The White House Connection

Ferguson did so and the houseboat emerged in every detail, although in a greenish tint, the name Griselda clear on the prow. 'Excellent. I could have done with those in the trenches on the Hook. What's your plan?'

'I'm a simple man, and the lights being on, I presume it is Barry.'

'So?'

Dillon examined the Griselda again. 'I don't think we'll get anywhere by stepping on board and shouting down the companionway, "Come out with your hands up." I noticed there's a stern hatch.'

'Yes, well, I'd like to point out that there could be a certain amount of noise in doing that, Dillon. Lifting the hatch, I mean, which could also be locked on the inside.'

'Brigadier, you've got to travel hopefully. I'll have a go and you wait here for me.'

'Oh, I see, keeping the old man safe, are we?'

Dillon didn't bother to answer, simply handed him the Night-stalker and faded into the darkness beside the warehouse wall. Ferguson focused the night sight, saw Dillon slide over the stern rail and move to the hatch. It lifted and Dillon slipped inside.

As Ferguson lowered the Nightstalker, Jack Barry emerged from the companionway. Ferguson checked him out, the paper cup in one hand, the butt of the Browning sticking out of his waistband. Ferguson thought of Dillon down there trying to make his way through unfamiliar territory, and made his decision. He put the Nightstalker in his pocket, took out the Smith amp; Wesson, and held it against his back in his left hand. He walked along the quay, and paused at the gangway, umbrella held high.

'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'

Ferguson started down the gangplank and his left hand emerged holding the Smith amp; Wesson.

Wyatt Earp, the great American marshal, once said that what had made his reputation as a gunfighter was when a young cowboy had tried to shoot him in the back in the darkness of Dodge City at fifty paces. Earp had turned and fired as a reflex, without taking aim, and shot the gun from the boy's hand, a total fluke.

Jack Barry did the same now, pulling the silenced Browning out, firing from the hip, catching the Smith amp; Wesson in Charles Ferguson's hand and blowing it away. Dillon, easing in through the hatch above the shower room, had heard Ferguson, took out his Walther, dashed through the kitchen and saloon, and went out headfirst into Barry, as Ferguson fell back to the deck.

Dillon rammed the Walther into Barry's back. 'Drop it, Jack, or I'll blow your spine in two.'

Barry froze. 'Why, Sean, it's you.'

Ferguson got to his feet. Dillon said, 'Are you okay, Brigadier?'

Ferguson was holding his wrist, which was bleeding. 'Just a scratch. I'm fine.'

Barry leaned over and placed the Browning on the deck, then as he straightened, he lifted his right elbow into Dillon's face, turning sideways so that Dillon's reflex shot went into the deck. Dillon dropped the Walther and they closed together, Barry staggering back as they struggled furiously. When they went over the rail, it was still together.

And it was cold, the kind of shock that numbed the brain, and the current was fierce. Dillon kicked Barry away as he surfaced, felt himself swept against the stern anchor chain and grabbed at it. As he turned, he saw Barry being carried away.

'Fuck you, Dillon!' he called, and was gone.

Dillon hung on, then hauled himself along the chain to the other side of the Griselda and reached for a ring bolt on the wall.

'Dillon?' Ferguson called.

'Here.' Dillon pulled himself to a ladder.

He sat on the old quay, streaming water, and Ferguson said, "Do you think he's gone?'

'Only elsewhere, Brigadier. I'll confirm he's gone when I've shot him between the eyes at very close quarters, but not before.'

'What now?'

'Let's go below. I'm wet through and I could do with some dry clothes.'

In the shower room, Dillon stripped and towelled. In the small bedroom he helped himself to underwear and jeans and a sweater far too large, then joined Ferguson in the saloon. He nodded to the black suit, white shirt and tie.

'Nice gear, Brigadier. I mean, if you were going to circulate at a great hotel like the Dorchester, you'd really pass dressed like that.'

'You don't think he's at the bottom of the Thames?'

'No, probably on the other side by now, but he won't be turning up at the Dorchester. You see, Jack isn't a patriot, he's a very practical man, and a British prison is the last thing he needs. He came, he failed.'

'I know. Strange, Dillon. When you told me he was here, I said it had to be for Cohan. I couldn't think of any reason that could bring him here from Ulster. But why? Barry runs the Sons of Erin. Why would he want to eradicate the last member of the New York branch?'

'Because that's exactly what Cohan is. He's a problem to you, he's a problem to the President. Maybe he's a problem to the Connection, too.'

Ferguson was suddenly cheerful. 'My dear boy, you sometimes have a perfect facility for hitting the nail on the head. Let's go.'

Dillon said, 'And the boat?'

'Wherever he goes, if he's still on the planet, he won't come back here. Just turn the lights out. I'll have a recovery team check it out tomorrow.'

But Ferguson was wrong. Barry surfaced at St James's Stairs. He hauled himself up a ladder and started back to the basin. The lights were still on in the boat. He crouched there in the darkness, wet and cold. After a while, the lights went out below and Ferguson and Dillon appeared. The deck lights went out, they came up the gangway and walked away, talking.

When the sound of the voices had faded, he hurried across, went below and stripped hurriedly. He towelled, found fresh clothes and dressed. Then he pulled on the bomber jacket, which still had his mobile in one of the pockets. He reached under one of the benches, pulled up a plank, rummaged inside and took out a Smith amp; Wesson revolver. He slipped it in a pocket and left, switching off the lights.

He walked away through the rain, not at all depressed, actually laughing out loud. What a bastard Dillon was, and it was nice to have a face to put on Ferguson 's name after all these years. It was all a game, after all. He understood that, so did Dillon and Ferguson, but did the Connection? He reached the Escort, got in and drove away.

Dillon pulled up outside Ferguson 's flat in Cavendish Square. 'I suppose it means we don't have to worry about Cohan for the rest of his stay.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'He's no samurai, our Jack, he has no intention of committing suicide. Now that he knows we're on to him, if he was here for Cohan, he's on his way.'

'You say if

'Let's wait and see.'

'And our mystery assassin – your woman?'

'Let's wait and see there also.'

Ferguson nodded. 'Nine o'clock. My office.' He got out and Dillon leaned through the window.

'Charles? You will have that wrist seen to, won't you? None of that British stoicism, I hope.'

Ferguson smiled. 'Don't worry, Sean, I'm not daft. Now be off with you.'

Dillon drove away.

The weather was terrible as Barry drove out of London. Heavy, heavy rain. For some reason though, he still felt incredibly cheerful, as he stopped on the motorway at a Little Chef, had an all-day English breakfast and bought half a bottle of Scotch in the shop.

He drank a quarter of it on his way down to Roundhay, where he found the little airstrip dark and quiet, except for a light in the barn. He drove in beside the Chieftain and found Docherty sitting on a stool reading a newspaper.

'Did it go well, Jack?' he asked.

'Don't ask. Just get me out of here. Can you do it?'

'I'm your man.'

Ten minutes later, the Chieftain lifted into the night, Barry sat back, opened the half-bottle of whiskey again and drank. Then he took out his mobile and rang the Connection.

'It's me, Barry.'

'Where are you?'

'On my way from England to Ireland in a small plane and lucky to be here.'