The White House Connection

'The bastards,' Blake said.

'Yes, but they weren't losing anything if they were sending your people useless information,' Ferguson said. 'We dealt with the Nazis during the Second World War in the same way, conned the Abwehr rotten.'

'All the same, it makes you wonder who's running the country,' Dillon said.

Hannah nodded. 'So what do you intend?'

'To see the Prime Minister. I've no choice, just as Blake has no choice. President Cazalet will expect a report on the Barry affair and I can't see Blake telling him less than the whole truth.'

'Exactly,' Blake agreed.

'And the question of the SIS involvement, sir?' Hannah asked.

'But there isn't one. No file, no knowledge of anything untoward. Astonishment at McGuire's story and delicate hints that it's all rubbish.'

'So that's it?' Hannah said.

'Not at all. I'll see the Prime Minister, bring him up to date, and from now on, handle this whole business my way.' 'And God help Simon Carter,' Dillon said.

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at Downing Street. Ferguson said, 'I don't think we'll be long.'

'Sure and I'm used to waiting when we come to this place.' Dillon grinned at Blake. 'I'm useful when they need a hired gun, but an embarrassment to the great man in there all the same.'

'I'd read The Times if I were you. It's very instructive,' Ferguson said, and got out, followed by Blake.

The policeman saluted, the door swung open and an aide smiled a welcome. 'Brigadier, Mr Johnson. The Prime Minister expects you.'

He took them upstairs past the portraits of all the previous Prime Ministers, then along a corridor, knocked briefly at the study door and opened it. The Prime Minister was sitting behind his desk, stood up and came round to shake hands with Ferguson.

'Brigadier.'

'Prime Minister. When you came to office, we discussed the peculiar circumstances of my position with you. Do you recall my mentioning that the President had a similar outfit working for him?'

'The Basement?'

'Yes, Prime Minister. This is Blake Johnson, who runs it.'

The PM shook hands with Blake. 'Be seated, gentlemen. You did indicate this was a matter of grave importance.'

'Very much so,' Ferguson said.

'Then tell me.'

When Ferguson was finished, the Prime Minister sat there, frowning. 'An incredible story. What happens next?'

' Mr Johnson will have to report to his President. I would suggest he does that when he gets back to my office.'

'I agree. As it happens, I have to speak to the President on matters concerning the peace process in Ireland later this evening. I'll discuss this affair with him and make it clear I have complete faith in you and Mr Johnson.'

'And what about the position of the Deputy Director of the Security Services?'

'What position?' The Prime Minister's face was calm. 'They know nothing, Simon Carter was definite on that score. "No file" was his phrase. Good. This would appear to be exactly the kind of thing my predecessors expected you to handle, Brigadier, so handle it.'

'You have my word, Prime Minister.'

He and Blake stood, the door opened as if by magic, and they were escorted out.

As it happened, Blake was unsuccessful in trying to speak to the President. He was finally routed to the chief of staffs secretary, who told him that the President was in Boston making a speech. Afterwards he was going down to his house on Nantucket for a three-day break. Next, Blake spoke to his secretary, Alice Quarmby, and because he was using the Codex Four line, he was able to speak openly.

'I was worried about you,' she said.

'You should be. That bastard Barry slipped the net, but he almost got me. This Sons of Erin outfit he runs – he spoke of a New York branch. Check it out and see what you can find.'

'Right away.'

'I need to get back fast, so see if there's anything military leaving the UK later today.'

'I'll call you back.'

In Ferguson 's office they had a final discussion. It was Hannah who stated the obvious. 'There's nothing more we can do over here.'

'Yes, it's up to you, old son,' Dillon said. ' New York branch of the Sons of Erin.' He laughed. 'Sounds like one of those Irish theme pubs.'

Blake frowned. 'You know something, that's not a bad idea.'

'Which still leaves you with the mystery of the White House,' Hannah told him. 'Like one of those Agatha Christie murder mysteries.'

'The thing about those mystery novels, my dear,' Ferguson said, 'was that they were always very simple.'

'The butler did it,' Dillon said.

'No, but there were usually no more than a dozen people staying at the country house for the weekend and it had to be one of them.'

The phone rang. He listened, then nodded. 'Hang on.' He looked at Blake. 'Your secretary checked with air transport and we have an RAF Gulfstream flying to the States this evening. They could drop in at Farley Field and pick you up there.'

'Just the ticket,' Blake told him.

Ferguson said, 'Confirmed,' and put the phone down.

'That's it then.' Dillon grinned. 'It's all up to you now, old son. We'll be waiting with bated breath.'

Washington,

Nantucket,

New York

Chapter Six

In his office at the White House, Blake greeted Alice with enthusiasm. He'd managed to sleep on the plane, and had had one of those difficult breakfasts that took no notice of time differences, but he badly needed to shower and change, which he did the moment he got to the office – he so frequently had to sleep there overnight that he kept a change of clothes ready.

When he got to his desk, shaved, shampooed and resplendent in a blue, flannel suit, Alice handed him coffee with approval. 'That's taken ten years off you.'

'Look at my in-tray.'

'I've done my best. Tell me what happened.'

Blake ran the Basement in a most peculiar way. He had only one member of staff, which was Alice. Every time there was work to do, he pulled in members of a secret list: friends from FBI days, usually retired or invalided out; experts of every kind, from university professors to old comrades from Vietnam; whatever or whoever was necessary. He operated things like a Marxist cell system. Nobody knew what anyone else was doing. Except Alice. Who was outraged now by his story.

'It beggars belief that there is a spy in the White House.'

'Why not? We've had them everywhere else. The Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI

'Okay, I take your point.' She poured him another coffee.

'Too much is on computers these days, that's the real problem, and in spite of every precaution, it's too easy to get at.'

'Yes, life's a bitch,' Blake said. 'Speaking of which – did you get anywhere with the Sons of Erin?'

'Not much. Jack Barry's in the CIA and FBI files, but that's the only mention of the Sons of Erin.'

Blake sat there frowning. 'But he definitely mentioned them.' He laughed suddenly. 'I've just remembered something Dillon said. That the Sons of Erin sounded like an Irish theme pub.'

She laughed. 'It's a thought.'

'Okay, so let's take a different route. Pubs, restaurants, dining clubs. See what you can do.'

'I hear and obey, o master.'

She went out and Blake got down to the paperwork.

It was no more than an hour later that she returned. 'My God, it was so easy, once I looked in the right place.' She had a piece of paper in her hand. 'The Sons of Erin. It's listed under Irish dining clubs. Operates out of a bar and restaurant called Murphy's. It's in the Bronx.'

Blake looked at the address, then checked his watch. 'I can just make the shuttle to New York. Phone, get me a seat, get me a car, and book me a suite on the government. Something befitting my dignity.'

She was laughing uproariously as she went out.