'Us, sir?'
'I wouldn't dream of depriving you of the pleasure of putting one of those Manolo Blahnik high heels in him, Chief Inspector.'
Hannah smiled. 'A pleasure, sir.'
The Grey Fox was one of several upper-class pubs in the vicinity of St James's Palace. It was two-thirty, most of the lunch trade running out, the place almost empty. Ferguson and Hannah took a secluded booth.
'Gin and tonic, Chief Inspector?'
'Mineral water, sir.'
'What a pity. Personally, I'll have a large one.'
The barmaid brought their drinks and almost immediately Simon Carter came in. His raincoat was wet and he shook his umbrella, obviously not in the best of moods.
'Now what in the hell is this, Ferguson? The Chief Inspector here actually threatened me, the Deputy Director of the Security Services.'
'Only when you said you were too busy to come, sir,' Hannah told him.
He took his coat off, called for a whiskey and soda and sat down. 'I mean, threatening me with prime ministerial privilege. Not on, Ferguson.'
'My dear Carter, you don't like me, and if I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn't like you, but we're into serious business here, so listen to the Chief Inspector.'
He drank his gin and tonic, waved for another and sat back.
She went through everything, the Tim Pat Ryan shooting, the extermination of the Sons of Erin, Jack Barry, Jean Wiley's statement. It left Carter stunned.
'I've never heard such nonsense,' he said weakly.
Ferguson shrugged. 'Good, that clears the decks.' He turned to Hannah. 'What time was our appointment with the Prime Minister?'
She lied cheerfully. 'Five o'clock, sir, though he can't give you long. He's due at the House this evening.'
Ferguson started to rise, and Carter said, 'No, just a moment.'
Ferguson subsided. 'What for?'
It was Hannah Bernstein, the copper as always, who said, 'Are you able to assist us in our inquiries, sir?'
'Oh, don't give me all that police procedural nonsense.' He called for another Scotch and turned to Ferguson. 'I haven't said a word about this. I'll always deny it.'
'Naturally.'
'And I want your Chief Inspector's word that this stays with the three of us. If she can't guarantee that, out she goes.'
Ferguson glanced at Hannah, who nodded. 'My word on it, Brigadier.'
'Good, let's get to it,' Ferguson said.
'We've never got on, my organization and yours, Ferguson. Too damned independent.' He shook his head. 'Prime Minister's private army. Never liked that. People should be accountable and you do what you damn well like.'
'And you don't, sir?' Hannah said gently.
Carter sipped his Scotch. 'There are things we never told you, Ferguson, because we didn't trust you, just like there are things you've never told us.'
Ferguson nodded to Hannah, who said, 'You know the facts, sir. I'm a police officer, I'm trained to look for answers, and what I see here is that one individual has taken care of all the victims here, and there has to be a reason for it. Something very bad happened, and I think you know what it was, and I think you had it erased from the computer memory and expunged the records.'
'Damn you!' Carter told her.
'Barry,' Ferguson said. 'It has to be him behind all this. Tell us now.'
Carter took a deep breath. 'All right. When the peace process began, we were told to be nice to our American cousins, pass them any useful information about what was happening in Ireland.'
'I know,' Ferguson said.
'Then we began to realize that stuff we'd passed to the White House was ending up in IRA hands. The culmination was a shocking atrocity which we found later was committed by Jack Barry and his gang. An entire undercover group, some of our best officers, was taken out.'
'Who were they?'
'A team of five, headed by a Major Peter Lang, a former Scots Guard and S A S man. There were three other men and a woman.'
'Yes, I recall the facts of Peter Lang's death,' Ferguson said. 'His parents were great friends of mine. He was in a car bomb of such proportions that no trace of his body was ever found.'
'Not true. We found out through an informer later, that Peter Lang was tortured, murdered, and then put through a cement mixer used in building the local motorway.'
'My God!' Hannah said.
'We also heard via this informer of the Sons of Erin and Jack Barry and this Connection thing.'
'And how did you handle it?'
'The peace process was at a delicate stage, we didn't want to unbalance it.'
'So you didn't tell the Prime Minister?'
'If we had, you'd have known, Ferguson, as well as Blake Johnson and the Basement and the President and God knows who else. We decided there was a better way to handle it.'
'Let me speculate, sir,' Hannah said. 'You went the road of
disinformation mixed in with the usual not very important rubbish available in any of the better newspapers.'
'Something like that,' Carter said lamely.
'Well, there you go.' Ferguson stood up. 'Thanks for your help.'
'I haven't given you any.' Carter struggled with his raincoat and picked up his umbrella. 'Is that it then?'
'I think so.'
Carter went out. Hannah said, 'What do you think, sir?'
Ferguson said, 'Let me ask you a question, Chief Inspector. Say you lost a beloved son in Ulster, blown away as if he'd never existed, so that the shock finished offyour husband. And say you then found out the truth, which was that your son had been tortured, murdered and put through a cement mixer.'
'But how would you know that, sir?'
'I haven't the slightest idea. This is all speculation. But the drive, the energy necessary to kill all those men, would need a hugely positive reason, and I think that of the five undercover agents, what happened to Peter Lang was the most terrible.'
'But the vigilante would need to know, sir.'
'Exacdy. But note one thing: a three-year delay. That argues to me that by whatever means, the real truth has only come out recendy.'
Hannah said, 'What are you suggesting, Brigadier?'
'Why, it's simple. The woman who killed Tim Pat Ryan, who killed Brady, Kelly, Cassidy and the less-than-illustrious Senator Cohan, is my old and dear friend, Lady Helen Lang.'
LONG ISLAND NORFOLK
THIRTEEN
In Blake's office in the Basement, Dillon drank tea and ate a cheese sandwich Alice Quarmby had provided.
'You're looking good, my Irish friend,' Blake told him.
'Oh, the Concorde is no handicap. I like travelling like the rich.'
'Sean, you are rich, we all know that."
'You don't understand,' Dillon said. 'What I like about the Concorde is that someone else is paying for it. Anyway, what did you want me for?'
'Harry Parker is checking the security videos on the other side of the street from Cohan's house and the alley where the Wiley killings took place. We thought there was a chance the woman might be on them and, if so, you might be the one to recognize her.'
'I might recognize her from Wapping, but that doesn't mean I'd know who she is.'
'I know, but what else do we have to go on?'
Alice Quarmby looked in. 'I've got Harry Parker on the line. Can you speak?'
'Of course.'
Blake picked up the phone. 'Harry? How goes it?'
'All bad, Blake. I checked out the security videos. There were only three cameras that viewed the area. All of them have been recorded over. No help there at all.'
'Too bad,' Blake said. 'Well, thanks, Harry. If you can think of anything else, please let me know. I'll speak to you soon.'
Blake hung up. Dillon said, 'Another dead end?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'So I've had a free flight on the Concorde for no good reason.'
'Looks like it. Sorry, Sean. At least we can entertain you while you're here. A very important supporter of the President's, one Chad Luther, is giving the mother of all parties on Long Island this evening. You know Fitzgerald's novel, The Great Gatsby? Luther loves it. He has a mansion like Gatsby, lawns down to the sea. If you're anybody at all, you're on the guest list.'
'Let me guess,' Dillon said. 'And if you're nobody at all, you're on the guest list. If you have a ring through your nose and play the guitar indifferently, you're on the guest list.'
'You are, as usual, uncomfortably close to the truth, my friend, and it gives the Secret Service a serious headache.' Blake picked up a file of papers. 'I've had to go through the guest list myself
'Looking for what? Arabs in white sheets?'
'Don't laugh. The President is flying down in one of the Gulfstreams. There's a helicopter shuttle service for security people. That includes you and me.'
'I'm honoured.'
There was a knock at the door and Alice looked in. 'Fresh coffee? Tea?'
'No, we're fine. What about...what we talked about before?'
'We're still trawling.'
She went out. Dillon said, 'Trawling?'
Johnson hesitated for a moment, and then said, 'Oh, hell, I'm sure Hannah knows all about it. It's a special computer program, called Synod. Thousands of conversations pass through, millions of words. Insert a name, for example, and instead of going through it all, painstakingly, the computer tags it for you. Then you go back and listen to the relevant conversation.'
'Jesus,' Dillon said. 'And it works?'
'Remember Patterson? That's how we caught him.' " 'So what's the name you're inserting?'
'Jack Barry.'
'You're after the Connection.'
'That's it.'
'Science and technology,' Dillon said. 'People like you and me are going to be obsolete.'
The phone rang and Blake picked it up. 'Brigadier, how are you?' He frowned. 'Of course, he's right here.' He held the phone out. 'Ferguson. For you.'
'Brigadier?' Dillon said.
'I've got some rather astonishing news for you. Listen well.'
A few minutes later, Dillon put the phone down slowly. Blake said, 'Bad news?'
'He's just told me who he thinks the mystery woman is.'
Blake sat up. 'Tell me, for Christ's sake,' which Dillon did. Afterwards, he shook his head. 'I've met that woman. A great lady. But the facts are plain. I mean, this horror story from Ulster did take place?'
'So it would appear.' Dillon slammed a clenched fist on the desk. 'Damn Jack Barry — damn him to hell.'
'Lady Helen Lang.' Blake frowned. 'Just a minute.' He picked up the guest list for Luther's party and leafed through it. 'I thought so. Here she is, a guest at Chad Luther's party tonight.'
'So?' Dillon said.
'Well, we were going anyway.' Blake frowned.
'And tell the President?'
Blake was strangely reluctant. 'What do I do? If the Brigadier's right, she's killed several people.'
'And I've just remembered something,' Dillon said. 'That function Cohan attended at the Dorchester that night he took the big fall, the Forum for Irish Peace?'
'What about it?'
'Helen Lang was there. I had a chat with her. A wonderful woman, Blake. I knew her son had died in Ulster, but not the manner of his going.'
'It would seem likely that she does.'
'It would explain a great deal.' Dillon got up, lit a cigarette and paced across the room. 'There was always something about her, from that first day at the funeral. Don't get me wrong, I liked her from the first, but I always felt uneasy.'
Blake nodded. 'I'd better have a word with the President.' He picked up the phone and rang upstairs to the Oval Office. 'Blake Johnson for the President.' He nodded. 'I see.' He put the phone down. 'He's already left for Long Island.' He thought for a moment. 'We've got time. I'll tell him then. I'd rather this be in person.'
The door opened and Alice appeared and she was excited. 'Synod's come up trumps, but my God, you aren't going to like it. It's thrown up conversations to Jack Barry as recently as the last few days. You'd better come down to the audio room.'
They sat in the small enclosed room, the huge spools of tape turning, and listened to the final conversation between the Connection and Barry. 'Lady Helen Lang. She's attending a big fat cat party tomorrow night on Long Island, so don't look for her at home.'