Day of Reckoning

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000

Copyright © Jack Higgins 2000

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover photograph © Lawson Wood/Ocean Eye Film

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124892

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007373970

Version: 2015-07-20

Epigraph

When you have sinned grievously,

the Devil is waiting.

Sicilian Proverb

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

HELLSMOUTH

Chapter 1

NEW YORK IN THE BEGINNING

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

LONDON

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

LEBANON AL SHARIZ

Chapter 9

LONDON

Chapter 10

SCOTLAND IRELAND

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

LONDON

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

HELLSMOUTH

Chapter 15

LONDON

Chapter 16

About the Author

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Further Reading

About the Publisher

HELLSMOUTH

1

It was the rat, in a way, which brought Blake Johnson not only awake, but back to life. Sitting on the stone seat in the darkness, up to his waist in water, it was astonishing that he’d drifted into sleep at all, and then he’d come awake, aware of something on his neck, and had sat up.

The light in the grilled entrance behind him gave enough illumination for him to see what it was that slid from his left shoulder. It splashed into the water, surfaced, and turned to look at him, nose pointing, eyes unwinking.

It took Blake back more than twenty-five years to when he’d been a young Special Forces sergeant at the end of the Vietnam War, up to his neck in a tidal swamp in the Mekong Delta, trying to avoid sudden death at the hands of the Vietcong. There had been rats there, too, especially because of the bodies.

No bodies here. Just the grille entrance with the faint light showing through, the rough stone walls of the tunnel, the strong, dank sewer smell, and the grille forty yards the other way, the grille that meant there was nowhere to go, as he’d found when they had first put him into this place.

The rat floated, watching him, strangely friendly. Blake said softly, ‘Now you behave yourself. Be off with you.’

He stirred the water, and the rat fled. He leaned back, intensely cold, and tried to think straight. He remembered coming to a kind of half-life in the Range Rover, the effects of the drugs wearing off. They’d come over a hill, in heavy rain, some sort of storm, and then in the lightning he’d seen cliffs below, a cruel sea, and above the cliffs a castle like something out of a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm.

When Blake had groaned and tried to sit up, Falcone, the one sitting beside the driver, had turned and smiled.

‘There you are. Back in the land of the living.’

And Blake, trying hard to return to some kind of reality, had said, ‘Where am I?’

And Falcone had smiled. ‘The end of the world, my friend. There’s nowhere else but the Atlantic Ocean all the way to America. Hellsmouth, that’s what they call this place.’

He’d started to laugh as Blake lapsed back into semi-consciousness.

Time really had no meaning. His bandaged right shoulder hurt as he sat on the seat, arms tightly folded to try and preserve some kind of body heat, and yet his senses were alert and strangely sharp so that when there was a clang behind him and the grille opened, he sat up.

‘Hey, there you are, Dottore. Still with us,’ Falcone said.

‘And fuck you, too,’ Blake managed.

‘Excellent. Signs of life. I like that. Out you come.’

Falcone got a hand on the collar of Blake’s shirt and pulled. Blake went through the opening and landed on his hands and knees in the corridor. Russo was there, a smile on his ugly face.

‘He don’t look too good.’

‘Well, he sure as hell stinks. Wash him down.’

There was a hose fastened to a brass tap in the wall. Russo turned it on and directed the spray all over Blake’s body. It was ice cold and he fought for breath. Russo finally switched off and draped a blanket round Blake’s shoulders.

‘The boss wants to see you, so be good.’

‘Sure, he’ll be good,’ Falcone said. ‘Just like that nice little wife of his in Brooklyn was good.’

Blake pulled the blanket around him and looked up. ‘You did that?’

‘Hey, business is business.’

‘I’ll kill you for that.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re on borrowed time as it is. Let’s move it, the man’s waiting,’ and he pushed Blake along the corridor.

They climbed two sets of stone steps and finally reached a black oak door bound in iron. Russo opened it, and Falcone pushed Blake through into a baronial hall, stone-flagged, with a staircase to the left and a log fire burning on a stone hearth. Suits of armour and ancient banners hung from poles. There was a slightly unreal touch to things, like a bad film set.

‘What happened to Dracula?’ Blake asked.

Russo frowned. ‘Dracula? What is this?’

‘Never mind.’ Two men were lounging by the fire. Rossi and Cameci; he’d seen their faces on the computer, more Solazzo family hoods.

Falcone pushed Blake forward. ‘Hey, I’m with you. Christopher Lee was the best. I loved those Hammer movies.’

Russo opened another black oak door. Inside was a room with a high ceiling, another log fire on a stone hearth, candlelight and shadows, and behind a large desk shrouded in darkness, a shadowy figure.

‘Bring Mr Johnson in, Aldo. By the fire. He must be cold.’

Falcone took Blake to the fire and pulled a chair forward. ‘Sit.’

The man in the shadows said, ‘Brandy, I think. A large one would seem to be in order.’

Blake sat there while Russo went to a side table and poured brandy from a decanter and brought it to him. It burned all the way down and Blake coughed.

‘Now give him a cigarette, Aldo. Like all of us, Mr Johnson is trying to stop, but life is short, art long, and experiment perilous. There’s Latin for that, but I forget how it goes.’

‘Oh, didn’t they teach you that at Harvard Law School?’

Blake took the cigarette and light from Falcone.

‘As a matter of fact, no. But clever of you. You obviously know who I am.’

‘Hell, why carry on like this? Of course I know who you are. Jack Fox, pride of the Solazzo family. So why don’t you turn up the light?’

A moment passed, and it did go up and Fox sat there; the dark hair, the devil’s wedge of a face, the mocking smile. He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

‘And I know you, Blake Johnson. You came out of Vietnam with a chestful of medals, joined the FBI, and saved President Jake Cazalet from assassination when he was still a senator. Shot two bad guys and took a bullet. Now you run the Basement, downstairs at the White House, as a kind of private hit force for the President. But unfortunately, Blake’ – he paused to take a puff – ‘I don’t think Cazalet can save you now.’

Blake snapped two fingers at Falcone. ‘Another brandy.’ He turned to Fox. ‘There’s an old Sicilian saying, which you might appreciate, since I know you have a Sicilian mother. When you have sinned grievously, the devil is waiting.’

Fox laughed. ‘Would your devil be you or Sean Dillon?’

‘Take your pick. But God help you if it’s Dillon,’ Blake told him.

Fox leaned closer. ‘Let me tell you something, Johnson. I hope it’s Dillon. I’ve been waiting a long time to put a bullet in his brain. And in yours.’

Blake said, ‘You killed my wife.’

‘Your ex-wife,’ Fox said. ‘But it wasn’t personal. She got too close, that’s all. I wish you could have understood that.’ Fox shook his head. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of grief. Now you’ll have to pay for it.’ Fox smiled. ‘I hope Dillon is stupid enough to come. Then I’ll have you both.’

‘Or we’ll have you.’

Fox said to Falcone. ‘Take him back.’

He turned down the light, and Russo punched Blake in the belly. Blake doubled over and they took him out between them, feet dragging.

NEW YORK

2

It was a wet March evening in Manhattan when the Lincoln stopped at Trump Tower, the snow long gone, but replaced by heavy, relentless rain. Jack Fox sat in the rear, Russo at the wheel, Falcone beside him. They pulled in at the kerb and Falcone got out with an umbrella.

Fox said, ‘You’re okay for a couple of hours.’ He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. ‘You two go and eat. I’ll call you on my mobile when I need you.’

‘Sure.’ Falcone walked him to the entrance. ‘Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.’

Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.’

He turned and went in.

The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn’t say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

‘Hey, Jack, come in.’

His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. ‘Uncle, you look good.’

‘So do you.’ The Don offered him the magazine. ‘I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that’s all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn’t good.’

Fox waved his hand. ‘It’s innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I’m related to you. But they think I’m legit.’

‘You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think “innocuous stuff” is all she’s after? Don’t delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we’re respectable – property, manufacturing, finance – but we’re still Mafia, that’s what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she’s after something – and you…you’re a good boy. You’ve done well, but I’m not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.’

‘Uncle, please,’ Fox said.

The Don waved his hand. ‘A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you’re greedy. There’s nothing I don’t know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won’t hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.’

‘That’s our flagship casino, Uncle.’

‘Sure, but while you’re there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.’ The Don waved him back. ‘Don’t annoy me by denying it, Jack.’

‘Uncle.’ Fox tried to sound contrite.

‘Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That’s where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.’

‘As you say, Uncle.’

‘Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.’

Fox hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been like that.’

‘Then like what? Why should she be interested in making you look good? She’s in it for more. I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. This piece, it’s not so bad, all right, but what’s next? What’s behind the front?’ The Don shook his head. ‘She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.’

‘What would you advise, Uncle?’

‘Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.’ He reached for a pitcher. ‘Have a martini and then we’ll eat.’

Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn’t open. He’d served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.

A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he’d just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.

Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. ‘Terry, you look good.’

Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. ‘Aldo, you want something?’

‘Not me, but the Solazzo family would like a favour. You would never say no to the Don, would you, Terry?’

‘Of course not,’ Terry gabbled, reached for the whisky sour and swallowed it in one gulp.

‘Only in this case, it’s Jack Fox who wants the favour.’

Which was enough to almost give Terry a bowel movement. ‘Anything I can do.’

‘That goes without saying.’ Falcone patted his cheek and said to the barman, who was looking wary, ‘Give him another. He’s going to need it.’

The barman said, ‘Now, look, I don’t want any trouble in here.’

Russo leaned over the bar, his face full of menace. ‘Make him the fucking drink and shut up. Okay?’

Hurriedly, the barman did as he was told, his hands shaking.

Jack Fox was in the sitting room of his Park Avenue townhouse, on the second floor, enjoying a light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches, when Falcone brought Terry Mount in.

‘Why, Terry, you look worried,’ Fox told him. ‘Now why should that be?’ He bit into a sandwich, then Falcone took a wad of money from his pocket. ‘Aldo, have you won the lottery or something?’

‘No, Signore, but I think Terry has. There’s fifteen grand here.’

Fox nodded to the champagne bucket and Falcone poured him another glass. ‘Terry, I think you’ve been a naughty boy again.’

‘Please, Mr Fox, I’m just trying to make a buck.’

‘And so you shall.’ Fox smiled. ‘Two grand, Terry.’

Terry’s eyes rolled. ‘And what do I have to do for that?’

‘What you do best.’ Fox pushed a piece of paper across that had been lying on the table. ‘Katherine Johnson. Ten Barrow Street. Just on the edge of the Village. You’ll toss her place this afternoon.’

‘But that doesn’t give me time to prepare.’

‘For what?’ Fox said coldly. ‘It’s a small townhouse. She won’t be there. You boast that you can break in anywhere.’

Terry licked his lips. ‘What do I do?’

‘She’s a magazine reporter, so you’ll probably find an office, a computer, a VCR, all that stuff. Bring whatever disks you find. Bring the videos on her business shelf.’

Terry said, ‘People keep videos all the time. I mean, do I bring all of them?’

‘Be sensible, Terry,’ Fox said patiently. ‘I’m not looking for Dirty Harry or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Just use your brain, such as it is. The boys will take you, they’ll wait and bring you back. Anything you’ve got, I want by five o’clock. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.’

Terry’s feet hardly touched the ground as Falcone pushed him outside.

He went to Barrow Street wearing a bomber jacket that said ‘Smith Electronics’ on the back. He didn’t bother with the front door, after three rings got no reply, but went down to the basement. There were double deadlocks, but they both responded to his touch.

He found himself in a laundry room and moved upstairs to the entrance hall. There was a parlour, dining room and kitchen, so he tried the stairs, the only sound disturbing the quiet the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. The first door he tried was the study. He saw shelves crammed with books and videos, a computer next to two video and disk machines, and a multiple tape recorder. He switched them all on and removed everything he found in them, placing his haul in the carry bag that hung from his left shoulder. He opened drawers and found more disks and cassettes, which he also took.

The rest really was frustrating. Rows of movies on video, rows of instructional tapes. He was sweating now and swung at the shelves and scattered videotapes across the floor.

Okay. So he’d done what Fox wanted. Time to go. There were some bottles on a side table, and glasses. He poured some bourbon, savoured it, and left by the same route, locking the basement door before returning to Falcone and Russo.

When they arrived at the Park Avenue townhouse, Fox was waiting eagerly. He took the disks and tapes Terry Mount offered and said to Russo, ‘Look after him.’ He turned to Falcone. ‘You stay. It could be bad.’

‘Then it’s bad for both of us, Signore.’ They had been friends since boyhood.

Fox started checking the disks, mostly work notes, letters, accounts, and quickly discarded them. Then he started on the tapes Mount had found in the tape recorder, and on the second struck pure gold.

At first, the sounds were of an innocuous conversation about family business and so on. The woman’s voice was very pleasant and intimate, and the man’s…

Falcone said, ‘Jesus, Maria, Signore, that’s you.’

There were restaurant sounds in the background, a little music. Fox said, ‘She was recording us.’

Suddenly, the tape changed. Now, the woman was clearly making notes to herself.

‘There can be little doubt that Jack Fox, in spite of the war hero and Wall Street image, is nothing less than the new face of the Solazzo family and the new Mafia. I’ll lull him to sleep with the first article in Truth and then hit him hard with the rest. There might even be a special on the Truth Channel in this. I’ve just got to take it easy, and flatter him. His vanity should take care of the rest.’

Fox switched off the machine. ‘The bitch.’

‘So it would appear, Signore. What should we do?’

Fox got up, went to the sideboard, and poured a glass of Scotch. He turned. ‘I think you know, old friend.’ He went to the telephone and punched in a number. ‘Katherine Johnson, please. Hello, Kate? Jack Fox. Would you be free for dinner tonight? I was thinking about that piece, and, what the hell, there’s some more you might be interested in…You are? Terrific. Listen, don’t bother going home. I’ll send a car. You come on over to Park Avenue and pick me up. We’ve just bought this new restaurant in Brooklyn, and I’d like to check it out. Will you help?…Great! I’ll send Falcone to pick you up.’ He put the phone down, surprised at the genuine regret he felt.

In that evening of dreary rain, darkness already descending, she sat in the rear of the Lincoln, a small, pretty woman of forty, with dark hair and an intelligent face. Russo was at the wheel and Falcone beside him. They reached the Park Avenue house and Falcone called Fox on his mobile.

‘Hey, Signore, we’re here.’ He turned. ‘He’ll be right down.’

She smiled and took out a Marlboro. Falcone gave her a light.

‘Thank you.’

‘Prego, Signora.’

He closed the glass divide between them, and a moment later, Fox arrived, wearing a black overcoat. He scrambled in and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Kate, you look good.’

The Lincoln took off.

‘You look pretty good yourself.’

He smiled amiably. ‘Well, here’s to a good night.’

At that precise moment, Terry Mount was swallowing another whisky sour in a downtown bar, aware of the bulge that seventeen thousand dollars now made in his right-hand breast pocket. He went out into the street, drew up his collar as rain dashed in his face, started along the pavement, and sensed someone move in behind him, and then a needlepoint going through his clothes.

‘Just turn right into the alley.’ He did as he was told, and found himself shoved against a wall. A hand searched. ‘Hey, seventeen grand. You were right.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a big black mother named Henry, and you wouldn’t want to meet me in the showers on Rikers Island.’

Terry was terrified. ‘I just did what I was told.’

‘Which means you know too much. Regards from the Solazzos.’

The knife went up through the breast bone and found the heart, and Terry Mount slid down the wall.

It was early evening and March dark on Columbia Street, Brooklyn, as the Lincoln turned right and pulled on to a pier where a few coastal ships were tied up. Russo switched off the engine. Suddenly alarmed, Katherine Johnson said, ‘What is this? Where are we, Jack?’

‘This is the end of the line, Signora. You sure played me for a sucker.’

She managed a smile. ‘Come on, Jack.’

‘Come on, nothing. I’ve had your house searched. Found your little tape recordings of us. Not that I said anything, but you sure did. Just take it easy and flatter me, huh? You shouldn’t have done that to me.’

‘For God’s sake, Jack, you’ve got to listen to me.’

‘No, I’m done listening. And talking.’

A limousine pulled up behind. Fox got out and said to Falcone, ‘Aldo, you make this good.’

‘At your order, Signore.’

Fox got in the rear limousine and was driven away.

Katherine tried to open the door, but Russo was there, his great hand raised. Falcone cried, ‘Leave it. I don’t want bruising.’ He found her neck and yanked her forward on her knees on the rear seat. Her skirt rose up.

‘Go on, get on with it.’

He held her as she struggled. Russo took a box from his pocket, opened it, and produced a hypodermic. ‘You’ll like this, girlie. Best heroin on the market.’ He jabbed her left thigh, then injected her again, this time in the right buttock. ‘There you go.’

She cried out and slumped forward.

Russo patted her. ‘Hey, she’s not bad looking. Maybe I could do myself a little good here.’

He turned, reaching for his zipper, and Falcone gave him a shove. ‘You stupid bastard, that’ll blow the whole thing. Come on, give me a hand.’

Grumbling, Russo picked up her feet while Falcone took her arms, and they carried her to the edge of the pier.

‘Easy now,’ and she was in the water.

‘Come on, let’s go get a drink.’ They walked back to the Lincoln, and a minute later they drove away.

Neither of them noticed Katherine Johnson’s purse, where it had fallen out of the car, in the shadows beside a packing case.

The following morning at six o’clock, rain drove in across the East River, rattling the windows of the old precinct house. Harry Parker, brought out of bed only an hour before, drank coffee from a machine and made a face as a woman detective sergeant named Helen Abruzzi came in.

‘This is disgusting,’ Parker told her. ‘Reminds me of why I switched to tea. Okay, what have we got?’

‘This kid is called Charlene Wilson. She was working a strip bar not far from here.’

‘And doing business on the side?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What happened?’

‘A man called Paul Moody took her home. When we found her, she’d been raped orally, half-strangled, her wrists tied.’

Parker frowned. ‘That sounds like those two murders in Battery Park.’

‘That’s what I thought, Captain, and that’s why I phoned you to come here. Charlene got away because he got drunk and fell asleep and she managed to loosen her hands.’

Parker nodded. ‘Okay, let me know when the line-up’s ready.’

She went out and Parker went to the window, the rain driving against it, and found a Marlboro, having long since stopped pretending to have quit. He lit it and looked out at the river morosely, a huge black man who had started life in Harlem, earned a law degree at Columbia, and then decided to join the police rather than a law firm. He’d never minded seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had, and had divorced him for it.

For three years now, he’d been captain in charge of a special homicide unit based at One Police Plaza. Sometimes he got depressed dealing with one killing after another, in a never-ending series, and when you were close to fifty you began to wonder if there was something better to do. He wondered if Blake had really meant what he’d said that there might be room for him in that special intelligence unit of his in Washington…

The door opened and Helen Abruzzi called, ‘Show time, Captain.’

The girl in the viewing room was in a bad way, a blanket around her shoulders, her face swollen, one eye black, bruise marks on her neck. Helen stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, while Parker read the file. He finished, nodded, and she pressed a buzzer. A light flared and five men appeared on the other side. The girl cried out.

‘Number three. That’s him,’ she said and then she broke down.

Compassion didn’t come easy at six o’clock in the morning on the East River, but Parker put an arm around her.

‘Hey, take a deep breath. I know it isn’t easy, but I’ll make you a promise. I’m going to take this fuck out.’ He squeezed her shoulder and nodded to Abruzzi. ‘Take her away, then bring that bastard in.’

He stood at the window, looking down at the water, and after a while the door opened and Helen Abruzzi came in, followed by Paul Moody, cuffed between two police officers.

‘And who the hell are you?’ Moody demanded.

‘Captain Harry Parker. Sergeant Abruzzi’s got quite a list of charges against you, Moody, beginning with aggravated sexual assault.’

‘Hey, the bitch wanted it. She was into sadomasochism, all kinds of stuff. I mean, I was shocked, man.’

‘I’m sure you were, and I was forgetting physical assault on a minor.’

There was silence. Moody said, ‘What’s this minor crap?’

‘Didn’t Sergeant Abruzzi tell you? The girl, Charlene Wilson, was fifteen two weeks ago.’

Moody’s face paled. ‘Now, look, I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, you do now,’ Helen Abruzzi told him.

‘Another thing,’ Parker said. ‘There’ve been two killings in Battery Park within the last three months, using the same technique you prefer, Moody. Girls tied up, abused, beaten, and young.’

‘You can’t pin those on me.’

‘I don’t need to. We have good DNA samples retrieved from Charlene Wilson. We’ve got the DNA of the Battery Park killer. I’d bet my pension we’ll have a match.’

‘Fuck you, nigger bastard.’

Moody lunged at him and the two officers restrained him.

Parker said, ‘Why, Paul, you should conserve your energy. You’re going to need it to keep you going for the next forty years in prison.’ He nodded to the officers. ‘Get this piece of shit out of here.’

He turned to the window as the door closed. Helen Abruzzi said, ‘It’s a bad one, sir.’

‘They’re all bad, Sergeant.’ He turned. ‘I need air. I’ll take a walk if you can find me an umbrella. I’ll come back to sign the papers later.’

‘Fine, sir.’

He smiled, and suddenly looked charming. ‘You’ve been doing a good job here, Sergeant. I’ve been noticing. There’s an inspector’s job coming up, if you’d like a posting to Police Plaza. You deserve it. I can’t promise, mind you.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you later, but ring the front desk and get me that umbrella.’

It was raining hard on the waterfront. Parker had borrowed a police raincoat with caped shoulders, and carried the umbrella Abruzzi had organized. The rain actually made him feel good, cleared the head. He lit another cigarette, and then an old man was running towards him in a panic.

Parker got his hand up. ‘What is it? What’s your problem?’

‘I need the police!’

‘You’ve found them. What’s the problem?’

‘My name’s Richardson. I’m a night watchman at the old Darmer warehouse there. I was coming off shift and I went to the edge of the pier to toss my butt in the water, and…and there’s a woman in the water!’

‘Okay, show me,’ said Parker and pushed him forward.

Katherine Johnson was a couple of feet under dark green water. Her arms floated to each side, her legs were open, the eyes stared into eternity. There was a look of surprise on her face and she was achingly beautiful in death.

Harry Parker took out his mobile and called the precinct. ‘This is Captain Parker. I’ve got a Jane Doe in the water only three hundred yards from you. Let’s get an ambulance and back-up out here.’ He stood there, holding his mobile phone, then handed it to Richardson and took off his raincoat. ‘Hang on to those.’

He went down a flight of stone steps, waist deep in water, and reached for her. It was stupid, because that was the recovery team’s job, but he couldn’t leave her there. In a strange way, it was personal.

She was covered for a moment by flotsam, and he went chest deep and pulled her in and above his head. Above him, he heard the sound of vehicles grinding to a halt as the recovery team arrived.

Parker went home, changed, had breakfast at his corner coffee shop – eggs, bacon, English breakfast tea – and returned to his office. But the dead woman’s face, the open eyes, wouldn’t go away as he phoned Abruzzi.

‘What’s happening with the Jane Doe I found?’

‘She’s at the morgue. They’ve brought in the chief medical examiner. I believe he’s doing the post-mortem himself later this morning.’

‘I’ll be down. Tell him I’m coming.’

When Harry Parker arrived at the office of the chief medical examiner, Dr George Romano was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

‘Harry, my man, what’s new?’

‘This Jane Doe from the river. I took her out.’

‘So you’re feeling personal about it, right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m about to finish the post-mortem. I was just taking a break. What do you want to know? Did she fall or was she pushed?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Okay, Harry, join me, ’cause this one stinks.’ Romano drained his coffee and led the way out.

They went into the post-mortem room, where two technicians waited, suitably gowned. Romano held up his arms and one of them helped him into a robe. He went and scrubbed at the sink.

‘There she is, all yours, Harry.’

Katherine Johnson lay on a slanting steel operating table, her head on a wooden block. She was naked, the Y cut of the preliminary vivid against her pale skin. Romano held up his hands and one of the technicians pulled on surgical gloves for him. There was a cart loaded with instruments and a TV video recorder on a swivel.

Romano said, ‘Tuesday, March 2, resuming post-mortem Mrs Katherine Johnson, 10 Barrow Street, Greenwich Village.’

‘Hey, what is this?’ Parker demanded.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Romano looked surprised. ‘The guy who found her, Richardson? He was hanging around and discovered her purse. She must have dropped it when she went over the pier. Plenty of ID.’

‘Okay. Fine. Let’s get on with it. Why did you say this stinks?’

‘She’s a nice lady, well nourished, good condition, about forty years of age.’

‘So?’

‘So she died of a massive heroin overdose. Enough to kill her twice over. It doesn’t fit. Someone like her, in her condition? Plus, someone on that stuff at a high level would have needle sores all over. She only had two – the recent ones. One in the left thigh, the other in the right buttock. And what was she doing in the water?’

‘Accidentally overdosed and fell in?’

‘Maybe. But I doubt it. Like I said, she wasn’t an addict. And another thing. Her medical insurance card was in her purse and I checked it out. She was a lefty.’

‘So?’

‘Harry, with the greatest will in the world, I can’t see a left-handed person injecting herself in the side of the right buttock. It’s possible but unlikely.’

He reached for a De Soutter vibratory saw.

‘So you’re saying she was stiffed by someone?’

‘Harry, like you, I’ve spent years in the death business. You get a smell for it. Yes, I’d say someone wasted her.’

‘Which means I’ve got a murder case on my hands.’

‘I’d say so. Now I’m about to take off the skullcap, so if you’re not too happy about that, I’d leave.’

‘Excellent advice. I’ll take it,’ said Harry Parker, and he turned and left.

He found his way to Abruzzi’s office. She was seated at her desk, working away.

‘I hear you turned up ID on the Jane Doe,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’

‘It’s an interesting one. She’s a reporter for Truth magazine, named Katherine Johnson. I did a computer printout. Divorced, no children. Her husband was a guy called Blake Johnson, FBI.’

Parker’s mouth went dry. ‘Blake Johnson?’

‘That’s right. You know him?’

‘We’ve worked together. Except he isn’t FBI anymore. He works for the President.’

‘Jesus, is this a hot one, Captain?’

‘I’d say as hot as they come. You zip your mouth tight, Sergeant.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Jesus,’ he said again. He looked at her. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of anything here, would you, Sergeant?’

She hesitated, then took a half-bottle of Irish whiskey from a drawer in her desk. ‘For medicinal purposes,’ she said.

‘And sometimes we need it. Sergeant, you’re working for me now. I’ll take care of things with your lieutenant. The first thing I want you to do is call the White House and ask for a woman named Alice Quarmby. Got that? That’s Johnson’s assistant. I need to talk to her.’

He turned to the window, stared out, and took another swig from the bottle. Abruzzi called to him, he turned and took the phone.

‘Alice? Harry Parker. Is Blake there?’

‘He’s with the President, Harry.’

‘Damn.’

There was a pause. ‘Is it important?’

So he told her.

In the Oval Office, President Jake Cazalet sat at his desk, Blake Johnson on the other side, as they reviewed the latest intelligence reports on the Irish peace process. The President’s favourite Secret Service man, Clancy Smith, a tall, black Gulf veteran, stood by the door. The phone rang and Cazalet picked it up.

‘Alice Quarmby, Mr President.’

‘Hello, Alice, you want Blake?’

‘No, Mr President, I need you.’

He straightened, aware from the tone of her voice that something was very badly wrong.

‘Tell me, Alice.’

She did, and a minute later he replaced the phone and turned to Blake, genuine pain on his face, for this was a man he liked more than most, a man who had helped save his beloved daughter’s life, who had saved the President himself from assassination.

Blake, sitting there in shirtsleeves, papers in front of him, said, ‘What’s the problem, Mr President? What did Alice say?’

Cazalet stood up and walked to the window, watching the rain drifting across Capitol Hill. He summoned up all his strength and turned.

‘Blake, you’re a true friend and one of the finest men I’ve known, and I’m going to hurt you now in the most terrible way. At least, thank God, it’s me.’

Blake looked puzzled. ‘Mr President?’

And Cazalet gave him the dreadful news.

When he was done, he ordered, ‘Whisky, Clancy, a large one.’

Clancy was at the sideboard at once and back within seconds with a crystal glass half-filled with bourbon. He handed it to Blake, who stared at it, frowning, then swallowed it whole. He put the glass down on the desk.

‘I’m sorry, Mr President. This is quite a shock. Although my wife and I were divorced, we’ve always stayed close, and now I…May I phone Alice back?’

‘Of course. Use the anteroom for privacy, then we’ll talk.’

‘Thank you.’ Clancy opened the door and Blake went out.

‘Clancy,’ Cazalet said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

Clancy found a pack, shook one out, and gave it to him. ‘Mr President.’

Cazalet inhaled deeply. ‘These got me through Vietnam, Clancy. Blake, too, I suspect. What about you? In the Gulf?’

‘Long days of boredom, broken by moments of sheer terror? Yes sir, a cigarette came in handy now and then.’

Cazalet nodded. ‘Old soldiers, the three of us.’ He sighed. ‘He doesn’t deserve this, Clancy. If there’s anything we can do for him, I’d appreciate it.’

‘My privilege, Mr President.’

Twenty minutes later Blake returned, his face grey, eyes burning.

‘Is there anything I can do to help, Blake?’

‘No, Mr President, except with your permission I need to get to New York now.’

Cazalet turned to Clancy Smith. ‘Make the call and get the Gulfstream ready to take Blake to New York immediately.’

‘You got it, Mr President,’ and Clancy went out fast.

Cazalet turned to Blake. ‘My friend, do you have any kind of idea what happened?’

‘No, Mr President.’ Blake pulled on his jacket. ‘But I intend to find out. And with Harry Parker helping me, that’s just what I’ll do.’ He held out his hand. ‘Many thanks, Mr President, for your understanding.’

He turned and went out.

3

In Parker’s office at One Police Plaza, Blake listened to the whole story. When the police captain was finished, Blake nodded.

‘I’d like to hear what Romano said from his own mouth, then I’d like to see where it happened.’

‘Be my guest.’ Parker picked up the telephone. ‘Have my car at the front entrance in five minutes.’

Shortly thereafter, still in the rain, that bad March weather, they stood on the edge of the pier with umbrellas and looked down into the water covered with scum and flotsam.

‘She was there by the steps,’ Parker told him. ‘The night watchman saw her. I happened to be walking along.’

‘And you pulled her in.’

‘I couldn’t leave her.’

Blake nodded. ‘Let’s go and see Romano.’ He turned and walked away.

At the morgue, Romano was in the chief medical examiner’s office, drinking minestrone soup from a plastic cup and eating French bread. Parker made the introductions.

Romano said, ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Just tell me what you told Harry.’

Romano did.

‘So she was murdered?’

‘In my opinion, and for what it’s worth, yes.’

‘But why?’ Parker demanded. ‘And what would a nice middle-class lady with an apartment in the Village be doing in Brooklyn under these circumstances?’ They sat silent for a moment. ‘You never had any children, did you, Blake?’

‘No.’ Blake shrugged. ‘It wasn’t possible. She was sterile, so she concentrated on her career, and I concentrated on mine. We just kind of drifted apart. But though we got divorced, we never lost touch. We were always concerned friends.’ He turned to Romano. ‘I’d like to see the body.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Yes, I damn well would.’ At that moment Blake looked every inch the Vietnam veteran.

Parker put a hand on Romano’s shoulder. ‘George, I’d say we should indulge the man.’

‘Okay, let me phone down.’

She lay on one of the tables under the hard white light. There were enormous stitched scars where Romano had opened her up, the same scar around the skull.

Blake felt incredibly detached. This creature had been the love of his life, his wife, his support in many bad times, and now…

He said, ‘I was never all that religious, but human beings are pretty remarkable. Einstein, Fleming, Shakespeare, Dickens. Is this what it ends up as? Where’s Kate? This isn’t her.’

‘I can’t give you an answer,’ Romano told him. ‘The essence, the life force – it just goes. That’s all I can say.’

Blake nodded slowly. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. She deserved better, and someone should pay for this.’ His smile was the most terrible thing Parker had ever seen when he said, ‘And I’m going to see that they do.’

Back at Parker’s office, there was a message for him to phone Helen Abruzzi.

‘What’s new?’ Parker asked.

‘Well, we checked out Katherine Johnson’s house, and it’s been burgled.’

‘Damn,’ Parker said. ‘Okay, we’ll be right there.’ He turned to Blake and explained. Blake said, ‘Let’s take a look.’ Helen Abruzzi was already there ahead of them when they arrived.

‘There’s no sign of forced entry, but the study upstairs has been ransacked. It’s hard to tell what’s been taken.’

She led the way, opened the study door, and entered. The scene of devastation was evident, videotapes scattered all over the place.

Parker said, ‘Anything in the machinery?’

‘Not a thing. No disks, no tapes, no copies, nothing in the computer.’

‘That smells, for starters.’

Blake said, ‘Somebody was after something, Harry, that’s obvious, and probably found it. The thing is, what and why?’ He turned to Abruzzi. ‘Have the crime scene people finished here?’ She nodded. ‘Then could you get your people to look at these tapes littering the floor, Sergeant? You never know. You might turn up something.’

‘I’ll see to it, sir.’

Blake started down the stairs, and Parker said, ‘Now where?’

‘Truth magazine. I want to see Kate’s editor, find out what she was working on. You don’t have to come. You’ve got other cases on your hands, Harry. I can handle this on my own.’

‘Like hell you will,’ Harry Parker told him. ‘Let’s get going.’

The editor of Truth magazine, Rupert O’Dowd, was the kind of middle-aged journalist who’d seen it all, been there, and done that, and he had little residual faith in human nature. Nevertheless, sitting in his office in shirtsleeves, he reacted with horror to the suggestion that Katherine Johnson had been murdered.

‘Please, tell me, what can I do to help?’

‘You can tell us what she’d been involved in lately,’ Johnson said. ‘Was she working on anything special, anything dangerous?’

O’Dowd hesitated. ‘Well, there’s a question of journalistic ethics here.’

‘And there’s the question of my wife being murdered by the administration of a massive heroin dose, Mr O’Dowd. So don’t play around or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

O’Dowd put up a hand. ‘Okay, okay, you don’t have to come down hard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She was working on a big Mafia exposé.’

There was silence. Parker said, ‘Isn’t that old stuff?’

‘Only because the Mafia wants you to think that. Let me explain. The ruling power in the Mafia, the Commission, right? It called a halt to mob killings in New York in 1992 because of the bad publicity.’

‘So?’

‘So they started again last year. Five stiffed in Palermo a month ago, three in New York, four in London. But it’s all different, all back-room stuff you can’t connect to them. They’ve gone legit. They don’t figure in Forbes magazine, but they’re easily the biggest company structure in Europe. The drug market in America is saturated, so they’ve moved to Eastern Europe and Russia, but now they do it behind an elaborate façade.’

‘So what are you saying?’ Blake asked.

‘That the days of men in gold chains have gone. Now they wear good suits and sit next to you in the Four Seasons or the Piano Bar at the Dorchester in London. They are into construction, property development, leisure, TV. You name it, they do it.’

There was a pause. Blake said, ‘So where did my wife fit in to all this?’

‘As I indicated, these days the new image is everything. The most influential Mafia group right now is the Solazzo family. Don Marco is the old devil who runs things, but he has an extraordinary nephew named Jack Fox. Fox’s mother was Don Marco’s niece, so the good Jack is half and half, though he sounds very Anglo-Saxon. He was a young Marine in the Gulf, a decorated war hero, Harvard Law School, and now he’s the respectable face of the Solazzos.’

‘And how does this affect Katherine?’

‘She managed to get into a relationship with Fox. She was intending to produce a devastating series, not only for Truth magazine but also for our TV side.’ There was silence, then O’Dowd said, ‘She wanted to get behind that acceptable face of the Mafia and expose it.’

‘Which meant showing the reality behind Fox,’ Parker said.

‘And he couldn’t have that.’ Blake nodded. ‘So now we know.’ He stood up and said to O’Dowd, ‘Play this down. Trust me. Give us time and you’ll get the story Kate wanted.’ He held out his hand. ‘A bargain?’

‘It sure as hell is.’

On the way downstairs, Parker’s mobile rang. He answered and nodded. ‘We’ll be there.’ He turned to Blake. ‘Abruzzi. She’s sorted out the videotapes. Wondered if you’d like a look.’

‘Why not?’ Blake said.

The study at Barrow Street was much more ordered now, the videotapes arranged neatly on the shelves.

Helen Abruzzi said, ‘I’ve put the movies on the top two shelves, the language courses and self-help tapes on the bottom two shelves.’ She turned to Blake. ‘There is one that refers to you, sir. That’s what I thought you’d want to know.’

Blake said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘The label says: Blake’s parents.’

Blake was silent for a moment. ‘My parents died when I was very young. I never knew them. And my wife knew that better than anyone. I’d appreciate you turning that tape on, Sergeant.’

He sat down, Parker stood behind him, and the screen flickered.

‘This is just a fail-safe, Blake, my darling, in case anything goes wrong. As someone who was the pride of the FBI and whatever you get up to there at the White House, I know you’ll find this one way or the other.’ She smiled at him. ‘These are bad people that I’m trying to expose, the Solazzo family. Don Marco’s like Brando resurrected for Godfather IV, cold, calm, and businesslike, even while he seems like your favourite grandfather.’

‘Jesus!’ Harry Parker said.

‘But Don Marco is old-school. Jack Fox is different. The genuine all-American hero and Wall Street golden boy. You’d think he was some Boston blue blood, but instead he’s a cold-blooded psychopath, the worst of them all. Get in his way and you’re dead. Well, I’m going to get him. Lull him to sleep with the first article, then wham! He’ll never know what hit him.’

Blake hammered a clenched fist on a coffee table and Helen Abruzzi stopped the tape.

‘What in the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m giving you a chance to breathe deeply. I’m also finding you a drink. Trust me, sir.’

Parker put a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s right, Blake.’

Helen Abruzzi returned with a glass. ‘Vodka, it’s all I could find. It was in the freezer.’

‘That’s what she liked, cold vodka.’ Blake drank it down. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’

The screen flickered again. ‘I was real lucky. I found a guy called Sammy Goff, who used to do accounting work for Jack Fox. Nice guy, very gay and very ill. AIDS, which is why Fox threw him out. I was having lunch with Fox in Manhattan one day. He left early, and Goff came up to me. “You look like a nice lady,” he said, “so watch it. He’s not good for you.”’

A telephone sounded in the background and she went to answer it and returned.

‘Okay, Goff was dying and bitter. I cultivated him, and with three martinis in him he sounded off good, and what he told me was special. Here’s the lead. Fox is front man for the family. Smart, very clever, but he’s always pushing for more. He’s played the market with family money and lost, particularly with the Asian crisis. How much the Don knows about this is unknown to me. He’s getting by because he’s responsible for the Solazzo flagship casino in London, the Colosseum. The cash flow from that is critical to him. He can’t milk the family’s large interests, the drug market in Eastern Europe and Russia, for example, but he has personal cash flow that helps keep him afloat. There’s a warehouse in Brooklyn called Hadley’s Depository. The one thing they store there is whisky. Cheap liquor. The booze is watered down and then sold to the clubs at a huge profit margin.’

Parker said, ‘I can’t believe the Don doesn’t know.’

Blake waved a hand and Katherine continued. ‘Another sideline in London is he’s been involved with some heavy gangsters called the Jago brothers. Armed robbery, that kind of stuff, Sammy Goff said, always a source of instant cash. Fox’s bad investments in the Far East are draining him. More serious, he’s been into arms dealing, too, specifically for the IRA. He helped somebody called Brendan Murphy, a real hardliner who didn’t like the peace process, not only to buy arms but to build a concrete bunker in County Louth in the Irish Republic. There’s everything there from mortars to the kind of machine gun that can shoot down an Army helicopter. Oh, and lots of Semtex.’

‘My God,’ Helen Abruzzi said softly.

‘Goff told me there was also some link with Beirut via Murphy. Arms for Saddam, that sort of thing. He didn’t have many details on that. The other thing he told me was that Fox doesn’t own a London house. He usually stays in a suite at the Dorchester, but he does have an indulgence. An old castle and estate in Cornwall, in England. Very rural, very remote. Believe it or not, it’s called Hellsmouth. Somewhere near Land’s End.’

A telephone sounded in the background again. There was some confusion. She was off-screen, then back quickly.

‘It’s a hell of a story, thanks to Sammy Goff. However, although I’d like to expose it, Blake, life is uncertain, and the other day poor dying drunken Sammy was the victim of a hit-and-run driver. Now, was that an accident? I don’t think so. He just knew too much.’

The screen seemed to jump and her voice scrambled for a moment. Things returned to normal. She smiled brightly.

‘So there you are, my darling Blake. I’d like to believe the good guys win, but life can be such a bitch. If you’re watching this, that probably means that the bad guys won this time.’ The smile slipped for a moment, then came back, a little more tentative this time. ‘Take care, and remember, in spite of everything, I’ve always loved you.’

Helen Abruzzi switched off. Blake sat there, eyes dark. ‘I’d appreciate you running that back, Sergeant.’

‘It’s evidence, sir.’

‘Just get the man a copy,’ Parker told her.

Blake got up and walked to the window. After a moment, he turned. ‘Okay, Harry, arrange a meeting with the bastard.’

‘I’ll have to check with the District Attorney.’

‘Try the Pope if you like, but I want to face Jack Fox.’

‘Maybe you should take time, sir,’ Abruzzi told him.

Blake took a document from an inside pocket and unfolded it. ‘You’ve never seen one of these, Sergeant. Harry has. It’s a Presidential warrant. You belong to me, not NYPD, and so does he. Now let’s get moving.’

It was the following morning when Parker picked up the Buick at the Plaza Hotel. The woman in the rear of the police car was very personable, around forty and smartly dressed, a briefcase on the floor beside her.

Blake sat in front and Parker said, ‘Assistant District Attorney Madge McGuire.’

She shook hands as they drove away. ‘I understand you’re FBI, Mr Johnson.’

‘Used to be.’ He turned to Parker. ‘Did you tell her?’

‘How could I?’

Blake took out his Presidential warrant and passed it across. Madge McGuire read it. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She handed it back and Blake put it in his pocket. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘We’re wasting our time. Dammit, Mr Johnson, we all know the reality, but we can’t prove it. You’ll see – Fox will be all sweetness and light: any way he can help, he will, but when we finish we’ll be no better off than when we started. His attorney, Carter Whelan, will be there, by the way. That one is a serpent.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Okay. I’m bound by that warrant, but let me do my job, Mr Johnson.’

‘Be my guest.’

When they got there, Fox was sitting behind a desk, wearing an excellent navy blue suit, his hair swept back from his handsome face. The man who sat beside him, Carter Whelan, was small, balding, and wore a black suit.

‘I’m Madge McGuire, Assistant District Attorney, and this is Captain Harry Parker.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss McGuire. I’m sure you know my attorney, Carter Whelan. And you are aware, I’m sure, that I’m an attorney myself. May I ask who this other gentleman is?’

‘Blake Johnson, also an attorney,’ Blake told him. ‘I believe you knew my wife.’

Whelan said, ‘He’s no right to be here.’

Fox cut in. ‘I’ve no objection. I was distressed to know of Katherine Johnson’s untimely end. You have my sympathy.’

Parker said, ‘Evidence would suggest that Mrs Johnson’s death was no accident. Could you assist us in that matter, sir?’

Whelan said, ‘Jack, you don’t need to answer any of this.’

‘Why not?’ Fox shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I knew Katherine Johnson, gave her interviews, and she did an article about me for Truth magazine. It’s in the latest edition. Quite flattering, actually.’

‘Except for the references to the Solazzo family.’

‘Just how well did you know her, sir?’ Parker asked.

Fox said, ‘I knew her well.’

‘How well?’

Fox seemed to struggle with himself. ‘All right, we had a brief affair. It only lasted a few weeks, and I didn’t want to mention it, because I didn’t want to damage her reputation in any way. For God’s sake, the lady is dead.’

It was an impressive performance.

Madge McGuire said, ‘Did you ever know her to use heroin?’

Fox struggled with himself again, got up, went to the window, turned, face working. ‘Yes, once. I caught her at her apartment. I was shocked, tried to remonstrate. She said she’d only just started and promised to stop, but…I guess she didn’t.’

Whelan said, ‘She was obviously not very practised with it and must have accidentally given herself too much, or had a particularly lethal batch.’

‘Still, there are certain anomalies,’ Parker told him.

‘Which have nothing to do with my client.’ Whelan turned to Madge McGuire. ‘Are we finished here?’

‘Yes,’ Madge said. ‘That’ll do for now. Thank you for your cooperation.’

She stood up, and Fox said, ‘Hasn’t Mr Johnson anything to say?’

Blake stood up, face pale, eyes very dark. ‘Not really. It’s all pretty clear,’ and he turned and walked out.

In the car, Madge said, ‘There’s no case, people. It’s not even worth trying to bring one. He just gave the explanation for the lack of track marks – she’d just started shooting and didn’t know what she was doing.’

‘But if she’d shot up before, wouldn’t there be some tracks?’

‘If it was only a few times, not necessarily. Whelan would laugh it out of court, Mr Johnson. There’s evil here and we don’t know the half of it, but there’s nothing we can do,’ Madge told him.

‘It gets harder the older I get.’ Parker shook his head. ‘I’ve been a cop long enough to know when something stinks, and this surely does.’

Blake lit a cigarette and leaned back. ‘But what about justice?’

‘What do you mean?’ Madge asked.

‘What happens if it isn’t done, and the law doesn’t work? Is someone entitled to take the law into his own hands?’

‘Well, I know one thing,’ Parker told him. ‘It wouldn’t be the law they were taking.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘What will you do, Blake?’

‘Go back to Washington. See the President. Arrange a funeral.’ The car pulled in at the Plaza. He shook hands with Parker and turned to Madge. ‘Many thanks, Miss McGuire.’

He got out and went up the steps to the hotel. As the car moved away, Madge said, ‘Are you thinking what I am, Harry?’

‘If you mean, God help Jack Fox, yes.’

At the office, Fox waited for a computer printout he’d ordered on Blake Johnson. It finally appeared and he was reading through it when there was a knock on the door and Falcone entered.

‘Just checking, Signore. Is there anything I can do?’

Fox passed him the printout. Falcone read it. ‘Quite a record.’

‘It sure as hell is. War hero, FBI, took a bullet saving the President. But there’s a block there. What’s he been doing lately? I’ll have to get my top people to work on it.’

‘Is he a threat?’

‘Of course he is. He didn’t believe me for a moment about his wife. Aldo, I’ve stared at the face of the enemy in Iraq, and I know what I saw in Blake Johnson’s eyes. There was no rage in them, only revenge. He’ll be coming, and we must be ready.’

‘Always, Signore.’

Falcone went out, and Fox went to the window as a flurry of sleet brushed across Manhattan. Strange, he wasn’t afraid. He was excited.

4

Fox had an impeccable source when it came to computer-accessing: an ageing lady named Maud Jackson, who was a retired professor in communication sciences at MIT, seventy years old – and a confirmed gambler. A nice Jewish widow who lived in Crown Heights, she was always chronically short of money, because she was an easy mark and liked the game anyway.

Fox met her in a local bar by appointment. She sat there, sucking on a cigarette and drinking Chablis, while he told her about Blake Johnson.

‘The thing is, there’s a block on the guy.’

‘Like any roadblock, Jack, it’s made to be gone around.’

‘Exactly, and who better than you to do it?’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, but if this guy used to be FBI and there’s a block, this is serious stuff.’

She took out another cigarette and he gave her a light, revolted by the thinning dyed red hair, the cunning old eyes, but she was a genius.

‘Okay, Maud, I’ll pay you twenty thousand dollars.’

‘Twenty-five, Jack, and happy to oblige.’

He nodded. ‘Done. There’s only one problem. I want it, like, yesterday.’

‘No problem.’ She swallowed her Chablis and stood up and nodded to Falcone. ‘Now, if this big ape will take me home, I’ll get on with it.’

Falcone smiled amiably. ‘My pleasure, Signora.’

It took her no more than three hours of devious double play to make her breakthrough and there it was: Blake Johnson, ex-FBI, now Director of the Basement for the President, and what a treasure house that turned out to be. The President’s personal hit squad, and such an interesting cross-reference to London. It seemed that Johnson was very cosy with the British Prime Minister’s personal intelligence outfit, led by one Brigadier Charles Ferguson, its muscle supplied by an ex-IRA enforcer named Sean Dillon. It was all there, past exploits, addresses, homes and phones. She telephoned Fox and asked to be put through.

‘Jack, it’s Maud.’

‘Have you got something?’

‘Jack, I don’t know what’s going on, but what I’ve got is pure dynamite, so don’t screw with me. Just send Falcone round with thirty thousand in cash.’

‘Our deal was for twenty-five, Maud.’

‘Jack, this is better than the midnight movie. Believe me, it’s worth the extra five.’

‘All right. I’ll have him there in an hour.’

‘And, Jack, no rough stuff.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re too important.’

An hour and a half later, Falcone returned with the printout. What Fox didn’t know was that Falcone had stopped on the way and had the printout copied.

Fox read the printout – Johnson’s background, the London end of things, Ferguson, Dillon, the computer photos – and shook his head.

‘My God.’

‘Trouble, Signore?’

‘No, just rather startling information. The old bitch did well. Read it.’

Falcone already had, but pretended to again. He nodded and handed the printout back, face impassive. ‘Interesting.’

Fox laughed. ‘You could say that. This Dillon.’ He shook his head. ‘What a sweetheart. Still, it’s always useful to know what you’re up against.’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. You can go. Pick me up at eight for dinner.’

Falcone left, and was at Don Marco’s apartment at Trump Tower half an hour later, where the old man read the copy of the printout with interest and checked the photos.

‘You’ve done well, Aldo.’

‘Thank you, Don Marco.’

‘Anything else you find out, tell me at once.’

He held out his hand and Falcone kissed it. ‘As always.’

Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue in London. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and Guards tie, working his way through a mass of papers.

The buzzer rang and he pressed a button. ‘Is Dillon here?’

A woman’s voice said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Come in.’

The door opened. The woman who entered was perhaps thirty, wore a fawn trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and had cropped red hair. She was Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch and allocated to Ferguson as his assistant. Many people had underestimated her because of her looks, and they’d come to regret it. She’d killed four times in the line of duty.

The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was no more than five feet four or five, with fair hair almost white. He wore an old leather jacket, dark cords and a white scarf. His eyes held no colour, but his mouth was lifted with a perpetual smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously. Once an actor, and later the most feared enforcer the IRA had ever had, he had been working for what had become known as the Prime Minister’s Private Army for several years.

‘Anyone heard anything?’ Ferguson asked. ‘We keep getting rumours about secret IRA gun caches, but no specifics. Sean?’

‘Not a peep,’ Dillon told him.

‘So what’s next, sir?’ Hannah Bernstein asked.

The phone rang on Ferguson’s desk. He answered it and his face showed considerable surprise. ‘Yes, sir. Of course …well, would you like to talk with him directly? He’s right here…Just one moment.’ He held the phone out. ‘Dillon? President Cazalet would like a word.’

Dillon frowned in surprise and took the phone. ‘Mr President?’

‘This is a bad one, my fine Irish friend, involving Blake Johnson. Just listen…’

A few minutes later, Dillon relayed the news to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein. He walked to the window, looked out, and turned.

‘The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. I’m going, Brigadier.’

Ferguson raised a hand. ‘Sean, the three of us have all been to hell and back with Blake Johnson. We’ll all go. We owe him that.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Order the plane.’

Katherine Johnson’s funeral at the crematorium two days later was singularly unimpressive. Taped and fake-sounding religious music played, and a minister who looked as if he’d hired his costume from a TV wardrobe company threw out platitudes.

Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah arrived halfway through the ceremony, just in time to see the coffin slide through the plastic curtains. The only other people there were the funeral staff and a couple of people from Truth. Blake distributed dollars, turned, and found his friends. His face said it all.

Hannah Bernstein embraced him, Ferguson shook hands; only Dillon stood back, very calm. He inclined his head and walked out.

They stood on the step, the rain driving in, and Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve heard what the President had to say, now I want it from you. You’ve saved my life on a number of occasions and I’ve saved yours. There are no secrets between us, Blake.’

‘No, Sean, no secrets.’

‘So let’s collect the Brigadier and Hannah and go and sit in the limousine and we can all hear the worst.’

Blake told them everything, including all that Katherine had relayed to them on the videotape. Afterwards, they all sat silent for a moment. ‘From my point of view, the arms-dealing with the IRA, the Brendan Murphy business, that’s the worst,’ said Ferguson, shaking his head. ‘And the Beirut connection, working for Saddam. We’ve got to do something about that.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘What are your thoughts, Superintendent?’

‘That Fox has problems. He’s skimmed money from the Commission, he’s fiddling from the London casino, the Colosseum. Beirut and Ireland are desperate attempts to make cash.’

‘And those hits with the Jago brothers are even more desperate,’ Dillon said.

‘Do you know them?’ Ferguson asked.

‘No, but I’m sure Harry Salter does.’

‘Salter?’

Hannah said, ‘You know him, sir. A London gangster and smuggler. Owns a pub at Wapping called the Dark Man.’

‘Ah, I remember now,’ Ferguson said.

‘He’s into warehouse developments by the Thames, also running booze and cigarettes from Europe.’

‘But no drugs and no prostitution,’ Dillon reminded her.

‘Yes, an old-fashioned gangster. How very nice. He only shoots his rivals when absolutely necessary.’

Dillon shrugged. ‘Well, they shouldn’t have become gangsters then. I’m sure he’ll help us with the Jago brothers and with Fox, though. He has a good team – his nephew Billy Salter, Joe Baxter, Sam Hall.’

‘Dillon, these people are real villains,’ Hannah said.

‘Compared to Jack Fox, they’re sweetness and light.’ And then Dillon smiled. ‘Except that if you push them hard, they’ll be Fox’s worst nightmare.’

There was a pause. Ferguson said, ‘Yes, well, we’ll see. We’ll talk about it more on the way back to London.’

Dillon said, ‘Not me, Brigadier. I haven’t had a vacation in two years. I think it’s about time I took one.’

Ferguson said, ‘Sean, you’re not getting into one of your moods, are you?’

‘Now, do I look that kind of fella, Brigadier?’ He kissed Hannah on the cheek. ‘Off you go. I’ll see you in London. I’ll drive back with Blake.’

She frowned. ‘Now, look, Sean…’

‘Just do it,’ he said, turned and walked towards Blake Johnson’s limousine.

Driving back to Manhattan, Dillon closed the sliding window partition.

‘I take it we’re going to take Jack Fox to the cleaners.’

‘You say we.’

‘Don’t mess with me, Blake. If you’re in, I’m in, for more reasons than we need to state.’

‘Nobody should die like she did, Sean. Can you imagine? A dark, rainy night on the waterfront? Forced into taking that massive overdose?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll see Fox in hell, and don’t talk to me about the law and all that kind of crap. I’m going to take him down in whatever way I have to, so my advice to you is to stay out of it.’

Dillon pulled open the panel and said to the driver, ‘Pull over for five minutes and pass the umbrella.’

The man did as he was told, and Dillon got out and opened the huge golfing umbrella as Blake joined him. They stood by the wall and looked out at the East River. Dillon lit a cigarette.

‘Listen, Blake, you’re one of life’s good guys, and Jack Fox is one of life’s bad guys.’

‘And you, Sean, what are you?’

Dillon turned, his eyes blank, face wiped of all emotion. ‘Oh, I’m his worst nightmare, Blake. I was engaged in what I saw as war for twenty-five years with the Brits and the IRA. Fox and his fucking Mafia think they’re big stuff. Well, let me tell you something. They wouldn’t last five minutes in Belfast.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘We take this animal out, only we do it my way. It’s too easy to shoot him on the street. I want this to be slow and painful. We destroy his miserable little empire bit by bit, until he has nothing left. And then we destroy him.’

Blake smiled slowly. ‘Now, that I would like. Where do we begin?’

‘Well, according to Katherine, there’s this place called Hadley’s Depository in Brooklyn where they process cheap liquor.’

‘So?’

‘So let’s take it out.’

‘You mean that?’

‘Sure. Just the two of us.’

Blake’s face was pale with excitement. ‘You really mean this?’

‘It’s a start, me old son.’

‘Then you’re on, by God.’

Hadley’s Depository was beside a pier close to Clark Street on the river in Brooklyn. It was eleven o’clock that night, black rods of March rain falling, as Dillon and Blake drove up in an old Ford panel truck and parked at the side of the road.

They stood by a wall and Dillon lit a cigarette as they looked the place over. ‘This shouldn’t be hard,’ he said. ‘You, me, and no one else. An in-and-out job.’

‘There’s just one thing, Sean. I don’t want any victims here.’

‘No problem. If there’s a night shift, we leave it. If there’s just security, we’ll handle them. There’ll be only one victim here, Blake: Jack Fox and his income from the booze business.’ He laughed and hit Blake on the shoulder. ‘Hey, trust me. It’ll work.’

The following day, Blake went through files and accessed city and police records to find out everything he could about the Hadley Depository. When he saw Dillon for lunch at a small Italian family restaurant, he was quite strong again, probably because he had an end in view.

‘It’s funny, but this place has no record. Not even a hint with the police.’

‘So Fox is a clever bastard. Do you have any details on how it operates?’

‘I know the security firm who handles it. Two men guard the place. On the other hand, since the warehouse is not what it seems to be, who knows? They could have a night shift.’

‘We’ll see.’ Dillon smiled, looking like the Devil himself. ‘No waiting, Blake. We go in and stiff the place. Give Fox something to think about.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight, for God’s sake.’

Blake said, ‘You’re right. To hell with him.’

It was midnight when they drove up to Hadley’s Depository in the old Ford. Blake was driving and pulled into a side turning. Both he and Dillon wore dark trousers and sweaters. Now, as they sat there, they pulled on ski masks, and Dillon took a Browning out of a handbag and stuffed it into the waistband of his trousers at the rear.

‘Bring the other bag,’ he told Blake. ‘The Semtex pencils. Let’s move it.’

There was a nine-foot wall. He cupped his hands, helped Blake over, then passed the bag, reached for an outstretched hand, and scrambled over himself. They crouched on the other side, as it started to rain.

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Dillon said.

There were indeed two security guards in a small, lighted office off a courtyard. Dillon and Blake moved in through factory doors which, surprisingly, had been left open. Inside the main building, they saw an extensive range of equipment, obviously all of importance to the racket that was going on there. Great vats, stacks of bottles, many with exotic labels.

Dillon pulled one up. ‘Highland Pride Old Scots Whisky.’

‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ Blake told him.

‘Okay, so let’s get on with it.’

Dillon opened the bag that hung from his shoulder. He took out several Semtex primer pencils Blake had obtained for him, ran round the main area, and placed them.

‘How long?’ Blake asked.

‘Ten minutes. Let’s get those guards out and move on.’

The two security guards were playing Trivial Pursuit when the door opened and the men in hoods slipped in. Dillon relieved them of their guns.

‘If you want to live, move fast and make it to the street.’

They didn’t argue, did exactly as they were told, and a few moments later were out of the front gate. Just after that, the Semtex timers exploded and the whisky in the vats caught fire.

Dillon caught the nearest guard by the collar. ‘Listen, here’s a message. It isn’t for the police. It’s for Jack Fox. Tell him, this is just the beginning, for Katherine Johnson. Got that? Okay, now run for it.’

Which they did.

Dillon and Blake drove some little distance away and parked, watching the flames and waiting for the fire department.

Blake said, ‘Funny, but I didn’t feel guilty.’

‘Why should you? Fox is a murdering bastard.’

‘I work for the President, Sean. You work for the Prime Minister.’

‘I don’t care about that. One way or another, Fox goes down.’

The following morning, Jack Fox was at Trump Tower, summoned there by a phone call from Don Marco. The old man sipped coffee by the fire.

‘A bad night, I hear, Jack.’

Fox hesitated, then decided that at least some sort of truth was the best way to handle it.

‘Yes, Uncle. The whole place was destroyed by fire. Thank God there is the insurance.’

‘But only the equipment, Jack, not on a couple of million in booze.’ The Don shook his head. ‘It’s very unfortunate. Still, these things happen. Have you anything to add? Anything you wish to tell me?’

Fox hesitated, then said, ‘No, Uncle.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you again.’

Fox went out. After a while, Falcone looked in. ‘Don Marco.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Bring the security guard in. My nephew failed to mention him, Aldo.’

‘A matter to be regretted, Signore.’

‘But you did, Aldo, and I’m grateful.’

He poured another cup of coffee, and a moment later Falcone brought in the security guard.

‘Your name?’ Don Marco asked.

‘Mirabella, Signore.’

‘Good, a fellow countryman. Now tell me what happened.’

Which Mirabella did.

Don Marco said, ‘Tell me again what he said, the man in the hood.’

Mirabella clutched his cap in his hands. ‘He said, this isn’t for the police. Tell Jack Fox, it’s just the beginning. For Katherine Johnson.’

‘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 Mirabella 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.’

‘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 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 clear 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.’

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