Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

“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.”

DON ANTONIO WAS right, for in London the most important matter on the Prime Minister’s agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of the week. It was Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s sole concern. He was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languished in heavy traffic.

“Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.”

“Sure and sometimes it has,” Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.

He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.

“I’d like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon. I can hardly be late for that.”

“He’s a decent enough stick,” Dillon said. “He’ll see you right.”

The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in Vogue . She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.

“You’re hopeless, Dillon,” she said. “No respect for anyone, you Irish.”

“It’s all that rain, girl dear,” he said.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Ferguson told her. “A hopeless case.”

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door of Number Ten. “I shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” Ferguson told them.

“Will that old bowser Simon Carter be there?” Dillon asked.

“That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well don’t forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American President’s visit stink.”

“Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.”

He crossed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.

“The grand gentleman that he is. Sure and the empire is in safe hands.” Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case and lit it.

“We don’t have an empire any longer, Dillon,” she said.

“Is that a fact, and does the Government know that?”

She shook her head. “Hopeless, Dillon, that’s what you are, and you’ll kill yourself if you keep on smoking those things.”

“True, but then I always knew I’d come to a bad end.”

WHEN FERGUSON WAS shown into the Prime Minister’s study, Simon Carter was already seated. A small man in his early fifties with snow-white hair, he had once been a professor of history. Never an agent in the field himself, he was one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s security system. He disliked Ferguson, had for years, and resented the Brigadier’s privileged position and the fact that he was answerable to the Prime Minister only.

“Sorry I’m late, Prime Minister.”

He made no excuses and the Prime Minister smiled. “That’s all right.” He picked up a file. “The security plans the Deputy Director and his people have planned for the President’s visit. You’ve read this?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m particularly anxious that his visit to the House of Commons goes well on Friday morning. Refreshments on the Terrace at ten-thirty.”

“No problems there, Prime Minister,” Carter said. “The one place during his whole trip which will provide no security problem at all is the House of Commons.” He turned to the Brigadier, the usual arrogant look on his face. “Don’t you agree, Ferguson.”