The White House Connection by Jack Higgins Page B

and he did for me - rescuing my daughter from those terrorists — I'll never forget that. But this? You're going into the war zone.'
     
     
Thornton said, 'Think about it, Blake. You'd be going into harm's way and is it really necessary?'
     
     
Blake said, 'Gentlemen, we've worked our rocks off for peace in Northern Ireland. Sinn Fein have tried, the Loyalists have talked, but again and again it's these terrorist splinter groups on both sides who keep things going. This man, Jack Barry, is a bad one. I must remind you, Mr President, that he is also an American citizen, a serving officer in Vietnam who was eased out for offences that can only be described as murder. He's been a butcher for years, and he's our responsibility as much as theirs. I say take him out.'
     
     
Jake Cazalet was smiling. He looked up at Thornton, who was smiling too.
     
     
'You obviously feel strongly about this, Blake.' 'I sure as hell do, Mr President.'
     
     
'Then try and come back in one piece. It would seriously inconvenience me to lose you.'
     
     
'Oh, I'd hate to do that, Mr President.'
     
     
In London in his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson put down the red secure phone and touched the intercom button.
     
     
'Come in.'
     
     
A moment later, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein entered.
     
     
'I've spoken to Blake Johnson. He'll be at the Europa Hotel the day after tomorrow, booked in as Tommy McGuire. You two will join him.'
     
     
'What kind of backup will we have, sir?' Hannah asked.
     
     
'You're the backup, Chief Inspector. I don't want the RUC in this or Army Intelligence from Lisburn. Even the cleaning women are nationalists there. Leaks all over the place. You, Dillon and Blake Johnson must handle it. You only need one pair of handcuffs for Barry.'
     
     
It was Dillon who said, 'Consider it done, Brigadier.'
     
     
'Can you guarantee that?'
     
     
'As the coffin lid closing.'
     
     
FOUR
     
     
As frequently happened in Belfast, a cold north wind drove rain across the city, stirring the waters of Belfast Lough, rattling the windows of Dillon's room at the Europa, the most bombed hotel in the world. He looked out over the railway station, remembering the extent to which this city had figured in his life. His father's death all those years ago, the bombings, the violence. Now the powers that be were trying to end all that.
     
     
He reached for the phone and called Hannah Bernstein in her room. 'It's me. Are you decent?'
     
     
'No. Just out of the shower.'
     
     
'I'll be straight round.'
     
     
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. What do you want?'
     
     
'I phoned the airport. There's an hour's delay on the London plane. I think I'll go down to the bar. Do you fancy some lunch?'
     
     
'Sandwiches would do.'
     
     
'I'll see you there.'
     
     
It was shortly after noon, the Library Bar quiet. He ordered tea, Barry's tea, Ireland's favourite, and sat in the corner reading the Belfast Telegraph. Hannah joined him twenty minutes later, looking trim in a brown trouser suit, her red hair tied back.
     
     
He nodded his approval. 'Very nice. You look as if you're here to report on the fashion show.'
     
     
'Tea?' she said. 'Sean Dillon drinking tea, and the bar open. That I should live to see the day.'
     
     
He grinned and waved to the barman. 'Ham sandwiches for me, this being Ireland. What about you?'
     
     
'Mixed salad will be fine, and tea.'
     
     
He gave the barman the order and folded the newspaper. 'Here we are again then, sallying forth to help solve the Irish problem.'
     
     
'And you don't think we can?'
     
     
'Seven hundred years, Hannah. Any kind of a solution has been a long time coming.'
     
     
'You seem a little down.'
     
     
He lit a cigarette. 'Oh, that's just the Belfast feeling. The minute I'm back, the smell of the place, the feel of it, takes over. It will always be the war zone to me. The bad old days. I should go and see my father's grave, but I never do.'
     
     
'Is there a