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.
But he was still here. It was Hannah Bernstein who had gone, and Blake, surprised at his own emotion, waved to Mary and ordered another brandy and ginger ale. It was one too many, but this was Ireland after all.
So what awaited him in Ballykelly and Drumore? To his surprise he found that he didn’t really care. He’d survived Vietnam, the curse of most of his generation, and had medals to prove it. He’d survived the worst the FBI could offer, had taken a bullet to save his President’s life, had survived even worse things since.
“What can these IRA clowns do to me?” He finished his Horse’s Neck, opened his briefcase and took out a small miracle of modern technology that clipped low down behind the belt. A backup if his mobile phone went, which it well might.
“To hell with the IRA, time to move on,” he said. “What will be, will be.”
The Gulfstream descended, landed and taxied all the way round to the Special Affairs arrivals. Mary opened the door and he got up.
“Okay, son, let’s get it done,” he breathed.
It was what his old unit commander used to say in Vietnam. It was amazing how everything that ever touched you in your life stayed with you until the end.
“See you later, Mary,” he said, and went down the Airstairs door.
His Air Force pilots were right. It was raining as he drove out of the airport in a BMW. He’d already tasted the difference in the way people spoke. He’d certainly experienced an Irish accent on many occasions, but the Northern Irish one was totally different. He switched on his route-finder and punched in his destination. The details of where to go and how flowed through, and he followed them.