“Absolutely,” Blake told him. “A matter under presidential warrant.”
“With you, that usually means dealings with Charles Ferguson. I notice your Gulfstream is using Farley Field, that small RAF base Ferguson uses for his special operations.”
“That’s right.”
“Enough said. My transport people tell me you have a stopover in Belfast.”
“A visit to make. I’ll only be on the ground a few hours.”
“Blake, we first knew each other in Saigon thirty-five years ago. I know what kind of visit you make.” He came round the desk and embraced Blake warmly. “God bless, my friend, and take care. My regards to the President.”
An Embassy Mercedes and a chauffeur took him from there to the chapel in a very short space of time. It stood on the edge of the cemetery and there were a number of limousines parked outside, drivers in uniform standing around. A large notice at the door said “Private Bereavement.” Blake went in and found a modest company assembled. Rabbi Bernstein was being helped by another rabbi who was wearing black ribbons and handing them out to people who were obviously family members up at the front, who pinned them to their clothes. The coffin was very plain, in accordance with Jewish custom, and closed.
Ferguson, the Salters and Roper stood at the back of the pews, Dillon slightly apart, though Billy Salter stood close to him. They both wore black suits and ties and crisp white shirts, and looked like the Devil’s henchmen. In a strange way it was as if they were brothers, faces bone white, skin stretching taut over cheekbones.
A eulogy was made. The other rabbi whispered to Bernstein, who made a hand motion. He said to the assembly, “My grief speaks for itself that my beloved granddaughter is taken too early. There is one person who knows her worth more than most.” Billy turned to look at Dillon, but Bernstein carried on, “Major General Charles Ferguson, for whom she worked, on secondment from Special Branch, for a number of years.”
Ferguson walked down the aisle and joined the two rabbis. “What can I say about this truly remarkable and gifted human being? A scholar of Oxford University who chose the life of a police officer, who placed her life at risk, who was wounded more than once, who rose to the rank of Detective Superintendent in Special Branch – these are extraordinary achievements.”
Dillon took a step back, Blake was aware of that. Ferguson turned to Bernstein and said, “Rabbi, excuse me if I preempt your role, but I must quote, with your permission, from Proverbs.”
“With my permission and my blessing,” Julian Bernstein told him.
In a strong voice, Ferguson said, “A woman of worth who can find; for her price is far above rubies.”
Dillon took a huge, choking breath, stepped even farther back, turned and went out, and Billy went after him.
Dillon was standing by the Mini Cooper. It had started to rain. He took a trench coat out and pulled it on. Billy waved to Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, who were standing by the People Traveller, and Hall produced a large black umbrella and hurried over, opening it. Dillon lit a cigarette, hands shaking.
Billy held the umbrella over him and said to Baxter, “Get the flask out.” Baxter did and Billy said, “Bushmills. Get it down.” Dillon stared at him vacantly. “She’d expect you to.”
Dillon swallowed. He paused, then had another swallow. He shook his head, face flushed. “Tell me, Billy, why does it always rain at funerals?”
“I’d say it’s because the script demands it. It’s life imitating art. You want another one?”
“Maybe just one.”
At that moment, Igor Levin arrived late. He parked and went forward to the entrance, glanced briefly at Dillon, then went on. There was something more, Dillon was aware of that, but his emotion was too great. He drank a little more Bushmills and returned the flask to Joe Baxter, and a moment later people emerged from the chapel.
There was a family plot, the open grave ready. People huddled round, a festoon of umbrellas against the rain. Dillon and Billy stood at the rear, Ferguson and company on the other side, Levin hidden amongst a group of friends, the umbrellas concealing everything.
As the coffin was lowered, the other rabbi put an arm around Julian Bernstein and said in a loud voice, “May she come to her place in peace.”
Dillon turned to Billy. “I’m out of it. The rest is for family. The Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, I’ve no business with it. I’m not sure if I was even a friend.”
“Come off it, Dillon, she thought the world of you.”
“Not really, Billy. I brought her too much grief. I can’t get that out of my head. I dragged her into one lousy job after another.”
“No place she did not willingly go, Dillon.”
“So why do I feel so bloody guilty?” He got in the Mini Cooper. “I’ll be in touch, Billy.”
Blake Johnson hurried over and leaned down. “Sean, are you okay?”
“See you, Blake. Take care in bandit country.”
He drove away. Blake said, “What do you think?”
“A volcano waiting to explode.”
“I thought so. Anyway, I have to go now.”
“Take care in Ireland.”
“I will.”
Blake went to his limousine and was driven away. Levin, standing nearby, anonymous in the umbrellaed crowd, had heard the exchange between Blake and Billy. Now he returned to his Mercedes and phoned Ashimov, telling him of events at the funeral.
“So, he’s on his way?” Ashimov asked.
“So it seems.”
“Well, we’ve passed a computer printout of his photo to the lads. I think he’s assured of a warm welcome.”
“You’re in charge,” Levin said.
Actually, the smart thing, he thought, would be to allow Blake Johnson to nose around a little, accept his pose as an American tourist and then send him on his way. On the other hand, he’d already learned not to expect the smart thing from the IRA, and Ashimov was beginning to worry him. He was proving far too emotional. But then that wasn’t his business, he just took orders, and he drove away.
At Farley Field, Blake found his Gulfstream waiting, two American Air Force officers standing by in flying overalls. “Any problems?” Blake asked.
“None, sir. Good weather for Belfast.”
“Not raining?”
“Hell, it always rains in Belfast, sir.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, we’ll see. You must excuse me for a minute. I have to go see someone.”
By arrangement with Ferguson, he had an appointment in the operations room with the Quartermaster, an ex-Guards sergeant major. The man had the weaponry waiting as Dillon had suggested, a Walther in a shoulder holster and a.25 Colt, a snub nose with a silencer.
“Like you asked, sir, hollow point, and the ankle holster you ordered. Will you be all right with this lot in Belfast, sir?”
“Diplomatic immunity, Sergeant Major.”
“I was wondering about the shoulder holster, sir. Is that wise?”
“Yes. If things go that way with the people I’m dealing with, they’ll think they’ve disarmed me, only I’ll still have the ankle holster.”
“If your luck is good, sir.”
“Oh, it always is, Sergeant Major.”
He went out to the Gulfstream, where he found a stewardess, a young sergeant named Mary, who was there to cater to his needs onward to Washington. They took off and climbed to thirty thousand feet and she came and offered him refreshment.
All he had was a brandy and ginger ale. Funny, as he sipped it he remembered the British Navy Commander who’d introduced him to it in Saigon back in good old Vietnam all those years ago. Of course, the Brits weren’t supposed to be there, but their Navy, with Borneo experience, had offered considerable expertise for American swift boats in the Mekong Delta. To the Royal Navy, this drink had been called a Horse’s Neck since time immemorial, and Blake, especially when confronted with stress, loved that mixture of brandy, ice and ginger ale beyond most things. It was the kind of thing that made life worth living. He savored every drop and thought of the present situation, which inevitably brought him back to his dear friend Sean Dillon. So many things they’d accomplished together. In various ways, Dillon had been part of saving two American presidents from an untimely end, and in the affair with President Clinton and the Prime Minister, Major, he’d taken wounds that had come close to ending his life.