Day of Reckoning

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000

Copyright © Jack Higgins 2000

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover photograph © Lawson Wood/Ocean Eye Film

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124892

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007373970

Version: 2015-07-20

Epigraph

When you have sinned grievously,

the Devil is waiting.

Sicilian Proverb

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

HELLSMOUTH

Chapter 1

NEW YORK IN THE BEGINNING

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

LONDON

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

LEBANON AL SHARIZ

Chapter 9

LONDON

Chapter 10

SCOTLAND IRELAND

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

LONDON

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

HELLSMOUTH

Chapter 15

LONDON

Chapter 16

About the Author

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Further Reading

About the Publisher

1

It was the rat, in a way, which brought Blake Johnson not only awake, but back to life. Sitting on the stone seat in the darkness, up to his waist in water, it was astonishing that he’d drifted into sleep at all, and then he’d come awake, aware of something on his neck, and had sat up.

The light in the grilled entrance behind him gave enough illumination for him to see what it was that slid from his left shoulder. It splashed into the water, surfaced, and turned to look at him, nose pointing, eyes unwinking.

It took Blake back more than twenty-five years to when he’d been a young Special Forces sergeant at the end of the Vietnam War, up to his neck in a tidal swamp in the Mekong Delta, trying to avoid sudden death at the hands of the Vietcong. There had been rats there, too, especially because of the bodies.

No bodies here. Just the grille entrance with the faint light showing through, the rough stone walls of the tunnel, the strong, dank sewer smell, and the grille forty yards the other way, the grille that meant there was nowhere to go, as he’d found when they had first put him into this place.

The rat floated, watching him, strangely friendly. Blake said softly, ‘Now you behave yourself. Be off with you.’

He stirred the water, and the rat fled. He leaned back, intensely cold, and tried to think straight. He remembered coming to a kind of half-life in the Range Rover, the effects of the drugs wearing off. They’d come over a hill, in heavy rain, some sort of storm, and then in the lightning he’d seen cliffs below, a cruel sea, and above the cliffs a castle like something out of a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm.

When Blake had groaned and tried to sit up, Falcone, the one sitting beside the driver, had turned and smiled.

‘There you are. Back in the land of the living.’

And Blake, trying hard to return to some kind of reality, had said, ‘Where am I?’

And Falcone had smiled. ‘The end of the world, my friend. There’s nowhere else but the Atlantic Ocean all the way to America. Hellsmouth, that’s what they call this place.’

He’d started to laugh as Blake lapsed back into semi-consciousness.

Time really had no meaning. His bandaged right shoulder hurt as he sat on the seat, arms tightly folded to try and preserve some kind of body heat, and yet his senses were alert and strangely sharp so that when there was a clang behind him and the grille opened, he sat up.

‘Hey, there you are, Dottore. Still with us,’ Falcone said.

‘And fuck you, too,’ Blake managed.

‘Excellent. Signs of life. I like that. Out you come.’

Falcone got a hand on the collar of Blake’s shirt and pulled. Blake went through the opening and landed on his hands and knees in the corridor. Russo was there, a smile on his ugly face.

‘He don’t look too good.’

‘Well, he sure as hell stinks. Wash him down.’

There was a hose fastened to a brass tap in the wall. Russo turned it on and directed the spray all over Blake’s body. It was ice cold and he fought for breath. Russo finally switched off and draped a blanket round Blake’s shoulders.

‘The boss wants to see you, so be good.’

‘Sure, he’ll be good,’ Falcone said. ‘Just like that nice little wife of his in Brooklyn was good.’

Blake pulled the blanket around him and looked up. ‘You did that?’

‘Hey, business is business.’

‘I’ll kill you for that.’

‘Don’t be stupid. You’re on borrowed time as it is. Let’s move it, the man’s waiting,’ and he pushed Blake along the corridor.

They climbed two sets of stone steps and finally reached a black oak door bound in iron. Russo opened it, and Falcone pushed Blake through into a baronial hall, stone-flagged, with a staircase to the left and a log fire burning on a stone hearth. Suits of armour and ancient banners hung from poles. There was a slightly unreal touch to things, like a bad film set.

‘What happened to Dracula?’ Blake asked.

Russo frowned. ‘Dracula? What is this?’

‘Never mind.’ Two men were lounging by the fire. Rossi and Cameci; he’d seen their faces on the computer, more Solazzo family hoods.

Falcone pushed Blake forward. ‘Hey, I’m with you. Christopher Lee was the best. I loved those Hammer movies.’

Russo opened another black oak door. Inside was a room with a high ceiling, another log fire on a stone hearth, candlelight and shadows, and behind a large desk shrouded in darkness, a shadowy figure.

‘Bring Mr Johnson in, Aldo. By the fire. He must be cold.’

Falcone took Blake to the fire and pulled a chair forward. ‘Sit.’

The man in the shadows said, ‘Brandy, I think. A large one would seem to be in order.’

Blake sat there while Russo went to a side table and poured brandy from a decanter and brought it to him. It burned all the way down and Blake coughed.

‘Now give him a cigarette, Aldo. Like all of us, Mr Johnson is trying to stop, but life is short, art long, and experiment perilous. There’s Latin for that, but I forget how it goes.’

‘Oh, didn’t they teach you that at Harvard Law School?’

Blake took the cigarette and light from Falcone.

‘As a matter of fact, no. But clever of you. You obviously know who I am.’

‘Hell, why carry on like this? Of course I know who you are. Jack Fox, pride of the Solazzo family. So why don’t you turn up the light?’

A moment passed, and it did go up and Fox sat there; the dark hair, the devil’s wedge of a face, the mocking smile. He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

‘And I know you, Blake Johnson. You came out of Vietnam with a chestful of medals, joined the FBI, and saved President Jake Cazalet from assassination when he was still a senator. Shot two bad guys and took a bullet. Now you run the Basement, downstairs at the White House, as a kind of private hit force for the President. But unfortunately, Blake’ – he paused to take a puff – ‘I don’t think Cazalet can save you now.’

Blake snapped two fingers at Falcone. ‘Another brandy.’ He turned to Fox. ‘There’s an old Sicilian saying, which you might appreciate, since I know you have a Sicilian mother. When you have sinned grievously, the devil is waiting.’

Fox laughed. ‘Would your devil be you or Sean Dillon?’

‘Take your pick. But God help you if it’s Dillon,’ Blake told him.

Fox leaned closer. ‘Let me tell you something, Johnson. I hope it’s Dillon. I’ve been waiting a long time to put a bullet in his brain. And in yours.’

Blake said, ‘You killed my wife.’

‘Your ex-wife,’ Fox said. ‘But it wasn’t personal. She got too close, that’s all. I wish you could have understood that.’ Fox shook his head. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of grief. Now you’ll have to pay for it.’ Fox smiled. ‘I hope Dillon is stupid enough to come. Then I’ll have you both.’

‘Or we’ll have you.’

Fox said to Falcone. ‘Take him back.’

He turned down the light, and Russo punched Blake in the belly. Blake doubled over and they took him out between them, feet dragging.

2

It was a wet March evening in Manhattan when the Lincoln stopped at Trump Tower, the snow long gone, but replaced by heavy, relentless rain. Jack Fox sat in the rear, Russo at the wheel, Falcone beside him. They pulled in at the kerb and Falcone got out with an umbrella.

Fox said, ‘You’re okay for a couple of hours.’ He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. ‘You two go and eat. I’ll call you on my mobile when I need you.’

‘Sure.’ Falcone walked him to the entrance. ‘Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.’

Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.’

He turned and went in.

The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn’t say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

‘Hey, Jack, come in.’

His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. ‘Uncle, you look good.’

‘So do you.’ The Don offered him the magazine. ‘I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that’s all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn’t good.’

Fox waved his hand. ‘It’s innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I’m related to you. But they think I’m legit.’

‘You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think “innocuous stuff” is all she’s after? Don’t delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we’re respectable – property, manufacturing, finance – but we’re still Mafia, that’s what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she’s after something – and you…you’re a good boy. You’ve done well, but I’m not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.’

‘Uncle, please,’ Fox said.

The Don waved his hand. ‘A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you’re greedy. There’s nothing I don’t know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won’t hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.’

‘That’s our flagship casino, Uncle.’

‘Sure, but while you’re there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.’ The Don waved him back. ‘Don’t annoy me by denying it, Jack.’

‘Uncle.’ Fox tried to sound contrite.

‘Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That’s where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.’

‘As you say, Uncle.’

‘Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.’

Fox hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been like that.’

‘Then like what? Why should she be interested in making you look good? She’s in it for more. I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. This piece, it’s not so bad, all right, but what’s next? What’s behind the front?’ The Don shook his head. ‘She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.’

‘What would you advise, Uncle?’

‘Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.’ He reached for a pitcher. ‘Have a martini and then we’ll eat.’

Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn’t open. He’d served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.

A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he’d just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.

Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. ‘Terry, you look good.’

Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. ‘Aldo, you want something?’

‘Not me, but the Solazzo family would like a favour. You would never say no to the Don, would you, Terry?’

‘Of course not,’ Terry gabbled, reached for the whisky sour and swallowed it in one gulp.

‘Only in this case, it’s Jack Fox who wants the favour.’

Which was enough to almost give Terry a bowel movement. ‘Anything I can do.’

‘That goes without saying.’ Falcone patted his cheek and said to the barman, who was looking wary, ‘Give him another. He’s going to need it.’

The barman said, ‘Now, look, I don’t want any trouble in here.’

Russo leaned over the bar, his face full of menace. ‘Make him the fucking drink and shut up. Okay?’

Hurriedly, the barman did as he was told, his hands shaking.

Jack Fox was in the sitting room of his Park Avenue townhouse, on the second floor, enjoying a light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches, when Falcone brought Terry Mount in.

‘Why, Terry, you look worried,’ Fox told him. ‘Now why should that be?’ He bit into a sandwich, then Falcone took a wad of money from his pocket. ‘Aldo, have you won the lottery or something?’

‘No, Signore, but I think Terry has. There’s fifteen grand here.’

Fox nodded to the champagne bucket and Falcone poured him another glass. ‘Terry, I think you’ve been a naughty boy again.’

‘Please, Mr Fox, I’m just trying to make a buck.’

‘And so you shall.’ Fox smiled. ‘Two grand, Terry.’

Terry’s eyes rolled. ‘And what do I have to do for that?’

‘What you do best.’ Fox pushed a piece of paper across that had been lying on the table. ‘Katherine Johnson. Ten Barrow Street. Just on the edge of the Village. You’ll toss her place this afternoon.’

‘But that doesn’t give me time to prepare.’

‘For what?’ Fox said coldly. ‘It’s a small townhouse. She won’t be there. You boast that you can break in anywhere.’

Terry licked his lips. ‘What do I do?’

‘She’s a magazine reporter, so you’ll probably find an office, a computer, a VCR, all that stuff. Bring whatever disks you find. Bring the videos on her business shelf.’

Terry said, ‘People keep videos all the time. I mean, do I bring all of them?’

‘Be sensible, Terry,’ Fox said patiently. ‘I’m not looking for Dirty Harry or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Just use your brain, such as it is. The boys will take you, they’ll wait and bring you back. Anything you’ve got, I want by five o’clock. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.’

Terry’s feet hardly touched the ground as Falcone pushed him outside.

He went to Barrow Street wearing a bomber jacket that said ‘Smith Electronics’ on the back. He didn’t bother with the front door, after three rings got no reply, but went down to the basement. There were double deadlocks, but they both responded to his touch.

He found himself in a laundry room and moved upstairs to the entrance hall. There was a parlour, dining room and kitchen, so he tried the stairs, the only sound disturbing the quiet the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. The first door he tried was the study. He saw shelves crammed with books and videos, a computer next to two video and disk machines, and a multiple tape recorder. He switched them all on and removed everything he found in them, placing his haul in the carry bag that hung from his left shoulder. He opened drawers and found more disks and cassettes, which he also took.

The rest really was frustrating. Rows of movies on video, rows of instructional tapes. He was sweating now and swung at the shelves and scattered videotapes across the floor.

Okay. So he’d done what Fox wanted. Time to go. There were some bottles on a side table, and glasses. He poured some bourbon, savoured it, and left by the same route, locking the basement door before returning to Falcone and Russo.

When they arrived at the Park Avenue townhouse, Fox was waiting eagerly. He took the disks and tapes Terry Mount offered and said to Russo, ‘Look after him.’ He turned to Falcone. ‘You stay. It could be bad.’

‘Then it’s bad for both of us, Signore.’ They had been friends since boyhood.

Fox started checking the disks, mostly work notes, letters, accounts, and quickly discarded them. Then he started on the tapes Mount had found in the tape recorder, and on the second struck pure gold.

At first, the sounds were of an innocuous conversation about family business and so on. The woman’s voice was very pleasant and intimate, and the man’s…

Falcone said, ‘Jesus, Maria, Signore, that’s you.’

There were restaurant sounds in the background, a little music. Fox said, ‘She was recording us.’

Suddenly, the tape changed. Now, the woman was clearly making notes to herself.

‘There can be little doubt that Jack Fox, in spite of the war hero and Wall Street image, is nothing less than the new face of the Solazzo family and the new Mafia. I’ll lull him to sleep with the first article in Truth and then hit him hard with the rest. There might even be a special on the Truth Channel in this. I’ve just got to take it easy, and flatter him. His vanity should take care of the rest.’

Fox switched off the machine. ‘The bitch.’

‘So it would appear, Signore. What should we do?’

Fox got up, went to the sideboard, and poured a glass of Scotch. He turned. ‘I think you know, old friend.’ He went to the telephone and punched in a number. ‘Katherine Johnson, please. Hello, Kate? Jack Fox. Would you be free for dinner tonight? I was thinking about that piece, and, what the hell, there’s some more you might be interested in…You are? Terrific. Listen, don’t bother going home. I’ll send a car. You come on over to Park Avenue and pick me up. We’ve just bought this new restaurant in Brooklyn, and I’d like to check it out. Will you help?…Great! I’ll send Falcone to pick you up.’ He put the phone down, surprised at the genuine regret he felt.

In that evening of dreary rain, darkness already descending, she sat in the rear of the Lincoln, a small, pretty woman of forty, with dark hair and an intelligent face. Russo was at the wheel and Falcone beside him. They reached the Park Avenue house and Falcone called Fox on his mobile.

‘Hey, Signore, we’re here.’ He turned. ‘He’ll be right down.’

She smiled and took out a Marlboro. Falcone gave her a light.

‘Thank you.’

‘Prego, Signora.’

He closed the glass divide between them, and a moment later, Fox arrived, wearing a black overcoat. He scrambled in and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Kate, you look good.’

The Lincoln took off.

‘You look pretty good yourself.’

He smiled amiably. ‘Well, here’s to a good night.’

At that precise moment, Terry Mount was swallowing another whisky sour in a downtown bar, aware of the bulge that seventeen thousand dollars now made in his right-hand breast pocket. He went out into the street, drew up his collar as rain dashed in his face, started along the pavement, and sensed someone move in behind him, and then a needlepoint going through his clothes.

‘Just turn right into the alley.’ He did as he was told, and found himself shoved against a wall. A hand searched. ‘Hey, seventeen grand. You were right.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a big black mother named Henry, and you wouldn’t want to meet me in the showers on Rikers Island.’

Terry was terrified. ‘I just did what I was told.’

‘Which means you know too much. Regards from the Solazzos.’

The knife went up through the breast bone and found the heart, and Terry Mount slid down the wall.

It was early evening and March dark on Columbia Street, Brooklyn, as the Lincoln turned right and pulled on to a pier where a few coastal ships were tied up. Russo switched off the engine. Suddenly alarmed, Katherine Johnson said, ‘What is this? Where are we, Jack?’

‘This is the end of the line, Signora. You sure played me for a sucker.’

She managed a smile. ‘Come on, Jack.’

‘Come on, nothing. I’ve had your house searched. Found your little tape recordings of us. Not that I said anything, but you sure did. Just take it easy and flatter me, huh? You shouldn’t have done that to me.’

‘For God’s sake, Jack, you’ve got to listen to me.’

‘No, I’m done listening. And talking.’