“Tell them, Rupert,” Belov said.

When Lang had finished recounting the details of his meeting at Downing Street, there was silence for a moment, then Curry spoke.

“Very interesting, but what are we talking about here?”

“Sinn Fein and the IRA are very close to calling at least a truce and going to the peace table,” Belov said. “If that happens there would be enormous pressure on the various Protestant groups to also call a cease-fire.”

“International pressure,” Lang said. “I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

“Peace in Ireland?” Grace said. “That wouldn’t suit you, would it, Yuri? What you’d like to see is another Bosnia.” She laughed. “What a shame. All your hopes of Ireland descending into chaos and a good Communist state emerging at the other end have gone up in smoke.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “If Keogh was assassinated on this trip, the effect would be incredible, especially if one of the Protestant Loyalist factions was to blame.”

“And you think that’s a possibility?” Tom Curry said. “Why, they wouldn’t even know he was there.”

“Yes, but we would.” Belov smiled. “And this time January 30 wouldn’t claim credit. We’d give that to the UFF or the Red Hand of Ulster.”

There was total silence now until Lang said, “The ultimate hit. My God, Yuri, you are ambitious.”

Grace Browning’s heart was beating fast, her mouth was dry with excitement. Belov said, “When does your show finish at the King’s Head?”

“Saturday.”

“Two days.” Belov nodded. “Since Rupert first phoned me I’ve spoken to my Dublin sources. The word is that this IRA conference will take place on Sunday afternoon.”

Grace took a deep breath. “How would I get there?”

“Very simple. Straight in and out. There’s a man who does the occasional flight for me, highly illegal, of course. His name is Jack Carson. He operates a small air taxi service from a little airfield in Kent, near a village called Coldwater. He owns a couple of twin-engined planes.”

“And he could do the Irish run?”

“No problem. He’s mainly done France for me in the past, but he did Ireland once before a year ago. It’s just like England. Scores of small landing strips out there in the countryside. I’m sure he could find one very close to this Drumgoole place. I say Drumgoole because I imagine that will be the soft spot. You can’t go after Keogh at Ardmore House with Provisional IRA gunmen all over the place.”

“But what about air traffic control and so on?” Curry asked. “I mean, you have to log flights and get permission.”

“Oh, Carson ’s used to that. No flight plan means you’re a bogey on someone’s radar screen, but there are lots of bogeys up there, including birds, and if you know where to go there’s a lot of airspace that’s not controlled.”

“But the approach to the Irish coast?” Rupert Lang said. “Surely that presents a difficulty?”

“Not at all. If he hits the coast at six hundred feet, he’ll be below their radar screens.” Belov shrugged. “This man is good and he knows his business. It will work.”

“And what happens at the other end?”

“Once we know where Carson will land I’ll arrange for my people in Dublin to leave a car.”

“And then what happens?” Grace asked.

“I don’t know, but we’re talking about an Abbey, nuns, schoolchildren, not Fort Knox.”

“I still need to get close.”

“You’ll come up with something.”

“No, we will.” Tom Curry put an arm around her shoulder. “No arguments, Grace, I’m coming too.”

She turned to Lang. “What do you think?”

“He always did like his own way.” He smiled wryly. “Wish I could come along, but I rather obviously can’t on this occasion. It sounds like fun.”

Belov said, “Right. I’ll get things started with Carson, and it only remains for Rupert to keep us informed.” He smiled and held out his cup. “Could I have some more coffee?”

When the Lear jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base and Dillon and Ferguson disembarked, they were met by a young air force captain.

“Brigadier General Ferguson? Right this way, sir. There’s a helicopter waiting to take you to Otis Air Force Base. You’ll be taken from there by limousine to Senator Keogh’s house at Hyannis Port. I’ll see your bags are delivered to your hotel.”

Within five minutes they were strapped in and taking off.

“Brigadier General,” Dillon said. “You’ve been promoted.”

“No, that’s the American terminology,” he said. “We stopped using the general bit years ago.”

“I thought we’d be seeing Keogh in Washington.”

“So did I until we were halfway across the Atlantic.”

“I wonder why the change?”

“I expect he’ll tell us when he wants us to know.” Ferguson opened his briefcase, produced a map of Ireland, and unfolded it. “Now show me Ardmore House and Drumgoole again.”

When the limousine deposited them outside the Hyannis Port house, it was Mrs. Keogh who met them at the front door.

“Brigadier Ferguson? I’m Mary Keogh.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Sean Dillon.” He held out his hand and she looked, eyeing him curiously.

“Now you I’ve heard a great deal about, Mr. Dillon.”

“All bad, I suppose.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ah well, you can’t win them all.”

She turned to Ferguson. “Actually, my husband’s walking on the beach.”

“I see,” Ferguson said. “Perhaps we could join him?”

“Why not. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Of course.”

As they turned to go she called, “Brigadier?”

Ferguson paused. “Ma’am?”

“I’m not happy about this.”

“I understand, ma’am, believe me.”

She closed the door and went in. Dillon lit a cigarette. “A good woman, that one.”

“Yes, I’m inclined to agree,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s go and find the Senator.”

On the beach, the surf pounded in with a great roaring and it was very windy. They saw Patrick Keogh in the distance, walking toward them, occasionally stopping to throw a stick for a black dog that ran in circles around him. As he got closer, they could see he was wearing heavy corduroy trousers and an Aran sweater.

“Brigadier Ferguson?”

“Yes, Senator.” Ferguson shook hands. “A pleasure, sir.”

“And this must be the great Sean Dillon.” Keogh held out his hand.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Senator, and isn’t that overdoing it?” Dillon said.

“Ah, but isn’t that what we Irish always do? Let’s walk awhile.”

“Of course, sir,” Ferguson said.

“I’m sorry to make John Major rush you two across the Atlantic at such short notice, but with my wife being concerned that I might get my head blown off, I decided that where security was concerned I wanted the best and your Prime Minister said that was you two.”

“Very flattering,” Ferguson said.

Dillon cut in. “No false modesty needed, Brigadier. We’ll do as good a job as anyone and better than most.” He lit a cigarette in cupped hands. “I’m a plain man, Senator, so one Irishman to another. Why are you doing this, because if the wrong people got on your case, you really could get your head blown off.”

“Dillon!” Ferguson said sharply.

“No.” Keogh put up a hand. “I’ll answer that. Jack Kennedy once said something about good men doing nothing. You know, just standing by. Well maybe I’ve stood by on too many occasions.”

Ferguson said, “I remember when you made the cover of Time magazine during the Vietnam War. When Khe San was besieged you insisted on flying in on a fact-finding mission and ended up manning a heavy machine gun, as I heard, and took a bullet in the shoulder.”

“There were those, especially my political opponents, who thought I was grandstanding, Brigadier. I could never compare with Bobby Kennedy. I worked closely with him. He never shirked an issue, helped guide us through the Cuban missile crisis, had the guts to stand up to the Mafia, served his country and gave his life.”