The Ambassador put a hand on his shoulder. 'Are you okay, Michael? You're sweating.'

'Oh, sure,' Cohan said. 'I started a cold on the flight over.' Suddenly, he realized that, for the moment at least, he had to get out of there. 'I'll just run up to my suite and swallow some aspirin.'

Helen Lang, close enough to hear, turned at once and worked her way through the crowd. She paused at the door to check in her purse for the passkey that Hedley had given her, then walked out.

Cohan finished his champagne, saw Hannah standing close by at one of the bars, a glass in her hand, and his irritation turned to anger. He started to push through the crowd, reached the ballroom entrance, paused briefly to check behind him, aware that she also was on the move, then made for the men's room and went in. It was busy enough for him to have to wait. He really was sweating now, and found himself checking faces in the mirror. He clashed water on his face, took a hand towel from the attendant and dried himself.

There were several men going out together in a rather boisterous crowd. He moved out behind them, was aware of Hannah Bernstein glancing the other way towards the ballroom. He took his chance, dashed away and made it to the lounge. His irritation was immediately eased. It was as if he'd won a victory, small perhaps, but a victory. He reached the foyer, went to the elevators and punched the button.

Hannah gave it ten minutes, and was still standing there against the wall when Dillon arrived. 'I was looking for you. Where's our friend?'

'In there.' She nodded at the door. 'I saw him go in, but he hasn't come out.'

Dillon smiled. 'Some things are still beyond the powers of even politically correct coppers. Leave it to me.'

She waited, watching the crowd, swollen now by late arrivals. Finally, Dillon emerged, pausing only to light a cigarette. 'Not a sign.'

'That's strange, he definitely went in.' She was aware of a sudden touch of anxiety. 'Let's see if he's in the ballroom,' and she led the way back.

Helen Lang's passkey worked perfectly. She was into Cohan's suite instantly and closed the door. It was very luxurious. An excellent bedroom and bathroom, a shower room and a superb panelled sitting room. The maid had drawn the curtains. Helen slipped through, slid back the French windows and stepped on to the terrace. Hyde Park was opposite, the lights of the city beyond. Down below, Park Lane was crowded with traffic. She felt strangely nostalgic standing there. It was raining slightly and she moved under the canopy, lit a cigarette and waited.

Cohan got out of the elevator and hurried along the corridor, his heart pounding. Christ, what's happening to me? he thought. I need a drink. He reached his suite, got the door open and moved inside. He opened the doors of the Chinese lacquered bar unit, poured a large Scotch, his hands shaking. He took it down, then poured another. What in the hell was he going to do? He'd never felt like this ever. Everything was falling apart. It occurred to him then that the one person who could possibly tell him what to do was Barry, so he went into the bedroom, got his mobile from his travelling bag, returned to the sitting room and phoned him.

Barry, still at the safe house in County Down, said, 'Who is this?'

' Cohan. For God's sake, what's going on?'

'What do you mean?'

'Look, I spoke to the Connection. I know all about your escapade in London last night. I've had Brigadier Charles Ferguson and this Dillon guy on my back and they told me.'

'And what did they say?'

Cohan told him everything he could remember. 'The Connection said you were here to protect my back.'

'So I was.'

'Dillon said you were here to knock me off.'

'Who do you believe?' Barry asked. 'Your friends or that little Taig shite? We're in this together. We'll sort it together. When are you due back in New York?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Excellent,' Barry lied with his usual smoothness. 'There are things happening that you don't know about, but all your doubts will be resolved, I promise you.'

'Okay, okay,' Cohan nodded. Til stay in touch.'

'You do that.'

Barry thought about it, then phoned the Connection. 'I've just had Cohan on the line from London.'

'And?'

'He's coming apart. You've got to do something.'

'Such as?'

'Couldn't you arrange for him to be hit by a truck when he gets back to New York?'

'I'll give it my consideration,' Thornton told him, and rang off.

Cohan put the mobile phone down and picked up his glass. 'Why in the hell did I ever get mixed up in all this?' he whispered. He put the glass to his lips, the curtains opened, and Lady Helen Lang entered, the Colt. 25 in her right hand, the silencer in place.

'What in the hell is this?' Cohan demanded shocked at the appearance of this grandmother-looking person with a gun. And she looked familiar somehow.

'Nemesis, Senator, that just about sums it up.'

'Now look here.' He was blustering now. 'If it's money you want.. .'

She laughed. 'No, that's not it. Remember those old movies with the highwayman demanding your money or your life? In this case, I'd prefer your life. I have money.'

Cohan was horrified. 'Who are you?'

'Sit down and I'll tell you.'

He subsided into one of the sofas, shaking like a leaf. 'What is this?'

'I think it's what they call in those old gangster movies on television, payback time.'

'But what have I done?'

'Oh, nothing personally. I'm sure you have clean hands, you're a typical politician, but you did connive, along with the rest of the Sons of Erin.'

Cohan had never been so terrified. 'Oh, my God, it is you! But why? Why?'

She took out her silver cigarette case one-handed, got one in her mouth and lit it. 'I had a son, Senator, a brave and gallant young man. Let me tell you what his ending was because of the stupid fantasy games you and your friends got up to.'

When she was finished, Cohan was ashen-faced. He sat there, huddled in the corner of the sofa. She poured another whiskey and passed it to him.

'It's unbelievable,' he said.

'But true, Senator, your worst nightmare. I shot Tim Pat Ryan here in London, went to New York and got your friends Brady, Kelly and Cassidy.'

He swallowed the whiskey. 'What do you want?'

'Let's start with some questions. The Connection. Who is he?'

'A voice on the phone, I swear it.'

'But surely you have some clue?'

'No! He knows things, but I don't know how he knows them! He never says!'

'And Jack Barry? Where would he be?'

'Somewhere in Northern Ireland, that's all I know.'

'But you were talking to him, I heard you.'

'A special phone, a coded mobile. It has a number, but it can't be traced.'

'Really?' She picked the mobile up. 'What's the number?' He hesitated and she raised the Colt.

He gave it to her.

Barry was having supper when his mobile rang. 'Who is this?' Helen Lang said, 'Nobody special, Mr Barry, but I will be in touch.'

She put the mobile in her purse, moved to the desk, quickly noted the number on a note pad and put that in her purse also.

She had switched the Colt to her left hand so that she could write, and Cohan, seizing his chance, threw his glass at her and plunged through the curtains to the terrace.

It was stupid, really. He had nowhere to go. There was a small fountain, a fish spouting water, and a step beyond, the terrace wall. He peered over, looked at the ribbon of light moving along Park Lane, and below the ledge spotted an iron ladder going down, obviously for maintenance purposes. He quickly sat astride the coping, one foot feeling for the ladder, just as Helen Lang came through the curtains, the Colt ready.