Day of Reckoning

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.’