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She took out another cigarette and he gave her a light, revolted by the thinning dyed red hair, the cunning old eyes, but she was a genius.
‘Okay, Maud, I’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.’
‘Twenty-five, Jack, and happy to oblige.’
He nodded. ‘Done. There’s only one problem. I want it, like, yesterday.’
‘No problem.’ She swallowed her Chablis and stood up and nodded to Falcone. ‘Now, if this big ape will take me home, I’ll get on with it.’
Falcone smiled amiably. ‘My pleasure, Signora.’
It took her no more than three hours of devious double play to make her breakthrough and there it was: Blake Johnson, ex-FBI, now Director of the Basement for the President, and what a treasure house that turned out to be. The President’s personal hit squad, and such an interesting cross-reference to London. It seemed that Johnson was very cosy with the British Prime Minister’s personal intelligence outfit, led by one Brigadier Charles Ferguson, its muscle supplied by an ex-IRA enforcer named Sean Dillon. It was all there, past exploits, addresses, homes and phones. She telephoned Fox and asked to be put through.
‘Jack, it’s Maud.’
‘Have you got something?’
‘Jack, I don’t know what’s going on, but what I’ve got is pure dynamite, so don’t screw with me. Just send Falcone round with thirty thousand in cash.’
‘Our deal was for twenty-five, Maud.’
‘Jack, this is better than the midnight movie. Believe me, it’s worth the extra five.’
‘All right. I’ll have him there in an hour.’
‘And, Jack, no rough stuff.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’re too important.’
An hour and a half later, Falcone returned with the printout. What Fox didn’t know was that Falcone had stopped on the way and had the printout copied.
Fox read the printout – Johnson’s background, the London end of things, Ferguson, Dillon, the computer photos – and shook his head.
‘My God.’
‘Trouble, Signore?’
‘No, just rather startling information. The old bitch did well. Read it.’
Falcone already had, but pretended to again. He nodded and handed the printout back, face impassive. ‘Interesting.’
Fox laughed. ‘You could say that. This Dillon.’ He shook his head. ‘What a sweetheart. Still, it’s always useful to know what you’re up against.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. You can go. Pick me up at eight for dinner.’
Falcone left, and was at Don Marco’s apartment at Trump Tower half an hour later, where the old man read the copy of the printout with interest and checked the photos.
‘You’ve done well, Aldo.’
‘Thank you, Don Marco.’
‘Anything else you find out, tell me at once.’
He held out his hand and Falcone kissed it. ‘As always.’
Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue in London. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and Guards tie, working his way through a mass of papers.
The buzzer rang and he pressed a button. ‘Is Dillon here?’
A woman’s voice said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Come in.’
The door opened. The woman who entered was perhaps thirty, wore a fawn trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and had cropped red hair. She was Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch and allocated to Ferguson as his assistant. Many people had underestimated her because of her looks, and they’d come to regret it. She’d killed four times in the line of duty.
The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was no more than five feet four or five, with fair hair almost white. He wore an old leather jacket, dark cords and a white scarf. His eyes held no colour, but his mouth was lifted with a perpetual smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously. Once an actor, and later the most feared enforcer the IRA had ever had, he had been working for what had become known as the Prime Minister’s Private Army for several years.
‘Anyone heard anything?’ Ferguson asked. ‘We keep getting rumours about secret IRA gun caches, but no specifics. Sean?’
‘Not a peep,’ Dillon told him.
‘So what’s next, sir?’ Hannah Bernstein asked.
The phone rang on Ferguson’s desk. He answered it and his face showed considerable surprise. ‘Yes, sir. Of course …well, would you like to talk with him directly? He’s right here…Just one moment.’ He held the phone out. ‘Dillon? President Cazalet would like a word.’
Dillon frowned in surprise and took the phone. ‘Mr President?’
‘This is a bad one, my fine Irish friend, involving Blake Johnson. Just listen…’
A few minutes later, Dillon relayed the news to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein. He walked to the window, looked out, and turned.
‘The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. I’m going, Brigadier.’
Ferguson raised a hand. ‘Sean, the three of us have all been to hell and back with Blake Johnson. We’ll all go. We owe him that.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Order the plane.’
Katherine Johnson’s funeral at the crematorium two days later was singularly unimpressive. Taped and fake-sounding religious music played, and a minister who looked as if he’d hired his costume from a TV wardrobe company threw out platitudes.
Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah arrived halfway through the ceremony, just in time to see the coffin slide through the plastic curtains. The only other people there were the funeral staff and a couple of people from Truth. Blake distributed dollars, turned, and found his friends. His face said it all.
Hannah Bernstein embraced him, Ferguson shook hands; only Dillon stood back, very calm. He inclined his head and walked out.
They stood on the step, the rain driving in, and Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve heard what the President had to say, now I want it from you. You’ve saved my life on a number of occasions and I’ve saved yours. There are no secrets between us, Blake.’
‘No, Sean, no secrets.’
‘So let’s collect the Brigadier and Hannah and go and sit in the limousine and we can all hear the worst.’
Blake told them everything, including all that Katherine had relayed to them on the videotape. Afterwards, they all sat silent for a moment. ‘From my point of view, the arms-dealing with the IRA, the Brendan Murphy business, that’s the worst,’ said Ferguson, shaking his head. ‘And the Beirut connection, working for Saddam. We’ve got to do something about that.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘What are your thoughts, Superintendent?’
‘That Fox has problems. He’s skimmed money from the Commission, he’s fiddling from the London casino, the Colosseum. Beirut and Ireland are desperate attempts to make cash.’
‘And those hits with the Jago brothers are even more desperate,’ Dillon said.
‘Do you know them?’ Ferguson asked.
‘No, but I’m sure Harry Salter does.’
‘Salter?’
Hannah said, ‘You know him, sir. A London gangster and smuggler. Owns a pub at Wapping called the Dark Man.’
‘Ah, I remember now,’ Ferguson said.
‘He’s into warehouse developments by the Thames, also running booze and cigarettes from Europe.’
‘But no drugs and no prostitution,’ Dillon reminded her.
‘Yes, an old-fashioned gangster. How very nice. He only shoots his rivals when absolutely necessary.’
Dillon shrugged. ‘Well, they shouldn’t have become gangsters then. I’m sure he’ll help us with the Jago brothers and with Fox, though. He has a good team – his nephew Billy Salter, Joe Baxter, Sam Hall.’
‘Dillon, these people are real villains,’ Hannah said.
‘Compared to Jack Fox, they’re sweetness and light.’ And then Dillon smiled. ‘Except that if you push them hard, they’ll be Fox’s worst nightmare.’
There was a pause. Ferguson said, ‘Yes, well, we’ll see. We’ll talk about it more on the way back to London.’
Dillon said, ‘Not me, Brigadier. I haven’t had a vacation in two years. I think it’s about time I took one.’
Ferguson said, ‘Sean, you’re not getting into one of your moods, are you?’
‘Now, do I look that kind of fella, Brigadier?’ He kissed Hannah on the cheek. ‘Off you go. I’ll see you in London. I’ll drive back with Blake.’
She frowned. ‘Now, look, Sean…’
‘Just do it,’ he said, turned and walked towards Blake Johnson’s limousine.
Driving back to Manhattan, Dillon closed the sliding window partition.
‘I take it we’re going to take Jack Fox to the cleaners.’
‘You say we.’
‘Don’t mess with me, Blake. If you’re in, I’m in, for more reasons than we need to state.’
‘Nobody should die like she did, Sean. Can you imagine? A dark, rainy night on the waterfront? Forced into taking that massive overdose?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll see Fox in hell, and don’t talk to me about the law and all that kind of crap. I’m going to take him down in whatever way I have to, so my advice to you is to stay out of it.’
Dillon pulled open the panel and said to the driver, ‘Pull over for five minutes and pass the umbrella.’
The man did as he was told, and Dillon got out and opened the huge golfing umbrella as Blake joined him. They stood by the wall and looked out at the East River. Dillon lit a cigarette.
‘Listen, Blake, you’re one of life’s good guys, and Jack Fox is one of life’s bad guys.’
‘And you, Sean, what are you?’
Dillon turned, his eyes blank, face wiped of all emotion. ‘Oh, I’m his worst nightmare, Blake. I was engaged in what I saw as war for twenty-five years with the Brits and the IRA. Fox and his fucking Mafia think they’re big stuff. Well, let me tell you something. They wouldn’t last five minutes in Belfast.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘We take this animal out, only we do it my way. It’s too easy to shoot him on the street. I want this to be slow and painful. We destroy his miserable little empire bit by bit, until he has nothing left. And then we destroy him.’
Blake smiled slowly. ‘Now, that I would like. Where do we begin?’
‘Well, according to Katherine, there’s this place called Hadley’s Depository in Brooklyn where they process cheap liquor.’
‘So?’
‘So let’s take it out.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Sure. Just the two of us.’
Blake’s face was pale with excitement. ‘You really mean this?’
‘It’s a start, me old son.’
‘Then you’re on, by God.’
Hadley’s Depository was beside a pier close to Clark Street on the river in Brooklyn. It was eleven o’clock that night, black rods of March rain falling, as Dillon and Blake drove up in an old Ford panel truck and parked at the side of the road.
They stood by a wall and Dillon lit a cigarette as they looked the place over. ‘This shouldn’t be hard,’ he said. ‘You, me, and no one else. An in-and-out job.’
‘There’s just one thing, Sean. I don’t want any victims here.’
‘No problem. If there’s a night shift, we leave it. If there’s just security, we’ll handle them. There’ll be only one victim here, Blake: Jack Fox and his income from the booze business.’ He laughed and hit Blake on the shoulder. ‘Hey, trust me. It’ll work.’
The following day, Blake went through files and accessed city and police records to find out everything he could about the Hadley Depository. When he saw Dillon for lunch at a small Italian family restaurant, he was quite strong again, probably because he had an end in view.
‘It’s funny, but this place has no record. Not even a hint with the police.’
‘So Fox is a clever bastard. Do you have any details on how it operates?’
‘I know the security firm who handles it. Two men guard the place. On the other hand, since the warehouse is not what it seems to be, who knows? They could have a night shift.’
‘We’ll see.’ Dillon smiled, looking like the Devil himself. ‘No waiting, Blake. We go in and stiff the place. Give Fox something to think about.’
