'There'll be plenty of security at the Forum for Irish Peace tomorrow night,' Hannah said.

'Of course.' Ferguson frowned. 'But I'm uneasy and why is that?'

'I'm sure you'll tell us,' Dillon said.

'Well, I've never been happy since the Ryan shooting and then discovering the same gun was used in New York. I don't think it's a conspiracy, some execution squad. I have a feeling there's an executioner out there.' 'The Irish woman.'

'Or a woman with an Irish accent,' Dillon said. 'A needle in a haystack in London. Eight million Irish in the UK. A hell of a diaspora.'

'Well, I have infinite faith in you, so you can start with Kilburn,' Ferguson told him.

'And Senator Cohan?' Hannah asked.

'I'll speak to him when I'm ready. Now, as this rogue here is wearing a jacket and tie for once, I'll take you to the Garrick for lunch.'

But already events were happening which would change everything. Earlier that morning, Thornton had considered the situation of Cohan in London, and the longer he did, the more unhappy he became. What guarantee was there that the mysterious killer would strike in London ? None at all, and yet Cohan had become a liability. The man really would have to go. It was four o'clock in the morning, American time, when he phoned Barry. The Irishman was still at the safe house in County Down.

'It's me,' Thornton said. 'Listen, I've got some bad news for you,' and he ran through the whole story. 'There's even a possibility the shooter could be a woman.'

'Is that a fact? Well, I wish to Christ I could get my hands on her. She'd take a long time to die. So Cohan is the only one left?'

'That's it, and panicking. The thing is, his cover as a member of the Sons of Erin is blown. The President knows through Blake Johnson, the Prime Minister knows through Ferguson and company. He's become expendable.'

'So you want him taken out?'

'He's arriving in London later today to attend some Irish peace affair at the Dorchester tomorrow. He's staying at that hotel. It would be convenient if this unknown assassin got to him, don't you think? Maybe he – or she – could use some help.'

"So you want me to do it for you?'

'And for yourself. It clears the board nicely. There'd be only you and me left. I believe the Belfast flight to London only takes an hour and a half.'

'There's no need for that,' Barry told him. 'There's an air taxi firm not forty minutes from here, based at an old World War Two feeder station. It's been a quick way to England for me for years. Run by an old RAF hand named Docherty. Cunning as a fox.'

'So you'll do it?'

'Why not? It will give me something to do. It's raining and I'm bored.'

Barry put the phone down, excited, and looked out of the window. No need to call in the boys. A one-man job this, in and out. He picked up the phone and rang Docherty at Doonreigh.

The place was dark and dreary in the heavy rain as he drove up there an hour later. There were two old aircraft hangars, their doors open. In one was a Cessna 310, in the other a Navajo Chieftain. Barry parked and got out. He was wearing a tweed cap, a brown leather bomber jacket and jeans, and carried an old-fashioned Gladstone bag in one hand.

Smoke came from the chimney of the old Nissen hut. The door opened, and Docherty appeared. He was fifty and looked older, his hair thin, his face weathered and lined. He wore RAF flying overalls and flying boots.

'Come in out of the rain.'

It was warm inside from the old-fashioned stove. There was a bed in the corner, some lockers, a table and chairs and a desk with charts open on it.

'So they still haven't caught up with you, Jack?'

'That'll be the day. Is that tea on the stove?'

'Good Irish whiskey, if you like.'

'You know me. Not while I'm working. So, I want to be in London no later than six this evening.'

'And out again.'

'No later than midnight. Can you do it?'

'I can do anything, you know that. I never ask questions, I mind my own business, and I've never let you down.'

'True.'

'All right. Five thousand, that's what it costs.'

'Money's not a problem,' Barry said. 'As no one knows better than you.'

'Fine. There's a place like this in Kent, about an hour from

London. Roundhay, very lonely, out in the country. I've used it before. I've already telephoned the farmer who owns it. A grand for him, and he'll leave a car you can drive up to London. False registration, the lot.'

'Just another crook,' Barry said.

'Aren't we all? Except you, Jack. A gallant freedom fighter for the glorious cause, that's you.'

'I'll kick your arse, Docherty.'

'No, you won't, because you can't fly planes.'

'So you'll get us there in spite of all this air traffic security?'

'When have I ever failed? Now let's get moving. It's got to be the Chieftain, by the way. The Cessna needs some spare parts.'

He opened the Navajo's Airstair door, dropped the steps and Barry followed him up. Docherty closed the door and locked it. 'There's a following wind, Jack, so it'll take two hours with luck. It's the usual March weather, lots of rain, but that's good. Don't wet your pants when I go hedge-hopping. That's to avoid the radar. Do you want to sit with me?'

'No, I'll read the paper.'

Docherty strapped himself in and started the engines, first port, then starboard. The Navajo moved out into the rain, coasted to the end of the strip and turned into the wind. He boosted power and they surged forward, lifted off and started to climb.

Docherty was as good as his word, for they hit Roundhay at only five minutes over two hours and came in under low cloud and heavy rain. A barn stood nearby, its doors opened, an old Ford Escort car outside. Docherty taxied inside and cut the engines.

'What about you?' Barry asked, as they got out.

'I'll be okay. I'll take a walk up to the farm and pay my debts.'

'You mean you'll give him a thousand in cash?'

'He's the kind of man you keep happy. I never know when I might need him again.'

He turned and walked away across the airstrip and Barry got into the Escort. The keys were in the ignition, but before he started the engine, he removed a Browning from the Gladstone bag, took out the clip, loaded the weapon, and pushed it inside his bomber jacket. Only then did he drive away.

He made good time, for as evening approached, traffic was coming out of London, not in. The car was no big deal, an old Ford Escort, but nice and anonymous. He thought about things on the way. The place to make the hit, for example. Well, that was obvious, since Cohan was staying at the Dorchester. Getting in was easy. All he needed were the right kind of clothes, and he had those in plenty.

For some years Barry had had a bolt-hole in London. Not an apartment, but a boat moored on the Thames close to St James's Stairs in Wapping. He had everything there: a wardrobe and arms stashed away. He had been careful never to mention it to anyone. He'd always remembered his old Ulster grandmother's saying, when she used to come over to the States to stay with them: Always remember, Jack, a secret is no longer a secret if one other person knows about it. She'd died badly of cancer during the early days when he'd first returned to Ulster. She'd been a patient at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, the world's best on shotgun wounds, because they had to be.

He was on the most-wanted list at the time. When he said he was going to see her, the boys had told him he was crazy, and implored him not to. But none of that mattered to Barry. He'd gone on his own, got into the hospital's back entrance, and stolen a doctor's white robe and plastic identity tag from the rest room.

He'd found her room and, for a while, sat there holding her hand. She couldn't talk much, except to say, 'I'm glad you're here, Jack.'