'Let me,' Dillon said and offered McGuire another cigarette. 'You've never met Jack Barry? That's good, because I have, and he'd cut your balls off for fun if you crossed him. Let me speculate. Jack inherited the Sons of Erin from dear old Frank Barry, alas no longer with us. The Sons of Erin would kill the Pope, which isn't surprising as our Jack is one of the few Protestants in the IRA. However, he's had a falling-out with Dublin, Sinn Fein and the peace process. Probably thinks they're a bunch of old women.'
'So I hear.'
'So let me speculate again. His source of arms from Dublin has dried up. However, there's family money in his background, he's rich in his own right, so he's dealing direct with Jobert.
Semtex, guns, whatever, and you're the middle man. Ryan was in London, but, alas, no more.'
'That's right,' McGuire said eagerly. 'I'm supposed to meet Barry in Belfast in three days.'
'Really?' Ferguson said. 'Where exactly?'
'I'm to book in at the Europa Hotel and wait. He'll send for me when he's ready.'
'Send for you where?' Hannah Bernstein asked.
'How the hell would I know? I've already told you, I've never even met the guy.'
The room went very still. Ferguson said, 'Is that really true?'
'Of course it is.'
Ferguson stood up. 'Serve the warrant on the prison governor, Chief Inspector. Deliver the prisoner to the Holland Park safe house.'
She pressed the bell and the prison officer entered. 'Take him back to his cell and get him ready to leave.'
McGuire said, 'Have we got a deal?' but the prison officer was already hauling him out.
Dillon said, 'Are you thinking what I am, you old bugger?'
'You must admit it would be a wonderful sting,' the Brigadier said. 'When is McGuire not McGuire? This could lead us directly to Barry and, oh, how I'd love to lay hands on that one.'
'There is one thing, sir,' Hannah Bernstein said. 'McGuire is an American and it's too easy to spot a phoney American accent. Who are we going to get to play him? We need someone who can pass as American and who can handle himself
Ferguson said, 'That's a good point. In fact, it would seem to me there's an American dimension to all this. I mean, the President wouldn't be too happy to find out in the middle of peace negotiations for Ireland that there was an American citizen trying to sell arms to one of the worst terrorists in the business.'
Dillon, devious as usual, was ahead of him. 'Are you suggesting that I speak to Blake Johnson?'
It was Hannah who said, 'Well, that's what the Basement is for, sir.'
'Who knows?' Dillon said. 'Blake might feel like a holiday in Ireland. Who better to play an American than an American — especially one who can shoot a fly at twenty paces?'
'Sometimes you really do get it right, Dillon.' Ferguson smiled. 'Now let's get out of this dreadful place.'
Blake Johnson was still a handsome man at fifty, and looked younger. A Marine at nineteen, he'd left Vietnam with a Silver Star, a Vietnamese Cross of Valor and two Purple Hearts. A law degree at the University of Georgia had taken him into the FBI. When President Jake Cazalet had been a Senator and subject to right-wing threats, Blake had managed to get to him when a police escort had lost him, shot two men trying to assassinate him, and taken a bullet himself.
It had led to a special relationship with the man who became President, and an appointment as Director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, a cloak for the President's private investigation squad, the Basement. Already during the present administration, Johnson had proved his worth, had engaged in a number of black operations, some of which had involved Ferguson and Dillon.
It was hot that afternoon, when Blake arrived at the Oval Office and found the President signing papers with his chief of staff, Henry Thornton. Blake liked Thornton, which was a good thing, because Thornton basically ran the place. It was his job to make sure the White House ran smoothly, that the President's programmes were advancing through Congress, that the President's image was protected. The pay was no big deal, but it was the ultimate prestige job. Besides, Thornton had enough money
from running the family law firm in New York before joining the President in Washington.
Thornton was one of the few men who knew the true purpose of the Basement. He looked up and smiled. 'Hey, Blake, you look thoughtful.'
'As well I might,' Blake said.
Cazalet sat back. 'Bad?'
'Let's say tricky. I've had an interesting conversation with Charles Ferguson.'
'Okay, Blake, let's hear the worst.'
When Blake was finished, the President was frowning and so was Thornton. Cazalet said, 'Are you seriously suggesting you go to Belfast, impersonate this McGuire and try to take Barry on his own turf?'
Blake smiled. 'I haven't had a vacation for a while, Mr President, and it would be nice to see Dillon again.'
'Dear God, Blake, no one admires Dillon more than I do. The service you and he did for me - rescuing my daughter from those terrorists — I'll never forget that. But this? You're going into the war zone.'
Thornton said, 'Think about it, Blake. You'd be going into harm's way and is it really necessary?'
Blake said, 'Gentlemen, we've worked our rocks off for peace in Northern Ireland. Sinn Fein have tried, the Loyalists have talked, but again and again it's these terrorist splinter groups on both sides who keep things going. This man, Jack Barry, is a bad one. I must remind you, Mr President, that he is also an American citizen, a serving officer in Vietnam who was eased out for offences that can only be described as murder. He's been a butcher for years, and he's our responsibility as much as theirs. I say take him out.'
Jake Cazalet was smiling. He looked up at Thornton, who was smiling too.
'You obviously feel strongly about this, Blake.' 'I sure as hell do, Mr President.'
'Then try and come back in one piece. It would seriously inconvenience me to lose you.'
'Oh, I'd hate to do that, Mr President.'
In London in his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson put down the red secure phone and touched the intercom button.
'Come in.'
A moment later, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein entered.
'I've spoken to Blake Johnson. He'll be at the Europa Hotel the day after tomorrow, booked in as Tommy McGuire. You two will join him.'
'What kind of backup will we have, sir?' Hannah asked.
'You're the backup, Chief Inspector. I don't want the RUC in this or Army Intelligence from Lisburn. Even the cleaning women are nationalists there. Leaks all over the place. You, Dillon and Blake Johnson must handle it. You only need one pair of handcuffs for Barry.'
It was Dillon who said, 'Consider it done, Brigadier.'
'Can you guarantee that?'
'As the coffin lid closing.'
FOUR
As frequently happened in Belfast, a cold north wind drove rain across the city, stirring the waters of Belfast Lough, rattling the windows of Dillon's room at the Europa, the most bombed hotel in the world. He looked out over the railway station, remembering the extent to which this city had figured in his life. His father's death all those years ago, the bombings, the violence. Now the powers that be were trying to end all that.
He reached for the phone and called Hannah Bernstein in her room. 'It's me. Are you decent?'
'No. Just out of the shower.'
'I'll be straight round.'
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. What do you want?'
'I phoned the airport. There's an hour's delay on the London plane. I think I'll go down to the bar. Do you fancy some lunch?'
'Sandwiches would do.'
'I'll see you there.'
It was shortly after noon, the Library Bar quiet. He ordered tea, Barry's tea, Ireland's favourite, and sat in the corner reading the Belfast Telegraph. Hannah joined him twenty minutes later, looking trim in a brown trouser suit, her red hair tied back.
He nodded his approval. 'Very nice. You look as if you're here to report on the fashion show.'
'Tea?' she said. 'Sean Dillon drinking tea, and the bar open. That I should live to see the day.'
He grinned and waved to the barman. 'Ham sandwiches for me, this being Ireland. What about you?'
'Mixed salad will be fine, and tea.'
He gave the barman the order and folded the newspaper. 'Here we are again then, sallying forth to help solve the Irish problem.'
'And you don't think we can?'
'Seven hundred years, Hannah. Any kind of a solution has been a long time coming.'
'You seem a little down.'
He lit a cigarette. 'Oh, that's just the Belfast feeling. The minute I'm back, the smell of the place, the feel of it, takes over. It will always be the war zone to me. The bad old days. I should go and see my father's grave, but I never do.'
'Is there a reason, do you think?'
'God knows. My life was set, the Royal Academy, the National Theatre, you've heard all that, and I was only nineteen.'
'Yes, I know, the future Laurence Olivier.'
'And then my old man came home and got knocked off by Brit paratroops.'
'Accidentally.'
'Sure, I know all that, but when you're nineteen you see things differently.'
'So you joined the IRA and fought for the glorious cause.'
'A long time ago. A lot of dead men ago.'
The food arrived. A young waitress served them and left. Hannah said, 'And looking back, it's regrets time, is it?'
'Ah, who knows? By this time, I could have been a leading man with the Royal Shakespeare Company. I could have been in fifteen movies.' He wolfed down a ham sandwich and reached for another. 'I could have been famous. Didn't Marlon Brando say something like that?'
'At least you're infamous. You'll have to content yourself with that.'
'And there's no woman in my life. You've spurned me relentlessly.
'Poor man.'
'No kith or kin. Oh, more cousins in County Down than you could shake a stick at, and they'd run a mile if I appeared on the horizon.'
'They would, wouldn't they, but enough of this angst. I'd like to know more about Barry.'
'I knew his uncle, Frank Barry, better. He taught me a lot in the early days, until we had a falling out. Jack was always a bad one. Vietnam was his proving ground and the murder of Viet-cong prisoners the reason the army kicked him out. All these years of the Troubles, he's gone from bad to worse. Another point, as you've read in his file, he's often been a gun for hire for various organizations around the world.'
'I thought that was you, Dillon.'
He smiled. 'Touche. The hard woman you are.'
Blake Johnson entered the Library Bar at that moment. He wore black Raybans, a dark blue shirt and slacks, a grey tweed jacket. The black hair, touched by grey, was tousled. He gave no sign of recognition and moved to the bar.
'Poor sod. He looks as if he's been travelling,' Dillon said.
'I've said it before and I'll say it again, Dillon, you're a bastard.' She stood up. 'Let's go and wait for him.'
Dillon called to the barman, 'Put that on room fifty-two,' and followed her out.
Rain rattled against the window as Dillon got a half-bottle of champagne from the fridge and opened it. 'The usual Belfast weather, but what can you expect in March?' He filled three glasses, and took one himself. 'Good to see you, Blake.'
'And you, my fine Irish friend.' Blake toasted him and turned to Hannah. 'Chief Inspector. More fragrant than ever.'
'Hey, I'm the one who gets to make remarks like that,' Dillon said. 'Anyway, let's get down to it.'
They all sat. Blake said, 'I've read the file on Barry. He's a bad one. But I'd like to hear your version, Sean.'
'It was his uncle I knew first, Frank Barry. He founded the Sons of Erin, a rather vicious splinter group from the beginning. He was knocked off a few years ago, but that's another story. Jack's been running things ever since.'
'And you know him?'
'We've had our dealings over the years, exchanged shots. I'm not his favourite person, let's put it that way.'
'And we're certain that he hasn't met McGuire?'
'So McGuire says,' Hannah told him. 'And why would he lie? He wants an out.'
'Fine. I've memorized all that stuff you sent on the computer. McGuire's past, this French outfit he works for, Jobert and Company, and this Tim Pat Ryan who nearly finished you off in London, Sean. Intriguing that - a woman as executioner. But as for Barry - I'd like to hear about him from you, everything, even if it is on file.'
