Drink With The Devil

“I’ll get right on it.”

“I’m having dinner early with Don Antonio.”

“At the Long Island house?”

“No, the Trump Tower apartment. As soon as you get that stuff from England, fax it to me there.”

“I will.”

Sollazo drove away thinking about the situation, and particularly the fact that the way gold prices had climbed; fifty million pounds in bullion in 1985 was now worth double.

IN HER ROOM at Green Rapids General Hospital, Kathleen Ryan undressed and went to the shower. She was due on the evening shift in an hour, on call for emergency surgery until six in the morning, not that she minded, for she loved her work, was good at it.

It had been her uncle who had insisted that she find a life for herself after his trial and sentencing and she’d put in five hard years of training. Ossining had been the bad time. She hadn’t been able to see him much while he was at that grim fortress. In a way his heart problem had been a blessing. The less restrictive regime at Green Rapids allowed a great deal of visiting and getting a post at the town hospital had made all the difference.

But it hurt her to see him there, a shadow of the man he had been in those great days back in Ireland when they’d taken on the might of the IRA, even on occasion the British Army, and won. At that memory, a thrill passed through her that was almost sexual.

She toweled off, dried her cropped hair, and put on her uniform. She combed her hair, checking herself in the mirror, strong face, dark eyes, not pretty but striking, this girl who had at the age of fourteen killed two members of the IRA with a hand grenade, who at the age of sixteen had shot dead at close quarters a man named Bert Fox.

It all came back. The Lake District, that lonely road and the taking of the transporter and Martin Keogh and the final, brutal confrontation on the Irish Rose. And at the memory, the old excitement surged through her.

“There’s got to be more than this,” she said aloud. “He can’t rot in there for another fifteen years.”

Despair flooded over her and she sat down, opened a bottom drawer in her desk, and took out a briefcase. Inside was a large envelope containing fifty thousand dollars in cash, money she had painstakingly saved, money against the day they would have to move fast, she and Uncle Michael, for from the time he had been moved from Ossining to the easier regime of Green Rapids she had entertained the wild hope that he might be able to escape. She had even approached a forger in New York, an old cell mate of her uncle in Ossining, who had provided her with two false Irish passports at a thousand dollars each, a special price as a favor.

She found them now and examined them. Daniel Forbes, that was her uncle, and she was Nancy Forbes. A waste, the whole thing, for as she soon discovered, in spite of its liberal regime, security at Green Rapids was stringent.

She looked at the photo in the false passport and somehow it was a stranger. “Whatever happened to Kathleen Ryan?” she asked softly.

At that moment the door opened and another nurse looked in. “Ready, Jean?”

“On my way,” Kathleen told her. “I’ll be right with you.”

She closed the briefcase, put it back in the drawer, and went out.

DON ANTONIO RUSSO was seventy years of age and of ample proportions, his loose cream linen suit accentuating his bulk. His hair was long and gray, swept back from his fleshy, arrogant face. A man who had always been used to having his own way. He got up, leaning on his cane as Sollazo entered the sumptuous living room of the Trump Tower apartment.

“Marco, good to see you.” They embraced. “A glass of champagne?” Don Antonio snapped his fingers at a manservant. “Oh, by the way, there are some faxes for you. Can’t your office give you a night off?”

“Sorry, Uncle, this is important. May I?”

“Of course.”

Sollazo went into the office, found the faxes, and read them quickly. He returned to the living room, accepted his glass of champagne, and sat opposite Russo.

“Can we talk business?”

“Always.”

“Good.” Sollazo told him in detail of his conversation with Salamone.

When he was finished, the Don said, “More than interesting. And the faxes?”

“They confirm the mention in the New York Times, but in more detail. Naturally, as usual with newspapers, the accounts differ, but broadly speaking they agree as to general details. A truck carrying fifty million pounds in gold bullion was knocked off on a country road in the English Lake District. A young boy told the police he’d been chased away from a ferry called the Irish Rose at an old disused jetty not far from the scene of the action. He also said he’d seen a truck of the right description turn off the main road toward the ferry later in the day.”

“So?”

“Obviously the bullion truck put to sea on the ferry.”

“And what happened?”

“End of story. Over the next few days a smashed-up ship’s boat, lifebelts, and so on, all bearing the name Irish Rose, were washed up on the coast of County Down.”

“I see.” Don Antonio sat there frowning. “And Salamone said that in a fever, this man Kelly spoke of being the only one who knew where the boat went down?”

“That’s right.”

“And you said bullion of the order of fifty million pounds?”

“Yes, but that was ten years ago. Gold prices have greatly increased. I’d say at least one hundred million pounds in present terms.”

“Now that kind of money is always interesting.”

“I was thinking,” Sollazo said, “with the right kind of salvage boat these recovery jobs are quite easy these days, as long as you know where the ship is, which the authorities don’t.”

“So they tell me.” Don Antonio sat there thinking about it. Finally he nodded. “I wonder who this man Kelly was working for. Was it just business or the IRA or something like that?”

“It’s a thought,” Sollazo said.

“You know, a few years ago I had dealings with the IRA. We used to provide arms through a Sicilian connection. Their Chief of Staff was a man called Barry – Jack Barry.”

Sollazo said, “It’s all peace talk with the IRA these days. Gerry Adams at the White House speaking for their Sinn Fein party.”

“So what?” the Don said. “Barry is an old fox. If anyone will know anything of this affair, it will be him. His private number in Dublin will be in my special address book in the top right-hand drawer of my desk. See if you can get him.”

IN DUBLIN JACK BARRY was sitting by the fire, bored out of his mind and reading a newspaper, rain brushing the window, when the phone rang.

“Barry here.”

“Mr. Jack Barry? Is that you? An old friend, I hope. Don Antonio Russo.”

“Dear God,” Barry said. “And what can I do for you?”

“More what can we do for each other, Mr. Barry. I’m talking serious business here. Does the name Irish Rose mean anything to you?”

Barry swallowed hard. “Should it?”

“What would you say if I told you that I know the whereabouts of a man who calls himself Kelly, but in a fever speaks of being the only one who knows where the ship has gone down, the only one who knows where the gold is?”

“I’d be more than interested.”

“Fine. It seems to me we might have a mutual interest here that could profit both of us. My nephew, Marco