Jack Higgins - Day of Reckoning

Cazalet passed the fax to Blake. 'I'm afraid I leaned on your friend Harry Parker. I asked what was happening with this whole unhappy business.'

'And he told you.' Blake smiled. 'Well, he would. After all, I placed him under Presidential warrant. So, you know everything, Mr President.'

'Yes. A bad business. But it's wonderful that Brigadier Ferguson and Superintendent Bernstein flew over to support you.'

'And Sean Dillon.'

'As always!' Cazalet smiled. 'You know, it's a remarkable coincidence, that fire destroying Fox's warehouse like that.'

'Mr President.

'No, Blake, let me speak. You've been looking tired lately. I think you need a break. Let's see what a month does. You should travel. Get to London, Europe. See some sights. Hmmm? Any departmental facilities you need are yours.'

'What can I say, Mr President?'

Cazalet said, face hard, 'Nothing at all. If you and Dillon can take those bastards down, then it'll be better for all of us.' He smiled crookedly. 'However, it would seriously inconvenience me if you didn't return from your vacation in one piece.'

'Yes, Mr President. I'll see to it.'

'Good.' Cazalet flicked his cigarette into the surf. 'Now, come back to the house for lunch and then, on your way.'

At Don Marco's apartment at Trump Tower, the old man listened as Falcone related what had happened at the Four Seasons.

Don Marco nodded. 'What does my nephew intend?'

'We're going to London, landing at Heathrow.'

'He's using the Gulfstream?'

'Yes, Signore.' Falcone hesitated. 'You don't know this?'

'Oh, I'm sure he'll tell me when he's ready. You have my coded mobile number. Keep me informed. I wish to know what he's up to at all times.'

He held out his hand, Falcone kissed it and withdrew. Don Marco rose, went to the piano, and picked up a photo of Jack Fox, the war hero in his Marine uniform.

'What a pity,' he said softly. 'All the virtues, as well as vanity and stupidity.'

He replaced the photo on the piano and went out.

LONDON

The following morning, Ferguson's plane landed at Farley Field, with the usual pilots, Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Parry, in the cockpit. A Flight Sergeant Madoc had also been on board, to see to the passengers' wants.

It was March weather again, the rain driving in towards the waiting Daimler. Madoc produced an umbrella as the four of them — Ferguson, Dillon, Bernstein and Johnson — went down the steps and led the way. They scrambled into the Daimler, and Ferguson leaned out to the two pilots.

'It could be a busy time ahead, so don't make plans.'

They both smiled. 'Excellent, sir,' Lacey said.

'Just one thing, Lacey. I do think you should wear correct uniform.'

Lacey was staggered. 'Brigadier?'

'Check the promotions list out today. I put you up for Squadron Leader, and for once the Ministry of Defence has acted sensibly. In addition, in view of recent hazardous pursuits at my behest, you've both been awarded the Air Force Cross.'

They stared at him. 'Good God, sir,' Parry said. 'Sincere thanks.'

'Nonsense. Go and have a drink on it.'

Ferguson closed the door, and the chauffeur drove away. Dillon said, 'I always knew it. At heart, you're a sentimentalist.'

'Don't be stupid, Dillon, they've earned it.' Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'We'll drop these two off at Dillon's house, then carry on to my place in Cavendish Square. I suggest you contact Roper as soon as possible to arrange a meeting.'

Blake said, 'Could someone tell me about this Roper guy?'

'Well, you recall the White House Connection and Lady Helen Grant? She wanted to know how to work the computer field in a nefarious way,'Hannah told him. 'She asked the London branch of her organization for help and they sent Roper.'

'A remarkable man,' Ferguson said. 'He was a captain in the Royal Engineers, a bomb disposal expert, awarded the Military Cross and the George Cross, and then he got careless. A silly little car bomb in Belfast ended him up in a wheelchair. Computers became a whole new career for him,and he proved to have a real genius for them. As Lady Helen Grant found out.'

Blake was silent, remembering Lady Helen and the White House Connection case that had so nearly ended in disaster. So Roper had been her computer man.

'I look forward to meeting him,' Blake said.

The Daimler turned into Stable Mews, and Dillon and Blake got out. Hannah said, 'I'll contact Roper straight away.'

Blake carried the bags, and Dillon unlocked the door at the mews house and led the way in. It was small, Victorian, with Turkish carpet runners and wood block floors. The living room was delightful, sofa and chairs in black leather placed among scattered rugs, a superb painting over the fireplace.

'My God, that's fabulous,' Blake said.

A great Victorian painter, Atkinson Grimshaw. Liam Devlin gave it to me. Remember him?'

'How could I forget? He saved our bacon. Is he still around?'

'Ninety years old and pretending to be seventy-five. Come on, I'll show you your room. Then we'll go to the King's Head on the other side of the square for what we call great pub grub in England.'

'Sean, I know what great pub grub is. It's usually the best food in London. So lead the way.'

As they were sitting in the King's Head, drinking Guinness and eating shepherd's pie, Dillon's coded mobile rang faintly.

Hannah said, 'I've contacted Roper. He lives on Regency Square, only half a mile from you.'

'Shall we go round?'

'No, he said he prefers the exercise. He operates one of those state-of-the-art electric wheelchairs. He hates being regarded as a cripple.'

'I hear what you're saying, dear girl.'

'He'll see you at Stable Mews at two-thirty.'

'We'll be there.'

‘Another thing. I put out a search on the Special Branch computer. Guess who's arriving at Gatwick this evening? Jack Fox, Aldo Falcone and Giovanni Russo.',

'As Ferguson would say, quite delicious. This should prove interesting.'

He put the phone down, turned to Blake, and filled him in.

An hour later, at Stable Mews, it was Blake who happened to be at the sitting room window and looking out into the street, when he witnessed the arrival of the strange young man in the electric wheelchair. The man wore a navy blue reefer coat, a white scarf at his throat. When Blake went into the hall, Dillon already had the door open.

'Ah, Mr Dillon. I've seen your face on my computer. Roper's the name.'

He had hair to his shoulders, hollow cheeks and very blue eyes. His face was a taut mask of scar tissue, the kind you only got from burns.

'Come in,' Dillon said cheerfully.

'Only if you help me over the step. It's the one thing these gadgets can't manage.'

Dillon obliged, then pushed him along the hall into the kitchen, Blake following.

Roper said, 'What I could really do with is a nice cup of tea.' He turned to Blake. 'Lieutenant.'

Blake smiled. 'Should I say "sir"?'

'Of course. I outrank you.'

Forty-five miles later they'd filled him in on everything they needed from him. Roper said. 'Fine. I'll go into everything. The Solazzo family, Jack Fox, the Colosseum operation, these Jago brothers. Oh, and this Brendan Murphy. I remember the name from my Irish service. A hard man, as I recall.'

'No, a fanatic, Brendan,' Dillon said. 'I had dealings with him in the old days. Hates the peace process, and now we hear he's into arms dumps — and possibly worse, this hint of an involvement with Saddam in Beirut.'

'So I'll access Army HQ at Lisburn, the RUC, the Garda in Dublin, maybe the Security Services.'

'You can do that?' Dillon asked.

'Dillon, I can even access your lot, and Ferguson probably knows that. I'm the hand of God, so leave it with me.'