Jack Higgins: The wolf at the door

Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.

It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper, of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.

"Little late for you, General."

"Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I'd been to that do at the Garrick."

Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large scotch, and said, "Tell me."

Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. "I'm at Rosedene now," he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. "Bellamy's insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was knocked over by the blast."

"You've been lucky," Roper said ruefully. "And I'm the expert."

"But not Pool."

"From what you've told me, there's a story with him that bears investigation."

"You could be right. He wasn't my usual man, and the Cabinet Office uses hired-car companies when it's under pressure. I've told the antiterrorism people at Scotland Yard to play it down as much as possible. Fault in the car, petrol explosion, that kind of thing. Don't want the press leaping in and implying Muslim bombs."

"Maybe it was."

"Well, we don't want another public panic. Bellamy's had Pool's body brought here, and George Langley will do the postmortem. I'll stay till he's done."

After hanging up, Roper sat there thinking about it, and Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, came in. "Still at it, Major? What am I going to do with you?"

"That was General Ferguson. He was going to his car when it blew up. The driver's dead."

"My God," Doyle said softly. "Takes you back to Ireland in the Troubles. Like someone's walked over my grave." He shivered. "Can I get you anything?"

"Sustenance, Tony, that's what I need. Get me a bacon sandwich. I'd better get in touch with Miller and Dillon in New York."

"Christ, they'll go berserk, those two."

He went out. Roper poured another whiskey, then phoned Miller on his Codex.

Miller and Dillon were walking back to their limousine outside the UN, discussing where to go for dinner, when Miller took the call. He listened, his face grim, then said, "Tell Dillon."

He handed his Codex over, and Dillon listened, his face darkening. "You're sure the old sod's okay?"

"So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think."

"Then you'd better investigate."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, Harry's in charge. I'm just his minder."

"As if he needs one."

"Certainly not on this trip. He went for a walk in Central Park, and some bastard had a go."

"Mugged him, you mean?"

"Not sure. There could have been a bit more to it than that."

"Tell me about it."

Which Dillon did, and afterwards Roper said, "Very strange, especially the prayer card. You've got a point, Sean, I'll check it online. Okay, talk things over and let me know what you decide."

Dillon handed the Codex back. "What do you want to do?"

"Let's go back to the hotel and talk."

But just as soon as they got back to the Plaza and reached the suite, the room telephone sounded. It was Clancy Smith.

"I heard you were in town."

"Good to hear from you," Dillon said, and put the phone on speaker.

"Not this time, Sean. I believe you and Major Miller were expecting to see Blake?"

"We certainly were. He missed quite a speech."

"He's in a hospital on Long Island, suffering from a gunshot wound. I'm with him now, but he's just had surgery so he's not exactly in top shape. The police recovered the body of his assailant, a man named Jack Flynn."

"An Irish name," Dillon said, his voice grim.

"We've recovered his Social Security card and driver's license, and an American passport, and they look kosher to me. Place of birth: New York. We'll check to see if he's got a record, which I expect he has. Something's odd about all this. Blake rambled a lot to the receiving doctor and said the guy started to fire at him the moment he got on the boat. He seemed intent on killing him from the word go."

"I see." Dillon frowned. "Anything else? Anything about this Flynn character that would help with his background?"

"Not really," Clancy said. "Except for one thing. He appears to have been of a religious turn of mind. There was a sort of prayer card in his wallet."

Dillon said, "'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone'?"

"How in hell do you know that?" Clancy was truly shocked.

"The Irish for 'ourselves alone' is Sinn Fein, Clancy."

"Are you saying this has got something to do with the IRA?"

"Clancy, this is Miller," the Major interrupted. "Early evening before we left for the UN, I took a walk in Central Park. I was carrying a Colt.25 in an ankle holster, and good job I was."

"Okay," Clancy said. "Tell me the worst."

Miller did. "I could have killed this Barry guy, but I didn't. It seemed unlikely he'd want to make a police case out of it. It was only later, when Dillon was looking at the computer photo of me Barry had in his wallet, that he discovered the prayer card. It seemed like a curio, but, now that we have two of them, it gets more interesting."

"It sure does," Clancy said. "I'll make careful inquiries with the NYPD and find out where this Barry guy ended up, then move him so we can get some answers. I can assure you that you will be kept out of it, Major."

"Well, that eases my mind," Miller told him. "You seem on top of your game, Clancy."

"I'd better get moving. When are you returning to London?"

"Sooner than we'd expected," Miller said. "Because we've got more news for you. Just after eleven o'clock London time, General Ferguson was leaving a function to go home, and his car blew up."

Clancy was horrified. "What happened to him?"

"He was blown over by the blast as he walked towards the limousine. They've been checking him out at Rosedene, and he seems all right."

"Unfortunately, the driver was killed. I think he was closer to the car, and the bomb went off prematurely," Dillon said. "Ferguson's going to play the whole thing down as some sort of engine failure leading to the explosion. No talk of bombs."

"Well, that makes sense. I can see where he's going. But for this to happen to Charles Ferguson, on top of everything else tonight, is hardly a coincidence."

"Which is why I'm going to call our two pilots now. We're leaving instantly."

"Well, don't let me hold you, gentlemen. I'll stay in touch."

Perhaps an hour and a half later, their Gulfstream lifted out into the Atlantic, leaving the lights of New York behind, and rose to thirty thousand feet and headed east. Miller and Dillon sat on either side of the cabin in wide, comfortable seats, and Parry, one of the pilots, entered the cabin.

"If there's anything you want, it's in the kitchen area. You know where the drinks cabinet is, Sean."

"You're too kind," Dillon told him. "How long?"

"The weather in the mid-Atlantic isn't perfect, but, at the worst, I'd say we'll make Farley Field in six hours."

He went out, and Dillon's Codex sounded. It was Clancy. "Have I got news for you."

Dillon put his phone on speaker and leaned towards Miller.

"I traced Barry to Mercy Hospital, and get this. He was waiting to go into the operating room when some guy in scrubs turned up and stuck a hypodermic in him. A nurse discovered him, and he knocked her out and ran for it. Long gone, my friends."