Day of Reckoning

‘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.’