The White House Connection

'I'd say you were full of shit.' There was only silence, and

Parker said, 'You are, aren't you? Tell me that you are, Blake.' And then, every instinct acquired over twenty-five years on the street alerted him. 'Jesus, what am I getting into?'

'Something fascinating, I assure you. Just put the coffee on.'

Harry Parker sat there, thinking about it. He was forty-eight years of age, a 224-pound black man from Harlem who'd gone to Columbia on a scholarship and hadjoined the force immediately afterwards. A policeman was all he'd ever wanted to be and he'd never minded night shifts and seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had.

She'd left him ten years earlier, had married a Baptist preacher in Georgia, but it still left Harry with his son, a doctor, and a daughter who was a fledgling reporter for the local CBS station, a single mother who'd borne him a granddaughter two years earlier.

He picked up the phone and called the deli across the street. 'Hey, Myra, Captain Parker. I've got to work late. Send over grilled cheese sandwiches for two, fries, and coffee.'

He opened a drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then lit one. He was supposed to have stopped, but what the hell, it was probably going to be a long night. He stood at the window, looking out at the rain, and the phone rang.

'Captain Parker, a Mr Johnson to see you.'

'Send him up.'

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, but when it opened it was a boy from the deli.

'Put it on the table over there,' Parker said, and Blake Johnson appeared in the doorway.

'Hey, that smells good. I've hardly had anything to eat all day.'

'So now you want to steal mine.' Parker waved the boy away. 'You might as well sit down then.'

They took chairs opposite each other in the corner, the low table between them, and Blake took a sandwich. 'Excellent.'

Parker took the lid off one of the coffees. 'Feel free. Just leave me to starve. You're looking disgustingly well, so tell me what this is about.'

Blake took an envelope from his pocket. 'Read that.' He reached for another sandwich.

Parker opened the envelope and took out the fax. 'Jesus, a presidential warrant.'

'Only the fax copy. The real article is on its way to you by presidential messenger.'

Parker was astonished. 'Blake, I've never even seen one of these things, only heard of them. I know you're not FBI any more, but what are you? CIA, Secret Service?'

'Neither, Harry. I work for the great man himself.'

'Which means?'

'My department is very special, very secret, Harry. I report to the President only, which explains the warrant. In this matter, you no longer owe allegiance to the New York Police Department or the Mayor. You owe allegiance to one person only, the President of these United States. Do you accept that?'

'Do I have a choice?'

'No, this is a matter of national security I'm handling, to which your professional expertise is essential.'

Suddenly, Harry Parker felt great. He reached for a sandwich and smiled. 'I'm your man, Blake, I'm your man. Tell me all.'

Later, sitting in front of his computer, sleeves rolled up, he said, 'I'll feed in all this London stuff on Ryan.' His fingers tapped the keys. 'Okay, now let's start on the members of the Sons of Erin.' Rain drummed against the window and Parker's fingers moved nimbly. 'Number one, Martin Brady, Teamsters' Union. Came out of the union gym one night and was shot in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the car. That's a typical mob execution, and we know they had it in for him.'

'Yeah, ' Blake said. 'But for that kind of hit, doesn't the Mafia emulate the CIA? They usually use a small calibre like a. 22.'

Parker's fingers moved over the keys. 'You're right, but in this case, it was a Colt. 25, with hollow-point bullets.' He sat back. 'Jesus, let me go back to those facts on Ryan.' He tapped away. 'Colt . 25.'

'Would that be a coincidence?' Blake asked.

'Hell, no. I'll put the images in for a match and I smell there is one.'

'Let's have a look at the other ones.'

Parker went back to work. 'Three days later, Cassidy comes out of his new restaurant in the Bronx at one in the morning. Police intelligence said there was a protection racket operation and figured he was a victim.' He tapped again and shook his head. 'This is fucking unbelievable. The weapon involved was a Colt. 25.'

'One to go,' Blake told him.

Parker went to work. 'Patrick Kelly, construction millionaire, in the habit of rising at six a.m. and going for a five-mile run. Found shot in the heart at his country home in Ossining. Always wore a fifteen-thousand-dollar gold diver's watch and gold chain round his neck. Both missing.' He turned to Blake. 'Listed as an armed robbery gone bad.'

'So now check the weapon used.'

Parker did as he was told, waited for the result, then nodded. 'Beautiful. The same weapon, from London to New York.' He turned. 'What do you think?'

'I think the killer was very smart, except for using the same weapon. You notice the pattern here that cleverly offers an explanation for each killing. Brady, the Mafia; Cassidy, a protection racket; Kelly, a robbery.'

'As you say, smart, and as the killings had no apparent link, maybe this business of the same gun would never have come out except for you, but there's a puzzle here.'

'The fact that in London, my associate said that the person who shot Ryan was a woman?'

'Hell, no, the fact that the Colt used in London was the Colt used in three murders in New York. Now that astounds me. Who in the hell gets through airport security these days with a weapon?'

Blake nodded slowly and then brightened. 'Maybe people who use private planes, Harry, important people, rich people who are waved through.'

'For God's sake, what is this all about?' Parker asked.

'I can't tell you, but I promise that when I can you'll be the first to know.'

'Well, thanks very much.'

Blake stood up. 'It's the best I can do, Harry. Now I've got to see the President,' and he walked out.

In London, it was well past midnight, but he phoned Ferguson anyway and found the Brigadier in bed. ' Curiouser and curiouser, Brigadier.'

Ferguson, fully awake, sat up. 'Tell me.'

Blake did. 'What do you think?' he asked when he was finished. 'Some Loyalist group which had the target of taking out the Sons of Erin?'

'Blake, dear boy, I'm an old dog, long in this business, and I go by instinct. One gun in London and New York means one killer. I'd stake my life on it.'

'But a woman? It's incredible.'

'I'm old enough to know that nothing is incredible in this life. You'll be seeing the President?'

'Yes.'

'Senator Michael Cohan is due in London in a few days. Point that out to the President. Maybe he should stay home.'

' New York, London.' Blake shrugged. 'They both seem to be pretty dangerous places these days.'

At the same time, in a safe house on the cliffs of County Down, Ulster, Jack Barry was having a drink in the kitchen when his coded mobile rang. It was the Connection.

'Where in the hell have you been?' Barry demanded.

'I'm a busy man, my friend. Blake Johnson turned up in Washington , so I presume you're on the run.'

'You can say that again. Sean Dillon and some woman chief inspector came with him. I lost two men, but managed to slip them.'

'Good. No mention of our arrangement, I trust?'

'Of course not,' Barry lied.

'Excellent. I'll keep you posted.' The Connection rang off.

Barry cursed. He hated not knowing who he was dealing with, but then none of the Sons of Erin did. They only knew each other. He thought for a moment, then used his coded mobile to call Senator Michael Cohan. They'd met in the States several times and got on well. Cohan loved it alclass="underline" the hair-raising stories, the action by night, the glamour.

Cohan answered at once. 'Who is this?'

'Barry. Did I catch you at a bad time?'

'Yes, there's a party here. I've taken refuge in my study. I meant to phone you myself, but I've just gotten back from Mexico. Just got bad news. Apparently, Martin Brady was murdered, some street killing, they say it's the mob.'