The White House Connection

'But what have I done?'

'Oh, nothing personally. I'm sure you have clean hands, you're a typical politician, but you did connive, along with the rest of the Sons of Erin.'

Cohan had never been so terrified. 'Oh, my God, it is you! But why? Why?'

She took out her silver cigarette case one-handed, got one in her mouth and lit it. 'I had a son, Senator, a brave and gallant young man. Let me tell you what his ending was because of the stupid fantasy games you and your friends got up to.'

When she was finished, Cohan was ashen-faced. He sat there, huddled in the corner of the sofa. She poured another whiskey and passed it to him.

'It's unbelievable,' he said.

'But true, Senator, your worst nightmare. I shot Tim Pat Ryan here in London, went to New York and got your friends Brady, Kelly and Cassidy.'

He swallowed the whiskey. 'What do you want?'

'Let's start with some questions. The Connection. Who is he?'

'A voice on the phone, I swear it.'

'But surely you have some clue?'

'No! He knows things, but I don't know how he knows them! He never says!'

'And Jack Barry? Where would he be?'

'Somewhere in Northern Ireland, that's all I know.'

'But you were talking to him, I heard you.'

'A special phone, a coded mobile. It has a number, but it can't be traced.'

'Really?' She picked the mobile up. 'What's the number?' He hesitated and she raised the Colt.

He gave it to her.

Barry was having supper when his mobile rang. 'Who is this?' Helen Lang said, 'Nobody special, Mr Barry, but I will be in touch.'

She put the mobile in her purse, moved to the desk, quickly noted the number on a note pad and put that in her purse also.

She had switched the Colt to her left hand so that she could write, and Cohan, seizing his chance, threw his glass at her and plunged through the curtains to the terrace.

It was stupid, really. He had nowhere to go. There was a small fountain, a fish spouting water, and a step beyond, the terrace wall. He peered over, looked at the ribbon of light moving along Park Lane, and below the ledge spotted an iron ladder going down, obviously for maintenance purposes. He quickly sat astride the coping, one foot feeling for the ladder, just as Helen Lang came through the curtains, the Colt ready.

'No, for God's sake, no!' he screamed, and then his foot slipped and he was falling.

Helen looked down, saw a sudden stoppage of traffic, horns honking, the sound drifting up. She turned at once, went through the suite to the door, opened it and went out. A few moments later, she was descending to the foyer. She walked through to the ballroom, took a glass of champagne from a tray held by one of the waiters by the door, and mingled.

Nemesis was the right word. It hadn't needed her on this occasion. Cohan had paid an inevitable price. Everything came around, a law of life. She hadn't needed to do it herself, only that it should be done. It was enough. She saw a great deal of movement down at the main door, caught a glimpse of Ferguson and Dillon and then was aware of a pain in her chest. She found her pill box, swallowed two with a gulp of champagne and walked towards the ballroom entrance.

'Perhaps he's gone up to his suite,' Dillon said as they finished their search of the ballroom, and then there was the sound of horns from outside the ballroom, a considerable disturbance. Hannah said to Ferguson, 'I'd better see what the trouble is, sir.' The traffic had slowed noticeably, and Hannah immediately saw the cause of it. There were people on the pavement surrounding a body, and a single motorcycle cop was standing beside his machine and calling it in. Hannah flashed her ID.

'Chief Inspector Bernstein, Special Branch. What happened?'

'I was just passing, guv. He fell from up the top, nearly hit a passing couple. The woman is in shock over there. I've called an ambulance and backup.'

Hannah leaned down and recognized Cohan at once. She straightened. 'I know this man, Constable, he's a guest at the hotel. You stay shtum , no answers to any questions, not to the press, not to anyone. This is a red alert. You know what that means?'

'Of course I do, guv.'

'I'm going inside, but I'll be back.'

They checked out Cohan's suite, the three of them, with a decidedly shaken duty manager. Hannah said, 'Not a thing, no sign of a struggle.'

'I agree, Chief Inspector,' Ferguson said. 'But did he fall or was he pushed?' He turned to Dillon. "What do you think?'

'Oh, come on, Brigadier, who believes in coincidence in our business?'

'Yes, I agree.' Ferguson nodded. 'She must be one hell of a woman.'

'I'm inclined to agree,' Dillon nodded.

Ferguson said to the duty manager, 'Keep this suite locked and secure. You'll have police here to do forensic tests quite soon.'

'Of course, Brigadier.'

Ferguson turned to Dillon. 'You break the bad news to Blake, and obviously through him, to the President. I'll handle the Prime Minister.'

'The great pity it is, your knighthood going down the drain like this,' Dillon said.

Ferguson smiled. 'I always knew you were on my side, Dillon.'

In spite of the close proximity of the house in South Audley Street, Lady Helen had arranged for Hedley to wait for her in Park Lane in the Mercedes. She pushed her way out through the curious onlookers, passing what was left of Senator Michael Cohan. Hedley saw her coming, jumped out and got the rear door open. She got in, he climbed behind the wheel and drove away.

'Just drive around, Hedley, it's been a heavy night.' She lit a cigarette.

'What happened?'

She told him everything. 'So, Cohan's gone and I'm actually left with a link with Jack Barry.' She held up the mobile. 'I'll try him again, shall I?'

Barry grabbed at the phone when it rang. 'Who is this?'

'Nemesis,' she said. 'But first, some hot news. Senator Michael Cohan took a fall from the seventh floor of the Dorchester in Park Lane. I'm using his mobile.'

More than at any time before in his life, Jack Barry was shaken rigid. 'What are you telling me?'

'That Senator Michael Cohan is lying on the pavement in Park Lane outside the Dorchester Hotel. It's like a bad Saturday night in Belfast. Police, ambulances, onlookers, but then you know about this kind of thing.'

Strangely enough, Barry wasn't angry. He actually knew a kind of fear. 'Who in the hell are you?'

'Brady, Kelly, Cassidy in New York, Tim Pat Ryan in London, and now Senator Michael Cohan. That's who I am.' She laughed. 'That just leaves you and the Connection.'

Barry took a deep breath. 'Okay, so who are you? Loyalist freedom fighters? Red Hand of Ulster? Protestant scum?'

'Actually, it may surprise you to know that I'm a Roman Catholic, Mr Barry. Religion doesn't come into it and I'm surprised you say Protestant scum. You're a Protestant yourself.

So was Wolfe Tone, who invented Irish Republicanism; so was Parnell, who came close to achieving a United Ireland.' She was enjoying herself now. 'Then there was Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, Sean O'Casey, all Prods.'

He cut in, angry now. 'What kind of shite is this? I don't need a fugging history lesson. What's it about? Who are you?'

'The woman who is going to execute you, just like I executed the others. Justice, Mr Barry, is what it's about, a rare commodity these days, but I intend to have it.'

He listened to her soft, measured voice, entirely the wrong kind of voice for what he was hearing. His anger increased. You're mad.'

'Not really. You butchered my son in Ulster three years ago, and executed his friends, four of them, including a woman. You wouldn't remember, Mr Barry, I'm sure. You've got so much blood on your hands, it's hard to remember which corpse is which.' She was giving him too much information, but it was all right. A plan was forming in her mind.

Barry had never felt so frustrated. 'Look, Cohan's mobile is to use to you. It's coded. Any calls are untraceable.'

"Yes, but I can at least speak to you.'