'One to go,' Blake told him.

Parker went to work. 'Patrick Kelly, construction millionaire, in the habit of rising at six a.m. and going for a five-mile run. Found shot in the heart at his country home in Ossining. Always wore a fifteen-thousand-dollar gold diver's watch and gold chain round his neck. Both missing.' He turned to Blake. 'Listed as an armed robbery gone bad.'

'So now check the weapon used.'

Parker did as he was told, waited for the result, then nodded. 'Beautiful. The same weapon, from London to New York.' He turned. 'What do you think?'

'I think the killer was very smart, except for using the same weapon. You notice the pattern here that cleverly offers an explanation for each killing. Brady, the Mafia; Cassidy, a protection racket; Kelly, a robbery.'

'As you say, smart, and as the killings had no apparent link, maybe this business of the same gun would never have come out except for you, but there's a puzzle here.'

'The fact that in London, my associate said that the person who shot Ryan was a woman?'

'Hell, no, the fact that the Colt used in London was the Colt used in three murders in New York. Now that astounds me. Who in the hell gets through airport security these days with a weapon?'

Blake nodded slowly and then brightened. 'Maybe people who use private planes, Harry, important people, rich people who are waved through.'

'For God's sake, what is this all about?' Parker asked.

'I can't tell you, but I promise that when I can you'll be the first to know.'

'Well, thanks very much.'

Blake stood up. 'It's the best I can do, Harry. Now I've got to see the President,' and he walked out.

In London, it was well past midnight, but he phoned Ferguson anyway and found the Brigadier in bed. ' Curiouser and curiouser, Brigadier.'

Ferguson, fully awake, sat up. 'Tell me.'

Blake did. 'What do you think?' he asked when he was finished. 'Some Loyalist group which had the target of taking out the Sons of Erin?'

'Blake, dear boy, I'm an old dog, long in this business, and I go by instinct. One gun in London and New York means one killer. I'd stake my life on it.'

'But a woman? It's incredible.'

'I'm old enough to know that nothing is incredible in this life. You'll be seeing the President?'

'Yes.'

'Senator Michael Cohan is due in London in a few days. Point that out to the President. Maybe he should stay home.'

' New York, London.' Blake shrugged. 'They both seem to be pretty dangerous places these days.'

At the same time, in a safe house on the cliffs of County Down, Ulster, Jack Barry was having a drink in the kitchen when his coded mobile rang. It was the Connection.

'Where in the hell have you been?' Barry demanded.

'I'm a busy man, my friend. Blake Johnson turned up in Washington , so I presume you're on the run.'

'You can say that again. Sean Dillon and some woman chief inspector came with him. I lost two men, but managed to slip them.'

'Good. No mention of our arrangement, I trust?'

'Of course not,' Barry lied.

'Excellent. I'll keep you posted.' The Connection rang off.

Barry cursed. He hated not knowing who he was dealing with, but then none of the Sons of Erin did. They only knew each other. He thought for a moment, then used his coded mobile to call Senator Michael Cohan. They'd met in the States several times and got on well. Cohan loved it all: the hair-raising stories, the action by night, the glamour.

Cohan answered at once. 'Who is this?'

'Barry. Did I catch you at a bad time?'

'Yes, there's a party here. I've taken refuge in my study. I meant to phone you myself, but I've just gotten back from Mexico. Just got bad news. Apparently, Martin Brady was murdered, some street killing, they say it's the mob.'

'That's a coincidence. Tim Pat Ryan got it the same way the other day.'

'Is that a fact?' the Senator said. 'Mind you, he was a true gangster, that one.'

'What about Kelly and Cassidy?'

'I haven't talked to them in a couple of months. Maybe I should – ' A door crashed open in the background, and there was drunken laughter. 'My God, here they come. I'll be in touch,' and he rang off.

Blake had arranged an Air Force plane for the following morning. The brief flight was uneventful. The weather was squally, March again, but the young major in charge of transportation was all efficiency.

'The chief of staff is with the President at Nantucket, sir. He ordered us to send you on your way by helicopter.'

'Beach landing?' Blake asked.

'That's it, sir.'

'Hell, I did enough of those in ' Nam.'

'Before my time, sir. If you'll come this way I've got sandwiches and coffee. Departure thirty minutes from now.'

He held his umbrella high and Blake followed him across the tarmac.

The old clapboard house on Nantucket had been in the Cazalet family for years. It held every possible memory for the President. Childhood, school vacations, and twice, it had been a place to grow strong again after being wounded in Vietnam. Other, bitter memories were there, too: his wife's slow demise from leukaemia and then the terrorist threat following his discovery of a wonderful daughter late in life – the Comtesse Marie de Brissac, now in Paris teaching art at the Sorbonne.

He had always loved the beach in any kind of weather, was walking there now with Henry Thornton and a Secret Service man, Clancy Smith, trailing them, the President's flatcoat retriever, Murchison, pounding in and out of the water. They all wore storm coats against the wind, which was blowing hard.

The surf roared in, it was good to be alive and Washington was far away.

The President stopped and waved his hand twice, and Clancy, who knew what that meant, shook a Marlboro from his pack, lit it inside his coat and passed it across.

'I've said it before,' Thornton told him. 'Do that on television and you'll lose votes.'

'It's a free country, Henry. It may not be healthy, but it doesn't make me a bad person.' He leaned down and fondled Murchison's ears. 'Now if I beat this wonderful dog – that would be different.'

There was a roaring in the distance. Clancy listened via his earpiece. 'Helicopter coming in, Mr President. It's Blake Johnson.'

'That's good,'Jake Cazalet said. 'Let's find out what happened in Ireland,' and he led the way along the beach to the distant house.

In the living room, Blake sat opposite the President and Thornton leaned by the fireplace. 'The Prime Minister and I had a conversation on this matter, as you know, but the whole thing seemed so implausible. The man Barry, for example.'

'Only too real, sir, and boasted about his sources, which have to be in the White House. The plain fact is Barry knew who I was, knew I worked for you.'

'Knew everything, it would seem. But leaks from my White House? I can't believe it.'

'It happens all the time, Mr President. Ask any journalist about his sources,' the chief of staff said. 'There's no reason to think we're immune.'

'And so much information is accessible,' Blake said. 'Everything's on the computer these days. We've got all kinds of safeguards in place, but I can access the CIA at Langley if I need to, and I'm sure that if they really try hard, they could access the Basement files. Even this conversation is being recorded.'

'Oh, God, that's right – that security thing you had to install, right?' the President asked.

'Correct, sir, and it is linked by direct line to Washington.'

'Coded, of course,' the chief of staff said with some irony.

'Supposedly picked up by the Records Department at the White House and filed as indicated.'

'On a computer,' Thornton said. 'And the curse of the system is that there are a lot of people around who can access any computer known to man.'

'And there are a lot of people employed at the White House,' Cazalet said. 'Although this Connection of Barry's implies an Irish dimension or some sort of IRA sympathy.'