There was a heavy silence, and it was Jake Cazalet who said, “You’re right. Everything you say is right.”

“Everything I say is what the world will seize on. Because the President sent him there, your father will be part of it, and because he was your father, you, sir, will be part of it. In my opinion, that is what Baron Max von Berger has already worked out.”

Everyone stirred uneasily. It was Blake who said, “Then how on earth can one combat him? Do we try preempting the whole thing? Spilling the story first?”

It was Ferguson who said, “It’s the story that’s the trouble.”

“I agree,” the President said. “And the trouble is, gentlemen, I’m engaged in world affairs of great moment. To be arguing with the United Nations over Iraq, with the threat of a scandal like this hanging over us – it would be a disaster. My opponents at home would rip me to pieces. Our enemies abroad would immediately take advantage.”

“So that means-?” Ferguson said, looking directly at the President.

Cazalet smiled, but there was no humor to it.

“Mr. Dillon?” he said. “If we had that diary…”

Dillon nodded. “I’ll see what we can do, sir.” He looked at Johnson.

“You up for it, Blake?”

Blake grinned. “I’m your man, Sean.”

London

Scotland

Ireland

9.

MEANWHILE, MARCO ROSSI, trawling the security files at Rashid Investments, had discovered the scale of Kate Rashid’s involvement, not only in southern Arabia, but nearer to home in Ireland. In fact, she’d had very active arms deals brewing with both dissident IRA and Protestant Loyalist groups. Kate had been very evenhanded.

There was one name in particular he knew, a man once big with the Ulster Defence Association who, after a very public row, had moved to the Red Hand of Ulster, probably the most extremist Loyalist organization of all.

The sums of money involved were quite staggering. No sense letting that all go to waste, he thought.

This explained why he was walking through Kilburn, the most Irish area of London, on a dark evening, in a black bomber jacket, a Walther PPK snug against his back, to meet one Patrick Murphy. Mr. Murphy was the landlord of a public house called The Orange George, its outside wall painted in a way reminiscent of a Protestant area in Belfast.

Marco listened to the Irish music, then went in. The pub was full, and an Irish band was playing. He stood at one end, and a good-looking, middle-aged woman came up.

“Patrick Murphy is expecting me.”

“Is that so.” She looked him over and smiled. “You’re not having me on?”

He reached over and stroked her cheek. “I’d love to, and maybe later, but Pat Murphy is expecting me. Just say Marco. What’s your name?”

“Janet.”

“Well, who knows, Janet?”

She flushed and went into the back, more excited than she had been in a long time.

Murphy was seated in the back room, a late-middle-aged man with a belly on him, an account book open on the table, when Janet showed Marco in.

“Ah, Mr. Rossi. You’d better sit down.” He nodded to Janet, who went out. He reached for a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses and poured.

“Good health.” He drank his whiskey. Marco ignored his and lit a cigarette.

“So, where are we?”

Murphy said, “I was quite thrown to get your phone call. I mean, Derry Gibson. How would I be knowing a desperate character like that?”

Marco saw him for what he was, a small man, a go-between, useful in his small way, probably in love with the idea that he was some kind of rebel.

“You’d know him because you had dealings with Kate Rashid a year ago and brokered a meeting for her with Derry Gibson, who had money from the drug trade and wanted to buy arms. Two cargoes off-loaded in County Down earlier this year, and a third was arranged just before Kate Rashid’s unfortunate death. A two-million-pound deal was supposed to take place in a week.”

“I don’t know Derry Gibson.”

“Then I’m wasting my time here. I’ll have to find another buyer for those AK47s and Stinger missiles. Maybe the IRA.” Marco picked up the glass, swallowed the whiskey and stood up.

The rear door creaked open and a hard, tough-looking man of around forty-five walked in, with blond hair, wearing a jacket in Donegal tweed, and an open-necked black shirt. His voice had the distinctive Ulster accent. In a strange way, it reminded Marco of Dillon’s.

“Just hold it right there. I’m Derry Gibson.”

“Why, what a surprise,” Marco said. “And me thinking you were at Drumgoole on the Down Coast.”

“Well, I was, until this idiot phoned me yesterday, so you might say I’ve flown here in a hurry. What’s going on?”

“It’s simple. You used to deal with Kate Rashid. Now she’s dead, and my father, Baron Max von Berger, has taken over the firm. I’m Marco Rossi, as I’m sure you know, and I’m in charge of all security matters for Rashid and Berger.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and some other affairs, as well. Though, to be frank, with all her money, I wonder why Kate bothered with little deals like this. Two million? She was a romantic, I suppose.”

And the strange thing was, Gibson’s face changed. “Damn you, don’t you put her down. She was a great lady.”

One hand went inside his jacket and Marco said, “Tell you what. Let’s put both our cards on the table. And everything else.” He put his hand behind him, found the Walther and put it on the table.

Derry Gibson hesitated, then took a Walther of his own from his right pocket and laid it on the table, as well. “You’ve got good taste in guns. Let’s talk.”

“I’ve got a Spanish deep-sea trawler, the Mona Lisa, that should do the trick,” Rossi said. “Italian registration. European fishery regulations allow it to be there. It can drop off at Drumgoole on the night indicated. No problem.” Marco smiled. “I’m not going to say hold out the cash as soon as we beach, because I know you know how to play the game. You’ll want to make more deals.”

“And you, Mr. Rossi. I wonder why you’re doing this. You’ve got money, too, I understand.”

“Yes, but it keeps things interesting. I like the action, Gibson, always did. In fact, when the Mona Lisa turns up in Drumgoole, I’ll be on board. I’ll go out from the Isle of Man by another boat and join her.”

“All right. We’ll have a whiskey on it,” and Gibson picked up the bottle.

Marco said, “No, there’s more. I require a favor, here in London. Would you happen to know a gangster called Harry Salter, and his nephew Billy?”

It was Murphy, standing by the back door, who exploded. “Real villains, those two. Harry Salter was one of the top guvnors in the East End, big as the Krays. He’s gone legit in the last few years, supposedly. Mind you, the whisper is that he’s into cigarette smuggling in a big way, from Holland. The profit is enormous.”

“It pays better than heroin,” Gibson said.

“You would know.”

“I might. What have you got against Salter?”

Marco said, “Have you ever heard of a fellow countryman of yours, once a big man with the IRA, called Sean Dillon?”

Gibson said, “Everyone in our business knows Dillon, that bloody Fenian bastard. Works for the Brits now.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. Charles-bloody-Ferguson. He’s been the scourge of the IRA for years, but he doesn’t do the Loyalist side any favors, ould Charles, and with Sean as his good right hand, he’s a difficult man to deal with.”

“You sound like you know Dillon personally.”

“We’ve exchanged shots. We were once in the same sewer in Derry after a riot – the British army always had difficulty in telling the difference between the IRA and the Prods. It was Dillon who got me out to the river. He said, ‘Keep running. Only don’t run back to me or I’ll kill you.’” He poured another whiskey. “He kills everyone, that’s what they say about him.” He stared into his glass. “But he got me out of the sewer and I was the enemy. I’ve always wondered why he did that.”