In the kitchen he poured a little Scotch whisky into a glass and added Branch water while Mary made coffee. A literary agent by profession, she was nobody’s fool, but more than that she was a woman with a woman’s uncanny instinct to sense when things weren’t right.

She poured coffee. “You shouldn’t have this, you won’t sleep.”

“I won’t sleep anyway, not tonight.”

She sat on the opposite side of the table. “Tell me about it, Pat.”

So he did.

When he was finished she said, “It could be a can of worms. They’re asking you to put yourself on the line. Even the IRA can’t control all their people. There are splinter groups, real crazies. Look at those INLA people who killed Mountbatten, and these Protestant Loyalists are just as bad. Ulster Volunteer Force, Ulster Freedom Fighters, then there’s the Red Hand of Ulster. They’re the kind of fanatics who’d kill Queen Elizabeth if they thought it would advance their cause, and they’d still call themselves Loyalists while doing it.” She shook her head. “It’s a mad, crazy world over there. So much killing, so many years of brutality.”

“Which is why it has to stop.” He reached for the coffee pot. “It takes courage to make that decision. By the way, I went to Arlington before I came down. After all, it was Jack Kennedy who got me into politics. I felt close.”

“You always will be.”

“But while we’re on the subject of heroes…” He gave her a wry smile. “Where I’m concerned, some would say I have made a considerable number of errors, but not this time. This time I’m going to stand up and be counted.”

“You’re going to go?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can I go with you?”

“No.”

She sighed. “I see.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, proud of you, actually.”

“Good.” He stood up and reached out a hand. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll fly back to Washington in the morning and inform the President and John Major of my decision.”

It was a fine bright morning with a patchy sky, the Washington streets cleared by the rain, as Keogh’s sedan once again turned into the White House by the East Entrance. When Keogh went in, the Marine lieutenant from the previous evening was waiting.

“Good morning, Senator.”

“Don’t they ever give you any time off?” Keogh asked.

“Seldom, sir.” The young officer smiled. “I’m a fourth-generation Marine, Senator, Path of Duty and all that. If you’ll come this way, the President and the Prime Minister are in the Rose Garden.”

As Keogh joined them, Clinton turned and smiled. “You must have got up early.”

“You could say that, but I wanted to catch you both together before the Prime Minister left.”

“You’re going to go?” Clinton said.

“Yes, I think you can count on that. What kind of time scale are we talking about?”

Clinton turned to John Major, who said, “Quite soon. The next few days. Obviously the Irish Prime Minister must know, and Gerry Adams.”

“We’ll let you know at the soonest possible moment, Patrick,” Clinton told him.

“That’s fine. I’m at your disposal.”

“There is, of course, the question of your personal safety,” Clinton said.

Patrick Keogh smiled wryly. “Mr. President, I’m a big target. Having said that, I don’t take kindly to the idea of a dozen Secret Servicemen surrounding me at all times.”

“But you must have some security.” Clinton was shocked.

“Yes, well maybe we should look to our British cousins for that. They are, after all, the experts where Ireland is concerned.” He turned to John Major. “Wouldn’t you agree, Prime Minister?”

“I’m afraid so,” John Major replied.

“Right, let’s examine the problem. I land at Shannon, helicopter to Drumgoole, drop in at Ardmore House, then back to Shannon. I hardly need the SAS to take care of that. Who would you recommend, MI5?”

“No, as the operation takes place in a foreign country, it would be MI6, Senator.”

“You don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Keogh said. “Come on, Prime Minister, I’m putting myself on the line, so who have you got? Who’s your best?”

“My best is rather unusual,” John Major said. “What some people call the Prime Minister’s private army. For some years now there has been such a group specifically targeting terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only.”

“I like the sound of that. Are they any good?”

“Extremely good though rather ruthless. The unit is commanded by Brigadier Charles Ferguson.” John Major hesitated. “There is one unusual thing I should tell you. Ferguson ’s right-hand man is called Sean Dillon. He was a feared IRA enforcer for years, then in ninety-one he tried to blow me up at Downing Street when the War Cabinet was meeting.”

Patrick Keogh laughed his delight. “The dog. And now he’s working for you?”

“And Ireland, in his way. Like most of us, he thinks it’s gone on too long.”

“Good.” Keogh nodded and turned to Clinton. “Mr. President, I’ve agreed to go, but these are my terms. I want Ferguson and this man Dillon taking care of me when I’m there.”

Clinton glanced at Major and the Prime Minister nodded. “No problem.”

“To that end I’d like to meet them as soon as possible. Can you have them over here fast?”

“Would tomorrow suit?” John Major asked and they all started to laugh.

In London, Charles Ferguson sat in his office and listened to the Prime Minister on the secure phone as he crossed the Atlantic.

“Of course, Prime Minister,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

He put the phone down and sat there frowning for a moment. Finally he picked up the internal phone and spoke to Hannah Bernstein. “Get in here and bring Dillon.”

He got up, went to the map wall, fiddled around until he was finally able to pull down a large-scale map of Ireland. He was examining it when Hannah Bernstein and Dillon entered.

“Do you know where Drumgoole Abbey is?” Ferguson asked Dillon.

“And what decent Catholic doesn’t?” Dillon moved beside him and pointed. “Have you taken to religion, Brigadier? Little Sisters of Pity there. Very holy.”

Ferguson ignored him. “ Ardmore House.”

Dillon frowned slightly. “Naughty, Brigadier, very naughty. The Provisional IRA have been known to meet there on more than one occasion.”

“And will again, only this time they’ll have a special guest whose welfare we’ll be responsible for.”

“May I ask who that might be, sir?” Hannah Bernstein inquired.

“Of course you may, my dear. It’s Senator Patrick Keogh,” he told her.

ELEVEN

The following morning Ferguson reported for a breakfast meeting at Downing Street. When he was shown into the study, the Prime Minister, Carter, and Rupert Lang were having coffee.

“Ah, there you are, Brigadier. I’ve already filled in the Deputy Director and Mr. Lang on my discussions with the President and Senator Keogh.”

“I see,” Ferguson said gravely. “I would remind you that you stressed absolute secrecy in this business. As I understood you, both the President and Senator Keogh were adamant about that.”

“I can assure you that no one else outside of this room will know about the affair,” the Prime Minister said. “To be frank, I’m not mentioning it to the Cabinet, not even to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. That may seem strange considering the fact that I’ve informed Mr. Lang, but he, after all, is here in another capacity as a member of this rather special committee.”

“Don’t you trust us, Ferguson?” Carter demanded belligerently.

“Silly questions don’t need an answer,” Ferguson said. “But as I see it, Senator Keogh’s offered to put his head into the mouth of the lion. That shows considerable courage. I want to make sure he has every chance of taking it out again.”