The White House Connection. Jack Higgins

after noon, the Library Bar quiet. He ordered tea, Barry’s tea, Ireland’s favourite, and sat in the corner reading the Belfast Telegraph. Hannah joined him twenty minutes later, looking trim in a brown trouser suit, her red hair tied back.

      He nodded his approval. ‘Very nice. You look as if you’re here to report on the fashion show.’

      ‘Tea?’ she said. ‘Sean Dillon drinking tea, and the bar open. That I should live to see the day.’

      He grinned and waved to the barman. ‘Ham sandwiches for me, this being Ireland. What about you?’

      ‘Mixed salad will be fine, and tea.’

      He gave the barman the order and folded the newspaper. ‘Here we are again then, sallying forth to help solve the Irish problem.’

      ‘And you don’t think we can?’

      ‘Seven hundred years, Hannah. Any kind of a solution has been a long time coming.’

      ‘You seem a little down.’

      He lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, that’s just the Belfast feeling. The minute I’m back, the smell of the place, the feel of it, takes over. It will always be the war zone to me. The bad old days. I should go and see my father’s grave, but I never do.’

      ‘Is there a reason, do you think?’

      ‘God knows. My life was set, the Royal Academy, the National Theatre, you’ve heard all that, and I was only nineteen.’

      ‘Yes, I know, the future Laurence Olivier.’

      ‘And then my old man came home and got knocked off by Brit paratroops.’

      ‘Accidentally.’

      ‘Sure, I know all that, but when you’re nineteen you see things differently.’

      ‘So you joined the IRA and fought for the glorious cause.’

      ‘A long time ago. A lot of dead men ago.’

      The food arrived. A young waitress served them and left. Hannah said, ‘And looking back, it’s regrets time, is it?’

      ‘Ah, who knows? By this time, I could have been a leading man with the Royal Shakespeare Company. I could have been in fifteen movies.’ He wolfed down a ham sandwich and reached for another. ‘I could have been famous. Didn’t Marlon Brando say something like that?’

      ‘At least you’re infamous. You’ll have to content yourself with that.’

      ‘And there’s no woman in my life. You’ve spurned me relentlessly.

      ‘Poor man.’

      ‘No kith or kin. Oh, more cousins in County Down than you could shake a stick at, and they’d run a mile if I appeared on the horizon.’

      ‘They would, wouldn’t they, but enough of this angst. I’d like to know more about Barry.’

      ‘I knew his uncle, Frank Barry, better. He taught me a lot in the early days, until we had a falling out. Jack was always a bad one. Vietnam was his proving ground and the murder of Vietcong prisoners the reason the army kicked him out. All these years of the Troubles, he’s gone from bad to worse. Another point, as you’ve read in his file, he’s often been a gun for hire for various organizations around the world.’

      ‘I thought that was you, Dillon.’

      He smiled. ‘Touché. The hard woman you are.’

      Blake Johnson entered the Library Bar at that moment. He wore black Raybans, a dark blue shirt and slacks, a grey tweed jacket. The black hair, touched by grey, was tousled. He gave no sign of recognition and moved to the bar.

      ‘Poor sod. He looks as if he’s been travelling,’ Dillon said.

      ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Dillon, you’re a bastard.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go and wait for him.’

      Dillon called to the barman, ‘Put that on room fifty-two,’ and followed her out.

      Rain rattled against the window as Dillon got a half-bottle of champagne from the fridge and opened it. ‘The usual Belfast weather, but what can you expect in March?’ He filled three glasses, and took one himself. ‘Good to see you, Blake.’

      ‘And you, my fine Irish friend.’ Blake toasted him and turned to Hannah. ‘Chief Inspector. More fragrant than ever.’

      ‘Hey, I’m the one who gets to make remarks like that,’ Dillon said. ‘Anyway, let’s get down to it.’

      They all sat. Blake said, ‘I’ve read the file on Barry. He’s a bad one. But I’d like to hear your version, Sean.’

      ‘It was his uncle I knew first, Frank Barry. He founded the Sons of Erin, a rather vicious splinter group from the beginning. He was knocked off a few years ago, but that’s another story. Jack’s been running things ever since.’

      ‘And you know him?’

      ‘We’ve had our dealings over the years, exchanged shots. I’m not his favourite person, let’s put it that way.’

      ‘And we’re certain that he hasn’t met McGuire?’

      ‘So McGuire says,’ Hannah told him. ‘And why would he lie? He wants an out.’

      ‘Fine. I’ve memorized all that stuff you sent on the computer. McGuire’s past, this French outfit he works for, Jobert and Company, and this Tim Pat Ryan who nearly finished you off in London, Sean. Intriguing that – a woman as executioner. But as for Barry – I’d like to hear about him from you, everything, even if it is on file.’

      Dillon complied and talked at length. After a while, Blake nodded. ‘That’s about it then. I’m going to need my wits about me with this one.’

      ‘There’s one more thing you should know about the Barrys. First of all, they’re an old Protestant family.’

      ‘Protestant?’ Blake was incredulous.

      ‘It’s not so unusual,’ Dillon said. ‘There are plenty of Protestant nationalists in Irish history. Wolfe Tone, for example. But in addition to that, his great-uncle was Lord Barry, which made Frank Barry the heir, except that he’s dead, as you know.’

      ‘Are you trying to tell me Jack Barry is the heir apparent?’ Blake asked.

      ‘His father was Frank’s younger brother, but he died years ago, which only leaves Jack.’

      ‘Lord Barry?’

      ‘Frank didn’t claim the title, and Jack certainly hasn’t. It would give the Queen and the Privy Council problems,’ Hannah told him.

      ‘I just bet it would,’ Blake said.

      ‘But Jack takes it seriously.’ Dillon nodded. ‘An old family, the Barrys. Lots of history there. There’s a family estate and castle, Spanish Head, on the coast, about thirty miles north of Belfast. It’s owned by the National Trust now. Jack used to rhapsodize about it years ago. So – our Jack’s a complicated man. Anyway, let’s get down to it. McGuire is to wait in the bar between six and seven for a message that his taxi is ready.’

      ‘Destination unknown?’

      ‘Of course. I figure he’ll be waiting somewhere in the city, with lots of ways out in case of trouble. The dock area, for example.’

      ‘And you’ll follow?’

      ‘That’s the idea. Green Land Rover.’ Dillon passed him a piece of paper. ‘That’s the number.’

      ‘And what if you lose me?’

      ‘It’s not possible.’ Hannah Bernstein put a black briefcase on the table and opened it. ‘We’ve got a Range Finder in here.’

      ‘Follow you anywhere: The very latest,’