Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

“Escaped when he was down at the General Hospital for treatment. I got it from Grimes up in the warden’s office. All hell broken out. It’s this joint’s first escape.”

“Well, all I can say is I wish him luck,” Paolo said.

He thought about it for the next half hour until his meal break. When it came, he went to one of the inmates’ phone boxes and used his card to ring Sollazo, who was just about to leave for Long Island when his secretary offered him the call.

“Yes, Paolo?”

“Hell, we did good, didn’t we? I did good.”

“Only what I expected.”

“So I can look for some sugar? You promised you’d get me out. I’ve made my bones on this one. I’ve earned it. I mean, you wouldn’t let me down?”

There was urgency in his voice, but more. The hint of a threat, and Sollazo recognized it at once.

“My dear Paolo, have no fear. I’m really going to take care of you and much sooner than you think. Be patient.”

He sat there thinking about it, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was picked up instantly. Sollazo didn’t need to identify himself.

“In the matter of Salamone, we need a solution. Get in touch with your man at Green Rapids and tell him you want a result, and I do mean now.”

“Consider it done.”

Sollazo put down the phone, got his raincoat and briefcase, and left.

THE GREAT SITTING room in Russo’s magnificent house at Quogue seemed to stretch to infinity, glass sliding doors opening onto a kind of boardwalk platform above the water. In the dim light of early evening, Ryan and Kathleen sat at a table by the rail.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“I know. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find it’s morning and I’m in my cell.”

Sollazo stepped out from the sitting room. “Ah, there you are. Allow me to introduce my uncle, Don Antonio Russo.”

The Don walked out behind him leaning on his cane, a cigar in his mouth. He extended a hand. “Mr. Ryan, a pleasure, and Miss Ryan.” He turned to Sollazo. “A celebration is in order, I think.”

“Taken care of, Uncle.”

Mori came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and glasses on a tray.

“Ah, the hero of the hour. You did well, Giovanni.”

Mori managed to look modest. He opened the champagne and charged the glasses. The Don said, “Go and get another glass. We won’t drink without you.” Mori did as he was told. When he returned and filled his own glass, the Don said, “A toast. To you, Mr. Ryan, and your return to the land of the living and to our joint enterprise, the Irish Rose .”

AT GREEN RAPIDS, Salamone was just finishing his nursing shift at the prison hospital. He went into the men’s room to wash his face and hands, and one of the porters followed him in. When he looked up he saw it was Chomsky, who leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“You heard anything else on Ryan?”

“Not a word,” Salamone said.

“Boy, but the joint is really humming.” Salamone dried his hands and moved out and Chomsky followed. “What worries me is that they could kill some of our privileges, know what I mean?”

“I sure do.”

They reached the end of the hallway. There was a mirror, flowers on a stand in front of it at the side of the elevator. Salamone pushed the button for the ground floor and then saw Chomsky’s face in the mirror and knew he was in trouble. The elevator doors opened and there was no elevator, only the shaft, and he slewed to one side as the other man rushed him, arms stiff, and went in headfirst. There was a strangled cry and then a thud as he landed six floors down.

Salamone didn’t hesitate. He went straight to the fire exit at the end of the hall, opened it, and went down the stairs two at a time. He didn’t go to the ground floor. There would already be a fuss there so he stopped on the second and went to the nurses’ rest room, got himself some very black coffee and sat there, sucking on a cigarette.

He was in deep shit, he knew that, and there was only one direction it could be coming from, the only one that made sense. Chomsky had worked for the Family on too many occasions for there to be any other explanation. There was one other disturbing fact to consider. It wouldn’t be left here. There were other guys like Chomsky only too willing to do the Russo Family a favor.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud. “But where? I mean, what in the hell do I do?”

He got up and paced up and down, pausing suddenly, an intent look on his face. “Johnson – Blake Johnson. Christ, if anyone can do anything he could.”

Ten minutes later he was ushered into Deputy Warden Cook’s office. Cook, sitting behind his desk, looked up. “What is it, Paolo? You told my secretary life or death.”

“Mr. Cook, I got a dynamite story. I want to see an FBI agent called Blake Johnson.”

“You do, do you, just like that?”

“Listen, Mr. Cook, if I stay here I’m dead. You want that?”

Cook frowned and he sat back. “That bad?” He nodded slower. “And that important?”

“It’s big, okay. It could even give you a few answers on Kelly and how he busted out.”

Cook was immediately on the alert. “You know something?”

“Only for Blake Johnson.”

“All right. Wait outside. I’ll check with the FBI.”

IT WAS PERHAPS half an hour later that he opened his door and called Salamone in. “Mr. Johnson is no longer with the FBI. He works with some presidential security unit in Washington. I’m going to phone him now and I’ll let you talk to him.”

“That’s fine by me.”

BLAKE JOHNSON WAS forty-six, a tall, handsome man who wore a suit well. His hair was so black that it took ten years off his age. A marine in Vietnam at nineteen, he’d emerged with two Purple Hearts, a Vietnamese Cross of Valour, and a Silver Star. A law degree had followed at Georgia State on the Marines. Afterwards the FBI, and with such resounding success that he had been appointed to his present position. For a year he had headed what was known at the White House as the Basement, the President’s private hit squad as some termed it, totally separate from the CIA or the FBI, responsible to the President alone.

When the phone rang in his office he found Cook on the line. The Deputy Warden explained the problem and ended by saying, “You do know this man?”

“Oh, sure,” Johnson said. “I put him away for bank robbery once. I’ll talk to him. Give him privacy. He might find it difficult if he thinks anyone else is listening.”

TEN MINUTES LATER after speaking to Salamone, Johnson was talking to the Deputy Warden again. “First of all, to establish my credentials, I work directly for the President. I’m in charge of his special security and intelligence unit.”

“I see,” Cook said, suitably impressed.

“I can assure you that what Salamone had to tell me is way beyond any normal criminal matter. It’s no exaggeration to tell you that grave matters of national security are involved.”

“Good God!” Cook said.

“This is what you do. You place Salamone in a secure cell under guard. I take it you have a helicopter landing pad there.”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll have a helicopter down to you within a couple of hours. The Federal Marshal who takes him in charge will have a presidential warrant for him. That clears you.”

“One thing. We had a prisoner called Kelly escape today,” Cook said, “while he was undergoing treatment at the local hospital. Salamone indicated that he might know something about that.”

Johnson, who had told Salamone to keep his mouth shut, lied smoothly, “Hell, no, he was worried you wouldn’t get in touch with me so he said what he did to get you interested.”