“A political act, in a way?” Roper said.
Ferguson shook his head. “An act of war.”
“Which explains why the IRA connection is so important,” Harry Salter said. “But who would it be? Who put her up to it?”
Roper said, “And then was reckless enough to knock her off afterward?”
Ferguson said, “Well, the Murder Squad is working hard at it.”
“They’ll get nowhere,” Dillon said bleakly. “You leave this with me. I’ll find the truth here, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Nothing stupid, Dillon?”
“Oh, he’s always that,” Billy said.
Ferguson nodded. “Which leads us to a bit of business. The terrible thing that’s happened has left us shorthanded in my department. I could ask for someone from Special Branch to replace Hannah, but I’ve decided not to. Billy, you’ve impressed me, more than you know, in the past few years. You know what it entails, you’ve helped out enough, killed on many occasions.”
“Now you’re being nice to me. What is this?”
Ferguson took an envelope from his pocket. “In there you will find a warrant card making you an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service in my employ, filling the gap left by Superintendent Hannah Bernstein. The photo was easy. Blame Major Roper for obtaining the more complicated information.”
Harry Salter turned to Roper. “You conniving bastard.”
Billy said, “Shut up.” He took out the warrant card and opened it. He turned to Dillon, then back to Ferguson. “What is it the Yanks say? Proud to serve.”
“Excellent. Do remember one thing. When you present yourself at the Ministry of Defence, do wear one of your better suits. Dillon, of course, has his own standards. You don’t need to report at nine o’clock in the morning. I intend to be present at Golders Green at ten o’clock at Superintendent Bernstein’s interment. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”
Harry Salter said, “I think you’ll see us all there.” He turned to Roper. “Don’t worry about your wheelchair, old son. We’ve got a People Traveller thing. Takes eight. We’ll go together. What about you, Dillon?”
Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”
He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”
“Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”
Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”
“Of course.”
“Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster. If they find the Walther, there’s a chance they’ll miss the Colt.”
“That bad?”
“I’ve said. It’s IRA country. Kelly’s gone, someone comes in to fill the vacuum.”
“Shall I go with him?” Billy asked.
“Don’t be silly. You’d spoil his American tourist image. We’ve got things to do here anyway. I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Dillon turned and left, and Levin, glancing up, caught his eye. Levin went back to his newspaper. Dillon, on his way out, frowned. There was something there, but he was tired and his brain wasn’t functioning as well as normal. There was a terrible pressure on him, his one thought Hannah and what had happened to her. All the violence, everything he’d done for Ferguson, the killings, the mayhem, and she had been thrown into it and Dillon, as he walked to the Mini Cooper, was left with the inescapable feeling that it had somehow been his fault.
Behind, as the rest of the group stirred, Levin got up and left. He went back to his Mercedes, got in and phoned Ashimov.
“Have I got news for you.”
Ashimov was sitting after dinner beside the open fire in the Great Hall of Drumore Place with Greta and Liam Bell. “Tell me,” he said, and listened. After a while, he said, “Excellent. You stay on in London and keep a close eye on Dillon. Leave Blake Johnson to me.”
He switched off, turned to Bell and Greta and said, “We’re going to have an interesting visitor. One of President Jake Cazalet’s most trusted associates.”
“What’s he coming for?” Greta asked.
“To find out what’s happened here since Kelly and the rest of us faded from the scene.”
He told her what Levin had heard. “He’s good – damn good, but so is Blake Johnson. I’ll pull his photo out of the computer for you,” he told Bell. “A war hero in Vietnam, then the FBI, now the President’s most trusted security man.”
“We’ll give him a warm welcome,” Bell said.
Greta put in, “If he sniffs around and finds nothing, wouldn’t that be better?”
“Possibly.” But Ashimov’s eyes were glittering. “All right, we’ve seen off Bernstein, but what a coup to get Johnson. That would really hurt Cazalet, hurt all of them.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll make a decision when he turns up tomorrow.”
“I’m your man,” Bell said, and finished his drink.
IRELANDLONDON
5
For Blake, it started early the following morning. His first stop was the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square to call on the Ambassador, as a matter of protocol.
The Ambassador was all cordiality. “I appreciate we haven’t been able to do much for you this time, Blake. It’s a matter of security, I understand.”
“Absolutely,” Blake told him. “A matter under presidential warrant.”
“With you, that usually means dealings with Charles Ferguson. I notice your Gulfstream is using Farley Field, that small RAF base Ferguson uses for his special operations.”
“That’s right.”
“Enough said. My transport people tell me you have a stopover in Belfast.”
“A visit to make. I’ll only be on the ground a few hours.”
“Blake, we first knew each other in Saigon thirty-five years ago. I know what kind of visit you make.” He came round the desk and embraced Blake warmly. “God bless, my friend, and take care. My regards to the President.”
An Embassy Mercedes and a chauffeur took him from there to the chapel in a very short space of time. It stood on the edge of the cemetery and there were a number of limousines parked outside, drivers in uniform standing around. A large notice at the door said “Private Bereavement.” Blake went in and found a modest company assembled. Rabbi Bernstein was being helped by another rabbi who was wearing black ribbons and handing them out to people who were obviously family members up at the front, who pinned them to their clothes. The coffin was very plain, in accordance with Jewish custom, and closed.
Ferguson, the Salters and Roper stood at the back of the pews, Dillon slightly apart, though Billy Salter stood close to him. They both wore black suits and ties and crisp white shirts, and looked like the Devil’s henchmen. In a strange way it was as if they were brothers, faces bone white, skin stretching taut over cheekbones.
A eulogy was made. The other rabbi whispered to Bernstein, who made a hand motion. He said to the assembly, “My grief speaks for itself that my beloved granddaughter is taken too early. There is one person who
