Drink With The Devil

NEW YORK STATE
IRELAND
LONDON
WASHINGTON
IRELAND
1995
SEVEN

PAOLO SALAMONE WALKED across the grass with his lawyer, Marco Sollazo. In spite of the Sicilian names, they were both good Americans born and bred. There the similarity ended.

Salamone was off the streets of New York’s Little Italy and he’d followed the usual Mafia route. First as one of the boys, the piccioti, gaining advancement and respect. He’d acted as an executioner three times, which had gained him entry into the family of Don Antonio Russo as a sicario, a specialist assassin. He’d been to prison twice on comparatively minor matters including drug dealing. His downfall occurred two years earlier when on taking out one of Don Antonio’s competitors, a street policeman had unexpectedly arrived on the scene. Salamone in a gun battle had received a bullet in the leg, which had put him down. Unfortunately, his own bullet had killed the police officer, who just happened to be a woman. His sentence of twenty-five years instead of life reflected the skill of his lawyer, Don Antonio’s nephew, Marco Sollazo.

The only reason Salamone had been transferred to Green Rapids from the Ossining Correctional Facility was because he had taken a full nursing course and was therefore thought of more use in the Green Rapids medical facility.

Marco Sollazo was thirty-five, a saturnine, rather handsome man in an Armani striped suit and college tie, dark hair swept back. A product of Groton and Harvard Law School, carefully nurtured by his uncle, he was Don Antonio’s pride and joy.

“Marco, you told me there was a chance you’d get me a rehearing. Involuntary manslaughter. Now you tell me I could be here another twenty-three years.”

“I’m doing my best,” Marco said. “It’s difficult.”

“Yeh, well I’m doing my best. I know plenty about the Family, but I don’t speak out.”

“Paolo, I don’t think Don Antonio would be pleased to hear you speak like that. It would distress him.”

Paolo said hastily, “Heh, don’t get me wrong, I’d never betray my Godfather. It’s just, like, I could do with some help here.”

“I know, I know.” Marco sounded sympathetic. “I’ll explore every avenue. I mean, the Don has much influence. Who knows?”

Salamone plucked at his arm. “What if I give you something good? Something real good?”

“And what would that be?”

There were prisoners and their visitors wandering everywhere on the grass and Salamone pulled Sollazo over to a bench and sat down. He pointed across to a man who was in his mid sixties with gray hair. The young, dark-haired woman with him seemed about twenty-five.

“Liam Kelly, he calls himself. The woman is his niece, Jean Kelly. She’s a theater nurse down at Green Rapids General Hospital.”

“So?”

“He’s doing twenty-five for shooting a policeman in Pleasantville ten years ago when he was robbing a bank. I met him in Ossining, then he had an angina attack and they moved him down here because of the hospital. I followed a few months later to join the staff. You see, we’ve got a good facility here, but Green Rapids is very special. Any problem and we send the patient straight down there.”

“So where is this leading?”

“The other month he had an attack. I should tell you they’re Irish, but not the usual kind. That funny accent they have in the north of Ireland. Anyway, he’s not in good health and he got a fever. They had him on a drip in a private room. I was night nurse at the time and had to check him out.”

“So?”

“When he was delirious he said all sorts of crazy things. Kept going on about some ship called the Irish Rose, and then he would say he was the only one who knew where it had gone down, the only one who knew where the gold was.”

There was a long pause. Sollazo sat there frowning. “The only one who knew where the gold was? He said that?”

“That’s right.”

“So what did you make of it?”

Salamone was enjoying himself. “I went to the prison library. We’ve got a great computer service here. I tapped in the Irish Rose name, and bingo.”

“Go on,” Sollazo told him.

“There was an item in the New York Times in the autumn of nineteen eighty-five. It seems a truck carrying fifty million pounds in gold bullion was knocked off up in the northwest of England on the coast. It said police inquiries indicated that it had put to sea on a ferry called the Irish Rose.”

“Then what?”

“The ship disappeared, but lifebelts and what was left of a lifeboat were washed up on the Irish coast. End of story.”

“And it said nothing about who was behind it?”

“Not a word.”

“Interesting,” Sollazo said. “Let’s take a walk.”

They strolled across the grass and passed the bench where Kelly and his niece were sitting, heads together. She glanced up casually and Salamone said, “Hi, Liam.”

“How’s yourself, Paolo?” was the reply.

Sollazo and Salamone passed on and Kathleen Ryan said, her accent more American than Irish now, “Who was that one, Uncle Michael?”

“Paolo Salamone. He’s a nurse in the hospital. We’ve something in common. We’re both doing twenty-five years for shooting a policeman, only in his case it was for shooting a policewoman. Anyway, how are you?”

“I’m fine. They keep me busy at the hospital.”

“Still no man in your life?”

“Too much bother.” She smiled. “Lucky I managed the job at Green Rapids. At least I can see you regularly.”

“And for how long, another fifteen years?” He shook his head. “You can’t waste your life like this, Kathleen.” He was angry now and stood up. “God, how could I have been so stupid? A small-town bank, I said. A piece of cake and then that policeman came round the corner.”

“It was just one of those things.”

“Well, thank God you managed to drive off and get the hell out of it.”

He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She said, “You know you shouldn’t smoke.”

“So I can extend my life a year or two here in good old Green Rapids Detention Center?” He grinned wryly and dropped the cigarette to the ground. “All right, I’ll be good. Come on, I’ll walk you to the gate.”

There were a number of people going in the same direction and she noticed Salamone and Sollazo. They reached the security exit and paused. Ryan kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’ll see you Friday.”

She went through security and approached her car. As she unlocked her door she saw Sollazo walking towards a silver Porsche. He glanced at her casually, then looked away. For some reason it made her feel uncomfortable, and she got in her car quickly and drove off.

Sollazo watched her go and reached for his mobile phone and called his office. When his secretary answered he said, “Rosa, check the files for a report in the New York Times of a robbery in the north of England connected with a ship called the Irish Rose, which apparently went down at sea.”

“Very well, sir, anything else?”

“Yes, get our people in London to check for any newspaper stories there. They’ll probably be more detailed. I want this like yesterday.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“I’m having dinner early with Don Antonio.”

“At the Long Island house?”

“No, the Trump Tower apartment. As soon as you get that stuff from England, fax it to me there.”

“I will.”

Sollazo drove away thinking about the situation, and particularly the fact that the way gold prices had climbed; fifty million pounds in bullion in 1985 was now worth double.

IN HER ROOM at Green Rapids General Hospital, Kathleen Ryan undressed and went to the shower. She was due on the evening shift in an hour, on call for emergency surgery until six in the morning, not that she minded, for she loved her work, was good at it.

It had been her uncle who had insisted that she find a life for herself after his trial and sentencing and she’d put in five hard years of training. Ossining had been the bad time. She hadn’t been able to see him much while he was at that grim fortress. In a way his heart problem had been a blessing. The less restrictive regime at Green Rapids allowed a great deal of visiting and getting a post at the town hospital had made all the difference.

But it hurt her to see him there, a shadow of the man he had been in those great days back in Ireland when they’d taken on the might of the IRA, even on occasion the British Army, and won. At that memory, a thrill passed through her that was almost sexual.

She toweled off, dried her cropped hair, and put on her uniform. She combed her hair, checking herself in the mirror, strong face, dark eyes, not pretty but striking, this girl who had at the age of fourteen killed two members of the IRA with a hand grenade, who at the age of sixteen had shot dead at close quarters a man named Bert Fox.

It all came back. The Lake District, that lonely road and the taking of the transporter and Martin Keogh and the final, brutal confrontation on the Irish Rose. And at the memory, the old excitement surged through her.

“There’s got to be more than this,” she said aloud. “He can’t rot in there for another fifteen years.”

Despair flooded over her and she sat down, opened a bottom drawer in her desk, and took out a briefcase. Inside was a large envelope containing fifty thousand dollars in cash, money she had painstakingly saved, money against the day they would have to move fast, she and Uncle Michael, for from the time he had been moved from Ossining to the easier regime of Green Rapids she had entertained the wild hope that he might be able to escape. She had even approached a forger in New York, an old cell mate of her uncle in Ossining, who had provided her with two false Irish passports at a thousand dollars each, a special price as a favor.

She found them now and examined them. Daniel Forbes, that was her uncle, and she was Nancy Forbes. A waste, the whole thing, for as she soon discovered, in spite of its liberal regime, security at Green Rapids was stringent.

She looked at the photo in the false passport and somehow it was a stranger. “Whatever happened to Kathleen Ryan?” she asked softly.

At that moment the door opened and another nurse looked in. “Ready, Jean?”

“On my way,” Kathleen told her. “I’ll be right with you.”

She closed the briefcase, put it back in the drawer, and went out.

DON ANTONIO RUSSO was seventy years of age and of ample proportions, his loose cream linen suit accentuating his bulk. His hair was long and gray, swept back from his fleshy, arrogant face. A man who had always been used to having his own way. He got up, leaning on his cane as Sollazo entered the sumptuous living room of the Trump Tower apartment.

“Marco, good to see you.” They embraced. “A glass of champagne?” Don Antonio snapped his fingers at a manservant. “Oh, by the way, there are some faxes for you. Can’t your office give you a night off?”

“Sorry, Uncle, this is important. May I?”

“Of course.”

Sollazo went into the office, found the faxes, and read them quickly. He returned to the living room, accepted his glass of champagne, and sat opposite Russo.

“Can we talk business?”

“Always.”

“Good.” Sollazo told him in detail of his conversation with Salamone.

When he was finished, the Don said, “More than interesting. And the faxes?”

“They confirm the mention in the New York Times, but in more detail. Naturally, as usual with newspapers, the accounts differ, but broadly speaking they agree as to general details. A truck carrying fifty million pounds in gold bullion was knocked off on a country road in the English Lake District. A young boy told the police he’d been chased away from a ferry called the Irish Rose at an old disused jetty not far from the scene of the action. He also said he’d seen a truck of the right description turn off the main road toward the ferry later in the day.”

“So?”

“Obviously the bullion truck put to sea on the ferry.”

“And what happened?”

“End of story. Over the next few days a smashed-up ship’s boat, lifebelts, and so on, all bearing the name Irish Rose, were washed up on the coast of County Down.”

“I see.” Don Antonio sat there frowning. “And Salamone said that in a fever, this man Kelly spoke of being the only one who knew where the boat went down?”

“That’s right.”

“And you said bullion of the order of fifty million pounds?”

“Yes, but that was ten years ago. Gold prices have greatly increased. I’d say at least one hundred million pounds in present terms.”

“Now that kind of money is always interesting.”

“I was thinking,” Sollazo said, “with the right kind of salvage boat these recovery jobs are quite easy these days, as long as you know where the ship is, which the authorities don’t.”

“So they tell me.” Don Antonio sat there thinking about it. Finally he nodded. “I wonder who this man Kelly was working for. Was it just business or the IRA or something like that?”

“It’s a thought,” Sollazo said.

“You know, a few years ago I had dealings with the IRA. We used to provide arms through a Sicilian connection. Their Chief of Staff was a man called Barry – Jack Barry.”

Sollazo said, “It’s all peace talk with the IRA these days. Gerry Adams at the White House speaking for their Sinn Fein party.”

“So what?” the Don said. “Barry is an old fox. If anyone will know anything of this affair, it will be him. His private number in Dublin will be in my special address book in the top right-hand drawer of my desk. See if you can get him.”

IN DUBLIN JACK BARRY was sitting by the fire, bored out of his mind and reading a newspaper, rain brushing the window, when the phone rang.

“Barry here.”

“Mr. Jack Barry? Is that you? An old friend, I hope. Don Antonio Russo.”

“Dear God,” Barry said. “And what can I do for you?”

“More what can we do for each other, Mr. Barry. I’m talking serious business here. Does the name Irish Rose mean anything to you?”

Barry swallowed hard. “Should it?”

“What would you say if I told you that I know the whereabouts of a man who calls himself Kelly, but in a fever speaks of being the only one who knows where the ship has gone down, the only one who knows where the gold is?”

“I’d be more than interested.”

“Fine. It seems to me we might have a mutual interest here that could profit both of us. My nephew, Marco Sollazo, who is also my lawyer, will be with you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to meeting him.”

Don Antonio put the phone down. “We have a good source at Green Rapids Detention Center?”

“An excellent one.”

“Phone now. We need a copy of Kelly’s photo as quickly as possible, then get in touch with the airport and tell them to have the Gulfstream ready to go. Let’s say midnight. They’re four hours ahead in Ireland so you’ll be able to see Barry late morning.”

“Of course, Uncle.”

“And then dinner.” Don Antonio smiled. “Suddenly I have quite an appetite.”

IN DUBLIN ON the following morning it was just coming up to noon when Barry answered the sound of the bell at his front door and found Marco Sollazo standing there.

“Mr. Barry?”

“And you’d be Mr. Sollazo?”

“That’s right.”

“Come in for a moment while I get my coat. You’ll have to excuse the mess, I’m on my own these days. My wife died last year.”

Marco Sollazo waited in the small parlour. There was a sofa, two easy chairs, a fireplace, faded family photos of children at various stages of their development. It all fitted with the image of the pleasant-faced sixty-year-old man in the cardigan whom he had just met and yet this man had been for several crucial years Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA.

He came in wearing a raincoat and cloth cap. “We’ll take a walk in the park and then have a drink and a bite to eat at Cohan’s Bar.”

“Anything you like.”

Barry took an umbrella down from a hatpeg in the hall. “Just in case,” he said. “This is Ireland, remember.”

They crossed the road to where the park waited behind green painted railings. Sollazo said, “Your home, is it unsafe to talk there? Do they have you wired for sound?”

“Hell no. Oh, they tried it back in the old days, the British Secret Intelligence Service, Irish Intelligence, Dublin Special Branch. I had my own experts who used to come round once a week and sweep the house. I expect your uncle had to take the same precautions.”

“And still does.”

“Well I’m not Chief of Staff for the IRA anymore.” He smiled. “A time for peace, Mr. Sollazo, that’s what they tell me.”

“So no more IRA?”

Barry laughed out loud. “If you believe that, you’ll believe anything. There’s another Chief of Staff in my place, our command structure intact throughout the country, and as your President and the British Prime Minister have found to their cost, we don’t intend to give up our arms.”

“Yes, I understand from the newspapers that the refusal of your people to comply in the matter of arms is a main talking point when the President visits London on Friday.”

“They can talk until they’re blue in the face, it won’t make any difference. We’ll hang on to our arms come what may.”

“You don’t think this peace will last?”

“It never has before.” They turned through the park gates and it started to rain, and Barry raised the umbrella. “I told you it would. Anyway, let’s get down to business.”

Sollazo took the photo his contact at Green Rapids had provided the previous night. “Do you know this man?”

“I certainly do,” Barry nodded. “His name is Michael Ryan, once a notorious gunman for the Loyalist cause, a black Orangeman from Belfast.”

“Would it surprise you to know that he’s been in prison in America for the past ten years?”

Barry smiled. “Now there’s a wonder. He dropped out of sight in nineteen eighty-five, but totally, and I could never figure that out. What did he do?”

“He shot a policeman while robbing a bank. They gave him twenty-five years.”

“Poor sod.” Barry whistled. “He must be sixty-five now. I don’t suppose he’s got much chance of seeing the light of day.”

“Not really. He can apply for probation after fifteen years, but he’d be around seventy by then and not much chance of parole, anyway. He shot a policeman, remember.”

“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.”

WHEN SOLLAZO 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.”

LATER, 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.”

THEY 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.

IT 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.”