“For good, Patrick, I’m certain of it, then back to Shannon and onwards to Paris.”

Keogh nodded slowly. “Totally secret, the whole thing.”

“Absolutely. You see, the visit to Drumgoole Abbey would take care of any reports of you being sighted at Shannon, provide an explanation. The Mother Superior wouldn’t be told of your visit until you were on the way.”

“Yes, I understand that.”

There was another pause and John Major said gently, “Is there a problem, Senator?”

“Only if this doesn’t stay top secret,” Patrick Keogh said. “I’m aware that the American Ambassador in Dublin has received death threats from hardline Protestant Loyalist groups. I understand she’s been referred to as ‘that Kennedy bitch.’ God knows what they’d call me.”

“Yes, we are very concerned about the other side’s attitude in all this,” John Major said. “But we can’t let that stand in the way of our negotiations.”

“Of course not,” Keogh said. “But if news got out about what I’m supposed to be trying to achieve, there are those on the Orange side of the line who might think it would make sense to remove me permanently from the scene. Let’s face it, the murder of Liam Bell doesn’t exactly fill one with hope.”

Clinton went back to his chair behind the desk and sat down. “God knows, this wouldn’t be a picnic, and we are asking you to put yourself on the line. That’s why I suggest following the procedure I’ve laid out. All very low key. Only a very small circle of people will know.”

“What about the IRA conference? They’ll know.”

John Major said, “Gerry Adams wants things to happen now, no doubt about that. I’m sure we can work something out. For example, what if you were introduced as a total surprise?”

“I like it,” Clinton said. “The shock effect would be tremendous. So what do you think, Patrick?”

“I’m not sure.” Keogh sighed. “I can’t argue with the importance of all this, but you’re asking me to go into the war zone and I’m getting old.” He smiled that wry smile again. “Okay, maybe I’m kind of scared at the prospect, but I do have my family to consider. I would have to consult my wife, and she’s gone down to our house at Hyannis Port. We’re only three miles down the beach from Ted Kennedy.”

“How long do you need?”

“Twenty-four hours?”

John Major said, “I leave at noon tomorrow.”

“Right, I’ll be in touch before then.”

He stood up and Clinton pressed the buzzer for the aide. “I’ve given instructions to the commanding officer at Andrews Air Force Base to grant you every facility. If you want to go to Hyannis Port tonight, they’ll speed you on your way.”

“That’s kind, Mr. President.” Keogh held out his hand to John Major. “Prime Minister. We’ll speak to-morrow.”

The door opened behind him, the Marine lieutenant appeared, and Patrick Keogh turned and went out.

He didn’t even bother to go to his Washington home, simply told his chauffeur to take him to Andrews Air Force Base and spoke to the commanding officer on the car phone to let him know he was coming. On the way he changed his mind and told his chauffeur to divert to Arlington National Cemetery. It was raining harder now, so he took an umbrella his chauffeur provided and walked to President Kennedy’s grave. He stood there for quite some time, lost in thought, and an aging lady who also held an umbrella over her head walked up.

“What a man,” she said. “The greatest President this century.”

“I couldn’t disagree with that,” Keogh said.

“He gave people hope,” she said. “That was his greatest gift, and he had courage. On top of that he was a war hero. Amazing.”

“He certainly was.”

She glanced sideways. “Excuse me, but do I know you? You look familiar.”

Patrick Keogh gave her that immensely charming smile. “No, I don’t think so, I’m nobody special,” and he turned and walked away.

At Andrews they provided a helicopter but pointed out that the Cape Cod area was not good that evening, with heavy fog at Hyannis Port. The best they could offer was a flight to Otis Air Force Base on Cape Cod itself and onward transportation by limousine. He had no quarrel with that and found himself on his way within twenty minutes, drifting out across the Potomac as dusk settled on the horizon.

He tried to read the Washington Post, but his brain refused to take it in. He could think of only one thing, the situation outlined to him by the President and the British Prime Minister. It came to him with sudden clarity that he was faced with the most important decision of his life.

In London it was almost midnight and Dillon was working away at his desk, checking computer printouts. It was very quiet. Suddenly the door opened and Hannah Bernstein entered. She was wearing a raincoat.

“I don’t believe this. I’ve been trying to contact you all night. Why didn’t you have your answerphone on?”

“I hate those bloody things.”

“I then had the crazy thought that you might still be here.”

He ignored her, checking a printout. “So you were right then.” He put the printout down and sat back, swivelling in the seat. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“Carl Jung used to speak about something he called synchronicity, events having an apparent coincidence in time and the feeling that some deeper motivation is involved.”

“And what’s that got to do with January 30?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The ould head’s pounding from it all. All those hits with the Beretta, that’s no coincidence, it’s a fact. Four IRA men stiffed – that’s a fact, no chance there.”

“So?”

He lit a cigarette. “Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Now why, I asked myself, why two, and then good old Bert Gordon gives us the reason for the Silsev and Sharp hit. Drugs.”

“And why was Ashimov killed?”

“I don’t know, but it’s synchronicity that we go to Beirut and find another KGB officer on the make, this time flogging plutonium.”

“You’re not suggesting a connection?”

“Only in that it indicates that the KGB, or whatever they call themselves now, seem to be dipping their fingers into every racket available.”

“So what does that tell you?”

“That there might be a Russian connection somewhere, so I’ve asked the computer to check everything for me as regards the Soviet Embassy in London. Personnel – the lot.”

“Brilliant,” she said. “Any other coincidences you want to check?”

“Strange you should say that, but there is, and for the life of me I can’t think what it is.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you really do need a night’s sleep.”

He stood up and reached for his jacket. “My place or yours?”

“Where shall I kick you, Dillon, just tell me?” she said. “Now come on. I’ll drop you off,” and she led the way out.

When the limousine reached the Hyannis Port house from Otis Air Force Base, Patrick Keogh was tired, and the last few miles through thick fog had been a real strain. The driver, an Air Force Sergeant, declined the offer of a cup of coffee and started back immediately.

Keogh stood there for a moment and suddenly a wind blew in strongly from the sea, tearing the fog into tatters, and he could see the white surf on the edge of the beach. On impulse, he walked down there and stood listening to the waves thundering in, the wind in his face.

A voice called, “Pat, are you there?” It was his wife and he turned and saw her a few yards away, a flashlight in her hand. “Are you all right? Is anything wrong? They phoned me from Otis to say you were on your way. I heard the car.”

He put an arm around her and kissed her. “My head was feeling a little thick. You know what helicopters are. I just felt like a blow. We’ll go in now.”