Jack Higgins - The White House Connection

' Webley. 38. Long past its sell-by date. You must be hard up, you lot,' and he stuffed the weapon in a pocket of his bomber jacket. 'Dillon's the name.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Tonight's bad news for you. I suspect you've got an American friend of mine somewhere nearby.'

He ground the Walther in again and Bell cried out in pain. 'He's in the Soak Hole. The entrance is just down the track.'

'And why would he be in there?'

'Barry knew he wasn't what he seemed. We were waiting for him.'

'Really? Well, lead the way.'

Bell picked up the lamp and walked down the track, stepping back as the Soak Hole thundered white spray high into the night.

'Watch him,' Sean told Hannah, and walked to the edge of the steps leading down. 'Are you still there, Blake? It's Dillon.'

Blake, on the platform and hanging on to a rusting iron bolt, colder than he had ever been in his life, shouted back, 'What kept you?'

'Come away up,' Dillon called.

A couple of minutes passed, and then Blake appeared, climbing slowly. 'Jesus, Dillon, that was bad. I feel terrible. Takes me back to a tidal swamp I once spent six hours in back in Vietnam.'

'What happened?'

'Barry knew everything. My name, the President, the Basement. He said he had excellent sources, but wanted any facts I had to disclose about you and Ferguson.'

'Let's go up to the castle and oblige him.'

'Only too happy,' Blake said. 'Just one thing.' He turned to

Bell, who was standing at the top of the steps. 'Here's for you, you bastard.' He punched Bell very hard, and he went backwards headfirst with a cry. A moment later, the Soak Hole fountained.

'Can we go now?' Dillon asked.

'My pleasure.'

Blake led the way up to the courtyard and paused at the massive front door. Dillon said to Harker, 'Down to the gate, Da, sit inside and hold your tongue. Do that and I won't shoot you. Is it a bargain?'

The old man scuttled away. Hannah said, 'Has anyone got a spare pistol here?'

Dillon produced the Webley. 'I think this should be in a museum, but it will probably do the job.'

'Then let's get on with it,' Blake said and opened the door.

In the library, Daley put another log on the fire, and Barry stood by the French windows staring out as the rain drove against them. 'A desperate night, Bobby. I wonder how Mr Johnson is getting on.'

'Better than you think,' Blake said, easing the door open and leading the way in.

They all stood in a kind of tableau and Barry threw back his head and laughed. 'Dear God, it's you, Sean.'

'As ever was, Jack, come to haunt you. Charles Ferguson wants words, even more so after what I've heard from my friend here. An inside source of information? It could only be at White House level. You really are a naughty boy.'

'Always was, Sean, always was. I presume Bell has gone the way of all flesh?'

'Absolutely.'

'Ah, well, comes to us all. Pour Mr Johnson a brandy, Bobby, a large one. I expect he needs it.' He raised his glass to Blake. 'One old Vietnam hand to another.'

'Not really. I killed, but not in the way you did.' Blake took the brandy from Daley and looked at the paintings on the wall. 'Would that be a Confederate uniform there?'

Barry looked at the portrait. 'Yes. The stout gentleman on the end there was Francis the First. Made his money in Barbados in the eighteenth century. Sugar and slaves. Came back and bought a title. They were all called Francis. That's where Frank comes from.' 'Until you?'

'Yes, Jack for John. The one who fought for the Confederacy was killed at Shiloh. In letters home he said he'd chosen that side because grey suited his eyes.'

'That would figure, if he's anything like you,' Blake said. 'But let's get down to business. You knew I was coming in place of McGuire.'

'What happened to him?'

'As you well know, he's in a safe house in London emptying his guts,' Hannah said. 'The dog.'

'Yes,' Dillon told him. 'But they usually are. So, you know everything, it appears.'

'Always did, you know that, always one step ahead. That's what keeps me going.'

'And you wanted information about Brigadier Ferguson, so we hear,' Hannah said.

'Well, I would, wouldn't I? Always the old fox, that one.' 'You'll be seeing him soon enough,' Dillon told him. 'I'm sure you'll have an interesting conversation.'

'I'm certain we will.' Barry turned to the ice bucket and poured more Sancerre. He moved and stood at one side of the fireplace. 'Give Mr Johnson another brandy, Bobby. I'm sure he could do with it.'

Daley went to the sideboard and reached for the brandy decanter, then he pulled open a drawer and turned, a gun in his hand.

'There you go. Tables turned, I think,' Barry said.

But Dillon's hand was already under the back of his bomber jacket; his hand swung up, and there was a dull thud as he shot Daley in the heart, hurling him back against the sideboard, still clutching the decanter as he crashed to the floor.

Hannah cried out, and Dillon turned to see a section of the wood panelling beside the fireplace swing open, and Barry simply stepped back. There was a click as Dillon ran to it, but the panelling was immovable.

'Damn his eyes!' Blake said.

'I should have known,' Dillon told him. 'He'd never have used this place without an escape route or two. It's a rabbit warren. We'll never catch him now.'

Hannah looked down at Daley. 'What about him? Should we call the

RUC?'

'That's the last thing we need.' There was an Indian rug on the floor, and Dillon rolled the body up in it. 'Help me get him on my shoulder.'

Blake did as he was told. 'Now what?'

'Let's get out of here. I'll dispose of the evidence. He can join Bell in the Soak Hole.'

He led the way down to the hall and Blake got the massive door open. Rain dashed in and Dillon said, 'The grand night it is for dirty work. I'll see you at the gate,' and he strode away.

When Blake and Hannah reached the cottage, there was no sign of Harker, although the light was still on. They got into the Land Rover out of the rain and Dillon appeared a few minutes later. 'All done and dusted. The paths of the wicked all reach a sticky end.' He went to the cottage door and kicked on it. It opened and Harker peered out. 'We lost them,' Dillon told him.

'His lordship and Daley took off through some secret passage.'

'There's a few of those up there.'

'Anyway, no need for Barry to know of your part in this. Keep your mouth shut and you'll be all right. It never happened.'

'Damn right I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll open the gate for you.'

Dillon got behind the wheel of the Land Rover and drove out and started along the coast road.

'Now what?' Hannah demanded.

'You can call the Lear jet to pick us up in the morning. Ferguson likes to hear bad news as soon as possible, you know that.' He spoke over his shoulder to Blake. 'What about you? Is it back to Washington ?'

'No, I think I should follow this through. I'll come to London with you and help you brave Ferguson 's wrath.'

'Right, then next stop the Europa and some decent room service.'

The Lear jet flew over at midnight and they found Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Parry waiting for them, ready for a seven o'clock departure. It was all very official. The Lear carried RAF rondels and Lacey and Parry wore RAF flying overalls with rank insignia.

'Nice to see you again, Mr Johnson,' Lacey said and turned to Dillon, who was last up the steps. 'Are we going into action again, Sean?'

'Well, let's put it this way. I wouldn't book that holiday in Marbella,' Dillon said, and went up the steps.

They took off and climbed to thirty thousand and turned across the Irish Sea. Hannah found the tea and coffee flasks and Dillon three cups.