He went back through the curtain while Hedley finished the whiskey and then appeared a few minutes later. 'There you
go'
The key looked just the same. Hedley said dubiously, 'Is this
kosher?'
'If I were Jewish, I'd say on my life, but I'm just an old trombone player from Harlem. Hedley, I don't know the hotel, I don't want to know, but one thing is certain. This will open any door in the fucking place.'
'What do I owe you?'
'What are friends for? Use it in good health.'
Michael Cohan took the Concorde from New York to London. He preferred it to the Jumbo, but then anyone would. Three and a half hours, a smooth and perfect flight, excellent food and free champagne. The seats were smaller, but the speed made up for that. There was no movie, but that was the last thing he was concerned about, because the thoughts going around in his brain provided his own personal cinema of the mind and it wasn't funny. He'd tried to phone Barry twice on the coded mobile, but got no reply, though that wasn't surprising. The Irishman
was constantly on the move, and mobile phones were not something you switched on all the time, especially in Barry's case, when you were on the run.
It was a mess, though, the way things had worked out. So stupid, the whole thing. His Irish-American voters had always been crucial, and Brady had been a first-class fund-raiser for him because of his power in the Teamsters' Union. It was he who had introduced him to Kelly and Cassidy.
There was a natural progression to receiving funds for the IRA. Not just for Noraid, but for other groups with Dublin links. Everybody was doing it. Most of his Irish-American voters felt strongly about the situation in Ireland. The IRA were heroes — romantic heroes.
He remembered the early days at Murphy's, the drinking, the singing of rebel songs. It was exciting, romantic, and then there had been the night Brady had introduced Jack Barry, in New York on business for the organization back there in Dublin. A real live IRA gunman.
Barry had regaled them with his stories of gun battles with British paratroopers, life on the run, and had suggested how they could help. It was Brady with his work on the New York docks for the Teamsters who was of real importance. The possibilities of smuggling arms to Ireland had been obvious. Cohan and Kelly had concentrated on the fund-raising and Cassidy on the purchase of suitable weapons. Cohan remembered their first coup: fifty ArmaLite rifles smuggled in a Portuguese boat to Ireland.
They were already calling themselves the Sons of Erin at Barry's suggestion, had established the dining club at Murphy's with a plaque on their own booth, all out in the open, no reason not to. And then when Barry had come to New York again, he had mentioned his mysterious mentor, a voice on the phone the previous year when Barry had been staying in splendour at the
Mayfair Hotel on IRA business. When Barry had asked who he was, he'd simply said: 'Call me the Connection, because that's what I am.'
Astoundingly, he could provide information from British Intelligence by way of Washington, information crucial to the struggle in Ireland. Again, because of Brady's waterfront connections, arrangements were able to be made to smuggle IRA men on the run out of Ireland to New York. The smuggling of arms had also continued.
The really serious business had started when the Connection had passed details of British Intelligence operations in New York and Boston, including identities of operatives, all part of the shadow war being fought between the British and the IRA in Ireland.
This was where Brady, because of his union work, and Cassidy with his construction business, had come into their own. They both had serious connections with mob interests. Favours were owed. The right kind of accidents took place, the Brits lost people and couldn't make a fuss. After all, they shouldn't have been there in the first place, although a lot of that kind of thing seemed to have tailed off in the past year, and Cohan had always stood well clear of any violence.
He'd always been a link man when needed, had met Tim Pat Ryan twice when on London trips. It had all worked, and then the damn roof had fallen in. Still, he was in the clear, whatever Blake Johnson implied. So he frequented Murphy's Bar, so what did that prove? How in the hell had he been so stupid, and yet there had been an inevitability about it from the beginning. Nothing to be done about it now. The Connection had promised to take care of it and he'd taken care of everything in the past well enough.
So Brady, Kelly, Cassidy and Ryan were dead meat. Cohan shuddered and waved for another glass of champagne and tried
to comfort himself with the thought that the other guys had been one thing, but he was a United States Senator. United States Senators didn't get shot, did they?
Ferguson was with the Prime Minister again at Downing Street, on his own this time. The Prime Minister listened carefully to Ferguson's resume of the whole business.
'Of course, as the President has pointed out to me in our conversation, there isn't a thing anyone can do legally about Senator Cohan. His membership of the Sons of Erin damns him in our eyes, but on the surface he can claim, as he apparently does, that he frequented this Murphy's Bar quite innocently.'
'Agreed, Prime Minister,' Ferguson nodded. 'But he's here now and the thing is, what do we do with him?'
'Try and keep him alive, of course. I'm dropping the whole thing in your lap, Brigadier.'
'And the Deputy Director and the Security Services?' 'You are in charge,' the Prime Minister told him firmly. 'I now realize the Security Services have not been as forthcoming as they could have been in the past, and I don't like that.' He smiled. 'You've been in this job a long time, Brigadier. I think I now know why one of my illustrious predecessors gave it to you in the first place.' 'So I have full authority?'
'Absolutely. Now, do excuse me. I'm due at the House.' As Ferguson stood and the door behind him opened, the Prime Minister added, 'By the way, this function at the Dorchester, the Forum for Irish Peace that Cohan is attending tomorrow night. I'm looking in at ten. You'll be there, of course.'
Ferguson nodded. 'I think you can take that for granted, Prime Minister,' and he followed the aide out.
Hannah Bernstein and Dillon were waiting in the Daimler. Ferguson got in and it drove away. As the security gates opened,
he said, 'Just as I thought, it's our baby. Carter is to have no involvement.'
'Which leaves us in the deep you-know-what if the Senator comes to a sticky end,' Dillon pointed out.
'My dear boy, it was ever thus.' Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein. 'When is he due in?'
She checked her watch 'Only took off forty minutes ago, sir.' 'Fine. Check his movements, the data at the hotel, his limousine, that sort of stuff. There's not too much we can do, as this is not really official. We can't alert the hotel or pull in extra security guards during his visit.'
'There'll be plenty of security at the Forum for Irish Peace tomorrow night,' Hannah said.
'Of course.' Ferguson frowned. 'But I'm uneasy and why is that?'
'I'm sure you'll tell us,' Dillon said.
'Well, I've never been happy since the Ryan shooting and then discovering the same gun was used in New York. I don't think it's a conspiracy, some execution squad. I have a feeling there's an executioner out there.' 'The Irish woman.'
'Or a woman with an Irish accent,' Dillon said. 'A needle in a haystack in London. Eight million Irish in the UK. A hell of a diaspora.'
'Well, I have infinite faith in you, so you can start with Kilburn,' Ferguson told him.
'And Senator Cohan?' Hannah asked.
'I'll speak to him when I'm ready. Now, as this rogue here is wearing a jacket and tie for once, I'll take you to the Garrick for lunch.'
But already events were happening which would change everything. Earlier that morning, Thornton had considered the
situation of Cohan in London, and the longer he did, the more unhappy he became. What guarantee was there that the mysterious killer would strike in London? None at all, and yet Cohan had become a liability. The man really would have to go. It was four o'clock in the morning, American time, when he phoned Barry. The Irishman was still at the safe house in County Down.
'It's me,' Thornton said. 'Listen, I've got some bad news for you,' and he ran through the whole story. 'There's even a possibility the shooter could be a woman.'
'Is that a fact? Well, I wish to Christ I could get my hands on her. She'd take a long time to die. So Cohan is the only one left?'
'That's it, and panicking. The thing is, his cover as a member of the Sons of Erin is blown. The President knows through Blake Johnson, the Prime Minister knows through Ferguson and company. He's become expendable.'
'So you want him taken out?'
'He's arriving in London later today to attend some Irish peace affair at the Dorchester tomorrow. He's staying at that hotel. It would be convenient if this unknown assassin got to him, don't you think? Maybe he - or she - could use some help.'
"So you want me to do it for you?'
'And for yourself. It clears the board nicely. There'd be only you and me left. I believe the Belfast flight to London only takes an hour and a half.'
'There's no need for that,' Barry told him. 'There's an air taxi firm not forty minutes from here, based at an old World War Two feeder station. It's been a quick way to England for me for years. Run by an old RAF hand named Docherty. Cunning as a fox.'
'So you'll do it?'
'Why not? It will give me something to do. It's raining and I'm bored.'
Barry put the phone down, excited, and looked out of the window. No need to call in the boys. A one-man job this, in and out. He picked up the phone and rang Docherty at Doonreigh.
The place was dark and dreary in the heavy rain as he drove up there an hour later. There were two old aircraft hangars, their doors open. In one was a Cessna 310, in the other a Navajo Chieftain. Barry parked and got out. He was wearing a tweed cap, a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and carried an old-fashioned Gladstone bag in one hand.
Smoke came from the chimney of the old Nissen hut. The door opened, and Docherty appeared. He was fifty and looked older, his hair thin, his face weathered and lined. He wore RAF flying overalls and flying boots.
'Come in out of the rain.'
It was warm inside from the old-fashioned stove. There was a bed in the corner, some lockers, a table and chairs and a desk with charts open on it.
'So they still haven't caught up with you, Jack?'
'That'll be the day. Is that tea on the stove?'
'Good Irish whiskey, if you like.'
'You know me. Not while I'm working. So, I want to be in London no later than six this evening.'
'And out again.'
'No later than midnight. Can you do it?'
'I can do anything, you know that. I never ask questions, I mind my own business, and I've never let you down.'
'True.'
'All right. Five thousand, that's what it costs.'
'Money's not a problem,' Barry said. 'As no one knows better than you.'
'Fine. There's a place like this in Kent, about an hour from
London. Roundhay, very lonely, out in the country. I've used it before. I've already telephoned the farmer who owns it. A grand for him, and he'll leave a car you can drive up to London. False registration, the lot.'
'Just another crook,' Barry said.
'Aren't we all? Except you, Jack. A gallant freedom fighter for the glorious cause, that's you.'
'I'll kick your arse, Docherty.'
'No, you won't, because you can't fly planes.'
'So you'll get us there in spite of all this air traffic security?'
'When have I ever failed? Now let's get moving. It's got to be the Chieftain, by the way. The Cessna needs some spare parts.'
He opened the Navajo's Airstair door, dropped the steps and Barry followed him up. Docherty closed the door and locked it. 'There's a following wind, Jack, so it'll take two hours with luck. It's the usual March weather, lots of rain, but that's good. Don't wet your pants when I go hedge-hopping. That's to avoid the radar. Do you want to sit with me?'
'No, I'll read the paper.'
Docherty strapped himself in and started the engines, first port, then starboard. The Navajo moved out into the rain, coasted to the end of the strip and turned into the wind. He boosted power and they surged forward, lifted off and started to climb.
Docherty was as good as his word, for they hit Roundhay at only five minutes over two hours and came in under low cloud and heavy rain. A barn stood nearby, its doors opened, an old Ford Escort car outside. Docherty taxied inside and cut the engines.
