Yes, I understand from the newspapers that the refusal of your people to comply in the matter of arms is a main talking point when the President visits London on Friday.
They can talk until theyre blue in the face, it wont make any difference. Well hang on to our arms come what may.
You dont think this peace will last?
It never has before. They turned through the park gates and it started to rain, and Barry raised the umbrella. I told you it would. Anyway, lets get down to business.
Sollazo took the photo his contact at Green Rapids had provided the previous night. Do you know this man?
I certainly do, Barry nodded. His name is Michael Ryan, once a notorious gunman for the Loyalist cause, a black Orangeman from Belfast.
Would it surprise you to know that hes been in prison in America for the past ten years?
Barry smiled. Now theres a wonder. He dropped out of sight in nineteen eighty-five, but totally, and I could never figure that out. What did he do?
He shot a policeman while robbing a bank. They gave him twenty-five years.
Poor sod. Barry whistled. He must be sixty-five now. I dont suppose hes got much chance of seeing the light of day.
Not really. He can apply for probation after fifteen years, but hed be around seventy by then and not much chance of parole, anyway. He shot a policeman, remember.
What name is he using?
Liam Kelly. He has a history of heart trouble so they moved him from Ossining to Green Rapids Detention Center. The medical facilities are good and the general hospital in the town is exceptional. Hes visited regularly by his niece, who is a nurse at the hospital. She calls herself Jean Kelly. Ive seen her. Small and rather ugly in a peasant kind of way. Dark hair, around twenty-five or -six.
That would be Kathleen Ryan she is his niece. Well, now, fancy that and after all these years. The rain increased in a sudden rush and he took Sollazo by the arm. Lets make for the shelter over there. Id like to hear what youve got to say about the Irish Rose.
WHEN SOLLAZO HAD finished talking, Barry sat there, frowning slightly. Finally he spoke. Tell me something, why have you come to me?
Business, Sollazo told him, strictly business. That bullion would be worth one hundred million pounds at todays prices.
And youd like to get your hands on it?
Let me be explicit. My uncle feels that a joint venture would be the way to tackle this affair between ourselves and you of the IRA. A half share each. What could be fairer? If peace fails, fifty million in gold would buy you a great many arms, my friend.
Indeed it would, and your uncle, with his usual instinct for doing the right thing, has sent you to entirely the right place and not for the reason you think.
I think you should explain.
You see, I know as much as anyone about the Irish Rose affair, as much as Ryan himself.
But how could you?
I know Ryan was up to something, the usual whispers, even a hint that it was gold, so I infiltrated one of my own men into his organization, a man well call Martin Keogh.
Not his real name?
Thats right. One of my very best operators. He actually was with Ryan every step of the way and took part in the robbery. He was on the Irish Rose when it went down.
Tell me, Sollazo said. Tell me everything.
LATER, SITTING IN a corner booth at Cohans Bar drinking Guinness and eating ham sandwiches, Sollazo said, A remarkable story, and this man Keogh? Is he still around?
In a manner of speaking. He left the IRA some years ago and worked as a freelance or mercenary, call it what you like. Hes worked for just about everybody in his time, the old KGB, the PLO, even the Israelis.
And where is he now?
With British Intelligence.
That seems rather surprising.
The Brits set up a highly secret outfit to combat terrorism and handle the really dirty jobs back in nineteen seventy-two. Since then its been headed by a man called Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and he isnt responsible to the Director of the Security Services. Hes responsible only to the Prime Minister. Thats why its known in the trade as the Prime Ministers Private Army.
And the man you call Keogh works for this Ferguson?
Indeed he does. Hes Fergusons trouble shooter. The old Fox blackmailed him into joining him some three years ago. Offered to wipe his slate clean. No repercussions as to his IRA past. He needed someone like that on his team. Set a thief to catch a thief, you get the idea.
I do, indeed. And what is this Keoghs real name?
Dillon Sean Dillon, in his day the most feared enforcer I had.
THEY WALKED BACK through the park. Sollazo said, Quite a man, this Dillon, but hardly likely to give us any assistance.
We dont need him. He told me everything there was to know about the whole affair and now Ive told you.
The man Reid, the one who killed the man in London. Is he still around?
Serving a sentence for murder. Hes in prison in Ulster.
One thing. This Loyalist Army Council you mentioned? Im right in assuming they would dearly like to get their hands on the bullion?
They certainly would. The Loyalist side are heavily dissatisfied with the way the peace process is going. They think of themselves as being sold out. The militant elements envisage civil war eventually. That gold would be more than useful. It would help them to obtain the kind of weaponry they would need.
And you wouldnt like that, so may I take it that you will join us on this venture?
Not officially, not at the moment. Let me explain. People are desperate for peace here. You cant trust anybody and that includes Sinn Fein and the IRA itself. If I approach the present Chief of Staff, hed have to discuss it with members of the Army Council and the whole thing would leak in no time.
I see. So what do you suggest?
We keep it between ourselves for the moment. Barry smiled wryly. And dont think Im after it for myself. Money means nothing to me, but my cause does. You get the position of the Irish Rose out of Ryan, then a quiet sort of expedition is all we need to start with. Small boat, a diver to go down and make sure its there.
And afterwards?
That would be up to you. Im sure you can arrange some sort of phoney marine expedition. A suitable front while the real business of raising the gold goes on. He grinned. Ive every faith in you.
There was a black limousine parked at the curb by the house, a hard-looking man with a broken nose leaning against it. He wore a dark blue chauffeurs uniform.
My driver.
And bodyguard from the look of him.
Giovanni Mori. Sollazo took Barrys hand. A real pleasure. I like meeting legends, Mr. Barry; one so seldom gets the chance. Ill be in touch.
He got into the passenger seat and Mori went round and slid behind the wheel. Did it go well, Signore? he asked as he drove away.
Very well, Sollazo told him. To the airport, Giovanni. We return to New York, and he leaned back, closed his eyes, and went over everything Barry had told him.
IT WAS NINE oclock in the evening in New York when he presented himself once again at the Trump Tower apartment. Don Antonio sat there, hands clasped over the silver handle of his cane, and listened as Sollazo told him everything he had learned from Barry.
When he was finished, the old Don nodded. An amazing story.
So we proceed?
Of course. A very lucrative venture. The essential first step is to obtain the location of the Irish Rose from this man Ryan.
I agree. On the other hand, why should he deal with me at all when there is nothing in it for him?
Do you think you could accomplish his release from prison?
I doubt it. It was a policeman he killed, remember.
The Don nodded. There are more ways than one of skinning a cat. Im sure you will come up with something and you do have Salamone at the prison. He could prove invaluable. I leave this in your capable hands. He smiled. Now, a glass of wine. I see the President is visiting London, by the way.
EIGHT
DON ANTONIO WAS right, for in London the most important matter on the Prime Ministers agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of the week. It was Brigadier Charles Fergusons sole concern. He was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languished in heavy traffic.
Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.
Sure and sometimes it has, Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.
He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.
Id like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon. I can hardly be late for that.
Hes a decent enough stick, Dillon said. Hell see you right.
The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in Vogue. She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.
Youre hopeless, Dillon, she said. No respect for anyone, you Irish.
Its all that rain, girl dear, he said.
Dont waste your time on him, Ferguson told her. A hopeless case.
The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door of Number Ten. I shant be more than twenty minutes, Ferguson told them.
Will that old bowser Simon Carter be there? Dillon asked.
That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services, Ferguson said.
Yes, well dont forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American Presidents visit stink.
Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.
He crossed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.
The grand gentleman that he is. Sure and the empire is in safe hands. Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case and lit it.
We dont have an empire any longer, Dillon, she said.
Is that a fact, and does the Government know that?
She shook her head. Hopeless, Dillon, thats what you are, and youll kill yourself if you keep on smoking those things.
True, but then I always knew Id come to a bad end.
WHEN FERGUSON WAS shown into the Prime Ministers study, Simon Carter was already seated. A small man in his early fifties with snow-white hair, he had once been a professor of history. Never an agent in the field himself, he was one of the faceless men who controlled Britains security system. He disliked Ferguson, had for years, and resented the Brigadiers privileged position and the fact that he was answerable to the Prime Minister only.