The White House Connection

‘He says he can give us Jack Barry,’ Dillon told him.

Ferguson went very still, frowning. ‘Where is McGuire?’

‘Wandsworth,’ Hannah said, naming one of London’s bleaker prisons.

‘Then let’s go and see what he has to say,’ and Charles Ferguson stood up.

Wandsworth Prison was one of the toughest in the country, what was known as a hard nick. Ferguson saw the governor and served him with the kind of warrant that made that good man sit up. No one was to see McGuire except those designated by Ferguson, not even Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist section, and certainly not anybody from Military Intelligence in Northern Ireland or the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Any deviation from such a ruling could have sent the governor himself to prison for breaching the Official Secrets Act.

Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Dillon waited in an interview room and a prison officer delivered McGuire and withdrew on Ferguson’s nod. McGuire almost had a fit when he saw Dillon.

‘Jesus, Sean, it’s you.’

‘As ever was.’ Dillon offered him a cigarette and said to the others, ‘Tommy and I go back a long way. Beirut, Sicily, Paris.’

‘IRA, of course,’ Ferguson said.

‘Not really. Tommy was never one for direct action, but if there was a pound or two in it, he could get you anything. Automatic weapons, Semtex, rocket launchers. Got away with a lot because of his Yank passport and the fact that he always acted as an agent for foreign arms firms. German, French.’ He gave McGuire a light. ‘Still fronting for old Jobert out of Marseilles, but then you would. He has the Union Corse protecting him.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Worse than the Mafia, that lot.’

‘I know who they are, Dillon.’ She looked at McGuire with total contempt. ‘Two AK47s and fifty pounds of Semtex were found in your car last night. Samples, I presume? Who were you going to see?’

‘No, you’ve got it wrong,’ McGuire told her. ‘I mean, I didn’t know they were there. I was told there would be a car waiting for me at Heathrow when I got in. The key under the mat. It must have been a setup.’

Ferguson said coldly, ‘We’ll leave now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ McGuire said. ‘You were right about the stuff in the car being samples. They were from Jobert to Tim Pat Ryan. When I flew in, I phoned to arrange the meet and discovered he was dead.’

‘Indeed he is,’ Ferguson said. ‘But there was some mention of Jack Barry.’

McGuire hesitated. ‘Barry used Tim Pat Ryan as a front man in London. It was Ryan who fixed things up. I can give you Jack Barry. I swear it. Just listen.’

‘Get on with it, then.’

Hannah said, ‘So you know Jack Barry?’

‘No. I’ve never met him.’

‘Then why are you wasting our time?’

‘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?’