Angel of Death (18 page)

“Bingo,” Dillon said. “Give the man the star prize.”

“God, you were a bastard in there, Dillon,” she told him as they drove away. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“It got a result,” he said. “Exact description of our mystery rider from Belfast and you now know what Silsev and Sharp were up to.”

“My God,” she said. “Heroin at a street value of a hundred million pounds. It doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“Well don’t,” he said. “Let’s call in at Mulligans in Cork Street. Smoked salmon and champagne.”

“I’m driving, Dillon.”

“I know, girl dear. I’ll drink the champagne for you. You can content yourself with the smoked salmon.”

He sat back, grinning, and lit a cigarette.

It was raining in Washington, driving in from the river through the late afternoon as the large sedan moved along Constitution Avenue toward the White House. In spite of the weather, there was a sizable crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue, not only tourists but a fair smattering of journalists and TV cameras.

The chauffeur lowered the glass screen that separated him from the rear. “It’s going to be difficult getting at the front without them recognizing you, Senator.”

Patrick Keogh leaned forward. “Let’s try the East Entrance.”

The sedan turned up East Executive Avenue, pulled up at the gate where the guard, recognizing Keogh at once, waved them through. The East Entrance was used frequently by White House staff and by diplomatic visitors who wanted to avoid the attention of the media.

Keogh got out and said to the chauffeur, “Don’t know how long I’ll be on this one,” and went up the steps.

When he got inside he found a Secret Service agent on duty, a young Marine lieutenant in razor-sharp uniform talking to him. The lieutenant snapped to attention. “Good evening, Senator.”

“How did you know I’d use this entrance?”

“I didn’t, Senator. I have a colleague at the front entrance as well.”

Keogh smiled amiably. “Now that’s what I call sound strategic thinking.”

The young man smiled back at him. “If you’ll follow me, Senator, the President’s waiting.”

When they entered the Oval Office, the room was in half-darkness, curtains drawn, most of the light coming from a table lamp on the massive desk and a standard lamp in one corner. It was a room entirely familiar to Keogh with its array of service flags, a room he had visited many times to speak to more than one President. A different one now behind the desk, Bill Clinton, but it was the other occupant of the room, at ease in a wing-back chair, that surprised Keogh. John Major.

“Ah, there you are, Patrick. I appreciate you coming at such short notice,” Clinton said. “I believe you two know each other?”

“Mr. Prime Minister.” Keogh held out his hand as John Major stood up. “A real pleasure.”

“Senator,” John Major said.

“Please be seated, Patrick, and we’ll get to it,” Clinton told him. “By the way, there’s coffee over there if you’d like.”

“I think I would. I’ll help myself,” which Keogh proceeded to do. He finally returned to the desk area and took a spare chair. “Yours to command, Mr. President.”

“I’d like to believe that’s true, and in a way it makes what I’m going to ask you especially difficult.”

Patrick Keogh paused, the cup to his mouth, and then he smiled, that slightly lopsided grin that had always been a personal feature, and his face was suddenly suffused with immense charm.

“Can’t wait, Mr. President. I can tell this is going to be real special.”

“It is, Patrick. In fact, it’s probably more important than anything you’ve been involved in in your entire political life.”

“And what would it be concerned with?”

“Ireland and the peace process.”

Keogh paused, his face serious, and then he quite deliberately emptied his cup and put it on the small table beside him.

“Please go on, Mr. President.”

“We know how hard you’ve worked behind the scenes with other committed Irish Americans toward achieving peace in Ireland,” John Major said. “And the visits to Ireland of former Congressman Bruce Morrison and his friends have proved a real help in the necessary consultations.”

“It’s nice of you to say so, Prime Minister,” Keogh said. “But it’s no burden. The killing has gone on too long. This thing in Ireland must come to an end. Now what is it you want me to do?”

“We’d like you to go to Ireland for us,” the President said.

“Good God!” Keogh’s head went back and he laughed. “Me go to Ireland? But why?”

“Because, to use that old Irish phrase, you’re one of their own. You’re as Irish as the Kennedy family. Hell, I’ve read about what happened when President Kennedy went there in nineteen sixty-three and visited the old Kennedy farm.” Clinton looked at a paper in front of him. “Dunganstown. You were with him.”

Patrick Keogh nodded. “His great-grandfather left there back in the nineteenth century at the same time mine did to become a cooper in Boston.” He smiled at John Major. “No offense, Prime Minister, but the English didn’t leave large numbers of Irish much option in those days except to get out.”

“True,” John Major said. “In self-defense I’d point out that many came to England and prospered. It’s estimated at least eight million of the English population are Irish or of Irish descent.”

“That’s right,” Keogh said. “But the American tradition is especially strong. You know that year I went to Berlin with Jack Kennedy and he made the famous speech. He challenged the Communist system. He said ‘Ich bin ein Berliner.’ At that moment in time he was the most famous man in the world.”

“Absolutely,” John Major said. “And deservedly so.”

“Then he went to Ireland, to Dublin, and stayed at our Embassy in Phoenix Park. Then Wexford and on to Dunganstown and Mary Kennedy Ryan’s cottage. First cousins, second cousins, every kind of cousin.” Patrick Keogh laughed. “They all turned up, and the crowds. When he visited New Ross, the town shut down, and then he spoke to the Irish Parliament.” Keogh shook his head. “When he left at Shannon Airport, thousands turned out to see him go. Women were crying.”

“I know,” Clinton said. “By the way, the Irish Prime Minister sends his regrets. He’d hoped to be with us, but the peace movement has gathered such momentum in Ireland he just couldn’t leave.”

“I understand,” Keogh said. “So what is it you want me to do?”

Clinton turned to John Major. “Prime Minister?”

“As the President has said, we’d like you to go to Ireland. Let me explain. The peace process has moved very fast. Gerry Adams for Sinn Fein and John Hume have between them started a genuine groundswell toward peace in the communities.”

“Do you believe this to be true of the Protestant Loyalists as well?” Keogh asked.

“Yes, in the generality. The hardliners on both sides will still be a difficulty, and if the IRA do stand down a further problem will be in persuading the other side that it’s genuine, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” John Major smiled. “I call it the Paisley bridge.”

Keogh grinned. “Now that is one hell of a bridge to cross.”

President Clinton said, “But first and foremost, we need a cease-fire from the IRA. Adams and Sinn Fein have tried hard and so have Bruce Morrison and his friends, but it’s a question of persuading the hardliners to agree. It can’t be partial, it must be total. All or nothing.”

“The thing is,” Major said, “there’s the prospect of a secret meeting in Ireland soon, all sections of the IRA getting together, even splinter groups like INLA. Now if you could attend that meeting, throw your weight behind Adams, John Hume, and the peace movement, the effect might be incalculable.”

“Your name means a lot over there,” the President said. “It might just tip the balance.”

Keogh shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Why should they listen to Patrick Keogh? I’ve not been exactly everybody’s cup of coffee for some time now.”

“It’s worth a try, Patrick, don’t put yourself down.” Clinton got up and paced around. “Politics is so often just a game. No one knows that better than the three of us, but now and then — not very often perhaps — but now and then, something comes along that’s worth everything. I think that after twenty-five years of war in Ireland we might just have a chance this time of doing something about it, and I sure as hell would hate to see that chance go.”

There was silence for a moment, Keogh sitting there, frowning, and then he sighed. “I’d find it difficult to argue with that. So how am I going to get in on this meeting?”

“Nothing official,” Clinton said. “Look around this office. You don’t see my National Security Adviser, no CIA presence, no one from the FBI or Justice and State. The Prime Minister and I believe that this should be under wraps until it’s actually happened.”

“And how in the hell do we do that?”

“I’ve given the matter some thought,” Clinton said. “And then the other day I saw something rather interesting in the
Washington Post
. There was a report that mentioned a stained-glass window of your great-great-uncle, who was a Catholic bishop, and which was recently installed at Drumgoole Abbey. It’s a convent run by the Little Sisters of Pity, I understand.”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“This stained-glass window is in a small chapel, the Keogh Chapel. I understand you helped create a foundation to assist in the development of the school the Little Sisters run there?”

“I was fortunate enough to be able to interest a few business associates in the work there.”

“But you’ve not visited the place yet?”

“I will when I can,” Keogh told him.

“Why not now, Patrick?” Clinton said. “Let’s say you go to Paris on holiday. The press won’t get too excited about that. You go via Ireland, put down at Shannon Airport and proceed onwards by helicopter to Drumgoole Abbey, announcing that you want to visit the Chapel.”

“You see the point,” John Major put in. “The press and TV are caught on the hop. You’re on your way before they know it’s happening.”

“That’s right,” Clinton said. “If you turn up, they’ll lay on a service at the abbey, turn out the kids from the boarding school, and wave you off as you fly back to Shannon, only on the way you’ll put down at a place called Ardmore House. That’s where the Sinn Fein and IRA meeting will take place. You’ll do your thing . . .”

“For good or ill,” Keogh said.

“For good, Patrick, I’m certain of it, then back to Shannon and onwards to Paris.”

Keogh nodded slowly. “Totally secret, the whole thing.”

“Absolutely. You see, the visit to Drumgoole Abbey would take care of any reports of you being sighted at Shannon, provide an explanation. The Mother Superior wouldn’t be told of your visit until you were on the way.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

There was another pause and John Major said gently, “Is there a problem, Senator?”

“Only if this doesn’t stay top secret,” Patrick Keogh said. “I’m aware that the American Ambassador in Dublin has received death threats from hardline Protestant Loyalist groups. I understand she’s been referred to as ‘that Kennedy bitch.’ God knows what they’d call me.”

“Yes, we are very concerned about the other side’s attitude in all this,” John Major said. “But we can’t let that stand in the way of our negotiations.”

“Of course not,” Keogh said. “But if news got out about what I’m supposed to be trying to achieve, there are those on the Orange side of the line who might think it would make sense to remove me permanently from the scene. Let’s face it, the murder of Liam Bell doesn’t exactly fill one with hope.”

Clinton went back to his chair behind the desk and sat down. “God knows, this wouldn’t be a picnic, and we are asking you to put yourself on the line. That’s why I suggest following the procedure I’ve laid out. All very low key. Only a very small circle of people will know.”

“What about the IRA conference? They’ll know.”

John Major said, “Gerry Adams wants things to happen now, no doubt about that. I’m sure we can work something out. For example, what if you were introduced as a total surprise?”

“I like it,” Clinton said. “The shock effect would be tremendous. So what do you think, Patrick?”

“I’m not sure.” Keogh sighed. “I can’t argue with the importance of all this, but you’re asking me to go into the war zone and I’m getting old.” He smiled that wry smile again. “Okay, maybe I’m kind of scared at the prospect, but I do have my family to consider. I would have to consult my wife, and she’s gone down to our house at Hyannis Port. We’re only three miles down the beach from Ted Kennedy.”

“How long do you need?”

“Twenty-four hours?”

John Major said, “I leave at noon tomorrow.”

“Right, I’ll be in touch before then.”

He stood up and Clinton pressed the buzzer for the aide. “I’ve given instructions to the commanding officer at Andrews Air Force Base to grant you every facility. If you want to go to Hyannis Port tonight, they’ll speed you on your way.”

“That’s kind, Mr. President.” Keogh held out his hand to John Major. “Prime Minister. We’ll speak to-morrow.”

The door opened behind him, the Marine lieutenant appeared, and Patrick Keogh turned and went out.

He didn’t even bother to go to his Washington home, simply told his chauffeur to take him to Andrews Air Force Base and spoke to the commanding officer on the car phone to let him know he was coming. On the way he changed his mind and told his chauffeur to divert to Arlington National Cemetery. It was raining harder now, so he took an umbrella his chauffeur provided and walked to President Kennedy’s grave. He stood there for quite some time, lost in thought, and an aging lady who also held an umbrella over her head walked up.

“What a man,” she said. “The greatest President this century.”

“I couldn’t disagree with that,” Keogh said.

“He gave people hope,” she said. “That was his greatest gift, and he had courage. On top of that he was a war hero. Amazing.”

“He certainly was.”

She glanced sideways. “Excuse me, but do I know you? You look familiar.”