you'll never understand the Irish. Sean was more than a friend. He was the best, a true comrade," Kelly said. "We were on the run from Brit paratroopers in the sewers of Derry on one famous occasion. I took a bullet in the shoulder, but I could keep going. Tod here got one in the leg and fell by the wayside. When Sean found out, he went back for him."
"I'll drink to him any day," Murphy said.
Ashimov was bewildered. "This man works for Charles Ferguson, who heads the Prime Minister's secret security service. So secret, it's known in the trade--"
Kelly cut in, "--as the Prime Minister's private army, and they'd need the best, so they got Sean."
"I don't understand you."
"You'd need to be Irish to understand us, Major, and it's got nothing to do with religion. Sean Dillon is the best. They couldn't touch his collar for years, not the RUC, not the British Army. D'you know how he ended up working for Ferguson? During the Serb War, he was flying medical supplies in for children, the Serbs caught him."
"It's what's called a good deed in a naughty world," Tod Murphy said. "He was faced with a firing squad--and Ferguson blackmailed him. He saved his skin, wiped his slate clean, and in return Sean became his enforcer. We all know the story."
And Ashimov, in spite of his wealth of experience, was astonished. "And you don't mind?"
Kelly said, "I told you. He was a comrade. The best. But if he got you in his sights, you were dead. Still would be."
"So why do you want to know about him?" Kelly asked, and Ashimov told them.
When he had finished, Murphy said, "So this Ali Selim bowser is on the run in Iraq and you've got what's-her-name, Greta Novikova, on his tail?"
"Ferguson will have Sean on that one like a dose of salts," Kelly put in. He turned to Tod Murphy. "Put your priest's intellect on this. What's your conclusion?"
"Quite simple. Ferguson doesn't want a trial at the Old Bailey. The Muslims wouldn't like that. He's sent Sean to bring Selim back. A nice, quiet inquisition in some safe house in London, and you and Mr. Belov wouldn't like that."
"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that. But how would you two feel if I had trouble in London with Ferguson and his people? What would you say if I said I needed you? It would include taking on Dillon."
They looked at each other and smiled.
"Ah, now," said Murphy. "He was a comrade, to be sure. But that doesn't mean there might not be a score or two to settle."
"Things run well here, as you know," Kelly said. "We do things our way and Belov's money for the farmers keeps things sweet."
Tod cut in. "But with the Peace Process, it gets awfully boring. What you suggest could be interesting."
"But just so you realize," Kelly added. "If there's something Sean Dillon could give master classes in, it's bloody mayhem."
"So where would that leave you?"
"Oh, we'd give him a run for his money." And Tod Murphy smiled.
It was later that day that President Jake Cazalet walked on the shore at Nantucket. He loved the old beach house with its seafront of beach and sand dunes, and came down whenever he could, certainly most weekends. The helicopter delivered him from Washington late on a Friday, picked him up again Sunday evening.
He had a cook and housekeeper in from the local town. No fuss and good plain cooking, he would say. He'd always insisted that only two Secret Service men accompany him and one always had to be Clancy Smith. The other usually handled communications.
Even with only two minders, however, the security around him was electronically state-of-the-art, especially since the assassination attempt on him three years before while running through the nearby marsh.
He was walking on the beach now with his beloved flat-coated retriever, Murchison, and with Clancy Smith. The surf boiled, the sky was slate gray, rain showering in so hard that the two men each carried an umbrella. They paused for Clancy to light the President's cigarette.
"It feels good to get away from
"I'll drink to him any day," Murphy said.
Ashimov was bewildered. "This man works for Charles Ferguson, who heads the Prime Minister's secret security service. So secret, it's known in the trade--"
Kelly cut in, "--as the Prime Minister's private army, and they'd need the best, so they got Sean."
"I don't understand you."
"You'd need to be Irish to understand us, Major, and it's got nothing to do with religion. Sean Dillon is the best. They couldn't touch his collar for years, not the RUC, not the British Army. D'you know how he ended up working for Ferguson? During the Serb War, he was flying medical supplies in for children, the Serbs caught him."
"It's what's called a good deed in a naughty world," Tod Murphy said. "He was faced with a firing squad--and Ferguson blackmailed him. He saved his skin, wiped his slate clean, and in return Sean became his enforcer. We all know the story."
And Ashimov, in spite of his wealth of experience, was astonished. "And you don't mind?"
Kelly said, "I told you. He was a comrade. The best. But if he got you in his sights, you were dead. Still would be."
"So why do you want to know about him?" Kelly asked, and Ashimov told them.
When he had finished, Murphy said, "So this Ali Selim bowser is on the run in Iraq and you've got what's-her-name, Greta Novikova, on his tail?"
"Ferguson will have Sean on that one like a dose of salts," Kelly put in. He turned to Tod Murphy. "Put your priest's intellect on this. What's your conclusion?"
"Quite simple. Ferguson doesn't want a trial at the Old Bailey. The Muslims wouldn't like that. He's sent Sean to bring Selim back. A nice, quiet inquisition in some safe house in London, and you and Mr. Belov wouldn't like that."
"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that. But how would you two feel if I had trouble in London with Ferguson and his people? What would you say if I said I needed you? It would include taking on Dillon."
They looked at each other and smiled.
"Ah, now," said Murphy. "He was a comrade, to be sure. But that doesn't mean there might not be a score or two to settle."
"Things run well here, as you know," Kelly said. "We do things our way and Belov's money for the farmers keeps things sweet."
Tod cut in. "But with the Peace Process, it gets awfully boring. What you suggest could be interesting."
"But just so you realize," Kelly added. "If there's something Sean Dillon could give master classes in, it's bloody mayhem."
"So where would that leave you?"
"Oh, we'd give him a run for his money." And Tod Murphy smiled.
It was later that day that President Jake Cazalet walked on the shore at Nantucket. He loved the old beach house with its seafront of beach and sand dunes, and came down whenever he could, certainly most weekends. The helicopter delivered him from Washington late on a Friday, picked him up again Sunday evening.
He had a cook and housekeeper in from the local town. No fuss and good plain cooking, he would say. He'd always insisted that only two Secret Service men accompany him and one always had to be Clancy Smith. The other usually handled communications.
Even with only two minders, however, the security around him was electronically state-of-the-art, especially since the assassination attempt on him three years before while running through the nearby marsh.
He was walking on the beach now with his beloved flat-coated retriever, Murchison, and with Clancy Smith. The surf boiled, the sky was slate gray, rain showering in so hard that the two men each carried an umbrella. They paused for Clancy to light the President's cigarette.
"It feels good to get away from
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