Jack Higgins: The White House Connection

'It's only money, Mr Dillon.' There were tears in Hedley's eyes. 'Only money, and what good is that, when you come down to it?'

Dillon patted his shoulder as the coffin moved on and they followed with the crowd, and when he turned, Ferguson, Bernstein and Blake were with them.

The coffin went into the mausoleum, the vicar spoke, the bronze doors closed, the rain was relentless. Already a new plaque was here beneath the one that said, Major Peter Lang, MC, Scots Guards, Special Air Service Regiment 1966-1996. Rest in Peace. It said, Helen Lang, Greatly Loved, Died 1999.

Hedley said to Dillon, 'I suggested that, as there was no one else here. I knew she wouldn't want anything fancy.'

'Remarkable,' Ferguson said. 'A wreath from both the British Prime Minister and the President of the United States. You don't see that every day.'

The crowd started to disperse, they walked down to the church parking lot. There was an American Air Force limousine there, a uniformed sergeant at the wheel.

'Straight back, Blake?' Dillon asked.

'I've got work to do, my fine Irish friend, you know how it is.'

'Oh, I do.'

'Goodbye, Brigadier.' Blake shook hands, kissed Hannah, got in the rear of the limousine and was driven away.

People dispersed, the cars drove away. Ferguson said, 'That's it, then.'

They walked to the Daimler, the driver opened the rear door and they got in, Dillon taking a jump seat opposite Hannah and Ferguson. He pulled the glass panel behind him closed.

'Do you ever feel tired, my love?' he asked Hannah. 'Really tired?'

'I know, Sean, I know.'

The Daimler moved away. 'So now what?' Dillon asked.

'There are still problems, Dillon,' Ferguson told him. 'The Middle East, Africa, Bosnia.' He shrugged. 'Only the Irish dimension has changed, with the peace process working.'

'Brigadier, if you believe that, you'll believe anything.'

Dillon leaned back, folded his arms and closed his eyes.