They stood there in silence and it started to rain. Keogh flung back his head and roared with laughter. “Hell, that sounded like a campaign speech. Off you go, gentlemen, and I’ll see you at Shannon.”
He turned and went inside.
In the helicopter, Ferguson busied himself with papers from his briefcase and hardly said a word. It was later when they were being driven from Andrews in an Air Force limousine through the heavy Washington traffic that he finally put the papers away and leaned back.
“Interesting man, Patrick Keogh. Triumphs on occasion, but also tragedies and mistakes.”
“But he’s still here,” Dillon said. “He’s a survivor. He doesn’t whine when something goes wrong. He picks himself up and gets on with it.”
“You liked him?”
“Oh yes, I think he’s a man who can look in the mirror and not be afraid.”
Ferguson said, “I didn’t know you had an artistic soul, Dillon,” and at that moment they reached the White House and were delivered to the West Basement Entrance.
When an aide showed them into the Oval Office, there was no one there.
“Please wait, gentlemen,” he said.
Outside, darkness was falling and Ferguson moved to the window and looked out. “My God, but we’re part of history here, Dillon, from Roosevelt to Clinton and everything in between.”
“I know,” Dillon said. “The performance continues relentlessly. It’s like the Windmill Theatre during the Blitz in London during the Second World War. The motto was: We never closed.”
A private door clicked open and Clinton appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Brigadier Ferguson?” He held out his hand.
“Mr. President.”
“And Mr. Dillon?”
“So they tell me,” Dillon said.
“Be seated, gentlemen.” They did as they were told and Clinton sat behind the desk. “You’ve seen Senator Keogh, I understand, and everything’s in place?”
“Yes,” Ferguson said. “Or as far as it can be at this moment in time.”
“He’s spoken with me on the phone and seems more than happy with your plans.”
“Good,” Ferguson said.
Clinton got up and walked to the window. “A fact of life when you hold high office, gentlemen, is that in the eyes of the media everything becomes political.”
“I’m afraid it has always been so,” Ferguson told him.
“I know.” Clinton nodded. “Anything I do must have some political advantage. This has already been said about the efforts I’ve made to help with the Irish situation.” He came back to the desk and sat down. “Not true, gentlemen. Politicians are accused of many things, but for once I can say, hand on heart, that I’m interested in the outcome for its own sake, and in this case that means peace in Ireland.”
“I believe you, sir,” Ferguson said.
“Thank you and please believe Senator Keogh also. There is no personal advantage for him in this business. He’s putting himself on the firing line here because he believes it’s worth doing. As I said, I’ve talked to Senator Keogh and he seems satisfied with your plan of campaign. I’d appreciate it if you’d go over it with me now, Brigadier.”
When Ferguson was finished, Clinton nodded. “It makes sense to me.” He turned. “Mr. Dillon?”
“It could all be beautifully simple,” Dillon said, “but surprise is everything, the Senator arriving out of the blue and so on. Secrecy is essential to the whole thing.”
“Yes, I agree.” Clinton checked his wristwatch. “Midnight in London, gentlemen, which means it’s now Friday there. I’m expecting news of the timing of the IRA meeting at Ardmore House quite soon now. I’d go to your hotel and catch a little sleep now while the going’s good, Brigadier. I’ll be in touch on the instant.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Clinton pressed the buzzer on his desk and stood. “Once again, I can’t impress on you enough the importance of this mission.”
An aide came in and held the door open for them.
It was in fact only four hours later that Dillon came awake with a start in his hotel room and reached for the telephone.
“ Ferguson here. I’ve got the good word, so stir yourself, Dillon, and let’s get out of here. I’ve phoned Andrews and the Lear will be ready to leave by the time we get there. I’ll see you downstairs.”
The phone went dead and Dillon hauled himself out of bed. “Wonderful,” he said. “Bloody marvelous. There must be a better way of making a living,” and he stood up and went to the shower.
As the Lear lifted and turned out over the Atlantic, Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and altered his watch. “Five-thirty in the morning London time.”
“Yes, with luck we should hit Gatwick by noon. Flight Lieutenant Jones tells me we’ll have tailwind all the way across.”
“So, what about the Ardmore House meeting? When is it?”
“Sunday afternoon at two.”
“That’s all right then. Is it okay if I sleep now?” And Dillon dropped his seat back and closed his eyes.
LONDON
IRELAND
LONDON
1994
TWELVE
Hannah Bernstein was working in her office when Dillon went in. She took off her glasses and rubbed her forehead.
“Where’s the Brigadier?”
“Dropped off at Cavendish Square to change clothes. He’ll be here directly, then he wants to see the Prime Minister again.”
“Has anything been finalized?”
“You could say that. The IRA meeting is at Ardmore House on Sunday afternoon at two. Keogh will arrive at Shannon in a private Gulfstream. He’ll proceed by helicopter at once to Drumgoole.”
“And security?”
“The good Senator will be quite content with you, me, and the Brigadier.”
She smiled in delight. “So he hasn’t left me out? I thought he might.”
“Now why would he do a thing like that to you?” Dillon grinned and lit a cigarette.
“How do you get on with Keogh?”
“Fine. A decent enough stick and not at all the way some of these reporters write him up. He’s got plenty of guts to take this thing on.” Dillon nodded. “I liked him. How have we got on with the January 30 investigation?”
“I’ve pulled the printouts for you. I think it’s all done. Here, I’ll show you.” She got up and walked into the office Dillon had been using. The printouts were neatly stacked by the computer. “That lot there is the Russian inquiry you asked for, details of personnel at the Soviet Embassy.”
“Good, I’ll have a quick look.”
“A long look, Dillon, there’s a lot of it. Of course, senior personnel are at the top.” She smiled. “I’ll make some tea,” and she went back to her office.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, there was a step behind her and she turned. Dillon stood in the doorway, his face pale and excited. There was a computer printout in his hand. He laid it on her desk.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“A nicely colored photo and full details on a man called Colonel Yuri Belov, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy.”
“So?” She carried on making the tea.
“It’s been suggested he’s Head of London Station for the GRU, that’s the Russian Military Intelligence.”
“I know what it is, Dillon.” She came and stood at his shoulder. Belov, in the photo, smiled up at her.
“Does he look familiar to you?” Dillon asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say that he does.”
“Well he does to me.”
At that moment the outer door opened and Ferguson entered. “Ah, is that tea on the go? Jolly good. I’ll have a quick cup, then I’ll get off to Downing Street.”