The White House Connection by Jack Higgins Page A

Dillon grinned. 'It's all up to you now, old son. We'll be waiting with bated breath.'
     
     
WASHINGTON
     
     
NANTUCKET
     
     
NEW YORK
     
     
SIX
     
     
In his office at the White House, Blake greeted Alice with enthusiasm. He'd managed to sleep on the plane, and had had one of those difficult breakfasts that took no notice of time differences, but he badly needed to shower and change, which he did the moment he got to the office — he so frequently had to sleep there overnight that he kept a change of clothes ready.
     
     
When he got to his desk, shaved, shampooed and resplendent in a blue, flannel suit, Alice handed him coffee with approval. 'That's taken ten years off you.'
     
     
'Look at my in-tray.'
     
     
'I've done my best. Tell me what happened.'
     
     
Blake ran the Basement in a most peculiar way. He had only one member of staff, which was Alice. Every time there was work to do, he pulled in members of a secret list: friends from FBI days, usually retired or invalided out; experts of every kind, from university professors to old comrades from Vietnam; whatever or whoever was necessary. He operated things like a Marxist cell system. Nobody knew what anyone else was doing. Except Alice. Who was outraged now by his story.
     
     
'It beggars belief that there is a spy in the White House.'
     
     
'Why not? We've had them everywhere else. The Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI
     
     
'Okay, I take your point.' She poured him another coffee.
     
     
'Too much is on computers these days, that's the real problem, and in spite of every precaution, it's too easy to get at.'
     
     
'Yes, life's a bitch,' Blake said. 'Speaking of which — did you get anywhere with the Sons of Erin?'
     
     
'Not much. Jack Barry's in the CIA and FBI files, but that's the only mention of the Sons of Erin.'
     
     
Blake sat there frowning. 'But he definitely mentioned them.' He laughed suddenly. 'I've just remembered something Dillon said. That the Sons of Erin sounded like an Irish theme pub.'
     
     
She laughed. 'It's a thought.'
     
     
'Okay, so let's take a different route. Pubs, restaurants, dining clubs. See what you can do.'
     
     
'I hear and obey, o master.'
     
     
She went out and Blake got down to the paperwork.
     
     
It was no more than an hour later that she returned. 'My God, it was so easy, once I looked in the right place.' She had a piece of paper in her hand. 'The Sons of Erin. It's listed under Irish dining clubs. Operates out of a bar and restaurant called Murphy's. It's in the Bronx.'
     
     
Blake looked at the address, then checked his watch. 'I can just make the shuttle to New York. Phone, get me a seat, get me a car, and book me a suite on the government. Something befitting my dignity.'
     
     
She was laughing uproariously as she went out.
     
     
Murphy's was on Haley Street. It was just after three when Blake's car drew up outside. It hadn't the usual Irish theme pub look to it, all green and gold harps. This was older, more solid.
     
     
'Wait here, George,' Blake said to his driver, got out and walked to the door.
     
     
Inside it was dark and very old-fashioned, with dining booths and lots of mahogany panelling. A couple of people were fmish-
     
     
ing a late meal in one of the booths, but the lunchtime trade was through. The barman was old, seventy-five at least, his sleeves rolled up, reading spectacles on the end of his nose as he checked the sports page of The New York Times.
     
     
'Hi, there,' Blake said. 'I'll have a Bushmills whiskey and water.'
     
     
'Well, you've got taste at least.' The old man reached for a bottle.
     
     
Blake said, 'With a name like Dooley, I should have. It was a friend told me to look in here. A guy called Barry.'
     
     
The old man pushed the drink across. 'I don't recall him.' 'Have one yourself.' The old man took a large one and downed it quickly.
     
     
'He told me he used to be in a dining club here called the Sons of Erin.'
     
     
'Jesus, that was