“ Belfast, seventy-eight,” Dillon told him. “I remember it well. We got out of the Falls Road one night using the same sewer.” He turned to McGuinness. “And you, Martin. The old days in Derry were like a bad movie.”
“Incredible,” Adams told him. “You nearly got John Major and the whole British Cabinet in Downing Street in ninety-one, and here you are with Ferguson.”
“Turncoat is it, Sean?” McGuinness asked.
“And aren’t we all that now in the cause of peace?” Dillon shot back.
Gerry Adams exploded into laughter. “God help us, but he’s got you there, Martin,” he said as they followed the others up the steps to the entrance.
The entrance hall of Ardmore House was very large and there were at least fifty men crammed in there and a handful of women. Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon stood against the wall at the back and Keogh was halfway up the huge staircase, flanked by Adams and McGuinness.
Gerry Adams said, “One of our own, Senator Patrick Keogh. Listen to what he has to say, that’s all I ask.”
There was a murmur that stilled as Keogh started to speak.
“When my great-grandfather left Ireland all those years ago for East Boston, it was to find a new life – to be an American – but like so many other families in the same tradition we were Irish Americans – good Catholics with warm memories of home and nationalist ideals. Ireland must be free, that was our creed, but I think we perhaps forgot one thing, and it’s this. There are just as many Irish Americans with Protestant roots as Catholic.” There was a murmur from the crowd and he raised his hand. “Bear with me, friends, I beg you. I’m a Catholic by birth, perhaps not a good one, but I’ll always remain one, and isn’t there room for all of us? When I was a youngster and involved with Irish history, I was much influenced by Wolfe Tone, who founded the United Irishmen. He said that Ireland had a right to assert its independence. I agreed with everything he wrote and was amazed to discover that he was a Protestant.”
Someone laughed and there was scattered clapping. He carried on, “The other day someone quoted an ancient Protestant toast to me. Our country too.” He paused and there was total silence. “We should seize that toast, my friends. Ireland belongs to every decent Irish man and woman, irrespective of creed. If you can go forward and declare that as your belief, make peace after twenty-five bloody years, reach out your hand and say to the other side, let’s go forward together, then I think that would be the most significant step ever taken in the history of this country.”
There was total stillness and then someone started to clap and the clapping spread and suddenly there was cheering and the applause mounted.
Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein and Dillon. “That’s it. Back to the helicopter.”
Walking through the rain beneath the single umbrella Dillon had, Hannah said, “What did you think, sir?”
“Very impressive.”
“And you, Dillon?” She turned to him.
“I’ve lived my life day by day for the past twenty-five years,” he said. “I’ve a habit of expecting the worst.”
“Bastard!” she said.
At the bottom of the steps leading up to the Gulfstream, Keogh turned to Ferguson and shook hands. “An interesting experience, Brigadier. If I can ever do you a favor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Keogh took Hannah’s hand. “Chief Inspector.” He turned to Dillon. “You know you haven’t said much since Drumgoole. Come on, Dillon, one Irishman to another.”
“I was thinking what a terrible pity it was that there wasn’t a press photographer present when she fired at you and you turned your back and protected those little girls. God, they’d have elected you President.” Dillon sighed. “And nobody will ever know.”
“I’ll know.” Patrick Keogh grinned. “Goodbye, my friend,” and he went up the steps.
They stood in the shelter of the hangar and watched the Gulfstream lift into the gray sky. Hare turned to Ferguson. “What about this Grace Browning?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about her,” Ferguson said. “Instinct tells me she’ll be on her way back to my patch.”
“And what then?”
“An interesting point,” Ferguson said. “She’s dead, remember, drowned in the River Thames after an unfortunate accident.”
“But she isn’t,” Hare said. “What happens when she surfaces?”
“She won’t,” Ferguson said. “Not in the way you mean. You see, she’s not quite on her own yet, Chief Superintendent. I do have a source I can go to. Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it, believe me.” He shook hands. “Thanks for your help.”
“Just do me one favor,” Hare said. “Don’t come back for a while. I don’t think I could stand the excitement.”
Ferguson laughed, then turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Come on, you two,” he said to Dillon and Hannah, put up his umbrella, and walked toward the Lear jet.
The Conquest landed at Coldwater just before darkness fell. Inside the hangar, Carson killed the engines, got out of the pilot’s seat, dropped the Airstair door, and went down. Grace Browning slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the suitcase, and followed.
He was lighting a cigarette and paused in the entrance to look out at the desolate landscape and the rain. When he turned there was a different look on his face, hard, calculating.
“I said I thought I knew you and now I remember. I saw you in a film on television.”
“Really?” she said. “So what?”
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but whatever it is it’s worth more than I’ve been paid. I had a look in your suitcase while you were away. I found that two thousand pounds. I’ve taken it.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said calmly.
“You can suit yourself.”
“Oh, I will.”
She reached into her shoulder bag, took out the Beretta, and shot him twice in the heart. Carson fell back against the tail of the Conquest, bounced off, and fell on his back. He was already dead when she leaned down, felt inside his flying jacket, and found the two bundles of ten-pound notes. Her mad money. She frowned at the thought. Is that what I am? She put the money in her shoulder bag, picked up the suitcase, went out and rolled the hangar door shut, then she walked to her Mini car, got in, and drove away.
The Lear Jet had already landed at Gatwick and as the Daimler drove down into London, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the phone. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein sat there listening and finally Ferguson put the phone down.
“And what did the great man have to say?” Dillon asked.
“Damn glad things worked out for Keogh as they did, but he’s horrified that the Browning woman is out there like a loose cannon. Wants to make sure we do something about her.”
“But what can we do, sir?” Hannah asked.
Ferguson smiled. “I think it’s time I spoke to Yuri Belov,” and he leaned back in his seat.
Grace Browning drove into a motorway service area just before reaching the outskirts of London. She sat there in the car in the rain for a while feeling very tired, drained of all emotion. Finally she got out and made her way through the parked cars to the cafe.
There was a newsstand by the shop just inside the entrance, copies of the latest edition of the Evening Standard stacked there, and Rupert Lang’s face stared out at her. She took a copy, went into the cafe and got a coffee, then went and sat at a corner table and looked at the paper.
It was all there, his career in the Army, his presence at Bloody Sunday, his subsequent years in politics, and then the tragic accident. There was a smaller photo of Tom Curry, a discreet mention of the fact they had lived together for many years. The circumstances of Curry’s unfortunate death were treated fully and the inference was plain.