He stood gazing out to sea and Dillon said, “You think you should do the same?”

“Good God, no!” Patrick Keogh rocked with laughter. “Sean, my friend, just for once I want to get something absolutely right, something that I myself can respect, but I sure as hell don’t want to finish up face-down doing it, which is why I want you and the Brigadier.” He laughed again. “Now let’s go and have something to eat and then we can talk some more.”

They had a light meal in the kitchen, salad, salmon, and new potatoes, just the four of them around the kitchen table.

Afterwards over the coffee Keogh said, “So let’s go over it again, Brigadier.”

“Well, as I told the Prime Minister, it can all be very simple. You drop in at Shannon totally unexpected. I believe that for political reasons it’s essential that your appearance at the IRA conference at Ardmore House should be kept secret and perhaps for some time.”

“I agree.”

“But even arriving at Shannon in a private Gulfstream doesn’t mean you won’t be recognized. Ground staff, baggage handlers, who knows? And someone will talk, rumors will start, and the media will get to hear of it.”

“But too late to be able to do anything about it,” Mary Keogh said.

“Exactly.” The Brigadier nodded. “It can be said afterwards that the sole reason for the stop at Shannon was that the Senator, on a sudden whim, decided he wanted to see the Keogh Chapel. At that stage no one will know about the stop-off at Ardmore House on the way back.”

“It’s certainly slick,” the Senator said.

“But security?” his wife said. “I’m concerned about that.”

“No need to be. Dillon, myself, and Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my aide, will be with him at all times. I need hardly stress that the usual IRA efficiency will ensure security at Ardmore House.”

“And I know Drumgoole Abbey,” Dillon said. “It’s miles from anywhere in a beautiful valley. There’s the Abbey itself, the convent with its school. Just nuns and children.”

“It’ll work.” Keogh patted his wife’s hand reassuringly. “We’ll have some more coffee on the porch, then I’ll let you gentlemen go.”

Sitting there, looking down at the beach, the sea wild beyond, Mary Keogh said, “I’m intrigued, Mr. Dillon. My husband asked for your background. He’s told me about you, but there are things I don’t understand. You went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London? You acted with the National Theatre?”

“That’s right,” Dillon said.

“But then you joined the IRA?”

“I was nineteen years of age, Mrs. Keogh, and living in London with my father. Nineteen seventy-one, it was. He went to Belfast on a holiday and was killed by cross fire. British paratroopers and IRA. An accident.”

“Only you didn’t see it that way?” There was real sympathy in her eyes.

“Not at nineteen.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “So I joined the glorious cause.”

“And never looked back,” Ferguson said. “On the most-wanted list for years.”

“Is it true you tried to blow up the British War Cabinet in February ninety-one?” Keogh asked.

“Now do I look the kind of fella that would do a thing like that?” Dillon said.

Keogh roared with laughter. “Yes, actually you do, my fine Irish friend.”

Mrs. Keogh said, “I’m still puzzled. How come you changed sides?”

“I fought for what I believed in. I’m not ashamed of that, although I never approved of the bomb as a weapon. For me that was the greatest weakness in the IRA campaign. Not just the dead, but fifty thousand ordinary people maimed or injured. Women in a shopping mall, kids.” He shrugged. “In the end nothing’s worth that, not even a united Ireland. Something goes click in your head. You change.”

“I finally caught up with him in a Serb prison,” Ferguson said. “They were going to shoot him for flying medical supplies in for children. I managed to make a deal.” He shrugged. “Now he works for me.”

“And I’ll say amen to that, I couldn’t be happier on this occasion,” Patrick Keogh told them. “I’ll go and tell your driver to bring the limousine round and I’ll inform Otis you’re on your way.” He got up, moved to the door, and turned. “Oh, by the way, the President wants to meet you when you get back to Washington.”

Mrs. Keogh said her good-byes and went inside. Ferguson, Dillon, and Keogh stood by the limousine for a moment.

“Tell me, Dillon,” Keogh said. “Do you really think it will work, peace in Ireland?”

“A lot is going to depend on Protestant reaction,” Dillon said. “On how threatened they feel. There’s an old Prod toast, Senator. Our country too. If they think the other side will allow them that observation, there might be hope.”

“Our country too.” Keogh nodded. “I like that. It has a ring to it.” He looked solemn. “Perhaps I could use that at Ardmore.”

Ferguson said, “We’ll be seeing you soon, sir, at Shannon.”

“Only a matter of days, Brigadier.”

“And you’re happy, Senator?”

“Am I, hell.” Keogh laughed. “Frightened to death.”

“Ah well, we all get like that,” Dillon told him. “It’s a healthy sign.”

“You know I once made a speech that for various reasons didn’t appeal to a lot of people, but it appealed to me,” Keogh told them. “I said something about a man doing what he must in spite of personal consequences, that whatever sacrifices he faces, if he follows his conscience, he alone must decide on the course he must follow.”

They stood there in silence and it started to rain. Keogh flung back his head and roared with laughter. “Hell, that sounded like a campaign speech. Off you go, gentlemen, and I’ll see you at Shannon.”

He turned and went inside.

In the helicopter, Ferguson busied himself with papers from his briefcase and hardly said a word. It was later when they were being driven from Andrews in an Air Force limousine through the heavy Washington traffic that he finally put the papers away and leaned back.

“Interesting man, Patrick Keogh. Triumphs on occasion, but also tragedies and mistakes.”

“But he’s still here,” Dillon said. “He’s a survivor. He doesn’t whine when something goes wrong. He picks himself up and gets on with it.”

“You liked him?”

“Oh yes, I think he’s a man who can look in the mirror and not be afraid.”

Ferguson said, “I didn’t know you had an artistic soul, Dillon,” and at that moment they reached the White House and were delivered to the West Basement Entrance.

When an aide showed them into the Oval Office, there was no one there.

“Please wait, gentlemen,” he said.

Outside, darkness was falling and Ferguson moved to the window and looked out. “My God, but we’re part of history here, Dillon, from Roosevelt to Clinton and everything in between.”

“I know,” Dillon said. “The performance continues relentlessly. It’s like the Windmill Theatre during the Blitz in London during the Second World War. The motto was: We never closed.”

A private door clicked open and Clinton appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Brigadier Ferguson?” He held out his hand.

“Mr. President.”

“And Mr. Dillon?”

“So they tell me,” Dillon said.

“Be seated, gentlemen.” They did as they were told and Clinton sat behind the desk. “You’ve seen Senator Keogh, I understand, and everything’s in place?”

“Yes,” Ferguson said. “Or as far as it can be at this moment in time.”

“He’s spoken with me on the phone and seems more than happy with your plans.”

“Good,” Ferguson said.

Clinton got up and walked to the window. “A fact of life when you hold high office, gentlemen, is that in the eyes of the media everything becomes political.”

“I’m afraid it has always been so,” Ferguson told him.

“I know.” Clinton nodded. “Anything I do must have some political advantage. This has already been said about the efforts I’ve made to help with the Irish situation.” He came back to the desk and sat down. “Not true, gentlemen. Politicians are accused of many things, but for once I can say, hand on heart, that I’m interested in the outcome for its own sake, and in this case that means peace in Ireland.”