'The thing about those mystery novels, my dear,' Ferguson said, 'was that they were always very simple.'

'The butler did it,' Dillon said.

'No, but there were usually no more than a dozen people staying at the country house for the weekend and it had to be one of them.'

The phone rang. He listened, then nodded. 'Hang on.' He looked at Blake. 'Your secretary checked with air transport and we have an RAF Gulfstream flying to the States this evening. They could drop in at Farley Field and pick you up there.'

'Just the ticket,' Blake told him.

Ferguson said, 'Confirmed,' and put the phone down.

'That's it then.' Dillon grinned. 'It's all up to you now, old son. We'll be waiting with bated breath.'

Washington,

Nantucket,

New York

In his office at the White House, Blake greeted Alice with enthusiasm. He'd managed to sleep on the plane, and had had one of those difficult breakfasts that took no notice of time differences, but he badly needed to shower and change, which he did the moment he got to the office – he so frequently had to sleep there overnight that he kept a change of clothes ready.

When he got to his desk, shaved, shampooed and resplendent in a blue, flannel suit, Alice handed him coffee with approval. 'That's taken ten years off you.'

'Look at my in-tray.'

'I've done my best. Tell me what happened.'

Blake ran the Basement in a most peculiar way. He had only one member of staff, which was Alice. Every time there was work to do, he pulled in members of a secret list: friends from FBI days, usually retired or invalided out; experts of every kind, from university professors to old comrades from Vietnam; whatever or whoever was necessary. He operated things like a Marxist cell system. Nobody knew what anyone else was doing. Except Alice. Who was outraged now by his story.

'It beggars belief that there is a spy in the White House.'

'Why not? We've had them everywhere else. The Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI

'Okay, I take your point.' She poured him another coffee.

'Too much is on computers these days, that's the real problem, and in spite of every precaution, it's too easy to get at.'

'Yes, life's a bitch,' Blake said. 'Speaking of which – did you get anywhere with the Sons of Erin?'

'Not much. Jack Barry's in the CIA and FBI files, but that's the only mention of the Sons of Erin.'

Blake sat there frowning. 'But he definitely mentioned them.' He laughed suddenly. 'I've just remembered something Dillon said. That the Sons of Erin sounded like an Irish theme pub.'

She laughed. 'It's a thought.'

'Okay, so let's take a different route. Pubs, restaurants, dining clubs. See what you can do.'

'I hear and obey, o master.'

She went out and Blake got down to the paperwork.

It was no more than an hour later that she returned. 'My God, it was so easy, once I looked in the right place.' She had a piece of paper in her hand. 'The Sons of Erin. It's listed under Irish dining clubs. Operates out of a bar and restaurant called Murphy's. It's in the Bronx.'

Blake looked at the address, then checked his watch. 'I can just make the shuttle to New York. Phone, get me a seat, get me a car, and book me a suite on the government. Something befitting my dignity.'

She was laughing uproariously as she went out.

Murphy's was on Haley Street. It was just after three when Blake's car drew up outside. It hadn't the usual Irish theme pub look to it, all green and gold harps. This was older, more solid.

'Wait here, George,' Blake said to his driver, got out and walked to the door.

Inside it was dark and very old-fashioned, with dining booths and lots of mahogany panelling. A couple of people were finishing a late meal in one of the booths, but the lunchtime trade was through. The barman was old, seventy-five at least, his sleeves rolled up, reading spectacles on the end of his nose as he checked the sports page of The New York Times.

'Hi, there,' Blake said. 'I'll have a Bushmills whiskey and water.'

'Well, you've got taste at least.' The old man reached for a bottle.

Blake said, 'With a name like Dooley, I should have. It was a friend told me to look in here. A guy called Barry.'

The old man pushed the drink across. 'I don't recall him.' 'Have one yourself.' The old man took a large one and downed it quickly.

'He told me he used to be in a dining club here called the Sons of Erin.'

'Jesus, that was just a handful of guys, four or five of them. Nothing special about it except for the Senator.'

'The Senator?'

'Sure, Senator Michael Cohan. Real nice guy.'

'Hey, that's very interesting. Who were the others?'

'Oh, let's see now… Patrick Kelly, he ran a lot of construction work near here… Tom Cassidy, he had a string of Irish pubs… Who else?' He frowned.

'Have another?'

'Well, thank you. Don't mind if I do.' He poured the drink, drank half of it, and nodded. 'Brady – Martin Brady. Teamsters' Union guy. Say, I heard he got knocked off the other week.'

'What do you mean?'

'Wasted. Someone made a hit when he was coming out of the union gym one night.' He leaned closer. 'I heard he had mob troubles. Know what I mean?'

'Yeah, sure… So, tell me, when do the Sons of Erin meet? I mean which night?'

'Oh, it isn't some kind of regular thing. Just now and then. They haven't had a meet here in months.'

'Really?' Blake slipped a twenty over the bar. 'Guess I missed my chance then. Nice talking to you. Keep the change.'

'Well, thank you.'

Outside, in the car, he called Alice on his mobile. 'Take this down.' He gave her the names of the members of the dining club. 'Check the New York Police Department computer for details of the murder of Brady. I'm on my way to the Pierre now. I'll check back with you in an hour.'

'Why don't 1 ever get the Pierre? Why you?'

'Because I'm a very important man, Alice.'

'You know, it's your overwhelming ego that makes you so attractive.' She put down the phone.

He was having coffee and sandwiches in his room when she phoned back. 'Are you sitting down?'

'That bad?'

'You could say that. You wanted me to check out Brady's murder?'

'That's what I said.'

'Well, I decided to put them all through the NYPD computer, in case this Sons of Erin thing provided a link.'

'And did it?'

'You could say that. There's no mention of the group as such, but Brady, Kelly and Cassidy are all in there.'

'Go on.'

'They were all shot to death, Blake. Brady first, some kind of mob street shooting. Cassidy three nights later, rumours about a protection racket, Kelly three days after, a robbery while he was out for a run at his place in Ossining.'

'My God,' Blake said, stunned. 'And not a word.'

'There were newspaper reports, but they were all separate – nothing to link them together. If you didn't know about the Sons of Erin, you'd have no reason to think they weren't what they seemed to be.'

'That's true.'

'Are you going to tell the police?'

'I'm not sure. What about Senator Cohan?'

'He's not on the NYPD computer, but then again, he's still alive. He was on Larry King Live! last night.'

'What for?'

'Oh, Irish peace as usual. Everyone's into it at the moment. He's going to London to put his six cents worth in to stay hot with his Irish-American voters. What do you want me to do?'

'Those presidential warrants we keep in the office, the blank ones with the President's seal and signature. Fill one out in the name of Captain Harry Parker, fax me a copy here.' He gave her the room fax number.

'Who is this guy?'

'A product of zero tolerance on the streets of good old New York. He runs a special homicide unit – top detectives, fancy computers. I knew him when I was in the FBI.'