ELEVEN
IN THE OVAL Office the President sat and listened as Blake Johnson told him the worst.
“I’ve seen the man Salamone at the Hurley Street Secure Unit since he got in and I’ve grilled him thoroughly. Everything he knows he’s told me. You’ve read the file I sent up with all the relevant facts as to Ryan’s background. As you can see, British Intelligence had a report on Ryan’s involvement with the truck heist. It came from the Protestant terrorist Reid, when he was arrested for murdering two soldiers and was trying to do a deal. He speaks of Ryan and his niece being responsible and a man named Martin Keogh. He, it seems, was a total mystery. No details available.”
“A wild one, this Ryan,” the President said. “And this young woman.” He shook his head. “I sometimes despair of human beings.” He straightened. “So, where are we? What happens with these Russo people?”
“In my opinion, we’ll get nowhere in that direction. Marco Sollazo is one of the most celebrated attorneys in Manhattan. If approached on this matter he would express shock and dismay, disavow any suggestion that he even knew Ryan. The new liberality of institutions like Green Rapids, the way visitors and prisoners are allowed to wander, facilitated Sollazo’s ability to contact Ryan, but it’s also a situation in which he would be able to deny all contact. Yes, he was at Green Rapids, but only to see Salamone, and in Salamone we have only the word of a convicted felon, a bank robber who murdered a policewoman.” He shook his head. “The District Attorney wouldn’t waste five minutes on it.”
“And Don Antonio Russo?”
“Besides his nephew, the finest legal brains in New York are on his payroll. He’s never spent a day in a cell in his entire life.”
“But do you believe Salamone?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So what do you think is happening?”
“I think Sollazo and his uncle took Ryan to get their hands on the bullion. They’ll do some sort of a deal, obviously, let’s say fifty-fifty. Remember, that bullion is worth one hundred and fifty million dollars now, and Ryan is a fanatic, totally dedicated to the Protestant cause.”
“Such a vast sum of money devoted to arms for that cause?” The President shook his head. “Peace right out of the window. It is a prospect too bitter to contemplate. All my work and the work of Mr. John Major to go for nothing.”
“Exactly, Mr. President, so it seems to me that putting Don Antonio Russo or his nephew in a cell is of secondary significance. The only important thing would be to prevent that gold or part of it from falling into Loyalist hands. Quite frankly, it would enable them to tool up for a civil war.”
“No, we can’t have that. What’s your best guess as to the next step?”
“They’ll take Ryan and the girl to Ireland. Then, they’ll try to locate the ship. Probably a relatively simple operation at first, a boat, a diver. Once located, some sort of salvage operation.”
“I want this stopped at all costs.” The President frowned and then suddenly smiled. “I think this could be a job for Dillon.”
“Dillon, Mr. President?”
“You remember what happened when I met Prime Minister John Major on the Terrace at the House of Commons the other week? The bogus waiter? Sean Dillon, originally the most feared enforcer the IRA had, now troubleshooter for Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your British counterpart, Blake.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Fine. So to start with, get me the Prime Minister on the secure line.”
IN HIS STUDY at Number Ten Downing Street, John Major listened. When the President had finished, he said, “I totally agree, Mr. President, we can’t allow this to happen. I’ll empower Brigadier Ferguson to intervene at once, and I’m sure Dillon will play his usual part. Leave it with me.”
He put the phone down, sat there thinking about it, then lifted the phone again and spoke to his aide. “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I want him here at the earliest moment.”
He sat back frowning. Ireland, goddamnit. It never went away, in spite of everything he’d done, even to the extent of putting his political career on the line.
CHARLES FERGUSON SAT quietly, a grave expression on his face, as the Prime Minister gave him the facts on the matter. When he was finished, he said, “I want this stopped, Brigadier. There’s no way I want to see such huge funds going to either of the two sides in Ireland. We’ve had enough bloodshed. We can’t afford a civil war.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.”
“I want Dillon on this, Brigadier,” John Major said. “All right, I do not approve of his IRA and terrorist background, which is why I distance myself, but there is no doubt of the man’s extraordinary capabilities. He saved the Royal Family considerable anxiety over the Windsor affair the other year. All that nonsense over the Nazis. Then the attack on the Peace Process by the terrorist group January 30. He saved the life of Senator Patrick Keogh when he had the courage to address Sinn Fein and the IRA in Ireland and beg for peace. No, I know that Dillon is a totally ruthless man, but he’s what we need for this business.”
“I agree, Prime Minister.”
John Major looked up at him as Ferguson stood. “They call your people the Prime Minister’s Private Army, so it gives you extraordinary powers. Use them, Brigadier, use them.”
WHEN HANNAH BERNSTEIN and Sean Dillon were summoned to Ferguson’s office, they found him standing by the window. He turned, very serious.
“Absolutely top priority. Everything else stops. I have direct orders from the Prime Minister to expedite a current problem to the utmost. There is a file there on my desk marked IRISH ROSE. Take it to your office, Chief Inspector. Read it, the both of you, then come back.”
HANNAH BERNSTEIN WORKED her way through the file, reading the old news clippings, the details of Ryan’s activities, then Salamone’s account of what had happened at Green Rapids. Dillon leaned over her shoulder and read it, too.
She said, “All right, we have a very nasty Prod activist, Michael Ryan, and his vicious little niece, Kathleen. What do we know? The gold bullion heist in the Lake District, the Irish Rose seen, according to the police, by a young boy and his dog out fishing at Marsh End. So we presume the truck went on board – presume. Next fact. Lifebelts and bits from the Irish Rose wash up on the Down coast.”
“Then we have Salamone. For Ryan read Kelly, who robs a bank in New York State, kills a copper, and gets twenty-five years. In the sweat of his fever he discloses that he’s the only one who knows where the Irish Rose is. The rest we know.”
“So Ryan and the girl are on the loose aided by the Russo family. So what? We know nothing, Dillon.”
“Except that logically, all roads lead to Ireland, girl dear, and there’s more. I’ve a terrible confession to make. Let’s go in and see the man, and I’ll tell you both at the same time.”
FERGUSON SAT BEHIND the desk, Hannah Bernstein facing him. Dillon lounged by the window, hands in his pockets.
“Well, what do you think?” Ferguson said. “Putting all things together including informer’s tittle-tattle and rumors plus information from the swine Reid, back in nineteen eighty-five, one hell of a slick job was pulled by Michael Ryan, his niece Kathleen, and some mystery man called Martin Keogh. That is confirmed in an obscure Royal Ulster Constabulary report of a raid they made on Ryan’s pub in Belfast, the Orange Drum. Some wretched one-armed barman named Ivor somebody remembers the girl being saved from gang rape by some Catholic youths, saved by this Keogh. This was only a day or two before he saw them for the last time. He said they left together in a taxi for the airport and he understood they were going to London.”