'But, Mr President, that covers a lot of possible ground,' Thornton said. 'Even my mother was Irish-born. She came from County Clare as an infant. It was my father's family, the Thorntons, who were English.'

'My grandmother on my mother's side was a Dublin woman.' Cazalet smiled and turned to Blake. 'What about you?'

' Mr President, Johnson is English enough, but I take the chief of staff's point. It's always been said that around forty million people in the country's population are of Irish stock. If you consider people like yourself and the chief of staff who have some sort of Irish past in their family history, then God knows how many it touches.'

'A considerable proportion of the White House staff, I should think,' Thornton put in.

'You can say that again. Needless to say, I'll leave no stone unturned. However, I've left the really bad news till last.'

'You mean it gets worse?' The President shook his head. 'Better get on with it, Blake.'

As Blake gave his account of the lives and deaths of the Sons of Erin, the President and the chief of staff sat horrified.

When Blake was finished, Cazalet said, 'This passes belief. Is the Prime Minister in possession of all these facts?'

'Not all, Mr President. Brigadier Ferguson felt he should wait until I'd completed my investigation.'

Cazalet sat there, frowning, then turned to Thornton. 'A drink is very definitely indicated here. Make mine a Scotch and water, no ice. You gentlemen feel free to indulge yourselves.'

He went and opened the French window and breathed deeply in the cold air. Thornton gave him his Scotch. 'May I make a point?'

'Please do.'

'I think we're shying away from Senator Cohan here.'

'Explain.'

'There's an implication of some mysterious Connection presumably passing out choice items of information on the Irish situation to the Sons of Erin, and a strong suspicion that Tim Pat Ryan was their connection in London.'

'So?' Cazalet said.

'These were bad guys, Mr President. They must have been if they were involved with Jack Barry. Which means that Senator Cohan is a bad guy.'

'I'd already thought of that,' the President said. 'Could he be the Connection?'

'I doubt it,' Blake said. 'If he were, why go public by being a member of the dining club?'

'That makes sense.'

Cazalet frowned, and Thornton said, 'What do we do?'

'Officially, nothing,' the President said. ' Cohan'll deny any involvement and proof would be difficult.'

'Can you forbid him to go to London?'

'What for? If he's a target, he's a target in both London or New York. Besides, despite what he says in the papers, his visit is not on my behalf. It's to make him look good to the voters.'

'So what happens?' Thornton asked. 'What do we do?'

The President turned to Blake. 'First, tell Ferguson to inform the Prime Minister of the recent turn of events. I'll discuss it with the PM at an appropriate time.'

'And Senator Cohan?'

'What's that fine old British phrase Dillon uses? Put the boot in?'

'That's it, Mr President.'

'Well, put the boot into Senator Cohan. Frighten him, send him running, watch every move. With luck, something might turn up.'

'At your command, Mr President. I'd better get back. I held the helicopter over.'

'It can wait. Lunch, gentlemen, and then you can return to a troubled world, Blake.'

It was some three hours later that Senator Michael Cohan received a phone call at his New York office.

'It's me,' the Connection told him. 'With some bad news, Senator. I'm afraid the Sons of Erin have fallen upon bad times. They're all dead. Brady, Cassidy, Kelly, Ryan. All dead. And interestingly enough – all killed by the same gun.'

Cohan was aghast. 'This is terrible! I can't believe it. I heard about Brady and Ryan, but – Kelly and Cassidy, too. For God's sake, what's going on?'

'You've heard of the Last of the Mohicans?' The Connection laughed. 'Well, you're the last of the Sons of Erin. I wonder where the axe will fall next? The President knows of your involvement, by the way.'

'I'll deny it. I'll deny everything. How do you know this?'

'I've told you before. Anything that comes into the White House, I know.'

'Who are you? God, I wish I'd never gotten involved.'

'Well, you did, and as to who I am, that'll have to remain one of life's great mysteries. I could be using a voice distorter. I could be your best friend, I could be a woman. In fact, they think it was a woman who killed Ryan in London.'

'Damn you!'

'Taken care of. Now, listen carefully. The President has authorized Blake Johnson to speak to you, tell you something about what's going on, advise you to take to the hills.'

'What shall I do? I'm due in London in three days.'

'Yes, I know. In my opinion, I think you should go. I don't think it'll be any more dangerous for you there than here, and while you're away, I'll see what I can do about our problem.'

'You're sure?'

'Of course. When Johnson sees you, just play dumb. You ate together once in a while and you have no idea what's going on.'

'But who's doing all this? Is it the fucking Protestants?'

'More likely British Intelligence. That means you'll be safe in London.'

'How do you make that out?'

'Because you're an American Senator, and whatever else, they won't want you to buy it in London.'

'I'll try and believe that.'

'Good. I'll be in touch. I'll handle it.'

Henry Thornton put the phone down.

Panicky, and when a man panicked, he could do anything. A liability now, Cohan. With any luck, that mysterious killer out there would take care of him. If not… maybe he'd have to have help. As for Barry, he'd leave that for a while. See what happened to Cohan.

He went to the sideboard and poured a whiskey, Irish, of course. He'd told the President the truth. His sainted mother had been born in County Clare. What he hadn't mentioned was that she had had an illegitimate half-brother by her father, a volunteer with Michael Collins in the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin. He'd been executed by the Brits, and Thornton had grown up with the man's name in his ears.

But there was much more than that. Doing postgraduate work at Harvard in 1970, Thornton had met a lovely Irish Catholic girl from Queen's University, Belfast, named Rosaleen Fitzgerald. She'd been the absolute love of his life. They'd spent one idyllic year, true love way beyond sexuality, and then it had happened. She'd gone home for the summer vacation, and had been in the wrong Belfast street at the wrong time, a firefight between Brit paratroopers and the IRA that had left her dead on the sidewalk.

His hatred of all things British had become absolute. Growing up, even with all the success, all the money, it had meant nothing, and then had come the chance to strike back.

He sipped the whiskey. 'Fuck you,' he said softly. 'I'll have my day.'

At his office in Manhattan the following day, Cohan received Blake with enthusiasm, heard him out with appropriate sounds of horror and disbelief, and walked him to the door with grave shakes of his head. He promised to be careful in London, but no, he had to go. It was for a very important cause, and he'd promised.

'Please keep me up to date,' he said to Johnson, shaking his hand and staring sincerely into his eyes.

Blake promised that he would.

Afterwards, Blake spoke briefly to the President, and then phoned Ferguson in London. 'What will you do?' he asked.

'I'll see the Prime Minister. Place all the new facts before him, and wait to hear the outcome of his chat with the President.'

'And Cohan?'

'You tell me the President won't forbid him to come, so he will come. I'll have the job of protecting him.'

'And what do you think will happen?'

'As I told you, I'm an old dog, long in this business. I go by instinct, and every instinct tells me he will die in London.' Ferguson hung up.