The Chief called the Mayor because he was not going to go it alone on this one and the Mayor called the Governor because he knew the Governor was a friend of Aiden Ross.
As a result, they lost valuable time. They all spun around in a panic for a while before the Chief said he had better get in touch with the FBI. The woman Harte had said where Matt Ross was headed. It meant you had a fleeing suspect crossing through a couple of states, not to mention the possibility of a foreign national multi-millionaire tycoon involved in some kind of conspiracy involving a Senator running for President.
Christ, they had better get this one right.
By then, Matt Ross was in Massachusetts, watching for the off-ramp signs on the interstate that would direct him to Cambridge and Boston, his mind roaming over everything that had happened and the things that might have been.
That night four years ago, when Aiden had asked him to come on board, he had felt his future opening up before him in a way that he would not have dreamed possible.
He had begun to feel trapped in a backwater in Belfast. Oh, it had been interesting enough for a time; he had kept the State Department well briefed on the Ulster situation and he had even acted as a go-between on a couple of occasions so that the British Government and the IRA could establish contact with each other. But he had begun to wonder where the next posting would be and none of the prospects attracted him.
He had friends in Belfast, of course. There was Paul, good-humoured and always amusing, and there was the cocaine he provided every now and then.
He had indulged on and off since his Harvard days. They did it in complete privacy and safety. The house was out of bounds to the local police, even if they had suspected anything, which was unlikely, and they did it only when none of the other consul staff were likely to be around. It was one of the advantages of living alone.
That night Aiden had set off for Dublin straight after dinner, driven by a couple of consulate people, and so the coast had been clear.
They were all to blame. Himself included.
He thought of Chris Malone, a bit of an asshole at times, especially when he had too much to drink or he was doing too much coke, but he had never seen him like he was that night. The damn fool.
And there was Alice. Their affair had been uncomplicated, governed by mutual sexual gratification rather than any real affection.
And then in the woods he had seen what she was capable of doing.
Chris had fucked them that night. And when he had killed himself he had fucked them again, leaving that goddamned tape which had let his father into the picture.
He was entering Cambridge.
It had been stupid to let Alice bring the other woman in the first place.
And then the fucking car had crashed.
In his mind he saw it again, as he had seen it every day for the past four years – the girl mangled against the dashboard, Paul and Chris struggling and then Alice with the flashlight, battering the life out of him.
He shuddered. The truth was, he could have stopped her but he had not done so. Instead he had stood aside and let her do it.
And now – had she killed again?
They had had to get rid of Meg Winter. There was no choice – Alice had made that point more than once – and then along came Malone breathing down their necks, insisting they get it done. The tape had let him get his hooks into Aiden.
But not for long.
He reached Harvard Square. It was raining. Alone in the car, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Time to call a halt.’
When he got to the Faculty Club, he saw the dark familiar shape of the Secret Service car. He parked beside it, took something from the glove compartment, then got out.
The two agents were in the entrance hall. They looked up when he entered, then smiled at him. They had coffee and magazines. They pointed up the stairs and told him which room.
‘See if you can find out how long they’re going to be, Mr Ross,’ one of them asked.
Ross smiled. A little sadly, the agent would remember later.
‘Not long,’ he said, then walked up the stairs.
Outside the room, he paused for a second, then opened the door.
The two men were sitting at the table, the tape recorder between them, silent now, and he could see from his brother’s ashen face that its message had been delivered with cruel clarity.
Malone had his back to the door but he turned with a smug smile. ‘Mission accomplished?’
Ross did not answer. He put his hand in his pocket and took out two letters which had been addressed to Dr Meg Winter of 30, Truesdale Street, Belfast, Northern Ireland. He threw them on the table.
Malone lifted them and nodded with satisfaction. ‘And the rest of the matter?’
Ross was suddenly very tired. ‘There’s no point,’ he sighed. He put his right hand in to his coat pocket, took out a small Walther TPH, and as Sir Brian Malone sat waiting for an answer that would never come, Ross shot him twice in the head.
Malone’s body tumbled out of the chair to the floor and his blood splashed on the tablecloth and the walls.
Aiden Ross pushed himself to his feet and began to back away in horror.
His brother turned, pointing the gun at him for a second. ‘I’m sorry, Aiden. Sorry for everything.’
Feet were thundering up the stairs. As the two Secret Service men came through the door, shouting at him to drop the weapon, he jammed its barrel hard into the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.