Free The White House Connection by Jack Higgins

of the Confederate States of America.
     
     
'This way.'
     
     
Daley led the way up the sweeping stairs and Blake followed, Bell bringing up the rear. They passed along a wide corridor, portraits everywhere, and Daley finally opened a great mahogany door. They passed into a library. There were more portraits, a log fire in a great fireplace, book-lined walls and French windows standing open. A man stood there, looking out, a glass of wine in his hand. He was tall, with good shoulders, wearing a black sweater and jeans. When he turned, the face was handsome enough, dark, brooding and yet cruel.
     
     
'Mr McGuire? Jack Barry.'
     
     
The voice was still American, and Blake said, 'My pleasure.' He tried to sound a little weak and shaken. 'I was kind of worried.'
     
     
'Oh, stuff all this pretence, Mr Johnson. I know very well who you are. Blake Johnson, President Jake Cazalet's personal minder. You run the Basement, isn't that what you call it? Here,
     
     
have a glass of Sancerre.' He took a bottle from an ice bucket, filled a glass and offered it. 'There you go. I have it on good authenticity that the real McGuire is in the hands of Brigadier Charles Ferguson and Sean Dillon. And that my other dealer in London, Tim Pat Ryan, is very dead indeed.'
     
     
Blake savoured the wine. 'Eighty-six, maybe eight.'
     
     
'Seven,' Barry said. 'So you know my old friend Sean Dillon?'
     
     
'Friend?'
     
     
'A slight exaggeration. However, let's get down to facts. I have excellent sources, but there are things you could tell me, including details about that old bastard Charles Ferguson's operations.'
     
     
'Well, I guess you can kiss my ass,' Blake told him.
     
     
Barry poured another glass of Sancerre. 'I thought you might take that attitude.' He nodded to Daley. 'I think the Soak Hole might do here, Bobby. It's cold out there and starting to rain again. Try him for an hour and see where it gets us.'
     
     
It was raining hard as Daley and Bell took Blake down through the grounds towards the cliffs, and sheet lightning flickered over the water, the waves raging below. They started down a track, Bell leading the way, a lamp in his hand. Halfway down, he paused.
     
     
'This is it.'
     
     
White spray erupted with a hollow roar. Daley pushed Blake forward. 'In you go. There's a ledge ten feet down. You'll be okay. As it's a cold night, I'll let you keep your clothes on.'
     
     
Blake hesitated, then started down. There were steps of a kind, then a platform. The spray cascaded up and he caught his breath. God, but it was cold.
     
     
Daley said to Bell, 'Watch him, I'll be back.'
     
     
He started up to the castle.
     
     
'I was right, then,' Dillon said, as he and Hannah approached the castle. 'Spanish Head it is.'
     
     
He coasted up to the gate and paused, the engine still ticking over. Hannah got out and tried to open the gate without success.
     
     
'No joy, it must be electronic. Give me a moment.'
     
     
There was a small stile to one side intended for pedestrians. As she climbed over, the door opened and an old man appeared. 'Here, you can't do that. This is private.'
     
     
'Not any more it isn't.' She took her Walther from her shoulder bag and put it under his chin. 'Do whatever you have to to open the gate and be quick about it.'
     
     
He was terrified and showed it. He went to the box and pressed the button and the gate opened. Dillon drove through, pulled in to a parking spot to one side and switched off.
     
     
He got out and pushed the old man into the porch. 'Now let's see if I've got this right. You'll be the caretaker. Is anyone else in the cottage?'
     
     
'I'm a widower.'
     
     
'And your name?'
     
     
'Harker, John Harker.'
     
     
'Well, I think you've been a naughty boy, Mr Harker. Closed from September till Easter, and you allow unauthorized guests like my old friend Jack Barry.'
     
     
'I don't know what you mean.' The old man was shaking.
     
     
Dillon produced his Walther and