The White House Connection

'Are you trying to tell me Jack Barry is the heir apparent?' Blake asked.

'His father was Frank's younger brother, but he died years ago, which only leaves Jack.'

'Lord Barry?'

'Frank didn't claim the title, and Jack certainly hasn't. It would give the Queen and the Privy Council problems,' Hannah told him.

'I just bet it would,' Blake said.

'But Jack takes it seriously.' Dillon nodded. 'An old family, the Barrys. Lots of history there. There's a family estate and castle, Spanish Head, on the coast, about thirty miles north of Belfast. It's owned by the National Trust now. Jack used to rhapsodize about it years ago. So – our Jack's a complicated man. Anyway, let's get down to it. McGuire is to wait in the bar between six and seven for a message that his taxi is ready.'

'Destination unknown?'

'Of course. I figure he'll be waiting somewhere in the city, with lots of ways out in case of trouble. The dock area, for example.'

'And you'll follow?'

'That's the idea. Green Land Rover.' Dillon passed him a piece of paper. 'That's the number.'

'And what if you lose me?'

'It's not possible.' Hannah Bernstein put a black briefcase on the table and opened it. 'We've got a Range Finder in here.'

'Follow you anywhere. The very latest,' Dillon told him.

The Range Finder was a black box with a screen. 'Watch this,' Hannah said, and pressed a button. A section of city streets appeared. 'The whole of Northern Ireland 's in there.'

'Very impressive,' Blake told her.

'Even more so with this.' She opened a small box and took out a gold signet ring. 'I hope it fits. If not, I've got another bug that you can pin anywhere you want.'

Blake tried the ring on his left hand, and nodded. 'Feels good to me.'

'No weapon,' Dillon said. 'There's no way of fooling Barry's people in that respect.'

'Then you'd better be right behind me.'

'Oh, we'll be there and armed to the teeth.'

'So the general idea is I lead you to Barry and you jump him? No police, no backup?'

'This is a black one, Blake. We snatch the bastard, stick a hypo in him and get him to the airport, where a Lear jet will take us to Farley Field.'

'And afterwards?'

'Our Holland Park safe house in London, where the Brigadier will have words,' Hannah put in.

'Grand drugs they have these days,' Dillon said. 'He'll be telling all before you know it, although the Chief Inspector doesn't like that bit.'

'Shut up, Dillon,' she said fiercely.

Blake nodded. 'No need to argue, you two. I'm happy to be here and the President's happy. No problem. I'm in your hands and that's good enough for me.'

The Library Bar was a popular watering hole for those in business who liked a drink before going home, and was quite busy when Blake went in just after six. Blake sat at the bar, ordered a whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Tense, but in control. For one thing, he had enormous faith in Dillon. It got to six-thirty. He ordered another small whiskey, and as the barman brought it to him, a porter came in with a board saying McGuire.

'That's me,' Blake told him.

When he went down the steps to the red taxi, it was raining hard. He got in the back and noticed to his astonishment that the driver was a grey-haired woman.

'Good night to you, sir,' she told him in the hard Belfast accent. 'You just sit back and I'll tell you where you're going.'

She drove away and Dillon, at the wheel of the Land Rover parked nearby, Hannah beside him, followed.

The woman didn't say a word, simply drove down to the docks, passing through an area of desolation and decaying warehouses. She pulled into a space beside an old Ford Transit van.

'There you are, sir, out you get.'

Blake did exactly as he was told. She drove away. Blake stood there in the rain, waiting, and the rear door of the Transit opened and two men jumped out. One was in a bomber jacket, the other, a bearded man, wore an Australian drover's coat down to his ankles. Both carried handguns.

' Mr McGuire?' the bearded one said. 'I'm Daley and this is Bell, Daley and Bell. Sounds like a cabaret act, only it isn't. One wrong move, as they say on television, and you're dead. Assume the position.'

Blake put his hands on the Transit and spread his legs. He was thoroughly checked. Satisfied, Daley said, 'In the back and let's go'

The bench seats were comfortable enough. Daley sat opposite him and Bell locked the door and got behind the wheel. He drove away.

Blake said anxiously, 'Look, what is this? I'm here in good faith and I expected to see Mr Barry.'

'And he can't wait to see you,' Daley told him, 'but it'll be a while yet, so have a cigarette and enjoy the trip.'

Dillon, having seen the taxi turn in before, had pulled into a side turning, got out and approached on foot. Now he ran back to the Land Rover and got behind the wheel.

'They've transferred him. White Ford Transit,' he told Hannah, and a few moments later was following it through the evening traffic.

The rain was relentless, and as night fell, it was obvious that they were moving out of town.

'So it's not Belfast,' Hannah observed.

'So it would appear.'

They came to a place where temporary lights had been set up because of roadworks. The traffic had turned from two lanes to one.

'Damn!' Hannah said.

'Just open the box, girl. We'll be all right.'

She had the briefcase on her knee, lifted the lid and went to work. The map was clear, even more so as it grew darker. The Transit had disappeared, but that didn't matter. Time passed and they were still going north.

Hannah said, 'Where in the hell are we going?'

'God knows,' Dillon told her. 'But I do have the glimmering of an idea.'

'Such as?'

'We're heading north and the Antrim coast is close. What about Spanish Head?'

'But that's crazy. You told us it was owned by the National Trust.'

'Yes, but these places don't open to the public till Easter.'

'You can't be serious.'

'Just keep your eye on that screen and we'll see.'

There were a couple of windows in the Transit. They were proceeding along a coast road and, for the moment, the rain had stopped and the sky was stormy with a half-moon. They finally turned into a side road and paused at the gate. A notice said 'Spanish Head National Trust'.

There was a cottage on the other side, a light at the window. Bell sounded the horn, and a door opened and an old man appeared. He hesitated, and Bell called, 'Punch the bloody button, Harker, and let us in.'

The gate was obviously electronic. The old man opened a box by the door, fiddled inside, the gate swung back and Bell drove through. Blake saw a castle above steep cliffs, towers, battlements, all very spectacular. It was only as they got closer that Blake saw that it was only a large country house built in nineteenth-century Gothic style. The Transit came to a halt, Bell got out, came round and opened the door. Blake followed Daley out and found himself in a courtyard.

'This way, Mr McGuire,' Daley told him.

Bell opened a massive oak front door and led the way in. There was a huge entrance hall, a flagged floor, an open fireplace and flags draped from poles: the Irish Republican tricolour, the Union Flag and, surprisingly, an old flag of the Confederate States of America.

'This way.'

Daley led the way up the sweeping stairs and Blake followed, Bell bringing up the rear. They passed along a wide corridor, portraits everywhere, and Daley finally opened a great mahogany door. They passed into a library. There were more portraits, a log fire in a great fireplace, book-lined walls and French windows standing open. A man stood there, looking out, a glass of wine in his hand. He was tall, with good shoulders, wearing a black sweater and jeans. When he turned, the face was handsome enough, dark, brooding and yet cruel.

' Mr McGuire? Jack Barry.'

The voice was still American, and Blake said, 'My pleasure.' He tried to sound a little weak and shaken. 'I was kind of worried.'

'Oh, stuff all this pretence, Mr Johnson. I know very well who you are. Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal minder. You run the Basement, isn't that what you call it? Here, have a glass of Sancerre.' He took a bottle from an ice bucket, filled a glass and offered it. 'There you go. I have it on good authenticity that the real McGuire is in the hands of Brigadier Charles Ferguson and Sean Dillon. And that my other dealer in London, Tim Pat Ryan, is very dead indeed.'