Drink With the Devil (18 page)

“Right, then,” Ryan told him. “Then you must know that the
Irish Rose
sank in the darkness with a bad sea running. We were off course. I don’t know where it went down.”

“Yes, you do. You had a gadget called a Master Navigator in your pocket, a sort of mini computer that perfectly calculated your course and position.”

Ryan, for once, looked amazed. “But how could you know such a thing? Only myself knew that and Kathleen when I told her.”

“Someone was standing behind a tree listening when you told her. A man you knew as Martin Keogh.”

It was Kathleen who spoke now, her face solemn. “You speak as if he was someone else?”

“Oh, he was. Mr Ryan, did you ever meet the IRA Chief of Staff at that time, Jack Barry?”

“Not face-to-face.”

“He knew your original plan had been turned down by your Army Council, heard a whisper that you intended to go ahead privately, so he ordered his best man to infiltrate you.”

Kathleen’s face was very pale. “Who was he?”

“A man called Sean Dillon. You’ve heard of him?”

“Oh, yes.” Ryan nodded. “A legend. The man of a thousand faces they used to say. He was once an actor. Foiled the Army, the RUC for a year.” He shook his head. “Never got lifted once. So he was Martin.”

“The bastard,” Kathleen said.

“He could have killed you on the road that morning and taken the Master Navigator. Barry was annoyed with him for not doing so. He told Barry he liked you.” He smiled at the girl. “And you.”

“Fuck him.” There were hot tears in her eyes. “I hope he rots in hell.”

“Actually he’s working for a highly secret branch of British Intelligence these days.”

“God save us.” Ryan laughed out loud. “And wouldn’t that be the Martin we knew and loved.”

“I
KNOW WHO
you are now,” Ryan said. “You’re the Mafia attorney who looks after Paolo Salamone. You work for the Russo Family.”

“Does that matter? Look, to business. I know everything right down to the fact that you, Miss Ryan, are in possession of false Irish passports in the names of Daniel and Nancy Forbes. I know that you’re a nurse at Green Rapids General Hospital.”

“You know a lot, mister, but where is this leading?”

“To me arranging the escape of your uncle from the hospital when he goes for his heart scan on Tuesday morning.”

There was a total silence and a kind of awe on Ryan’s face. “Dear God, and you actually mean it.”

“Certainly.”

“Just a minute,” Kathleen put in and her face was hard. “What would he have to do in exchange for that?”

“Disclose the position of the
Irish Rose
,” Sollazo said calmly. “We’ve done a deal with Jack Barry. I saw him the other day in Dublin. He’s no longer Chief of Staff, but he’s willing to co-operate on behalf of his movement. A preliminary survey to locate the ship first, then my organization will lay on some suitable salvage operation as a front.”

“You’re working with the fucking IRA?” Kathleen said.

“Yes, on a fifty-fifty basis.”

“And they get the fruits of my uncle’s labors? What’s in it for him?”

“I could say one million pounds, but let’s be fair. I’ll make it two million.”

“Jesus, son, you’ve got your nerve,” Ryan said.

“You do have an alternative,” Sollazo told him. “You could sit here for another fifteen years.”

Ryan’s face was pale. “But to work with Barry and the bloody IRA.”

Kathleen put a hand on his arm. “We’ve got to be practical.” She turned to Sollazo. “I’m included.”

“Of course. Once he’s out, you join in. You’ll be taken to a safe retreat to start with.”

“And leaving the country will be no problem?”

“Absolutely not. We’ll fly to Ireland probably in a Gulfstream. I’ll be with you.”

“So that’s it?”

“No. I’d like the location of the
Irish Rose
, the bearings indicated on that Master Navigator. Don’t tell me the figures aren’t burned into your brain.”

Kathleen put a hand on her uncle’s arm. “Oh, no, mister. You get that when we’re safe out of here and in Ireland and not before.”

Sollazo smiled. “Of course, Miss Ryan, I accept your terms. Now let me explain exactly what I expect to happen.”

I
T WAS RAINING
when the prison ambulance turned into the car park on Tuesday morning and pulled into a special parking spot close to the main entrance. Kathleen Ryan sat in her own car watching and saw her uncle and another man get out of the ambulance, each handcuffed to a guard. Another guard and the driver got out and lit cigarettes as the prisoners were led inside.

She got out of the car, picked up the suitcase, and walked round to the underground car park, doing exactly as she had been told, seeking a green panel truck that carried the sign
Henley Laundry
. She found it easily enough, Giovanni Mori sitting behind the wheel smoking a cigarette.

“I’m Kathleen Ryan. You’re Mori.”

“That’s right.” He got out, reached back inside, and produced the white doctor’s coat he’d stolen. As he pulled it on he said, “So they’ve gone up?”

“Just now.”

“Sit in the passenger seat. I won’t be long.” He reached inside the truck, took out another white coat, and draped it across his arm.

“You’ve never met my uncle.”

“I’ve seen his picture,” he said calmly, went to the freight elevator, and punched the button for the third floor.

H
E PAUSED IN
the corridor, then opened the fire door and entered the hallway of the General Heart Surgery Department. He glanced through the round window of the door marked Clinic Three. Ryan was lying on a table and a young doctor was busy attaching various wires to him. Mori walked down the hall and looked through the window of the swing door leading to the reception area. There was a duty nurse behind the desk, a couple of patients, and the uniformed prison guard sitting on the benches reading magazines. Mori went back to Clinic Three, opened the door, and went in.

The young doctor looked up, continuing to fasten the wires. “Hello, Doctor, what can I do for you?”

The leather sap Mori took from his pocket was filled with leadshot. It swung once and the doctor went down with a groan. Ryan was already swinging his legs to the floor, pulling the wires and connectors from his body.

Mori threw the white coat to him. “Put it on.”

He opened the door leading into the toilet and shower room and hauled the doctor inside, closed the door, and turned.

“Out we go, turn left and through the fire door.”

A moment later, they were descending in the freight elevator. They emerged into the underground car park and crossed to the laundry truck, Kathleen watching, her face pale with excitement.

Mori opened the rear door. “In you get. You’ll find what clothes you need in there. Get out of the prison uniform and make it fast. We haven’t got long.”

He took off his white coat, tossed it into a nearby trashcan, got behind the wheel, and drove away, passing the prison ambulance at the main entrance, the two guards lounging beside it, and turned out into the highway.

B
Y UNFORTUNATE CHANCE
it was a good fifteen minutes before a nurse went into Clinic Three and was surprised to find it unoccupied. She went down to reception and spoke to the duty nurse there.

“What happened to Doctor Jessup and the patient?”

“They should still be there. Treatment takes an hour.”

“Well, they aren’t.”

“I’ll come and see.”

The prison guard was still reading his magazine when the door swung violently and the two nurses, having found the doctor’s unconscious body in the toilet, rushed in.

A
T THAT PRECISE
moment, the laundry van turned into the crowded car park of a large supermarket fifteen miles down the highway and Mori pulled in beside a dark sedan.

“This is where we change,” he told Kathleen, went round to the rear and opened the door. “Out you get.”

Ryan clambered out wearing a brown tweed suit and a raincoat. Kathleen kissed him impulsively. “You made it, Uncle Michael.”

Mori unlocked the sedan. “In you get.”

Ryan and his niece got in the rear, Mori slid behind the wheel and put on a chauffeur’s cap that perfectly matched his navy blue suit, then drove away.

Ryan said, “Where are we going? They must have put the alarm out by now. There’ll be cops everywhere.”

“Long Island.”

“But that’s a hell of a way from here,” Kathleen said. “They’ll have roadblocks on the highway and at the toll bridges.”

“None of which will do them the slightest good. Trust me and just sit tight.”

About ten minutes later there was the sound of sirens and three patrol cars passed on the other lane of the highway. Ryan said, “Christ, we could be in trouble here.”

Mori shrugged. “Keep the faith. We’re nearly there.”

A few moments later he took a slip road and then a left turn. A signpost said Jackson Aero Club and they came to it a few minutes later. There was a car park with a few vehicles, a single-storey administration block, two hangars and an airstrip, and twenty or so single- and twin-engined airplanes parked. There was also a Swallow helicopter standing on the edge of the airstrip.

Mori parked the sedan. “This is it,” he said and got out. He reached for Kathleen’s suitcase. “I’ll take that. Come on, let’s get moving.”

The pilot, a hard-looking young man in black sunglasses, started the engine as they approached. Mori opened the rear door. “Go on, in you get. Let’s move it.”

Ryan and Kathleen scrambled in and Mori followed. He closed and locked the door, then belted up, turned to Ryan and smiled for the first time.

“Long Island next stop. See what I mean? Easy when you know how.”

T
HEY LANDED AT
Westhampton Airport on Long Island. A limousine with a driver drove straight out to the helicopter to pick them up.

As they drove away Kathleen said, “Do I get time to catch my breath? Where to now?”

“The Russo residence at Quogue. Don Antonio wants to meet you,” Mori told her.

“Does he,” she said belligerently. “And he always gets what he wants, does he?”

“Absolutely.” Mori turned and smiled for the second time. “I’d remember that if I were you, sweetness.”

T
HE WORD OF
the escape spread like lightning at Green Rapids Detention Center. Salamone, on duty in the prison hospital, received the word from a man on laundry detail called Chomsky. He paused as he was pushing a trolley full of soiled linen out of the ward.

“Hey, Paolo, you heard the good word? That guy Kelly, the Irish guy?”

“What about him?”

“Escaped when he was down at the General Hospital for treatment. I got it from Grimes up in the warden’s office. All hell broken out. It’s this joint’s first escape.”

“Well, all I can say is I wish him luck,” Paolo said.

He thought about it for the next half hour until his meal break. When it came, he went to one of the inmates’ phone boxes and used his card to ring Sollazo, who was just about to leave for Long Island when his secretary offered him the call.

“Yes, Paolo?”

“Hell, we did good, didn’t we? I did good.”

“Only what I expected.”

“So I can look for some sugar? You promised you’d get me out. I’ve made my bones on this one. I’ve earned it. I mean, you wouldn’t let me down?”

There was urgency in his voice, but more. The hint of a threat, and Sollazo recognized it at once.

“My dear Paolo, have no fear. I’m really going to take care of you and much sooner than you think. Be patient.”

He sat there thinking about it, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was picked up instantly. Sollazo didn’t need to identify himself.

“In the matter of Salamone, we need a solution. Get in touch with your man at Green Rapids and tell him you want a result, and I do mean now.”

“Consider it done.”

Sollazo put down the phone, got his raincoat and briefcase, and left.

T
HE GREAT SITTING
room in Russo’s magnificent house at Quogue seemed to stretch to infinity, glass sliding doors opening onto a kind of boardwalk platform above the water. In the dim light of early evening, Ryan and Kathleen sat at a table by the rail.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“I know. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find it’s morning and I’m in my cell.”

Sollazo stepped out from the sitting room. “Ah, there you are. Allow me to introduce my uncle, Don Antonio Russo.”

The Don walked out behind him leaning on his cane, a cigar in his mouth. He extended a hand. “Mr. Ryan, a pleasure, and Miss Ryan.” He turned to Sollazo. “A celebration is in order, I think.”

“Taken care of, Uncle.”

Mori came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and glasses on a tray.

“Ah, the hero of the hour. You did well, Giovanni.”

Mori managed to look modest. He opened the champagne and charged the glasses. The Don said, “Go and get another glass. We won’t drink without you.” Mori did as he was told. When he returned and filled his own glass, the Don said, “A toast. To you, Mr. Ryan, and your return to the land of the living and to our joint enterprise, the
Irish Rose
.”

A
T
G
REEN
R
APIDS
, Salamone was just finishing his nursing shift at the prison hospital. He went into the men’s room to wash his face and hands, and one of the porters followed him in. When he looked up he saw it was Chomsky, who leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“You heard anything else on Ryan?”

“Not a word,” Salamone said.

“Boy, but the joint is really humming.” Salamone dried his hands and moved out and Chomsky followed. “What worries me is that they could kill some of our privileges, know what I mean?”

“I sure do.”

They reached the end of the hallway. There was a mirror, flowers on a stand in front of it at the side of the elevator. Salamone pushed the button for the ground floor and then saw Chomsky’s face in the mirror and knew he was in trouble. The elevator doors opened and there was no elevator, only the shaft, and he slewed to one side as the other man rushed him, arms stiff, and went in headfirst. There was a strangled cry and then a thud as he landed six floors down.