“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.
Salamone didn’t hesitate. He went straight to the fire exit at the end of the hall, opened it, and went down the stairs two at a time. He didn’t go to the ground floor. There would already be a fuss there so he stopped on the second and went to the nurses’ rest room, got himself some very black coffee and sat there, sucking on a cigarette.
He was in deep shit, he knew that, and there was only one direction it could be coming from, the only one that made sense. Chomsky had worked for the Family on too many occasions for there to be any other explanation. There was one other disturbing fact to consider. It wouldn’t be left here. There were other guys like Chomsky only too willing to do the Russo Family a favor.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud. “But where? I mean, what in the hell do I do?”
He got up and paced up and down, pausing suddenly, an intent look on his face. “Johnson – Blake Johnson. Christ, if anyone can do anything he could.”
Ten minutes later he was ushered into Deputy Warden Cook’s office. Cook, sitting behind his desk, looked up. “What is it, Paolo? You told my secretary life or death.”
“Mr. Cook, I got a dynamite story. I want to see an FBI agent called Blake Johnson.”
“You do, do you, just like that?”
“Listen, Mr. Cook, if I stay here I’m dead. You want that?”
Cook frowned and he sat back. “That bad?” He nodded slower. “And that important?”
“It’s big, okay. It could even give you a few answers on Kelly and how he busted out.”
Cook was immediately on the alert. “You know something?”
“Only for Blake Johnson.”
“All right. Wait outside. I’ll check with the FBI.”
IT WAS PERHAPS half an hour later that he opened his door and called Salamone in. “Mr. Johnson is no longer with the FBI. He works with some presidential security unit in Washington. I’m going to phone him now and I’ll let you talk to him.”
“That’s fine by me.”
BLAKE JOHNSON WAS forty-six, a tall, handsome man who wore a suit well. His hair was so black that it took ten years off his age. A marine in Vietnam at nineteen, he’d emerged with two Purple Hearts, a Vietnamese Cross of Valour, and a Silver Star. A law degree had followed at Georgia State on the Marines. Afterwards the FBI, and with such resounding success that he had been appointed to his present position. For a year he had headed what was known at the White House as the Basement, the President’s private hit squad as some termed it, totally separate from the CIA or the FBI, responsible to the President alone.
When the phone rang in his office he found Cook on the line. The Deputy Warden explained the problem and ended by saying, “You do know this man?”
“Oh, sure,” Johnson said. “I put him away for bank robbery once. I’ll talk to him. Give him privacy. He might find it difficult if he thinks anyone else is listening.”
TEN MINUTES LATER after speaking to Salamone, Johnson was talking to the Deputy Warden again. “First of all, to establish my credentials, I work directly for the President. I’m in charge of his special security and intelligence unit.”
“I see,” Cook said, suitably impressed.
“I can assure you that what Salamone had to tell me is way beyond any normal criminal matter. It’s no exaggeration to tell you that grave matters of national security are involved.”
“Good God!” Cook said.
“This is what you do. You place Salamone in a secure cell under guard. I take it you have a helicopter landing pad there.”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll have a helicopter down to you within a couple of hours. The Federal Marshal who takes him in charge will have a presidential warrant for him. That clears you.”
“One thing. We had a prisoner called Kelly escape today,” Cook said, “while he was undergoing treatment at the local hospital. Salamone indicated that he might know something about that.”
Johnson, who had told Salamone to keep his mouth shut, lied smoothly, “Hell, no, he was worried you wouldn’t get in touch with me so he said what he did to get you interested.”
“The bastard,” Cook said.
“His kind usually are, but he’s of crucial importance to us. The President will be more than grateful for your assistance in this matter.”
“I’m only too happy to oblige, that goes without saying.”
“My thanks on his behalf.”
IN HIS OFFICE in the White House basement Johnson sat back and thought about it, then he pressed an old- fashioned buzzer. The door opened almost instantly and a gray-haired woman of fifty, Alice Quarmby, his secretary, entered, a pad in her hand.
“Mr. Johnson?”
“Make out a general warrant in the name of Paolo Salamone. He’s a prisoner at Green Rapids Detention Center. Get it over to the Federal Marshal’s office. I want him picked up by helicopter as soon as possible. They can bring him back to Washington and hold him at the Hurley Street Secure Unit.”
“Anything else?”
“Better start waiting. Get on that computer and dig up everything there is on an Irish terrorist, Protestant variety, called Michael Ryan, also his niece, a Kathleen Ryan. Couple that with any information about a gold bullion heist in the English Lake District in the autumn of nineteen eighty-five.”
She was writing busily. “Sounds intriguing.”
“It gets even better. Check out any information on a ship called the
“I take your point.”
She went out and Johnson sat there going over all of it in his mind. His office had direct access to both FBI and CIA computers and had friendly links with the British. There would surely be some really solid information on this. He needed that before speaking to the President.
He opened a silver box on his desk, sighed, and took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and reached for a lighter. He’d actually stopped a year before and yet whenever his gut feeling told him he was on to something, he reached for a smoke. Ah, well, just one wouldn’t do any harm.
AT THE HOUSE at Quogue they enjoyed an excellent dinner at six o’clock. Roast duck, potatoes, green salad, all washed down with more champagne.
“I haven’t eaten like this in years,” Ryan said.
“I shouldn’t imagine you have,” the Don told him dryly, “but the best is yet to come.” He rang a little silver bell and the maid appeared with a chafing dish. “Cannolo, Sicily’s favorite sweet. Very simple. Flour, eggs, cream.”
“Marvelous,” Kathleen said as the maid served them.
