The White House Connection
about her, something special. Can't put my finger on it.'
'Don't try, Dillon,' Ferguson told him. 'She's far too good for you.'
It was a week later that they flew from Gatwick to New York in one of her company's Gulfstreams, and stayed at the Plaza. By that time, she knew the file backwards, every facet of every individual in it, and had also used every facility available in the
company's computer. She had the Colt.25 with her. In all her years flying in the Gulfstreams, she had never been checked by security once.
She knew everything. For example, that Martin Brady, the Teamsters' Union official, attended a union gym near the New York docks three times a week, and usually left around ten in the evening. Hedley took her to a place a block away, then she walked. Brady had a red Mercedes, a distinctive automobile. She waited in an alley next to where he had parked it, and slipped out only to shoot him in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the Mercedes.
That had been Hedfey's suggestion. He'd heard that the mob preferred such executions with a small calibre pistol, usually a.22, but a.25 would do, and this would make the police think they had a mob-versus-union problem.
Thomas Cassidy, with a fortune in Irish theme pubs, was easy. He'd recently opened a new place in the Bronx and parked in an alley at the rear. She checked it out two nights running and got him on the third, at one in the morning, once again as he unlocked his car. According to The New York Times, there had been a protection racket operating in the area and the police thought Cassidy a victim. She'd known about all that and his complaints to the police from the computer.
Patrick Kelly, the boss of the construction firm, was even easier. He had a house in Ossining, with countryside all around. His habit was to rise at six in the morning and run five miles. She checked out his usual route, then caught him on the third morning, running with the hood of his track suit up against heavy rain. She stood under a tree as he approached, shot him twice in the heart, then removed the gold Rolex watch from his wrist and the chain from around his neck, again at Hedley's suggestion. A simple mugging, was all.
So, everything worked perfectly. She hadn't needed the pills
as much, and Hedley, in spite of his doubts, had proved a rock. Am I truly wicked, she would ask herself, really evil? And then recalled reading that in Judaism, Jehovah was not personally responsible for many actions. He employed angels, an Angel of Death, for example.
Is that me? she asked herself. But needing justice, she could not be sorry. So she continued until that rainy night in Manhattan, when she waited for Senator Michael Cohan to come home from the Pierre and was sidetracked.
At the same time that Helen Lang was returning to the Plaza, consoling herself with the thought that she would get Cohan in London, other events were taking place there that would prove to have a profound influence not only on her, but on others she already knew.
A few hours after Lady Helen went to bed, Hannah Bernstein entered Charles Ferguson's office at the Ministry of Defence, Dillon behind her.
'Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've got a hot one.'
'Really?' He smiled. 'Tell me.'
She nodded to Dillon, who said, 'There's an old mate of mine, Tommy McGuire, Irish-American. Been into arms dealing for years. He was caught with a defective brake light in Kilburn last night, and a rather keen young woman probationer insisted on checking the boot of his car.'
'Surprise, surprise,' Hannah Bernstein said. 'Fifty pounds of Semtex and two AK47S.'
'How delicious,' Ferguson replied. 'With his record, which I'm sure he has, that should draw ten years.'
'Except for one thing,' Hannah told him. 'He says he wants a deal.'
'He says he can give us Jack Barry,'

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