Day of Reckoning sd-8

by Jack Higgins

  '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 aw
ay from the wind and handed it over.

  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.

  5

  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.'

  'Okay,' Blake said. 'But in case you don't know, Fox turns
up in London this evening, plus his two minders.'

  'Falcone and Russo.' Roper smiled tranquilly. 'Mafia hard men. Ireland was my business for eleven years and terrorists were my enemy, but in a strange way you can empathize with your enemy, both IRA and Loyalists. These two wouldn't last half an hour in Derry or Belfast.'

  'So, what happens now?' Blake asked.

  Well, from what I've been told, you want to see the Colosseum severely damaged.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Good. Then wheel me out into the street and I'll go home and organize it.'

  Blake said, 'You'll be able to do it, then?'

  Roper nodded. 'No problem. God wouldn't have given some people brains if He'd wanted the scum to inherit the earth.' He turned to Dillon. 'I'll see you at six at my place in Regency Square. You will then put into operation what I tell you to. Is that acceptable?'

  'Bloody cheek,' said Dillon, but then he smiled. 'I'm sure it Will be, so let's get on with it,' and Dillon wheeled him out.

  Roper's apartment in Regency Square was on the ground floor, with a slope to the front door for his wheelchair. Everything from the bathroom to the kitchen had been designed for a handicapped person. In what would have been the sitting room was a kind of computer laboratory, with every kind of equipment on view on a workbench.

  He answered the door when Dillon, Blake and Hannah Bernstein arrived. 'Ah, there you are.'

  He led the way through to the sitting room. 'Here we are, then.' He tapped a keyboard and the screen started to fill. 'Colosseum Casino, Smith Street. General Manager, Angelo Mori. Minders, Francesco Cameci, Tino Rossi.' Photos appeared. After a while, he tapped again and ground plans came up.

  'Lots of security,' Blake said.

  'Not if you know your way in.'

  'So what would be the point?' Dillon asked.

  A top casino stands on its reputation. The slightest hint of scandal, and the Gaming Act enters into it and the place can be dosed down.'

  There was silence. Dillon said, 'And how do we achieve that?'

  'Tonight will tell you, if you do what I say and go in hard.'

  'You mean go in feloniously, Captain,' Hannah said. 'That sums it up. You want this bastard, we go for the throat.'