“You really do think he could be in danger?” Rupert Lang asked.

Ferguson sat there frowning. The Prime Minister said, “Brigadier?”

“Well let’s look at it this way, Prime Minister. Say you were a Protestant terrorist group who didn’t want the peace initiative to work. Can you think of a better way of ruining it than killing Patrick Keogh, one of the Kennedy old guard, perhaps the most respected Senator in Washington?”

Simon Carter nodded. It was almost with reluctance that he said, “He’s right, and it wouldn’t just be the IRA up in arms, but the entire Irish nation.”

Rupert Lang said, “I’d have thought the same argument would apply where IRA extremists are concerned.”

“Explain,” the Prime Minister said.

“I’ve seen the reports, we all have. There are plenty of hardliners in the IRA who don’t agree with Gerry Adams and his supporters politicizing the struggle. There are plenty who still want to go down the path of the gun and the bomb. There might well be amongst them people who would see the advantage in killing Keogh.”

“And why would that be?” John Major asked.

“Because the automatic assumption would be that the Protestants were responsible,” Ferguson said. “I think you’ll find all negotiations would break down, and pretty permanently.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Carter said.

The Prime Minister nodded thoughtfully. “Then we’ll just have to see that it doesn’t happen, and that’s your department, Brigadier.”

Carter interrupted. “The Security Services would be happy to help. We do have considerable expertise on the ground in Ireland. I hardly need to stress that.”

“But not in the Republic,” John Major said and smiled slightly. “That would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”

“A technicality, as you know, Prime Minister. MI6 operates there all the time.”

“Not on this occasion. Senator Keogh has been specific about his security, as I told you.” He turned to Ferguson. “Does the assignment give you any problems?”

“Not at all, Prime Minister. Senator Keogh arrives out of the blue at Shannon. Helicopter trip to Drumgoole, where the Mother Superior won’t even know he’s coming until he’s on the way. Let’s say half an hour on site, then on to Ardmore House where only Gerry Adams will be expecting him.”

“And what about security there?” Rupert Lang demanded.

“General security will be as good as you want,” Ferguson said. “The IRA run a tight ship at these affairs. All the delegates will be shocked out of their socks when Adams produces him. He’ll have finished his speech before they have time to recover and back to Shannon and away.”

“Put that way it all sounds terribly simple,” the Prime Minister said.

“It could be,” Ferguson told him. “But with one proviso. Total secrecy. Nobody must know he’s coming; at any point in the trip, Shannon, Drumgoole, Ardmore. Nobody must know.”

“And just you and Dillon guarding him?”

“No, I’ll take Chief Inspector Bernstein as well. The three of us should suffice.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “Right, let’s pray it works.” He turned to the other two. “This meeting at Ardmore should take place in a matter of days. I’ll notify you, of course, but for now, we’ll adjourn. The Brigadier is due in Washington.” He shook Ferguson ’s hand. “Good luck, Brigadier. You’ve never handled anything of greater importance.”

The Lear jet left Gatwick at ten-thirty with the usual two RAF pilots, Ferguson and Dillon in the rear. The Brigadier worked his way through two newspapers for half an hour while Dillon read a magazine. Later, as they crossed the Welsh coast and moved out to sea, the Irishman made tea.

“Plenty of sandwiches in here, Brigadier, if you feel peckish.”

“Not now, later. Chief Inspector Bernstein didn’t seem too happy.”

“She feels left out of things.”

“Well that’s just too bad. I mean, someone’s got to mind the shop.” He shook his head. “Women are so unreasonable, Dillon. They don’t think like us. Different species.”

“My God, if the sisterhood heard you say that they’d tear you limb from limb. Sexist, racist, chauvinistic, and of the male variety.”

“My dear boy, you know exactly what I mean. Here’s Bernstein, brilliant and capable. First-class honors from Cambridge, marvelous police record. I mean, she’s shown herself capable of shooting a man when necessary.”

“And a woman,” Dillon said.

“Yes, I was forgetting that. So why does she now have to go into a pet because she isn’t going to Washington?”

“Maybe she just fancied meeting Pat Keogh?”

“Well she will eventually.”

“You should have made that clear.”

“Nonsense.” Ferguson handed back his mug. “ Another cup of tea and tell me what you think of all this.”

Dillon said, as he made the tea, “You mean whether Keogh turning up at Ardmore House would have any effect on Sinn Fein and the IRA?”

“Well would it? You should know. You were in the bloody movement for long enough.”

“Times change.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “And men change with them. Irish people north and south of the border, Protestant and Catholic, want peace. Oh, there are still the traditional hardliners on both sides, but if we stick with Sinn Fein and the IRA, I think you’ll find there’s groundswell support for peace. Twenty-five years is too long. Having said that, Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness, people like that who want to take the whole thing into the political arena, need all the help they can get and, yes, Keogh could help.”

“Why particularly?”

“He worked with President Kennedy in the old days, for one thing, and that’s a special kind of Irish legend. For another, his credentials are good. He’s a Catholic. Nobody can query him, which could be important if he makes the right speech.”

“Well let’s hope he does. How have you got on with the January 30 investigation?”

“Fine. I’ve disregarded all previous investigations, sifted through every piece of information, put it all on the computer, and instituted various searches. The Chief Inspector is going to check the results as they come through while I’m away.”

“Well let’s hope you turn something up,” Ferguson said and reached for another newspaper.

At that moment in the office at the Ministry of Defence the printer was churning out the latest batch of information from one of Dillon’s searches, his inquiry about staff at the Russian Embassy, as it happened. Hannah put the sheets together, mainly text information, but also photos. Amongst them was Yuri Belov’s, not that his face meant anything to her. She placed them in neat piles and left them on Dillon’s desk.

She went back into her own office, rather disconsolate, annoyed that she’d missed out on the American trip, but there was nothing to be done about that. Rain drove against the window. She wondered how Dillon and the Brigadier were getting on out there over the Atlantic, then sat down at her desk with a sigh and started to sort through the day’s mail.

When Grace Browning answered the door at the Cheyne Walk house, she found Tom Curry on the doorstep. “This is a nice surprise,” she said as she led the way through to the kitchen. “I was just making coffee.”

“Business, I’m afraid. Rupert phoned me,” Curry told her. “Something very big’s come up. He and Yuri will be round directly.”

“Have you any idea what it is?” she asked as she made the coffee.

“No. Can’t help. Just as much in the dark as you.”

“I’ll put some extra cups out then.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Curry told her and went out.

By the time she’d prepared a tray and carried it through to the drawing room they were there, the three of them, standing by the fire.

Rupert kissed her on the cheek. “Ravishing as always.”

“Save the compliments. What’s this all about?” she asked as she poured the coffee.