The scene is Boris Yeltsin's airliner as it circles County Clare, while the waiting Irish Prime Minister and his party shuffle their feet and gaze forlornly skyward. “Mr President? Mr President! You must vake up!” Slosh of iced water across the ravaged steppes of his features. Bear-like groans. “Mr President, this is diplomatic madness: the Prime Minister of the Irish Republic is waiting for us down below.” Further growling. “Tell him ve vill not vithdraw our troops until he builds them houses in Moscow.” “B - …