other bag,’ he told Blake. ‘The Semtex pencils. Let’s move it.’
There was a nine-foot wall. He cupped his hands, helped Blake over, then passed the bag, reached for an outstretched hand, and scrambled over himself. They crouched on the other side, as it started to rain.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Dillon said.
There were indeed two security guards in a small, lighted office off a courtyard. Dillon and Blake moved in through factory doors which, surprisingly, had been left open. Inside the main building, they saw an extensive range of equipment, obviously all of importance to the racket that was going on there. Great vats, stacks of bottles, many with exotic labels.
Dillon pulled one up. ‘Highland Pride Old Scots Whisky.’
‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything,’ Blake told him.
‘Okay, so let’s get on with it.’
Dillon opened the bag that hung from his shoulder. He took out several Semtex primer pencils Blake had obtained for him, ran round the main area, and placed them.
‘How long?’ Blake asked.
‘Ten minutes. Let’s get those guards out and move on.’
The two security guards were playing Trivial Pursuit when the door opened and the men in hoods slipped in. Dillon relieved them of their guns.
‘If you want to live, move fast and make it to the street.’
They didn’t argue, did exactly as they were told, and a few moments later were out of the front gate. Just after that, the Semtex timers exploded and the whisky in the vats caught fire.
Dillon caught the nearest guard by the collar. ‘Listen, here’s a message. It isn’t for the police. It’s for Jack Fox. Tell him, this is just the beginning, for Katherine Johnson. Got that? Okay, now run for it.’
Which they did.
Dillon and Blake drove some little distance away and parked, watching the flames and waiting for the fire department.
Blake said, ‘Funny, but I didn’t feel guilty.’
‘Why should you? Fox is a murdering bastard.’
‘I work for the President, Sean. You work for the Prime Minister.’
‘I don’t care about that. One way or another, Fox goes down.’
The following morning, Jack Fox was at Trump Tower, summoned there by a phone call from Don Marco. The old man sipped coffee by the fire.
‘A bad night, I hear, Jack.’
Fox hesitated, then decided that at least some sort of truth was the best way to handle it.
‘Yes, Uncle. The whole place was destroyed by fire. Thank God there is the insurance.’
‘But only the equipment, Jack, not on a couple of million in booze.’ The Don shook his head. ‘It’s very unfortunate. Still, these things happen. Have you anything to add? Anything you wish to tell me?’
Fox hesitated, then said, ‘No, Uncle.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you again.’
Fox went out. After a while, Falcone looked in. ‘Don Marco.’
‘Has he gone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Bring the security guard in. My nephew failed to mention him, Aldo.’
‘A matter to be regretted, Signore.’
‘But you did, Aldo, and I’m grateful.’
He poured another cup of coffee, and a moment later Falcone brought in the security guard.
‘Your name?’ Don Marco asked.
‘Mirabella, Signore.’
‘Good, a fellow countryman. Now tell me what happened.’
Which Mirabella did.
Don Marco said, ‘Tell me again what he said, the man in the hood.’
Mirabella clutched his cap in his hands. ‘He said, this isn’t for the police. Tell Jack Fox, it’s just the beginning. For Katherine Johnson.’
‘Good, thank you.’ Don Marco looked at Falcone. ‘Take care of him, then come back.’
Perhaps twenty minutes later, Falcone returned. The Don stood at the window, fingering a Cuban cigar. Falcone offered a light. Don Marco smiled.
‘You’re a good boy, Aldo. Your father was one of my most trusted people until those Virelli swine murdered him on that Palermo trip. He was always loyal, and loyalty is everything.’
‘Absolutely, Don Marco.’
‘So where does loyalty lie? You and my nephew, you were boyhood friends.’
‘Please, Don Marco.’ Falcone held up a hand. ‘My loyalty is to you, above everything else.’
Don Marco patted his chest. ‘You’re a great comfort to me. You will attend to Jack’s requirements, that goes without saying, but you will tell me everything that goes on, won’t you, Aldo?’
‘Always, Signore.’
‘Good. Now be on your way.’
Jack Fox, in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons, sat with the great and the good and the not-so-good, drank champagne, and tried to come to terms with what had happened the previous night. The interview with Mirabella had been particularly unnerving, and he hadn’t mentioned it to his uncle, for obvious reasons. Falcone and Russo stood against the wall.
A waiter appeared. ‘Sir, your guests are here.’
‘My guests?’ Fox looked up, and Dillon and Blake appeared.
Falcone stepped forward and Fox waved him away. They sat down, and Dillon reached for the champagne bottle. He sampled it, shook his head, and said to Blake, ‘The man has no taste.’
Fox said, ‘Okay, get on with it. I know who you are. You’re Blake Johnson and you work for the White House, and you’re Sean Dillon. You used to be IRA, but now you work for the Prime Minister.’
‘My, you are well informed,’ Blake said.
‘That’s because I can access anything. The trouble with computers is that all you need is the right kind of genius to break into them, and I have mine. So, you fuck with me and you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
‘And we’ll return the favour to Don Solazzo.’ Dillon shrugged. ‘And by the way, no one “used to be” IRA. Once in, never out. I’m really bad news, son. You know why? Because I don’t care whether I live or die.’
‘Maybe
