Drink With the Devil (19 page)

Salamone didn’t hesitate. He went straight to the fire exit at the end of the hall, opened it, and went down the stairs two at a time. He didn’t go to the ground floor. There would already be a fuss there so he stopped on the second and went to the nurses’ rest room, got himself some very black coffee and sat there, sucking on a cigarette.

He was in deep shit, he knew that, and there was only one direction it could be coming from, the only one that made sense. Chomsky had worked for the Family on too many occasions for there to be any other explanation. There was one other disturbing fact to consider. It wouldn’t be left here. There were other guys like Chomsky only too willing to do the Russo Family a favor.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud. “But where? I mean, what in the hell do I do?”

He got up and paced up and down, pausing suddenly, an intent look on his face. “Johnson — Blake Johnson. Christ, if anyone can do anything he could.”

Ten minutes later he was ushered into Deputy Warden Cook’s office. Cook, sitting behind his desk, looked up. “What is it, Paolo? You told my secretary life or death.”

“Mr. Cook, I got a dynamite story. I want to see an FBI agent called Blake Johnson.”

“You do, do you, just like that?”

“Listen, Mr. Cook, if I stay here I’m dead. You want that?”

Cook frowned and he sat back. “That bad?” He nodded slower. “And that important?”

“It’s big, okay. It could even give you a few answers on Kelly and how he busted out.”

Cook was immediately on the alert. “You know something?”

“Only for Blake Johnson.”

“All right. Wait outside. I’ll check with the FBI.”

I
T WAS PERHAPS
half an hour later that he opened his door and called Salamone in. “Mr. Johnson is no longer with the FBI. He works with some presidential security unit in Washington. I’m going to phone him now and I’ll let you talk to him.”

“That’s fine by me.”

B
LAKE
J
OHNSON WAS
forty-six, a tall, handsome man who wore a suit well. His hair was so black that it took ten years off his age. A marine in Vietnam at nineteen, he’d emerged with two Purple Hearts, a Vietnamese Cross of Valour, and a Silver Star. A law degree had followed at Georgia State on the Marines. Afterwards the FBI, and with such resounding success that he had been appointed to his present position. For a year he had headed what was known at the White House as the Basement, the President’s private hit squad as some termed it, totally separate from the CIA or the FBI, responsible to the President alone.

When the phone rang in his office he found Cook on the line. The Deputy Warden explained the problem and ended by saying, “You do know this man?”

“Oh, sure,” Johnson said. “I put him away for bank robbery once. I’ll talk to him. Give him privacy. He might find it difficult if he thinks anyone else is listening.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
after speaking to Salamone, Johnson was talking to the Deputy Warden again. “First of all, to establish my credentials, I work directly for the President. I’m in charge of his special security and intelligence unit.”

“I see,” Cook said, suitably impressed.

“I can assure you that what Salamone had to tell me is way beyond any normal criminal matter. It’s no exaggeration to tell you that grave matters of national security are involved.”

“Good God!” Cook said.

“This is what you do. You place Salamone in a secure cell under guard. I take it you have a helicopter landing pad there.”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll have a helicopter down to you within a couple of hours. The Federal Marshal who takes him in charge will have a presidential warrant for him. That clears you.”

“One thing. We had a prisoner called Kelly escape today,” Cook said, “while he was undergoing treatment at the local hospital. Salamone indicated that he might know something about that.”

Johnson, who had told Salamone to keep his mouth shut, lied smoothly, “Hell, no, he was worried you wouldn’t get in touch with me so he said what he did to get you interested.”

“The bastard,” Cook said.

“His kind usually are, but he’s of crucial importance to us. The President will be more than grateful for your assistance in this matter.”

“I’m only too happy to oblige, that goes without saying.”

“My thanks on his behalf.”

I
N HIS OFFICE
in the White House basement Johnson sat back and thought about it, then he pressed an old-fashioned buzzer. The door opened almost instantly and a gray-haired woman of fifty, Alice Quarmby, his secretary, entered, a pad in her hand.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Make out a general warrant in the name of Paolo Salamone. He’s a prisoner at Green Rapids Detention Center. Get it over to the Federal Marshal’s office. I want him picked up by helicopter as soon as possible. They can bring him back to Washington and hold him at the Hurley Street Secure Unit.”

“Anything else?”

“Better start waiting. Get on that computer and dig up everything there is on an Irish terrorist, Protestant variety, called Michael Ryan, also his niece, a Kathleen Ryan. Couple that with any information about a gold bullion heist in the English Lake District in the autumn of nineteen eighty-five.”

She was writing busily. “Sounds intriguing.”

“It gets even better. Check out any information on a ship called the
Irish Rose
that sank off the coast of County Down in Ulster at the same time.” He grinned. “That’s it. Naturally I expect all this yesterday.”

“I take your point.”

She went out and Johnson sat there going over all of it in his mind. His office had direct access to both FBI and CIA computers and had friendly links with the British. There would surely be some really solid information on this. He needed that before speaking to the President.

He opened a silver box on his desk, sighed, and took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and reached for a lighter. He’d actually stopped a year before and yet whenever his gut feeling told him he was on to something, he reached for a smoke. Ah, well, just one wouldn’t do any harm.

A
T THE HOUSE
at Quogue they enjoyed an excellent dinner at six o’clock. Roast duck, potatoes, green salad, all washed down with more champagne.

“I haven’t eaten like this in years,” Ryan said.

“I shouldn’t imagine you have,” the Don told him dryly, “but the best is yet to come.” He rang a little silver bell and the maid appeared with a chafing dish. “Cannolo, Sicily’s favorite sweet. Very simple. Flour, eggs, cream.”

“Marvelous,” Kathleen said as the maid served them.

“Enjoy them. Later over the coffee we talk business.”

D
ARKNESS WAS FALLING
as they sat on the boardwalk and the maid served coffee. When she was finished, he waved her away.

“What happens now?” Kathleen asked.

“Marco will take you to a small beach cottage not far from here. You’ll be safe there. Mori will keep an eye on you.”

“And then?”

“MacArthur Airport is not far away. I keep a Gulfstream there. You’ll fly to Dublin with my nephew and Mori.” He smiled. “Unless the circumstances change.”

There was a certain menace to that smile and Kathleen shivered. Ryan said, “What are we getting at here?”

“Your niece told my nephew that he could only have the position of the
Irish Rose
, the bearings and so forth, when you are safe in Ireland.”

“That’s right.”

“I require them now, an act of faith if you like.” He smiled again.

Kathleen shook her head and said stubbornly, “Oh, no, mister, you wait until we’re in Ireland.”

“Then that, too, must wait,” he said. “At least for you, Signorina.” He turned to Ryan. “You go, she stays here and takes her chances.”

Ryan exploded. “You can’t do that.”

“I can do anything, my friend. I learned from my father many years ago to always look for a man’s weakness. Yours is your niece, Mr. Ryan.” He stood up. “Think about it. Come, Marco, give them time.”

When they had gone Kathleen said, “The bastards. I’d like to shoot the lot of them.”

“Well, you can’t and we don’t have a choice. We’ve got to get out of America as soon as possible. I couldn’t face going back inside, but I also couldn’t face leaving you here.”

“So you’ll do it? What if they dump us? What if you give him the position and that bugger Mori shoots us?”

“I don’t think so. I’m too useful to them for a number of reasons, and if they intend to shoot us at some stage, they can just as easily do it in Ireland.” He smiled bleakly. “No, I’ll give him what he wants.”

“Then give him a false position,” she said.

“You’re not thinking straight. At some point in time we’ll be in a boat with these bowsers and a diver going down, and if the
Irish Rose
isn’t there, then that bastard Mori will give us a bullet in the head and over the side.” Ryan shook his head. “No, we must get out of here and safely to Ireland. You see, there’s another reason. The truth is I haven’t been strictly honest with you.”

She gazed at him searchingly. “Tell me.”

So he did.

A
FTERWARDS SHE SAT
there holding his hand. “All these years and you never told me.”

“I always did say I never trusted anyone in my life, not even you.”

“Well, you do now, and you’re right. We must get to Ireland. Once we’re there we’ll think of something.” She raised her voice. “Don Antonio?”

He appeared with Sollazo. “You’ve thought it over?”

“Yes, and we agree.”

“Excellent.” Sollazo took his diary from his breast pocket and a pen. Don Antonio Russo smiled. “I knew you were a practical young woman, Signorina, the moment I clapped eyes on you.”

I
N THE
O
VAL
Office the President sat and listened as Blake Johnson told him the worst.

“I’ve seen the man Salamone at the Hurley Street Secure Unit since he got in and I’ve grilled him thoroughly. Everything he knows he’s told me. You’ve read the file I sent up with all the relevant facts as to Ryan’s background. As you can see, British Intelligence had a report on Ryan’s involvement with the truck heist. It came from the Protestant terrorist Reid, when he was arrested for murdering two soldiers and was trying to do a deal. He speaks of Ryan and his niece being responsible and a man named Martin Keogh. He, it seems, was a total mystery. No details available.”

“A wild one, this Ryan,” the President said. “And this young woman.” He shook his head. “I sometimes despair of human beings.” He straightened. “So, where are we? What happens with these Russo people?”

“In my opinion, we’ll get nowhere in that direction. Marco Sollazo is one of the most celebrated attorneys in Manhattan. If approached on this matter he would express shock and dismay, disavow any suggestion that he even knew Ryan. The new liberality of institutions like Green Rapids, the way visitors and prisoners are allowed to wander, facilitated Sollazo’s ability to contact Ryan, but it’s also a situation in which he would be able to deny all contact. Yes, he was at Green Rapids, but only to see Salamone, and in Salamone we have only the word of a convicted felon, a bank robber who murdered a policewoman.” He shook his head. “The District Attorney wouldn’t waste five minutes on it.”

“And Don Antonio Russo?”

“Besides his nephew, the finest legal brains in New York are on his payroll. He’s never spent a day in a cell in his entire life.”

“But do you believe Salamone?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So what do you think is happening?”

“I think Sollazo and his uncle took Ryan to get their hands on the bullion. They’ll do some sort of a deal, obviously, let’s say fifty-fifty. Remember, that bullion is worth one hundred and fifty million dollars now, and Ryan is a fanatic, totally dedicated to the Protestant cause.”

“Such a vast sum of money devoted to arms for that cause?” The President shook his head. “Peace right out of the window. It is a prospect too bitter to contemplate. All my work and the work of Mr. John Major to go for nothing.”

“Exactly, Mr. President, so it seems to me that putting Don Antonio Russo or his nephew in a cell is of secondary significance. The only important thing would be to prevent that gold or part of it from falling into Loyalist hands. Quite frankly, it would enable them to tool up for a civil war.”

“No, we can’t have that. What’s your best guess as to the next step?”

“They’ll take Ryan and the girl to Ireland. Then, they’ll try to locate the ship. Probably a relatively simple operation at first, a boat, a diver. Once located, some sort of salvage operation.”

“I want this stopped at all costs.” The President frowned and then suddenly smiled. “I think this could be a job for Dillon.”

“Dillon, Mr. President?”

“You remember what happened when I met Prime Minister John Major on the Terrace at the House of Commons the other week? The bogus waiter? Sean Dillon, originally the most feared enforcer the IRA had, now troubleshooter for Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your British counterpart, Blake.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Fine. So to start with, get me the Prime Minister on the secure line.”

I
N HIS STUDY
at Number Ten Downing Street, John Major listened. When the President had finished, he said, “I totally agree, Mr. President, we can’t allow this to happen. I’ll empower Brigadier Ferguson to intervene at once, and I’m sure Dillon will play his usual part. Leave it with me.”

He put the phone down, sat there thinking about it, then lifted the phone again and spoke to his aide. “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I want him here at the earliest moment.”

He sat back frowning. Ireland, goddamnit. It never went away, in spite of everything he’d done, even to the extent of putting his political career on the line.