The White House Connection. Jack Higgins

this.’ She opened a small box and took out a gold signet ring. ‘I hope it fits. If not, I’ve got another bug that you can pin anywhere you want.’

      Blake tried the ring on his left hand, and nodded. ‘Feels good to me.’

      ‘No weapon,’ Dillon said. ‘There’s no way of fooling Barry’s people in that respect.’

      ‘Then you’d better be right behind me.’

      ‘Oh, we’ll be there and armed to the teeth.’

      ‘So the general idea is I lead you to Barry and you jump him? No police, no backup?’

      ‘This is a black one, Blake. We snatch the bastard, stick a hypo in him and get him to the airport, where a Lear jet will take us to Farley Field.’

      ‘And afterwards?’

      ‘Our Holland Park safe house in London, where the Brigadier will have words,’ Hannah put in.

      ‘Grand drugs they have these days,’ Dillon said. ‘He’ll be telling all before you know it, although the Chief Inspector doesn’t like that bit.’

      ‘Shut up, Dillon,’ she said fiercely.

      Blake nodded. ‘No need to argue, you two. I’m happy to be here and the President’s happy. No problem. I’m in your hands and that’s good enough for me.’

      The Library Bar was a popular watering hole for those in business who liked a drink before going home, and was quite busy when Blake went in just after six. Blake sat at the bar, ordered a whisky and soda and lit a cigarette. Tense, but in control. For one thing, he had enormous faith in Dillon. It got to six-thirty. He ordered another small whisky, and as the barman brought it to him, a porter came in with a board saying McGuire.

      ‘That’s me,’ Blake told him.

      When he went down the steps to the red taxi, it was raining hard. He got in the back and noticed to his astonishment that the driver was a grey-haired woman.

      ‘Good night to you, sir,’ she told him in the hard Belfast accent. ‘You just sit back and I’ll tell you where you’re going.’