Drink With The Devil

ELEVEN

IN THE OVAL 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.”

IN 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.

CHARLES FERGUSON SAT quietly, a grave expression on his face, as the Prime Minister gave him the facts on the matter. When he was finished, he said, “I want this stopped, Brigadier. There’s no way I want to see such huge funds going to either of the two sides in Ireland. We’ve had enough bloodshed. We can’t afford a civil war.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.”

“I want Dillon on this, Brigadier,” John Major said. “All right, I do not approve of his IRA and terrorist background, which is why I distance myself, but there is no doubt of the man’s extraordinary capabilities. He saved the Royal Family considerable anxiety over the Windsor affair the other year. All that nonsense over the Nazis. Then the attack on the Peace Process by the terrorist group January 30. He saved the life of Senator Patrick Keogh when he had the courage to address Sinn Fein and the IRA in Ireland and beg for peace. No, I know that Dillon is a totally ruthless man, but he’s what we need for this business.”

“I agree, Prime Minister.”

John Major looked up at him as Ferguson stood. “They call your people the Prime Minister’s Private Army, so it gives you extraordinary powers. Use them, Brigadier, use them.”

WHEN HANNAH BERNSTEIN and Sean Dillon were summoned to Ferguson’s office, they found him standing by the window. He turned, very serious.

“Absolutely top priority. Everything else stops. I have direct orders from the Prime Minister to expedite a current problem to the utmost. There is a file there on my desk marked IRISH ROSE. Take it to your office, Chief Inspector. Read it, the both of you, then come back.”

HANNAH BERNSTEIN WORKED her way through the file, reading the old news clippings, the details of Ryan’s activities, then Salamone’s account of what had happened at Green Rapids. Dillon leaned over her shoulder and read it, too.

She said, “All right, we have a very nasty Prod activist, Michael Ryan, and his vicious little niece, Kathleen. What do we know? The gold bullion heist in the Lake District, the Irish Rose seen, according to the police, by a young boy and his dog out fishing at Marsh End. So we presume the truck went on board – presume. Next fact. Lifebelts and bits from the Irish Rose wash up on the Down coast.”

“Then we have Salamone. For Ryan read Kelly, who robs a bank in New York State, kills a copper, and gets twenty-five years. In the sweat of his fever he discloses that he’s the only one who knows where the Irish Rose is. The rest we know.”

“So Ryan and the girl are on the loose aided by the Russo family. So what? We know nothing, Dillon.”

“Except that logically, all roads lead to Ireland, girl dear, and there’s more. I’ve a terrible confession to make. Let’s go in and see the man, and I’ll tell you both at the same time.”

FERGUSON SAT BEHIND the desk, Hannah Bernstein facing him. Dillon lounged by the window, hands in his pockets.

“Well, what do you think?” Ferguson said. “Putting all things together including informer’s tittle-tattle and rumors plus information from the swine Reid, back in nineteen eighty-five, one hell of a slick job was pulled by Michael Ryan, his niece Kathleen, and some mystery man called Martin Keogh. That is confirmed in an obscure Royal Ulster Constabulary report of a raid they made on Ryan’s pub in Belfast, the Orange Drum. Some wretched one-armed barman named Ivor somebody remembers the girl being saved from gang rape by some Catholic youths, saved by this Keogh. This was only a day or two before he saw them for the last time. He said they left together in a taxi for the airport and he understood they were going to London.”

“That’s right, Brigadier,” Hannah said. “Reid mentioned their contact, a Protestant organizer called Hugh Bell, who ran a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. Killed in a road accident.”

“Was he bollocks. Too convenient, that,” Dillon said. “He was seen off by Reid and his minder, a bastard called Scully.”

They both stared at him. “But that isn’t in the file. How would you know?”

“Because I was Martin Keogh,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “I’ll just help myself to your whiskey, Brigadier, and then I’ll reveal all.”

FERGUSON SAID, “DEAR God, Dillon, you never cease to amaze me.”

“I had a past, Brigadier. You knew that when you took me on.”

“Yes, a past is one way of describing it. An IRA activist for something like twenty years.”

“British paratroopers killed my father, Brigadier, I was trying to make someone pay. When you’re nineteen you look at things that way.”

“And the PLO. Was that for political belief or money?”

“A man has to earn a living, Brigadier.” Dillon smiled. “I’d remind you I worked for the Israelis, too.”

“But now you work here,” Hannah said. “Don’t you feel any duty of disclosure as to your past activities?”

“If that means selling out old friends in the IRA, no. I was Jack Barry’s right hand for years, then let’s say I got disenchanted with the glorious cause and left, and don’t forget how I came to be here. It was either a Serb firing squad or an agreement to work for his highness here, and don’t kid yourself. He was willing to leave me to the firing squad. Don’t let’s be hypocritical – the pot calling the kettle black.” He shrugged. “How clean are your hands, girl dear, after working for this office?”

And that hurt. “Damn you, Dillon!”

Ferguson said, “Cut it out. You’ve got work to do. Go through this thing with a fine tooth comb. Everything. Access all intelligence information computers, not only MI5 and 6 but Scotland Yard, the RUC in Ulster, and the Garda in Dublin. I want a result, so get on with it.”

They went out to Hannah’s office. Dillon said, “Still friends?”

She glared at him, then suddenly smiled grudgingly. “I’ve said it before. You’re an absolute bastard, Dillon, but I like you.”

STANDING IN HIS shirtsleeves with a cup of tea in the computer room, Dillon watched as Hannah scanned the screen, then sat back with an angry sigh.

“Not a thing on the RUC computer from Ulster, only Ryan’s previous history and that stops ten years ago.”

“Well, it would, wouldn’t it, he’s been in the Nick since then. Nothing special when I tried Scotland Yard Intelligence records and nothing with Carter’s bunch,” Dillon said.

“My eyes are falling out from looking at that damn screen,” she told him. “I’m going to take a break and make some coffee. How about you?”

“I’ll make a start on Garda Intelligence from Dublin.”

As she got up he frowned and shook his head. “I’ve gone over it again and again. The truck heist, the farm at Folly’s End, Marsh End, the voyage, and then the sinking and that early morning in County Down. Michael and Kathleen taking the road to Drumdonald and me turning for Scotstown.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m missing something. I’ve gone through my own memories and reread all the newspaper clippings and there’s something I’m missing.”

“That happens sometimes.”

“Not to the Great Dillon.”

He sat at the computer and she paused in the doorway. “You could have killed Ryan on the road that morning and taken that Master Navigator. You would have had the position of the ship to give Barry.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Aren’t I the complicated one?”

She went out and he started to tap into Garda files.

AT THAT PRECISE moment the Gulfstream was halfway across the Atlantic. Sollazo was up front and appeared to be sleeping. Mori was on the other side of the aisle from him. Ryan and Kathleen sat on either side of the aisle at the back. He’d discovered the small bar and had poured himself a large whiskey.

“Dublin’s fair city next stop. Old Ireland.” He shook his head. “A long time to be away, and it’s all changed, so they tell me. Nothing but talk of peace.”

“Bloody nonsense,” she said. “Put Sinn Fein in the saddle and they’ll drive every Protestant in the land into the sea. It will be worse than Bosnia.”

“The fierce one, you are.”

“And good reason to be as no one knows better than you.”

He reached over and patted her hand. “Just one thing. We’ll have to box clever in Dublin, so hold your tongue and don’t vex Jack Barry when you meet him. Just bide your time till we see a chance to run for it.” He reached to the bar and got another whiskey miniature. “Money, that’s what we need.”

“Well, in that respect I’ve not been honest with you! I’ve saved for years, always putting money on one side against that mad hope that you would break free. So I cleared my account.”

“Jesus, girl, how much?”

“Fifty thousand, give or take a dollar.” She picked up her shoulder bag. “There’s a false bottom in here. It’s in there. Half hundred-dollar bills, the rest five hundreds.”

His face was pale with excitement. “God, but this is great.” He sat there thinking about it. “Money buys everything in this life. In the old days when I was on Army Council jobs I used to use that fella Tony McGuire and his air taxi firm and that was in Down, just outside Ladytown. It was the quick way to England if I wanted to avoid security at Aldergrove Airport.”

“Would he still be in business?”

“I don’t see why not. If not him, someone else. It would be a good way out if we did manage to make a run for it and the hounds hot on our heels.”

“What about approaching the Army Council in Belfast?”

“I don’t know. It’s been ten years, Kathleen, ten long years and everyone strong for peace, so they tell me. I wonder where it leaves people like Reid and Scully.”

“Long gone now with any luck,” she said.

“So how do we slip the leash?”

“I’ve had a thought.” She looked troubled. “But I’m not sure you should risk it.”

“Christ, girl, I’ll try anything. Tell me?”

WHEN SHE HAD finished, he sat there thinking about it. “Clever, I’ll say that.”

“And maybe it won’t be necessary. Maybe there’ll be another way?”

“Who knows.” He grinned. “What the hell, I think I’ll have another whiskey.”

IT WAS PERHAPS three hours later that Dillon, sitting at the computer screen, shouted, “Bingo! Give the man a cigar.”

Hannah rushed in. “What on earth is it?”

“The Great Dillon does it again. Worked my way through all the information the Garda have on Loyalists and drew a blank. Not a word on the Irish Rose beyond the facts we had before I opened my big mouth.”

“So?”

“Then I tried the Sinn Fein and Provo connection.” He laughed. “Then I thought, why not go back to the Dinosaurs, the hard men from the old days, and that brought me to Jack Barry, once Chief of Staff, now retired.”

“And?”

“Peace being so fragile, the Garda still keep an eye on all the main players, and they pay for inside information. It’s an old Irish custom, what we call informing, touts all over the place.”

“Touts?”

“Informers who do it for money. That’s what we’ve got here.” He gestured to the screen.

“Tell me.”

“No, go and get the Brigadier and let’s all enjoy it.”

FERGUSON STOOD TO one side as Dillon tapped the keys again, Hannah sitting beside him. He sat back. “Right, here it is. Last week some lout called O’Leary was in Cohan’s Bar, which is not far from Jack Barry’s house. He said Barry came in with a very well dressed man, an American, because O’Leary caught a word or two. They sat in a booth, had a snack lunch and a drink. He said they had their heads together the whole time.”

“So where does this get us?” Ferguson demanded.

“They left and took to the park. Barry’s house is on the other side. O’Leary drove round there and saw a limousine with a driver parked outside. He waited until the American left in the limousine and followed it to Dublin airport.”

“And then?”

“The American left in a private plane, a Gulfstream. Its flight plan was to MacArthur Field in Long Island.” Dillon laughed. “No prizes for guessing who owns that plane.”

“I’ll get on to Johnson straight away,” Ferguson said, turned, and hurried into his office.

AT HIS DESK, Blake Johnson was working his way through a file when Alice Quarmby came in with her pad.

Johnson sat back. “All right, tell me.”

“The details on the Gulfstream Brigadier Ferguson got from the Garda were easily checked. It’s owned by the Russo Corporation and is usually based at MacArthur Airport in Long Island. According to airport records it logged out with two passengers last week. Marco Sollazo and Giovanni Mori.”

“God, that’s great,” Johnson said. “We’re getting somewhere.”

“Now comes the hard part. The same Gulfstream left MacArthur nine hours ago. Passengers as before with the addition of two Irish citizens, a Daniel and Nancy Forbes.”

“Damn!” Johnson said. “I must contact Ferguson.”

“A waste of time if you want to do anything,” Alice told him. “I’ve just checked. They landed at Dublin two hours ago.”

Johnson shook his head. “You know something, Alice, I think it’s time for another cigarette, and get me Brigadier Ferguson anyway.”

FERGUSON SAT WITH the phone in his hand and Dillon and Hannah waited. The Brigadier nodded. “Thank you, Superintendent.” He put down the phone. “That was Costello of Garda Special Branch. The Gulfstream landed, disgorged four passengers, refuelled, and left.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, one bit of luck. An airport security officer, a retired Detective Sergeant in Special Branch, noticed them at the main entrance getting into a large shooting brake. He noticed them because Jack Barry was at the wheel and he recognized him.”

“So we know where we are,” Dillon said. “The Russos in cahoots with the Provisional IRA. I wonder how Michael Ryan likes that?”

“Not much, I suspect,” Hannah Bernstein said. “On the other hand, it’s totally obvious that the Russo family got him out and now he has to pay.”

“One thing is certain,” Dillon said. “No point in raiding Barry’s home or rubbish like that. He’ll have a safe house somewhere.”

They sat there thinking about it and suddenly Charles Ferguson laughed. “I know who we need, the greatest expert on the IRA in existence – Liam Devlin.”

He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a small black book, and leafed through it. Hannah Bernstein said, “Liam Devlin?”

“Scholar, poet, once a professor at Trinity College, gunman for the IRA who probably killed more men than I did. Living legend of the IRA,” Dillon told her.

Ferguson was talking. “Is that you, Devlin, you old rogue?”

IN THE PARLOUR of his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin listened as Ferguson talked. When he was finished, Devlin laughed.

“Jesus, but you’ve got a ton of trouble on this one, Brigadier.”

“It’s important, Devlin, you must see that.”

“Oh, I do. I mean, we’re all big for the cause of peace. Send Dillon and that Chief Inspector of yours to see me, only tell him not to try and shoot me this time.”

FERGUSON PUT DOWN the phone. “He’ll see you two and, believe me, if anyone can help, it’s Devlin. He knows more about the IRA than anyone, so order the Lear jet, pack your bags, and get moving.”

“Sir.” Hannah moved to the door and Dillon went after her.

Ferguson called, “And, Dillon?”

“Brigadier.”

“He’d be obliged if you wouldn’t try to shoot him this time.”

Hannah looked shocked, but Dillon smiled. “Now do I look like the sort of fella that would do a thing like that, Brigadier?”