Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter. Jack Higgins

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.’

      ‘I didn’t know you had an artistic soul, Dillon.’

      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.’