way on the inside. Apparently, he told Doolin it was just like in the old days, when Mick Collins had detectives at Dublin Castle working for him.'
'It would seem he told Doolin a lot,' Hannah said.
Ferguson nodded. 'Keep him safe, Mr Fox. We'll be in touch.'
'Brigadier.'
Ferguson turned to the others. 'All right, let's go.'
Sitting in his office an hour later with Blake, Ferguson was surprised when Hannah came in, Dillon behind her.
'I've found something, sir,' Hannah told him. 'Three years ago, an undercover squad in Ulster was taken out, four men and a woman. The leader, Major Peter Lang, was the subject of a car bomb so huge no remains were found. Here are the
details on the other four. It has to be what Barry was referring to.'
'Dear God, Peter Lang, my old friend Roger Lang's boy,' Ferguson said. 'You met his mother, Lady Helen Lang, at Tony Emsworth's funeral.'
'The lovely lady on the terrace,' Dillon said. 'With that kind of proof, I'd say we're on to something. So what's the next move?'
'I think I should have words with the President,' Blake said.
Ferguson shook his head. 'Not yet, Blake. I know you're a free agent, but please hold back, just for now. There are things I'd like to do here.' He turned to Hannah. 'Was there any back-up information, any connection with Barry?'
'No, sir, and I must tell you I've accessed both MI5 and MI6.'
He sat there, brooding. 'Phone Simon Carter at once. His ears only. Ask him what he knows about Frank Barry and the Sons of Erin and any sort of inside leak, possibly from the White House.'
'Certainly, sir.' She went out.
Ferguson stood up. 'There's a good canteen here, Blake. Let's get a sandwich and await events.'
They were sitting at a corner table half an hour later when Hannah came in and sat down. 'He was his usual irate self, sir. Well, almost.'
'What do you mean?' Ferguson asked.
'He seemed sort of shocked. In a way, I got the feeling he knew all about it, but he couldn't have.'
'That devious bugger could lie to the Almighty,' Dillon told her.
'I must say, he came back damn quick. Gave me Jack Barry's history and that's all, everything we already know.'
'And nothing about Washington or the Sons of Erin?' Blake turned to Dillon. 'Is Carter still Deputy Director of the Security Services?' 'Absolutely.'
'Then if he doesn't know anything...' Ferguson said to Hannah, 'Get him on your mobile.' She did so and passed it across. 'Simon,' Ferguson said. 'I must see you. The terrace at Westminster in thirty minutes.' 'Now look here, Ferguson...'
'Just finalizing a report for the Prime Minister. I'd welcome your input,' and Ferguson switched off and sat there thinking about it. Finally, he said, 'I'll take you, Blake, as the President's representative. That will impress him, and you, Dillon, because you always unbalance him.'
'If ever a man hated me, it's dear old Carter.' 'Yes, well, I like to have him on edge.' Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'You're the computer genius, my dear. Check everything that could possibly have a significance.' He stood up. 'Let's be on our way, gentlemen.'
The House of Commons, together with the House of Lords, is a remarkable institution, and not only because of its extraordinary history as the seat of government for the United Kingdom. Its location on the Thames is unique, but it is its facilities which are extraordinary. Twenty-six restaurants and bars provide not only excellent food, but some of the cheapest in London.
Even someone with Ferguson's pull had to stand in line as the queue inched forward to be checked thoroughly by the largest policemen in London. They finally made the Central Lobby, moved in through a maze of corridors and found the entrance to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.
It was the chilly end of March weather, but sunny enough for them to have the awnings open. There were plenty of people
about, members of the House of Lords at one end, members of the Commons at the other, foreign visitors and guests of every description.
'Thank God you're wearing a jacket, Dillon. Makes a change. At least you look respectable.'
Dillon waved to a waiter who had glasses of champagne on a tray. 'Are you with the Japanese delegation, sir?'
'What else?' Dillon passed a glass to Blake, another to Ferguson, who accepted with reluctance, and took one himself.
They stood at the parapet and looked down at the Thames. 'How good is the security?' Blake asked.
'Five-knot current down there,' Dillon said. 'Even a Navy SEAL would have problems.'
'But not this little bastard,' Ferguson told Blake. 'Floated in here the other year when your President and the PM were meeting, just to show Carter the security precautions were no good. Turned up as a waiter and served them canapes.'
Blake exploded into laughter. Dillon said, 'Carter was not best pleased.'
'Well, he wouldn't be, would he?' Blake said, and at that moment Carter appeared.
He made a face when he saw Dillon. 'For God's sake, Ferguson, do we have to have this little swine here?'
'God save your honour,' Dillon told him. ' 'Tis a kindness for you to see me, a grand man like yourself.'
'Dillon is here because I need him, so that's that. This is Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal security man.'
'Yes, I know of Mr Johnson.' Carter shook hands reluctantly.
'To business,' Ferguson said. 'Chief Inspector Bernstein asked you for information relevant to Frank Barry and the Sons of Erin.'
