Drink With The Devil

TEN

THE DON WAS in an expansive mood when Sollazo went to see him. “You look pleased with yourself, Marco.”

“I think I have a solution.”

“Good, but family business first. Anything for me to sign?”

“A couple of property deeds, a transfer. I have them here.” Sollazo opened his briefcase and took out various papers.

“Let’s get on with it.” He produced a pen and did what was necessary. “Good. Now a couple of my very special vodka martinis.”

“The best in the world.”

“Of course.” Russo went behind the bar and mixed the drinks, and Sollazo sat on a bar stool. The martini was excellent and he savored it with pleasure. The old man toasted him. “The Ryan business. Tell me.”

Which Sollazo did in finest detail. When he was finished, the Don said, “You really think Mori could manage this on his own?”

“Absolutely and so simple. No one else involved.”

“It would require Ryan’s co-operation.”

“But, of course.”

“And he’ll want his niece with him.”

“Naturally.”

“So how will you persuade him?”

“To quote your favorite film, ‘I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”’

The old man nodded. “There must be no link between you and Ryan, no link with the Family. In the event of success, we don’t want the police tying us in.”

“No problem there. When I go to Green Rapids, it’s to see Salamone, all perfectly legitimate, but the regime there is so ridiculously liberal, prisoners walking round the park area with their families or attorneys, that it’s possible to talk to anyone. Salamone tells me the girl visits her uncle again tomorrow at eleven. I’ll see him then and take the opportunity of speaking to Ryan.”

The Don sipped his martini thoughtfully. “Tell me, Salamone’s expectations of some sort of movement as regards reducing his sentence. Have you any hopes there?”

“None at all, but I try to keep his hopes up for other reasons. He knows a great deal about Family business.”

“Too much. There is an old Sicilian saying, ‘Better to lop the branch than lose the tree.”’ The Don nodded gravely. “And there would be the point that he is the only link between us and this Ryan affair.”

“He’s entirely disposable,” Sollazo said calmly. “So he has an accident one day. We have friends in there happy to oblige.”

“Good. I’ll let you get on with it, then.”

IT WAS A fine bright morning just before eleven when Sollazo strolled through the park with Salamone.

“You’ve done well for us,” the lawyer said. “The Don is pleased.”

“Great.” Salamone nodded eagerly. “And how’s my case going?”

“I’m working on it, Paolo, these things take time.”

At that moment he saw Michael Ryan and Kathleen move down toward the lake and sit down in one of the rustic shelters.

KATHLEEN WAS SAYING, “Dazane, that new heart pill you’re on. You have to be careful to stick to the right dosage.”

“Sure and I know that. One, three times a day.”

“I checked with Doctor Sieed. If you took three at the same time it would actually promote an angina attack.”

“And that would be curtains?”

“Let’s say you wouldn’t feel too good for a while.”

At that moment Marco Sollazo appeared before them, elegant in his dark suit and long Armani raincoat.

“Good morning, Mr. Ryan.” He smiled at Kathleen. “Miss Ryan.”

Ryan went very still. “You’ve got the wrong names, mister, you must have made a mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

Kathleen said, “Leave off, Uncle Michael.” She looked at Sollazo grimly. “What’s it about?”

“To start with, I know all about you. Michael and Kathleen Ryan, still wanted in Ulster for a number of terrorist activities on behalf of the Loyalist cause. I suppose the British could apply for your extradition if they knew where you were, Miss Ryan.”

“Damn you,” she said. “What is it you want?”

“The gold bullion that went down ten years ago on the Irish Rose off the coast of County Down, and please don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

They both sat there staring at him. Finally Ryan said, “You seem to know a great deal.”

“I know everything.”

“Right, then,” Ryan told him. “Then you must know that the Irish Rose sank in the darkness with a bad sea running. We were off course. I don’t know where it went down.”

“Yes, you do. You had a gadget called a Master Navigator in your pocket, a sort of mini computer that perfectly calculated your course and position.”

Ryan, for once, looked amazed. “But how could you know such a thing? Only myself knew that and Kathleen when I told her.”

“Someone was standing behind a tree listening when you told her. A man you knew as Martin Keogh.”

It was Kathleen who spoke now, her face solemn. “You speak as if he was someone else?”

“Oh, he was. Mr Ryan, did you ever meet the IRA Chief of Staff at that time, Jack Barry?”

“Not face-to-face.”

“He knew your original plan had been turned down by your Army Council, heard a whisper that you intended to go ahead privately, so he ordered his best man to infiltrate you.”

Kathleen’s face was very pale. “Who was he?”

“A man called Sean Dillon. You’ve heard of him?”

“Oh, yes.” Ryan nodded. “A legend. The man of a thousand faces they used to say. He was once an actor. Foiled the Army, the RUC for a year.” He shook his head. “Never got lifted once. So he was Martin.”

“The bastard,” Kathleen said.

“He could have killed you on the road that morning and taken the Master Navigator. Barry was annoyed with him for not doing so. He told Barry he liked you.” He smiled at the girl. “And you.”

“Fuck him.” There were hot tears in her eyes. “I hope he rots in hell.”

“Actually he’s working for a highly secret branch of British Intelligence these days.”

“God save us.” Ryan laughed out loud. “And wouldn’t that be the Martin we knew and loved.”

“I KNOW WHO you are now,” Ryan said. “You’re the Mafia attorney who looks after Paolo Salamone. You work for the Russo Family.”

“Does that matter? Look, to business. I know everything right down to the fact that you, Miss Ryan, are in possession of false Irish passports in the names of Daniel and Nancy Forbes. I know that you’re a nurse at Green Rapids General Hospital.”

“You know a lot, mister, but where is this leading?”

“To me arranging the escape of your uncle from the hospital when he goes for his heart scan on Tuesday morning.”

There was a total silence and a kind of awe on Ryan’s face. “Dear God, and you actually mean it.”

“Certainly.”

“Just a minute,” Kathleen put in and her face was hard. “What would he have to do in exchange for that?”

“Disclose the position of the Irish Rose,” Sollazo said calmly. “We’ve done a deal with Jack Barry. I saw him the other day in Dublin. He’s no longer Chief of Staff, but he’s willing to co-operate on behalf of his movement. A preliminary survey to locate the ship first, then my organization will lay on some suitable salvage operation as a front.”

“You’re working with the fucking IRA?” Kathleen said.

“Yes, on a fifty-fifty basis.”

“And they get the fruits of my uncle’s labors? What’s in it for him?”

“I could say one million pounds, but let’s be fair. I’ll make it two million.”

“Jesus, son, you’ve got your nerve,” Ryan said.

“You do have an alternative,” Sollazo told him. “You could sit here for another fifteen years.”

Ryan’s face was pale. “But to work with Barry and the bloody IRA.”

Kathleen put a hand on his arm. “We’ve got to be practical.” She turned to Sollazo. “I’m included.”

“Of course. Once he’s out, you join in. You’ll be taken to a safe retreat to start with.”

“And leaving the country will be no problem?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll fly to Ireland probably in a Gulfstream. I’ll be with you.”

“So that’s it?”

“No. I’d like the location of the Irish Rose, the bearings indicated on that Master Navigator. Don’t tell me the figures aren’t burned into your brain.”

Kathleen put a hand on her uncle’s arm. “Oh, no, mister. You get that when we’re safe out of here and in Ireland and not before.”

Sollazo smiled. “Of course, Miss Ryan, I accept your terms. Now let me explain exactly what I expect to happen.”

IT WAS RAINING when the prison ambulance turned into the car park on Tuesday morning and pulled into a special parking spot close to the main entrance. Kathleen Ryan sat in her own car watching and saw her uncle and another man get out of the ambulance, each handcuffed to a guard. Another guard and the driver got out and lit cigarettes as the prisoners were led inside.

She got out of the car, picked up the suitcase, and walked round to the underground car park, doing exactly as she had been told, seeking a green panel truck that carried the sign Henley Laundry. She found it easily enough, Giovanni Mori sitting behind the wheel smoking a cigarette.

“I’m Kathleen Ryan. You’re Mori.”

“That’s right.” He got out, reached back inside, and produced the white doctor’s coat he’d stolen. As he pulled it on he said, “So they’ve gone up?”

“Just now.”

“Sit in the passenger seat. I won’t be long.” He reached inside the truck, took out another white coat, and draped it across his arm.

“You’ve never met my uncle.”

“I’ve seen his picture,” he said calmly, went to the freight elevator, and punched the button for the third floor.

HE PAUSED IN the corridor, then opened the fire door and entered the hallway of the General Heart Surgery Department. He glanced through the round window of the door marked Clinic Three. Ryan was lying on a table and a young doctor was busy attaching various wires to him. Mori walked down the hall and looked through the window of the swing door leading to the reception area. There was a duty nurse behind the desk, a couple of patients, and the uniformed prison guard sitting on the benches reading magazines. Mori went back to Clinic Three, opened the door, and went in.

The young doctor looked up, continuing to fasten the wires. “Hello, Doctor, what can I do for you?”

The leather sap Mori took from his pocket was filled with leadshot. It swung once and the doctor went down with a groan. Ryan was already swinging his legs to the floor, pulling the wires and connectors from his body.

Mori threw the white coat to him. “Put it on.”

He opened the door leading into the toilet and shower room and hauled the doctor inside, closed the door, and turned.

“Out we go, turn left and through the fire door.”

A moment later, they were descending in the freight elevator. They emerged into the underground car park and crossed to the laundry truck, Kathleen watching, her face pale with excitement.

Mori opened the rear door. “In you get. You’ll find what clothes you need in there. Get out of the prison uniform and make it fast. We haven’t got long.”

He took off his white coat, tossed it into a nearby trashcan, got behind the wheel, and drove away, passing the prison ambulance at the main entrance, the two guards lounging beside it, and turned out into the highway.

BY UNFORTUNATE CHANCE it was a good fifteen minutes before a nurse went into Clinic Three and was surprised to find it unoccupied. She went down to reception and spoke to the duty nurse there.

“What happened to Doctor Jessup and the patient?”

“They should still be there. Treatment takes an hour.”

“Well, they aren’t.”

“I’ll come and see.”

The prison guard was still reading his magazine when the door swung violently and the two nurses, having found the doctor’s unconscious body in the toilet, rushed in.

AT THAT PRECISE moment, the laundry van turned into the crowded car park of a large supermarket fifteen miles down the highway and Mori pulled in beside a dark sedan.

“This is where we change,” he told Kathleen, went round to the rear and opened the door. “Out you get.”

Ryan clambered out wearing a brown tweed suit and a raincoat. Kathleen kissed him impulsively. “You made it, Uncle Michael.”

Mori unlocked the sedan. “In you get.”

Ryan and his niece got in the rear, Mori slid behind the wheel and put on a chauffeur’s cap that perfectly matched his navy blue suit, then drove away.

Ryan said, “Where are we going? They must have put the alarm out by now. There’ll be cops everywhere.”

“Long Island.”

“But that’s a hell of a way from here,” Kathleen said. “They’ll have roadblocks on the highway and at the toll bridges.”

“None of which will do them the slightest good. Trust me and just sit tight.”

About ten minutes later there was the sound of sirens and three patrol cars passed on the other lane of the highway. Ryan said, “Christ, we could be in trouble here.”

Mori shrugged. “Keep the faith. We’re nearly there.”

A few moments later he took a slip road and then a left turn. A signpost said Jackson Aero Club and they came to it a few minutes later. There was a car park with a few vehicles, a single-storey administration block, two hangars and an airstrip, and twenty or so single- and twin-engined airplanes parked. There was also a Swallow helicopter standing on the edge of the airstrip.

Mori parked the sedan. “This is it,” he said and got out. He reached for Kathleen’s suitcase. “I’ll take that. Come on, let’s get moving.”

The pilot, a hard-looking young man in black sunglasses, started the engine as they approached. Mori opened the rear door. “Go on, in you get. Let’s move it.”

Ryan and Kathleen scrambled in and Mori followed. He closed and locked the door, then belted up, turned to Ryan and smiled for the first time.

“Long Island next stop. See what I mean? Easy when you know how.”

THEY LANDED AT Westhampton Airport on Long Island. A limousine with a driver drove straight out to the helicopter to pick them up.

As they drove away Kathleen said, “Do I get time to catch my breath? Where to now?”

“The Russo residence at Quogue. Don Antonio wants to meet you,” Mori told her.

“Does he,” she said belligerently. “And he always gets what he wants, does he?”

“Absolutely.” Mori turned and smiled for the second time. “I’d remember that if I were you, sweetness.”

THE WORD OF the escape spread like lightning at Green Rapids Detention Center. Salamone, on duty in the prison hospital, received the word from a man on laundry detail called Chomsky. He paused as he was pushing a trolley full of soiled linen out of the ward.

“Hey, Paolo, you heard the good word? That guy Kelly, the Irish guy?”

“What about him?”

“Escaped when he was down at the General Hospital for treatment. I got it from Grimes up in the warden’s office. All hell broken out. It’s this joint’s first escape.”

“Well, all I can say is I wish him luck,” Paolo said.

He thought about it for the next half hour until his meal break. When it came, he went to one of the inmates’ phone boxes and used his card to ring Sollazo, who was just about to leave for Long Island when his secretary offered him the call.

“Yes, Paolo?”

“Hell, we did good, didn’t we? I did good.”

“Only what I expected.”

“So I can look for some sugar? You promised you’d get me out. I’ve made my bones on this one. I’ve earned it. I mean, you wouldn’t let me down?”

There was urgency in his voice, but more. The hint of a threat, and Sollazo recognized it at once.

“My dear Paolo, have no fear. I’m really going to take care of you and much sooner than you think. Be patient.”

He sat there thinking about it, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was picked up instantly. Sollazo didn’t need to identify himself.

“In the matter of Salamone, we need a solution. Get in touch with your man at Green Rapids and tell him you want a result, and I do mean now.”

“Consider it done.”

Sollazo put down the phone, got his raincoat and briefcase, and left.

THE GREAT SITTING room in Russo’s magnificent house at Quogue seemed to stretch to infinity, glass sliding doors opening onto a kind of boardwalk platform above the water. In the dim light of early evening, Ryan and Kathleen sat at a table by the rail.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“I know. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find it’s morning and I’m in my cell.”

Sollazo stepped out from the sitting room. “Ah, there you are. Allow me to introduce my uncle, Don Antonio Russo.”

The Don walked out behind him leaning on his cane, a cigar in his mouth. He extended a hand. “Mr. Ryan, a pleasure, and Miss Ryan.” He turned to Sollazo. “A celebration is in order, I think.”

“Taken care of, Uncle.”

Mori came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and glasses on a tray.

“Ah, the hero of the hour. You did well, Giovanni.”

Mori managed to look modest. He opened the champagne and charged the glasses. The Don said, “Go and get another glass. We won’t drink without you.” Mori did as he was told. When he returned and filled his own glass, the Don said, “A toast. To you, Mr. Ryan, and your return to the land of the living and to our joint enterprise, the Irish Rose.”

AT GREEN RAPIDS, Salamone was just finishing his nursing shift at the prison hospital. He went into the men’s room to wash his face and hands, and one of the porters followed him in. When he looked up he saw it was Chomsky, who leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“You heard anything else on Ryan?”

“Not a word,” Salamone said.

“Boy, but the joint is really humming.” Salamone dried his hands and moved out and Chomsky followed. “What worries me is that they could kill some of our privileges, know what I mean?”

“I sure do.”

They reached the end of the hallway. There was a mirror, flowers on a stand in front of it at the side of the elevator. Salamone pushed the button for the ground floor and then saw Chomsky’s face in the mirror and knew he was in trouble. The elevator doors opened and there was no elevator, only the shaft, and he slewed to one side as the other man rushed him, arms stiff, and went in headfirst. There was a strangled cry and then a thud as he landed six floors down.

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.”

IT 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.”

BLAKE JOHNSON 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.”

TEN 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.”

IN 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.

AT 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.”

DARKNESS 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.

AFTERWARDS 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.”