'So he owes you one?'

'It doesn't matter. Once I present him with that warrant, he's mine. I'll be in touch.'

Next he phoned Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence in London. As it was eight o'clock in the evening there, he was rerouted to the Cavendish Square flat.

'You're not going to like this,' he said to Ferguson, and gave him the bad news, including the Sons of Erin background.

Ferguson said, 'Someone would appear to mean business.'

'You could say that. I've been thinking about Ryan's death in London. After all, he was connected with Barry as well. Could you get details from Scotland Yard? We know Dillon thought the killer was a woman, but I was wondering about the weapon that was used.'

'Right away. I'll be back to you in half an hour.'

He telephoned records at Scotland Yard, then phoned Dillon. 'You'd better get round here fast.'

Dillon was there in ten minutes, was admitted by Kim and went upstairs, as Ferguson 's fax machine was pumping out two sheets.

'What's happening?' Dillon asked.

Ferguson was reading the sheets. He looked up and passed them over. 'The report on Ryan when they took him out of the river. An unusual gun killed him. Look for yourself

Dillon did, then nodded. 'Colt. 25. A woman's gun, but deadly when used with hollow-point cartridges.' He handed the fax back. 'So what?'

'I've just had Blake on from New York. He's found the Sons of Erin, Dillon – and most of them are dead. Three of them, shot to death within a seven-day period, and all within the last couple of weeks.'

Dillon whistled.

'The only one left as far as we know is Senator Michael Cohan of New York… Jesus! And he's due over here in a few days for some Irish peace thing at the Dorchester. That's all we need, an American Senator knocked off in London. The Prime Minister is certain to give us the job of looking after him.'

'So what now?' 'I'll speak to Blake and give him the facts.'

In his room at the Pierre, Blake listened intently, then nodded. 'I'm going over to see a top homicide specialist, tonight if possible. Here's my room fax number. Send the material and I'll let you know what I find out. Is Dillon there?' 'I'll put him on.'

'So what's your hunch on this one, my Irish friend?'

'Well, you've heard the old saying. Once is okay, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action, and this is four.'

'You really think it's the same person? A woman!'

'I know one thing. Someone or some group wanted the Sons of Erin stiffed, and four out of five is good going. If I were this Senator Michael Cohan, I'd be worried sick.'

'So would I. I'll stay in touch.'

Dillon put the phone down. 'So, we wait and see,' he said to Ferguson. 'Will you tell the Prime Minister?'

'Not yet.'

'And Carter?'

'Bugger Carter. Now have a nightcap with me and be off with you.'

In his office at One Police Plaza, Harry Parker was considering going home. It had been a hard day. Three drug-related shootings, six wearying interrogations and a mountain of paperwork. He was thinking of dropping in at his favourite bar when the phone rang.

'Harry, that you?'

'Who is this?'

'Blake Johnson.'

'Why, you old dog. I haven't seen you since the Delaney investigation – what was that, two years ago, three? They tell me you've left the FBI.'

'I've gone up in the world. I'll tell you when I see you.'

'And when would that be?'

'Oh, I'd say around fifteen minutes.'

'But I was just leaving.'

'Harry, what if I told you I'm speeding towards you on presidential business?'

'I'd say you were full of shit.' There was only silence, and

Parker said, 'You are, aren't you? Tell me that you are, Blake.' And then, every instinct acquired over twenty-five years on the street alerted him. 'Jesus, what am I getting into?'

'Something fascinating, I assure you. Just put the coffee on.'

Harry Parker sat there, thinking about it. He was forty-eight years of age, a 224-pound black man from Harlem who'd gone to Columbia on a scholarship and hadjoined the force immediately afterwards. A policeman was all he'd ever wanted to be and he'd never minded night shifts and seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had.

She'd left him ten years earlier, had married a Baptist preacher in Georgia, but it still left Harry with his son, a doctor, and a daughter who was a fledgling reporter for the local CBS station, a single mother who'd borne him a granddaughter two years earlier.

He picked up the phone and called the deli across the street. 'Hey, Myra, Captain Parker. I've got to work late. Send over grilled cheese sandwiches for two, fries, and coffee.'

He opened a drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then lit one. He was supposed to have stopped, but what the hell, it was probably going to be a long night. He stood at the window, looking out at the rain, and the phone rang.

'Captain Parker, a Mr Johnson to see you.'

'Send him up.'

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, but when it opened it was a boy from the deli.

'Put it on the table over there,' Parker said, and Blake Johnson appeared in the doorway.

'Hey, that smells good. I've hardly had anything to eat all day.'

'So now you want to steal mine.' Parker waved the boy away. 'You might as well sit down then.'

They took chairs opposite each other in the corner, the low table between them, and Blake took a sandwich. 'Excellent.'

Parker took the lid off one of the coffees. 'Feel free. Just leave me to starve. You're looking disgustingly well, so tell me what this is about.'

Blake took an envelope from his pocket. 'Read that.' He reached for another sandwich.

Parker opened the envelope and took out the fax. 'Jesus, a presidential warrant.'

'Only the fax copy. The real article is on its way to you by presidential messenger.'

Parker was astonished. 'Blake, I've never even seen one of these things, only heard of them. I know you're not FBI any more, but what are you? CIA, Secret Service?'

'Neither, Harry. I work for the great man himself.'

'Which means?'

'My department is very special, very secret, Harry. I report to the President only, which explains the warrant. In this matter, you no longer owe allegiance to the New York Police Department or the Mayor. You owe allegiance to one person only, the President of these United States. Do you accept that?'

'Do I have a choice?'

'No, this is a matter of national security I'm handling, to which your professional expertise is essential.'

Suddenly, Harry Parker felt great. He reached for a sandwich and smiled. 'I'm your man, Blake, I'm your man. Tell me all.'

Later, sitting in front of his computer, sleeves rolled up, he said, 'I'll feed in all this London stuff on Ryan.' His fingers tapped the keys. 'Okay, now let's start on the members of the Sons of Erin.' Rain drummed against the window and Parker's fingers moved nimbly. 'Number one, Martin Brady, Teamsters' Union. Came out of the union gym one night and was shot in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the car. That's a typical mob execution, and we know they had it in for him.'

'Yeah, ' Blake said. 'But for that kind of hit, doesn't the Mafia emulate the CIA? They usually use a small calibre like a. 22.'

Parker's fingers moved over the keys. 'You're right, but in this case, it was a Colt. 25, with hollow-point bullets.' He sat back. 'Jesus, let me go back to those facts on Ryan.' He tapped away. 'Colt . 25.'

'Would that be a coincidence?' Blake asked.

'Hell, no. I'll put the images in for a match and I smell there is one.'

'Let's have a look at the other ones.'

Parker went back to work. 'Three days later, Cassidy comes out of his new restaurant in the Bronx at one in the morning. Police intelligence said there was a protection racket operation and figured he was a victim.' He tapped again and shook his head. 'This is fucking unbelievable. The weapon involved was a Colt. 25.'