The White House Connection

Murphy's was on Haley Street. It was just after three when Blake's car drew up outside. It hadn't the usual Irish theme pub look to it, all green and gold harps. This was older, more solid.

'Wait here, George,' Blake said to his driver, got out and walked to the door.

Inside it was dark and very old-fashioned, with dining booths and lots of mahogany panelling. A couple of people were finishing a late meal in one of the booths, but the lunchtime trade was through. The barman was old, seventy-five at least, his sleeves rolled up, reading spectacles on the end of his nose as he checked the sports page of The New York Times.

'Hi, there,' Blake said. 'I'll have a Bushmills whiskey and water.'

'Well, you've got taste at least.' The old man reached for a bottle.

Blake said, 'With a name like Dooley, I should have. It was a friend told me to look in here. A guy called Barry.'

The old man pushed the drink across. 'I don't recall him.' 'Have one yourself.' The old man took a large one and downed it quickly.

'He told me he used to be in a dining club here called the Sons of Erin.'

'Jesus, that was just a handful of guys, four or five of them. Nothing special about it except for the Senator.'

'The Senator?'

'Sure, Senator Michael Cohan. Real nice guy.'

'Hey, that's very interesting. Who were the others?'

'Oh, let's see now… Patrick Kelly, he ran a lot of construction work near here… Tom Cassidy, he had a string of Irish pubs… Who else?' He frowned.

'Have another?'

'Well, thank you. Don't mind if I do.' He poured the drink, drank half of it, and nodded. 'Brady – Martin Brady. Teamsters' Union guy. Say, I heard he got knocked off the other week.'

'What do you mean?'

'Wasted. Someone made a hit when he was coming out of the union gym one night.' He leaned closer. 'I heard he had mob troubles. Know what I mean?'

'Yeah, sure… So, tell me, when do the Sons of Erin meet? I mean which night?'

'Oh, it isn't some kind of regular thing. Just now and then. They haven't had a meet here in months.'

'Really?' Blake slipped a twenty over the bar. 'Guess I missed my chance then. Nice talking to you. Keep the change.'

'Well, thank you.'

Outside, in the car, he called Alice on his mobile. 'Take this down.' He gave her the names of the members of the dining club. 'Check the New York Police Department computer for details of the murder of Brady. I'm on my way to the Pierre now. I'll check back with you in an hour.'

'Why don't 1 ever get the Pierre? Why you?'

'Because I'm a very important man, Alice.'

'You know, it's your overwhelming ego that makes you so attractive.' She put down the phone.

He was having coffee and sandwiches in his room when she phoned back. 'Are you sitting down?'

'That bad?'

'You could say that. You wanted me to check out Brady's murder?'

'That's what I said.'

'Well, I decided to put them all through the NYPD computer, in case this Sons of Erin thing provided a link.'

'And did it?'

'You could say that. There's no mention of the group as such, but Brady, Kelly and Cassidy are all in there.'

'Go on.'

'They were all shot to death, Blake. Brady first, some kind of mob street shooting. Cassidy three nights later, rumours about a protection racket, Kelly three days after, a robbery while he was out for a run at his place in Ossining.'

'My God,' Blake said, stunned. 'And not a word.'

'There were newspaper reports, but they were all separate – nothing to link them together. If you didn't know about the Sons of Erin, you'd have no reason to think they weren't what they seemed to be.'

'That's true.'

'Are you going to tell the police?'

'I'm not sure. What about Senator Cohan?'

'He's not on the NYPD computer, but then again, he's still alive. He was on Larry King Live! last night.'

'What for?'

'Oh, Irish peace as usual. Everyone's into it at the moment. He's going to London to put his six cents worth in to stay hot with his Irish-American voters. What do you want me to do?'

'Those presidential warrants we keep in the office, the blank ones with the President's seal and signature. Fill one out in the name of Captain Harry Parker, fax me a copy here.' He gave her the room fax number.

'Who is this guy?'

'A product of zero tolerance on the streets of good old New York. He runs a special homicide unit – top detectives, fancy computers. I knew him when I was in the FBI.'

'So he owes you one?'

'It doesn't matter. Once I present him with that warrant, he's mine. I'll be in touch.'

Next he phoned Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence in London. As it was eight o'clock in the evening there, he was rerouted to the Cavendish Square flat.

'You're not going to like this,' he said to Ferguson, and gave him the bad news, including the Sons of Erin background.

Ferguson said, 'Someone would appear to mean business.'

'You could say that. I've been thinking about Ryan's death in London. After all, he was connected with Barry as well. Could you get details from Scotland Yard? We know Dillon thought the killer was a woman, but I was wondering about the weapon that was used.'

'Right away. I'll be back to you in half an hour.'

He telephoned records at Scotland Yard, then phoned Dillon. 'You'd better get round here fast.'

Dillon was there in ten minutes, was admitted by Kim and went upstairs, as Ferguson 's fax machine was pumping out two sheets.

'What's happening?' Dillon asked.

Ferguson was reading the sheets. He looked up and passed them over. 'The report on Ryan when they took him out of the river. An unusual gun killed him. Look for yourself

Dillon did, then nodded. 'Colt. 25. A woman's gun, but deadly when used with hollow-point cartridges.' He handed the fax back. 'So what?'

'I've just had Blake on from New York. He's found the Sons of Erin, Dillon – and most of them are dead. Three of them, shot to death within a seven-day period, and all within the last couple of weeks.'

Dillon whistled.

'The only one left as far as we know is Senator Michael Cohan of New York… Jesus! And he's due over here in a few days for some Irish peace thing at the Dorchester. That's all we need, an American Senator knocked off in London. The Prime Minister is certain to give us the job of looking after him.'

'So what now?' 'I'll speak to Blake and give him the facts.'

In his room at the Pierre, Blake listened intently, then nodded. 'I'm going over to see a top homicide specialist, tonight if possible. Here's my room fax number. Send the material and I'll let you know what I find out. Is Dillon there?' 'I'll put him on.'

'So what's your hunch on this one, my Irish friend?'

'Well, you've heard the old saying. Once is okay, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action, and this is four.'

'You really think it's the same person? A woman!'

'I know one thing. Someone or some group wanted the Sons of Erin stiffed, and four out of five is good going. If I were this Senator Michael Cohan, I'd be worried sick.'

'So would I. I'll stay in touch.'

Dillon put the phone down. 'So, we wait and see,' he said to Ferguson. 'Will you tell the Prime Minister?'

'Not yet.'

'And Carter?'

'Bugger Carter. Now have a nightcap with me and be off with you.'

In his office at One Police Plaza, Harry Parker was considering going home. It had been a hard day. Three drug-related shootings, six wearying interrogations and a mountain of paperwork. He was thinking of dropping in at his favourite bar when the phone rang.

'Harry, that you?'

'Who is this?'

'Blake Johnson.'

'Why, you old dog. I haven't seen you since the Delaney investigation – what was that, two years ago, three? They tell me you've left the FBI.'

'I've gone up in the world. I'll tell you when I see you.'

'And when would that be?'

'Oh, I'd say around fifteen minutes.'

'But I was just leaving.'

'Harry, what if I told you I'm speeding towards you on presidential business?'