Jack Higgins - Day of Reckoning

'Good, thank you.' Don Marco looked at Falcone. 'Take care of him, then come back.'

Perhaps twenty minutes later, Falcone returned. The Don stood at the window, fingering a Cuban cigar. Falcone offered a light. Don Marco smiled.

'You're a good boy, Aldo. Your father was one of my most trusted people until those Virelli swine murdered him on that Palermo trip. He was always loyal, and loyalty is everything.

''Absolutely, Don Marco.'

'So where does loyalty lie? You and my nephew, you were boyhood friends.'

'Please, Don Marco.' Falcone held up a hand. 'My loyalty is to you, above everything else.'

Don Marco patted his chest. 'You're a great comfort to me. You will attend to Jack's requirements, that goes without saying, but you will tell me everything that goes on, won't you, Aldo?'

'Always, Signore.'

'Good. Now be on your way.'

Jack Fox, in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons, sat with the great and the good and the not-so-good, drank champagne, and tried to come to terms with what had happened the previous night. The interview with Mirabelli had been particularly unnerving, and he hadn't mentioned it to his uncle, for obvious reasons. Falcone and Russo stood against the wall.

A waiter appeared. 'Sir, your guests are here.'

'My guests?' Fox looked up, and Dillon and Blake appeared.

Falcone stepped forward and Fox waved him away. They sat down, and Dillon reached for the champagne bottle. He sampled it, shook his head, and said to Blake, 'The man has no taste.'

Fox said, 'Okay, get on with it. I know who you are. You're Blake Johnson and you work for the White House, and you're Sean Dillon. You used to be IRA, but now you work for the Prime Minister. Okay?'

'My, you are well informed,' Blake said.

'That's because I can access anything. The trouble with computers is that all you need is the right kind of genius to break into them, and I have mine. So, you fuck with me and you'll wish you'd never been born.'

'And we'll return the favour to Don Solazzo.' Dillon shrugged. 'And by the way, no one "used to be" IRA. Once in, never out. I'm really bad news, son. You know why? Because I don't care whether I live or die.'

'Maybe I can do something about that.'

'The British Army and the SAS couldn't catch him in twenty years,' Blake said, 'so I doubt you'll have much luck. In fact, you're already running out of luck, aren't you, Jack? We know you front for the Solazzo empire. But you also have a personal sideline, a cheap liquor still in Brooklyn. Or at least you used to.'

'Hey,' Dillon said. 'Isn't that the place that got blown up last night? What a coincidence.' He smiled beautifully. 'Well, that isn't going to help the cash flow.'

Fox said, 'I don't know what you're talking about. That had nothing to do with me.'

'Oh, I believe it did,' Blake told him. 'And then there's all that family money you lost in the Asian banking collapse, money you didn't have the right to invest. Unless Don Marco knew and approved of it all? Which I doubt.'

Fox said calmly, 'What are you getting at

'That you're in deep shit with Don Marco unless you come up with some very considerable cash very soon.' Dillon smiled. 'And we intend to see that you don't get it.'

Fox turned to Falcone. 'Aldo, break this little bastard's right arm for me.'

Falcone moved forward, and Dillon's left foot flicked as he kicked the Sicilian under his right kneecap. At the same moment Blake took a Walther from under his jacket and laid it on the table. Falcone was down on one knee, grabbed for the table, and pulled himself up. Russo had a hand on the gun under his left shoulder.

'Is this what you want?' Blake asked. 'A gunfight at the OK Corral?'

'Not really,' Fox said. 'Let's leave it to a more appropriate time. Just go.'

'Our pleasure.' Blake stood up, and Dillon rose beside him.

'I have a line for you that I remember from some old movie I saw on television. To our next merry meeting in hell.' 'I look forward to it,' Fox told him.

They turned and went out.

Falcone said, 'They knew about the Depository.'

'So did a lot of people. It was an open secret. How many clubs did we deal with? A secret's only a secret when one person knows it.'

'You don't think they know about anything else?'

'No, they were just bluffing. Come on. We have to leave for London soon.' Fox drained the champagne in his glass and made a face. 'You know, that little bastard was right. This stuff is bad.'

In the bar at the Plaza, Dillon and Blake were sharing a pot of tea and Irish whiskeys when Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein appeared.

'My goodness,' Ferguson said. 'Here you two sit enjoying yourselves, when according to Captain Harry Parker somebody torched up Mr Jack Fox's illegal liquor still last night.'

'Do you tell me?' Dillon shook his head. 'Isn't that dreadful.'

Are you coming home, Dillon?'

'Why not? I think I'm done with business here for the moment.'

'I would point out that when I saved you from the Serbs and took you on board, I offered to dear your rather terrible slate.' 'So you did.'

'But, on the other hand, you still haven't learned to behave yourself.'

'That's the Irish for you.'

Ferguson said, 'Sean, you still work for me. Use your judgement, but please keep me informed.'

'Jesus, Brigadier, I won't let you down. There's only one thing.'

And what would that be?'

'I intend to totally destroy Jack Fox and the Solazzo family. In Ireland, London, Beirut — wherever it takes me.' Dillon turned to Blake. 'Is that okay with you?'

'It sure as hell is. I'll see the President tomorrow and retire if I have to.'

Dillon turned and smiled at Ferguson. 'There it is, Charles.'

Ferguson smiled. 'Wonderful. Absolutely delicious.' He smiled, then didn't. 'In this case I actually approve of what you're up to. You will use Superintendent Bernstein as your connection. The full facilities of the department will be available.'

He stood up, and Dillon said, 'It's the grand man you are, Brigadier!'

'Well, I am half Irish.'

'I'll get on with it, then.'

'All the way. Finish Fox and the family.'

'Consider it done.'

'There is one thing. It's disturbing that Fox knows so much about us. What was it he said? You can access anything with the right kind of genius?'

'That's right.'

'Well, I know such a genius in London.'

Hannah Bernstein smiled. 'Roper, sir?'

'Exactly. See that the introductions are made at the right time, will you, Superintendent?'

She nodded.

'Good. Well' — he stood up — 'time to go. We'll see you later, Superintendent?'

They left. Dillon turned to Blake. 'You didn't figure much in that. What happens now?'

'I've got to clear myself with the President.'

'Then what?'

'Let's hit the bastard in London.'

'Sounds good to me.'

Cazalet had gone down to his old family house on Nantucket. Blake couldn't wait for his return, so he ordered a helicopter on departmental authority and flew down.

The President was walking the beach with his beloved flatcoat retriever, Murchison, followed by Clancy Smith. The surf roared, the sky was grey, a little rain drifted in, and the President read for the fifth time the fax he'd received from Harry Parker. There was a roaring in the distance. Clancy had a hand to his ear and mumbled into his mouthpiece. He looked up. 'Helicopter, Mr President. It's Blake.'

'Good. Let's go back to the house.'

They were halfway there when Blake appeared.

'Give us a little space, Clancy,' the President said.

They walked along the edge of the surf, Murchison running in and out. Cazalet said, 'Idiot. I'll have to hose him down.'

'I know. Sea water isn't good for his skin.'

Cazalet waved to Clancy, who lit a Marlboro away from the wind and handed it over.