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

‘Strange you should say that, but there is and for the life of me I can’t think what it is.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Then you really do need a night’s sleep.’

He stood up and reached for his jacket. ‘My place or yours?’

‘Where shall I kick you, Dillon, just tell me?’ she said. ‘Now come on. I’ll drop you off.’

When the limousine reached the Hyannis Port house from Otis Air Force Base, Patrick Keogh was tired. The last few miles through thick fog had been a real strain. The driver, an Air Force sergeant, declined the offer of a cup of coffee and started back immediately.

Keogh stood there for a moment and suddenly a wind blew in strongly from the sea, tearing the fog into tatters, and he could see the white surf on the edge of the beach. On impulse, he walked down there and stood listening to the waves thundering in, the wind in his face.

A voice called, ‘Pat, are you there?’ It was his wife and he turned and saw her a few yards away, a flashlight in her hand. ‘Are you all right? Is anything wrong? They phoned me from Otis to say you were on your way. I heard the car.’

He put an arm around her and kissed her. ‘My head was feeling a little thick. You know what helicopters are. I just felt like a blow. We’ll go in now.’

In the kitchen he poured a little Scotch into a glass and added Branch water while Mary made coffee. A literary agent by profession, she was nobody’s fool, but more than that she was a woman with the woman’s uncanny instinct to sense when things weren’t right.

She poured coffee. ‘You shouldn’t have this, you won’t sleep.’

‘I won’t sleep anyway, not tonight.’

She sat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Tell me about it, Pat.’

So he did.

When he was finished she said, ‘It could be a can of worms. They’re asking you to put yourself on the line. Even the IRA can’t control all their people. There are splinter groups, real crazies. Look at those INLA people who killed Mountbatten and these Protestant Loyalists are just as bad. Ulster Volunteer Force, Ulster Freedom Fighters, then there’s the Red Hand of Ulster. They’re the kind of fanatics who’d kill Queen Elizabeth if they thought it would advance their cause and they’d still call themselves Loyalists while doing it.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a mad, crazy world over there. So much killing, so many years of brutality.’

‘Which is why it has to stop.’ He reached for the coffee pot. ‘It takes courage to make the right decision. By the way, I went to Arlington before I came down. After all, it was Jack Kennedy who got me into politics. I felt close.’

‘You always will be.’

‘But while we’re on the subject of heroes.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Where I’m concerned, some would say I have made a considerable number of errors, but not this time. This time I’m going to stand up to be counted.’

‘You’re going to go?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Can I go with you?’

‘No.’

She sighed. ‘I see.’

‘Are you angry with me?’

‘No, proud of you actually.’

‘Good.’ He stood up and reached out a hand. ‘Let’s go to bed. I’ll fly back to Washington in the morning and inform the President and John Major of my decision.’

It was a fine bright morning with a patchy sky, the Washington streets cleared by the rain, as Keogh’s sedan once again turned into the White House by the East Entrance. When Keogh went in, the Marine lieutenant from the previous evening was waiting.

‘Good morning, Senator.’

‘Don’t they ever give you any time off?’ Keogh asked.

‘Seldom, sir.’ The young officer smiled. ‘I’m a fourth generation Marine, Senator, Path of Duty and all that. If you’ll come this way, the President and the Prime Minister are in the Rose Garden.’

As Keogh joined them, Clinton turned and smiled. ‘You must have got up early.’

‘You could say that, but I wanted to catch you both together before the Prime Minister left.’

‘You’re going to go?’ Clinton said.

‘Yes, I think you can count on that. What kind of time scale are we talking about?’

Clinton turned to John Major, who said, ‘Quite soon. The next few days. Obviously the Irish Prime Minister must know, and Gerry Adams.’

‘We’ll let you know at the soonest possible moment, Patrick,’ Clinton told him.

‘That’s fine. I’m at your disposal.’

‘There is of course the question of your personal safety,’ Clinton said.

Patrick Keogh smiled wryly. ‘Mr President, I’m a big target. Having said that, I don’t take kindly to the idea of a dozen Secret Servicemen surrounding me at all times.’

‘But you must have some security.’ Clinton was shocked.

‘Yes, well, maybe we should look to our British cousins for that. They are, after all, the experts where Ireland is concerned.’ He turned to John Major. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Prime Minister?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ John Major replied.

‘Right, let’s examine the problem. I land at Shannon, helicopter to Drumgoole, drop in at Ardmore House, then back to Shannon. I hardly need the SAS to take care of that. Who would you recommend, MI5?’

‘No, as the operation takes place in a foreign country, it would be MI6, Senator.’

‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic,’ Keogh said. ‘Come on, Prime Minister, I’m putting myself on the line, so who have you got? Who’s your best?’

‘My best is rather unusual,’ John Major said. ‘What some people call the Prime Minister’s private army. For some years now there has been such a group specifically targeting terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only.’

‘I like the sound of that. Are they any good?’

‘Extremely good, though rather ruthless. The unit is commanded by Brigadier Charles Ferguson.’ John Major hesitated. ‘There is one unusual thing I should tell you. Ferguson’s right-hand man is called Sean Dillon. He was a feared IRA enforcer for years, then in ninety-one he tried to blow me up at Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting.’

Patrick Keogh laughed his delight. ‘The dog. And now he’s working for you?’