The White House Connection

'My arse he is,' Dillon said. 'He'll have a hidey-hole here in London. Where would that be?'

'And how would I be knowing that, Sean?'

'What a shame. Here goes the kneecap.'

Dillon took aim and Moran cried out, 'St James's Stairs, up from Wapping. There are some houseboats. His is called Griselda.'

'Good man yourself Dillon put the Walther away. 'Do you want me to come back?'

'Jesus, no.'

'Then keep your mouth shut. I'm sure you know someone who can fix that ear.' Dillon went out.

Back in his Mini Cooper, he phoned Ferguson, and when the Brigadier answered, said, 'I may have struck gold.'

'Tell me.'

Dillon did. When he was finished, he said, 'I think it's too much of a coincidence he's here. What do you want me to do? Take him out? On the other hand, you could call in Scotland Yard's Anti-Terrorist Unit. They'd turn it into the Third World War.'

'That's the last thing we need. Where are you?' Dillon told him. 'Meet me at St James's Stairs,' Ferguson said.

'You've got to be joking.'

'Dillon, when I was nineteen years old, I was in the Hook of Korea, where I shot five Chinese with a Browning pistol. I do tend to get bored polishing the seat of my desk at the Ministry of Defence.'

'Oh, my, what would Bernstein say?'

'I can take political correctness so far, Dillon. I don't particularly wish to employ her on a desperate venture in rain and darkness on the Thames in an attempt to take out one of the wont specimens the IRA has on offer.'

'So you think he's here for Cohan?'

'Dillon, a few days ago he was in Ulster, now he's here. What other reason could he have? Wait for me on the corner of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane,' and Ferguson put the phone down.

Barry parked the Escort at the end of Chalk Lane in a side turning and walked down towards St James's Stairs. It was dark now, with lights on the river, more on the river side, traffic moving in the darkness. He turned at the end and walked along the line of an old jetty, passing what looked like a couple of disused lighters.

There was a basin at the end, some old cranes standing above it, disused warehouses standing behind. Only one houseboat was on that side, the Griselda, with four on the other, two with a light that showed some sort of habitation. There was a connection with the shore, an electric cable and water pipe.

Barry had used the boat for three years now, had last been there six months before. He'd always expected the place to be vandalized each time he'd returned, but it had never happened. For one thing, it was remote and tucked away and then the presence of the other houseboats afforded some sort of protection.

He went across the gangplank, found the key hidden in the cabin gutter, got the steel door open and stepped inside. There was a switch to the left. The light came on, disclosing a flight of stairs. It also brought on deck lights, one in the stern, one on the prow.

He went down, and at the bottom switched on a light, revealing the cabin. It was surprisingly spacious, with portholes on each side. There were bench seats, a table, a kitchenette at one end with an electric cooker and a basin. He paused to fill the kettle, then carried on into the bedroom.

He placed the Gladstone bag on the bed, took out a toilet bag and a carton of cigarettes. He opened a pack, lit a cigarette and checked the closet. There were clothes in there in plastic zip-up bags, shoes, new shirts in Marks amp; Spencer bags, underwear, socks, everything he would need. The kettle was whistling. He went in, switched it off, sat down at the table and phoned the Dorchester with his mobile.

'Senator Cohan,' he asked, when the switchboard replied.

'May I say who's calling, sir?'

'George Harrison, American Embassy.'

A moment later, Cohan answered. ' Mr Harrison?'

Barry laughed. 'It's me, you daft bastard, Barry.'

'Jack?' Cohan laughed back. 'Where are you?'

'Still in Ulster,' Barry lied. 'I spoke to the Connection. He told me all the bad news. Though I suppose it's good news for the undertakers.'

Cohan shuddered. 'You always see a joke in everything.'

'As we used to say in Vietnam, if you can't see the joke, you shouldn't have joined. Look on the good side. You're in luxury at the Dorchester, your every need taken care of. You're well out of New York at the moment.'

'The Connection said he'd take care of things. Can you imagine this suggestion that a woman got to Ryan? Is that crazy?'

'Well, the good news is I'm leaving for New York myself in an hour. That's why I thought I'd call you. The Connection wants me there to help clean this mess up.'

'Is that a fact?'

Barry was lying smoothly now. 'I'm driving down to Shannon. I'll catch the New York plane from there.'

'Let's hope you can sort things out.'

'I'll keep in touch. Let you know where I'm staying. What's your room number?' Cohan gave it to him. 'Good. You going out tonight?'

'No, I'll take it easy. Big night tomorrow.'

'Sounds right to me. Stay well.'

Cohan put the phone down, aware of a feeling of considerable relief. He opened the bottle of complimentary champagne and poured a glass. If anyone could handle this whole sorry mess, it was Barry.

Barry took out an excellently tailored black suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He laid them down on the bed, went back into the saloon, reheated the kettle and made coffee in a mug. When it was ready, he went up the companionway and stood on the deck at the rail thinking about things.

How to do it was the thing. Access to the Dorchester was no problem. After all, he'd be dressed like a whiskey advert and he had Cohan's room number. All he needed to do was knock on the door, drop him and be on his way. If he left the do-not-disturb card on the door, they wouldn't find him for hours, possibly not until the morning.

Feeling suddenly quite cheerful about it, he went back below. He took off his bomber jacket, pushed the Browning into his waistband and put the kettle on again. He checked out the clothes, took the shirt out of its plastic envelope and unfolded it. The kettle whistled again and he changed his mind about more coffee. He switched it off, found a bottle of Scotch in a cupboard, poured one into a paper cup and went back on deck.

It was raining now, silver lances in the yellow light of the deck lights, and he stood under the slightly tattered awning, smelling the river, the damp, nostalgic for something he didn't understand. There was a sudden slight cough and he turned, his hand sliding inside the bomber jacket to feel for the butt of the Browning.

A man was standing at the end of the gangway with an umbrella over his head, smiling down at him. 'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Waiting in his Mini Cooper at the junction of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane, Dillon had an eye out for the Daimler and had been totally astonished when a black cab had drawn up and Ferguson had got out and paid the driver. He'd carried an umbrella, which he didn't bother to put up, hurried along the pavement and got in beside Dillon.

'Filthy night.'

'You in a cab? I can't believe it. I suppose you'll claim the fare on expenses?'

'Don't be flippant, Dillon. What do you intend?'

'I haven't the slightest idea. Are you carrying?'

'What would you expect?' Ferguson asked wearily, and produced an old. 38 Smith amp; Wesson automatic. 'I also have these.' He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

'You are hopeful, old man.'

'All right, let's get on with it,' and Ferguson got out and put up his umbrella.

They walked down Chalk Lane side by side, the Brigadier's umbrella protecting them. When they reached the basin, they paused in the doorway of one of the old warehouses.

'One houseboat on this side, four on the other,' Ferguson whispered. 'Lights in the nearest and two of the others. Which is which?'

Dillon took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket. ' Nightstalkers. Miracle of modern science.' He focused them on the first houseboat and passed them to Ferguson. 'Take a look.'