Day of Reckoning

‘And he couldn’t have that.’ Blake nodded. ‘So now we know.’ He stood up and said to O’Dowd, ‘Play this down. Trust me. Give us time and you’ll get the story Kate wanted.’ He held out his hand. ‘A bargain?’

‘It sure as hell is.’

On the way downstairs, Parker’s mobile rang. He answered and nodded. ‘We’ll be there.’ He turned to Blake. ‘Abruzzi. She’s sorted out the videotapes. Wondered if you’d like a look.’

‘Why not?’ Blake said.

The study at Barrow Street was much more ordered now, the videotapes arranged neatly on the shelves.

Helen Abruzzi said, ‘I’ve put the movies on the top two shelves, the language courses and self-help tapes on the bottom two shelves.’ She turned to Blake. ‘There is one that refers to you, sir. That’s what I thought you’d want to know.’

Blake said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘The label says: Blake’s parents.’

Blake was silent for a moment. ‘My parents died when I was very young. I never knew them. And my wife knew that better than anyone. I’d appreciate you turning that tape on, Sergeant.’

He sat down, Parker stood behind him, and the screen flickered.

‘This is just a fail-safe, Blake, my darling, in case anything goes wrong. As someone who was the pride of the FBI and whatever you get up to there at the White House, I know you’ll find this one way or the other.’ She smiled at him. ‘These are bad people that I’m trying to expose, the Solazzo family. Don Marco’s like Brando resurrected for Godfather IV, cold, calm, and businesslike, even while he seems like your favourite grandfather.’

‘Jesus!’ Harry Parker said.

‘But Don Marco is old-school. Jack Fox is different. The genuine all-American hero and Wall Street golden boy. You’d think he was some Boston blue blood, but instead he’s a cold-blooded psychopath, the worst of them all. Get in his way and you’re dead. Well, I’m going to get him. Lull him to sleep with the first article, then wham! He’ll never know what hit him.’

Blake hammered a clenched fist on a coffee table and Helen Abruzzi stopped the tape.

‘What in the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m giving you a chance to breathe deeply. I’m also finding you a drink. Trust me, sir.’

Parker put a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s right, Blake.’

Helen Abruzzi returned with a glass. ‘Vodka, it’s all I could find. It was in the freezer.’

‘That’s what she liked, cold vodka.’ Blake drank it down. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it.’

The screen flickered again. ‘I was real lucky. I found a guy called Sammy Goff, who used to do accounting work for Jack Fox. Nice guy, very gay and very ill. AIDS, which is why Fox threw him out. I was having lunch with Fox in Manhattan one day. He left early, and Goff came up to me. “You look like a nice lady,” he said, “so watch it. He’s not good for you.”’

A telephone sounded in the background and she went to answer it and returned.

‘Okay, Goff was dying and bitter. I cultivated him, and with three martinis in him he sounded off good, and what he told me was special. Here’s the lead. Fox is front man for the family. Smart, very clever, but he’s always pushing for more. He’s played the market with family money and lost, particularly with the Asian crisis. How much the Don knows about this is unknown to me. He’s getting by because he’s responsible for the Solazzo flagship casino in London, the Colosseum. The cash flow from that is critical to him. He can’t milk the family’s large interests, the drug market in Eastern Europe and Russia, for example, but he has personal cash flow that helps keep him afloat. There’s a warehouse in Brooklyn called Hadley’s Depository. The one thing they store there is whisky. Cheap liquor. The booze is watered down and then sold to the clubs at a huge profit margin.’

Parker said, ‘I can’t believe the Don doesn’t know.’

Blake waved a hand and Katherine continued. ‘Another sideline in London is he’s been involved with some heavy gangsters called the Jago brothers. Armed robbery, that kind of stuff, Sammy Goff said, always a source of instant cash. Fox’s bad investments in the Far East are draining him. More serious, he’s been into arms dealing, too, specifically for the IRA. He helped somebody called Brendan Murphy, a real hardliner who didn’t like the peace process, not only to buy arms but to build a concrete bunker in County Louth in the Irish Republic. There’s everything there from mortars to the kind of machine gun that can shoot down an Army helicopter. Oh, and lots of Semtex.’

‘My God,’ Helen Abruzzi said softly.

‘Goff told me there was also some link with Beirut via Murphy. Arms for Saddam, that sort of thing. He didn’t have many details on that. The other thing he told me was that Fox doesn’t own a London house. He usually stays in a suite at the Dorchester, but he does have an indulgence. An old castle and estate in Cornwall, in England. Very rural, very remote. Believe it or not, it’s called Hellsmouth. Somewhere near Land’s End.’

A telephone sounded in the background again. There was some confusion. She was off-screen, then back quickly.

‘It’s a hell of a story, thanks to Sammy Goff. However, although I’d like to expose it, Blake, life is uncertain, and the other day poor dying drunken Sammy was the victim of a hit-and-run driver. Now, was that an accident? I don’t think so. He just knew too much.’

The screen seemed to jump and her voice scrambled for a moment. Things returned to normal. She smiled brightly.

‘So there you are, my darling Blake. I’d like to believe the good guys win, but life can be such a bitch. If you’re watching this, that probably means that the bad guys won this time.’ The smile slipped for a moment, then came back, a little more tentative this time. ‘Take care, and remember, in spite of everything, I’ve always loved you.’

Helen Abruzzi switched off. Blake sat there, eyes dark. ‘I’d appreciate you running that back, Sergeant.’

‘It’s evidence, sir.’

‘Just get the man a copy,’ Parker told her.

Blake got up and walked to the window. After a moment, he turned. ‘Okay, Harry, arrange a meeting with the bastard.’

‘I’ll have to check with the District Attorney.’

‘Try the Pope if you like, but I want to face Jack Fox.’

‘Maybe you should take time, sir,’ Abruzzi told him.

Blake took a document from an inside pocket and unfolded it. ‘You’ve never seen one of these, Sergeant. Harry has. It’s a Presidential warrant. You belong to me, not NYPD, and so does he. Now let’s get moving.’

It was the following morning when Parker picked up the Buick at the Plaza Hotel. The woman in the rear of the police car was very personable, around forty and smartly dressed, a briefcase on the floor beside her.

Blake sat in front and Parker said, ‘Assistant District Attorney Madge McGuire.’

She shook hands as they drove away. ‘I understand you’re FBI, Mr Johnson.’

‘Used to be.’ He turned to Parker. ‘Did you tell her?’

‘How could I?’

Blake took out his Presidential warrant and passed it across. Madge McGuire read it. ‘Jesus Christ.’

She handed it back and Blake put it in his pocket. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘We’re wasting our time. Dammit, Mr Johnson, we all know the reality, but we can’t prove it. You’ll see – Fox will be all sweetness and light: any way he can help, he will, but when we finish we’ll be no better off than when we started. His attorney, Carter Whelan, will be there, by the way. That one is a serpent.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Okay. I’m bound by that warrant, but let me do my job, Mr Johnson.’

‘Be my guest.’

When they got there, Fox was sitting behind a desk, wearing an excellent navy blue suit, his hair swept back from his handsome face. The man who sat beside him, Carter Whelan, was small, balding, and wore a black suit.