Drink With the Devil (13 page)

“What name is he using?”

“Liam Kelly. He has a history of heart trouble so they moved him from Ossining to Green Rapids Detention Center. The medical facilities are good and the general hospital in the town is exceptional. He’s visited regularly by his niece, who is a nurse at the hospital. She calls herself Jean Kelly. I’ve seen her. Small and rather ugly in a peasant kind of way. Dark hair, around twenty-five or -six.”

“That would be Kathleen Ryan — she is his niece. Well, now, fancy that and after all these years.” The rain increased in a sudden rush and he took Sollazo by the arm. “Let’s make for the shelter over there. I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say about the
Irish Rose
.”

W
HEN
S
OLLAZO HAD
finished talking, Barry sat there, frowning slightly. Finally he spoke. “Tell me something, why have you come to me?”

“Business,” Sollazo told him, “strictly business. That bullion would be worth one hundred million pounds at today’s prices.”

“And you’d like to get your hands on it?”

“Let me be explicit. My uncle feels that a joint venture would be the way to tackle this affair between ourselves and you of the IRA. A half share each. What could be fairer? If peace fails, fifty million in gold would buy you a great many arms, my friend.”

“Indeed it would, and your uncle, with his usual instinct for doing the right thing, has sent you to entirely the right place and not for the reason you think.”

“I think you should explain.”

“You see, I know as much as anyone about the
Irish Rose
affair, as much as Ryan himself.”

“But how could you?”

“I know Ryan was up to something, the usual whispers, even a hint that it was gold, so I infiltrated one of my own men into his organization, a man we’ll call Martin Keogh.”

“Not his real name?”

“That’s right. One of my very best operators. He actually was with Ryan every step of the way and took part in the robbery. He was on the
Irish Rose
when it went down.”

“Tell me,” Sollazo said. “Tell me everything.”

L
ATER
,
SITTING IN
a corner booth at Cohan’s Bar drinking Guinness and eating ham sandwiches, Sollazo said, “A remarkable story, and this man Keogh? Is he still around?”

“In a manner of speaking. He left the IRA some years ago and worked as a freelance or mercenary, call it what you like. He’s worked for just about everybody in his time, the old KGB, the PLO, even the Israelis.”

“And where is he now?”

“With British Intelligence.”

“That seems rather surprising.”

“The Brits set up a highly secret outfit to combat terrorism and handle the really dirty jobs back in nineteen seventy-two. Since then it’s been headed by a man called Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and he isn’t responsible to the Director of the Security Services. He’s responsible only to the Prime Minister. That’s why it’s known in the trade as the Prime Minister’s Private Army.”

“And the man you call Keogh works for this Ferguson?”

“Indeed he does. He’s Ferguson’s trouble shooter. The old Fox blackmailed him into joining him some three years ago. Offered to wipe his slate clean. No repercussions as to his IRA past. He needed someone like that on his team. Set a thief to catch a thief, you get the idea.”

“I do, indeed. And what is this Keogh’s real name?”

“Dillon — Sean Dillon, in his day the most feared enforcer I had.”

T
HEY WALKED BACK
through the park. Sollazo said, “Quite a man, this Dillon, but hardly likely to give us any assistance.”

“We don’t need him. He told me everything there was to know about the whole affair and now I’ve told you.”

“The man Reid, the one who killed the man in London. Is he still around?”

“Serving a sentence for murder. He’s in prison in Ulster.”

“One thing. This Loyalist Army Council you mentioned? I’m right in assuming they would dearly like to get their hands on the bullion?”

“They certainly would. The Loyalist side are heavily dissatisfied with the way the peace process is going. They think of themselves as being sold out. The militant elements envisage civil war eventually. That gold would be more than useful. It would help them to obtain the kind of weaponry they would need.”

“And you wouldn’t like that, so may I take it that you will join us on this venture?”

“Not officially, not at the moment. Let me explain. People are desperate for peace here. You can’t trust anybody and that includes Sinn Fein and the IRA itself. If I approach the present Chief of Staff, he’d have to discuss it with members of the Army Council and the whole thing would leak in no time.”

“I see. So what do you suggest?”

“We keep it between ourselves for the moment.” Barry smiled wryly. “And don’t think I’m after it for myself. Money means nothing to me, but my cause does. You get the position of the
Irish Rose
out of Ryan, then a quiet sort of expedition is all we need to start with. Small boat, a diver to go down and make sure it’s there.”

“And afterwards?”

“That would be up to you. I’m sure you can arrange some sort of phoney marine expedition. A suitable front while the real business of raising the gold goes on.” He grinned. “I’ve every faith in you.”

There was a black limousine parked at the curb by the house, a hard-looking man with a broken nose leaning against it. He wore a dark blue chauffeur’s uniform.

“My driver.”

“And bodyguard from the look of him.”

“Giovanni Mori.” Sollazo took Barry’s hand. “A real pleasure. I like meeting legends, Mr. Barry; one so seldom gets the chance. I’ll be in touch.”

He got into the passenger seat and Mori went round and slid behind the wheel. “Did it go well, Signore?” he asked as he drove away.

“Very well,” Sollazo told him. “To the airport, Giovanni. We return to New York,” and he leaned back, closed his eyes, and went over everything Barry had told him.

I
T WAS NINE
o’clock in the evening in New York when he presented himself once again at the Trump Tower apartment. Don Antonio sat there, hands clasped over the silver handle of his cane, and listened as Sollazo told him everything he had learned from Barry.

When he was finished, the old Don nodded. “An amazing story.”

“So we proceed?”

“Of course. A very lucrative venture. The essential first step is to obtain the location of the
Irish Rose
from this man Ryan.”

“I agree. On the other hand, why should he deal with me at all when there is nothing in it for him?”

“Do you think you could accomplish his release from prison?”

“I doubt it. It was a policeman he killed, remember.”

The Don nodded. “There are more ways than one of skinning a cat. I’m sure you will come up with something and you do have Salamone at the prison. He could prove invaluable. I leave this in your capable hands.” He smiled. “Now, a glass of wine. I see the President is visiting London, by the way.”

D
ON
A
NTONIO WAS
right, for in London the most important matter on the Prime Minister’s agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of the week. It was Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s sole concern. He was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languished in heavy traffic.

“Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.”

“Sure and sometimes it has,” Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.

He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.

“I’d like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon. I can hardly be late for that.”

“He’s a decent enough stick,” Dillon said. “He’ll see you right.”

The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in
Vogue
. She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.

“You’re hopeless, Dillon,” she said. “No respect for anyone, you Irish.”

“It’s all that rain, girl dear,” he said.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Ferguson told her. “A hopeless case.”

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door of Number Ten. “I shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” Ferguson told them.

“Will that old bowser Simon Carter be there?” Dillon asked.

“That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well don’t forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American President’s visit stink.”

“Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.”

He crossed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.

“The grand gentleman that he is. Sure and the empire is in safe hands.” Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case and lit it.

“We don’t have an empire any longer, Dillon,” she said.

“Is that a fact, and does the Government know that?”

She shook her head. “Hopeless, Dillon, that’s what you are, and you’ll kill yourself if you keep on smoking those things.”

“True, but then I always knew I’d come to a bad end.”

W
HEN
F
ERGUSON WAS
shown into the Prime Minister’s study, Simon Carter was already seated. A small man in his early fifties with snow-white hair, he had once been a professor of history. Never an agent in the field himself, he was one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s security system. He disliked Ferguson, had for years, and resented the Brigadier’s privileged position and the fact that he was answerable to the Prime Minister only.

“Sorry I’m late, Prime Minister.”

He made no excuses and the Prime Minister smiled. “That’s all right.” He picked up a file. “The security plans the Deputy Director and his people have planned for the President’s visit. You’ve read this?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m particularly anxious that his visit to the House of Commons goes well on Friday morning. Refreshments on the Terrace at ten-thirty.”

“No problems there, Prime Minister,” Carter said. “The one place during his whole trip which will provide no security problem at all is the House of Commons.” He turned to the Brigadier, the usual arrogant look on his face. “Don’t you agree, Ferguson.”

Ferguson would have let it go, but Carter’s look made him angry.

“Well, do you, Brigadier?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Seems all right on the surface of things, but to be frank, Prime Minister, Dillon doesn’t think much of it at all. He believes general security at the House of Commons to be very poor, indeed.”

“Dillon?” Carter’s eyes bulged. “That damned scoundrel. I really must protest, Prime Minister, that Brigadier Ferguson continues to employ a man once an IRA gunman, a man with a record in the general field of European terrorism that can only be described as infamous.”

“I protest in my turn,” Ferguson said. “Dillon has been of considerable service to the Crown as you well know, Prime Minister, not least to the Royal Family itself.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.” The Prime Minister frowned. “But this is too important for personal bickering, gentlemen. My decision.” He sat back and said to Carter, “I’d like you to meet with the Brigadier and Dillon at the House of Commons. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”

Carter controlled his anger with difficulty. “If you say so, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And now you must excuse me. I have a Cabinet meeting.”

E
VERYONE STANDS IN
line to get into the House of Commons, not only tourists but constituents waiting to see Members of Parliament. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein waited their turn, Ferguson with some impatience.

“The grand place, this,” Dillon said. “They tell me they have twenty-six restaurants and bars and the food and drink subsidized by the taxpayer. A fine job being an MP.”

“Yes, well at least they don’t have to queue to get in the damn place,” Ferguson told him.

A very large police sergeant watching the line intently saw Hannah, stiffened to attention, and came forward. “Chief Inspector Bernstein. Nice to see you, ma’am. Here, let me pass you through. You won’t remember me.”

“Oh, but I recall you very well. Sergeant Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was first on the scene when you shot that bastard who held up the supermarket. You were on your way to the American Embassy.”

“Your wicked past catches up,” Dillon murmured.

“This is a colleague, Mr. Dillon, and my boss, Brigadier Ferguson,” she said.

Sergeant Hall became very military. “Let me pass you all through, Brigadier.”

“That’s very kind, Sergeant.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

He led them through the barrier and saluted and they walked on toward the Central Lobby. “How fortunate you were here, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “We could have stood in that wretched queue forever.”

“Humiliating, isn’t it?” Dillon said.

T
HEY MOVED ON
through various corridors, and finally went out onto the Terrace overlooking the Thames, Westminster Bridge to the left and the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall Victorian lamps ran along the parapet. There was quite a crowd, visitors as well as MPs, enjoying a drink from the Terrace Bar.

Dillon hailed a passing waiter. “Half a bottle of Krug non-vintage and three glasses.” He smiled. “On me, Brigadier.”