Fox had an impeccable source when it came to computer-accessing: an ageing lady named Maud Jackson, who was a retired professor in communication sciences at MIT, seventy years old – and a confirmed gambler. A nice Jewish widow who lived in Crown Heights, she was always chronically short of money, because she was an easy mark and liked the game anyway.
Fox met her in a local bar by appointment. She sat there, sucking on a cigarette and drinking Chablis, while he told her about Blake Johnson.
'The thing is, there's a block on the guy.'
'Like any roadblock, Jack, it's made to be gone around.' 'Exactly, and who better than you to do it?'
'Flattery will get you everywhere, but if this guy used to be FBI and there's a block, this is serious stuff.'
She took out another cigarette and he gave her a light, revolted by the thinning dyed red hair, the cunning old eyes, but she was a genius.
'Okay, Maud, I'll pay you twenty thousand dollars.' 'Twenty-five, Jack, and happy to oblige.'
He nodded. 'Done. There's only one problem. I want it, like, yesterday.'
'No problem.' She swallowed her Chablis and stood up and nodded to Falcone. 'Now, if this big ape will take me home, I'll get on with it.'
Falcone smiled amiably. 'My pleasure, Signora.'
It took her no more than three hours of devious double play to make her breakthrough and there it was: Blake Johnson, ex-FBI, now Director of the Basement for the President, and what a treasure house that turned out to be. The President's personal hit squad, and such an interesting cross-reference to London. It seemed that Johnson was very cosy with the British Prime Minister's personal intelligence outfit, led by one Brigadier Charles Ferguson, its muscle supplied by an ex-IRA enforcer named Sean Dillon. It was all there, past exploits, addresses, homes and phones. She telephoned Fox and asked to be put through.
'Jack, it's Maud.'
'Have you got something?'
'Jack, I don't know what's going on, but what I've got is pure dynamite, so don't screw with me. Just send Falcone round with thirty thousand in cash.'
'Our deal was for twenty-five, Maud.'
'Jack, this is better than the midnight movie. Believe me, it's worth the extra five.'
'All right. I'll have him there in an hour.'
'And, Jack, no rough stuff.'
'Don't be stupid. You're too important.'
An hour and a half later, Falcone returned with the printout. What Fox didn't know was that Falcone had stopped on the way and had the printout copied.
Fox read the printout – Johnson's background, the London end of things, Ferguson, Dillon, the computer photos – and shook his head.
'My God.'
'Trouble, Signore?'
'No, just rather startling information. The old bitch did well. Read it.'
Falcone already had, but pretended to again. He nodded and handed the printout back, face impassive. 'Interesting.'
Fox laughed. 'You could say that. This Dillon.' He shook his head. 'What a sweetheart. Still, it's always useful to know what you're up against.'
'Of course.'
'Good. You can go. Pick me up at eight for dinner.'
Falcone left, and was at Don Marco's apartment at Trump Tower half an hour later, where the old man read the copy of the printout with interest and checked the photos.
'You've done well, Aldo.'
'Thank you, Don Marco.'
'Anything else you find out, tell me at once.'
He held out his hand and Falcone kissed it. As always.'

Brigadier Charles Ferguson's office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue in London. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and Guards tie, working his way through a mass of papers.
The buzzer rang and he pressed a button. 'Is Dillon here?' A woman's voice said, 'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Come in.'
The door opened. The woman who entered was perhaps thirty, wore a fawn trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and had cropped red hair. She was Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch and allocated to Ferguson as his assistant. Many people had underestimated her because of her looks, and they'd come to regret it. She'd killed four times in the line of duty.
The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was no more than five feet four or five, with fair hair almost white. He wore an old leather jacket, dark cords and a white scarf. His eyes held no colour, but his mouth was lifted with a perpetual smile that said he didn't take life too seriously. Once an actor, and later the most feared enforcer the IRA had ever had, he had been working for what had become known as the Prime Minister's Private Army for several years.
'Anyone heard anything?' Ferguson asked. 'We keep getting rumours about secret IRA gun caches, but no specifics. Sean?'
'Not a peep,' Dillon told him.
'So what's next, sir?' Hannah Bernstein asked.
The phone rang on Ferguson's desk. He answered it and his face showed considerable surprise. 'Yes, sir. Of course ... well, would you like to talk with him directly? He's right here ... Just one moment.' He held the phone out. 'Dillon? President Cazalet would like a word.'
Dillon frowned in surprise and took the phone. 'Mr President?'
'This is a bad one, my fine Irish friend, involving Blake Johnson. Just listen . . .'
A few minutes later, Dillon relayed the news to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein. He walked to the window, looked out, and turned.
'The funeral's the day after tomorrow. I'm going, Brigadier.'
Ferguson raised a hand. 'Sean, the three of us have all been to hell and back with Blake Johnson. We'll all go. We owe him that.' He turned to Hannah. 'Order the plane.'

Katherine Johnson's funeral at the crematorium two days later was singularly unimpressive. Taped and fake-sounding religious music played, and a minister who looked as if he'd hired his costume from a TV wardrobe company threw out platitudes.
Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah arrived halfway through the ceremony, just in time to see the coffin slide through the plastic curtains. The only other people there were the funeral staff and a couple of people from Truth. Blake distributed dollars, turned, and found his friends. His face said it all.
Hannah Bernstein embraced him, Ferguson shook hands; only Dillon stood back, very calm. He inclined his head and walked out.
They stood on the step, the rain driving in, and Dillon lit a cigarette. 'I've heard what the President had to say, now I want it from you. You've saved my life on a number of occasions and I've saved yours. There are no secrets between us, Blake.'
'No, Sean, no secrets.'
'So let's collect the Brigadier and Hannah and go and sit in the limousine and we can all hear the worst.'
Blake told them everything, including all that Katherine had relayed to them on the videotape. Afterwards, they all sat silent for a moment. 'From my point of view, the arms-dealing with the IRA, the Brendan Murphy business, that's the worst,' said Ferguson, shaking his head. 'And the Beirut connection, working for Saddam. We've got to do something about that.' He turned to Hannah. 'What are your thoughts, Superintendent?'
'That Fox has problems. He's skimmed money from the Commission, he's fiddling from the London casino, the Colosseum. Beirut and Ireland are desperate attempts to make cash.'
'And those hits with the Jago brothers are even more desperate,' Dillon said.
'Do you know them?' Ferguson asked.
'No, but I'm sure Harry Salter does.'
'Salter?'
Hannah said, 'You know him, sir. A London gangster and smuggler. Owns a pub at Wapping called the Dark Man.' 'Ah, I remember now,' Ferguson said.
'He's into warehouse developments by the Thames, also running booze and cigarettes from Europe.'
'But no drugs and no prostitution,' Dillon reminded her. 'Yes, an old-fashioned gangster. How very nice. He only shoots his rivals when absolutely necessary.'
Dillon shrugged. 'Well, they shouldn't have become gangsters then. I'm sure he'll help us with the Jago brothers and with Fox, though. He has a good team – his nephew, Billy Salter, Joe Baxter, Sam Hall.'
'Dillon, these people are real villains,' Hannah said.
'Compared to Jack Fox, they're sweetness and light.' And then Dillon smiled. 'Except that if you push them hard, they'll be Fox's worst nightmare.'
There was a pause. Ferguson said, 'Yes, well, we'll see. We'll talk about it more on the way back to London.'
Dillon said, 'Not me, Brigadier. I haven't had a vacation in two years. I think it's about time I took one.'
Ferguson said, 'Sean, you're not getting into one of your moods, are you?'
'Now, do I look that kind of fella, Brigadier?' He kissed Hannah on the cheek. 'Off you go. I'll see you in London. I'll drive back with Blake.'
She frowned. 'Now, look, Sean...'
'Just do it,' he said, turned and walked toward Blake Johnson's limousine.
Driving back to Manhattan, Dillon dosed the sliding window partition.
'I take it we're going to take Jack Fox to the cleaners.'
'You say we.'
'Don't mess with me, Blake. If you're in, I'm in, for more reasons than we need to state.'
'Nobody should die like she did, Sean. Can you imagine? A dark, rainy night on the waterfront? Forced into taking that massive overdose?' He shook his head. 'I'll see Fox in hell, and don't talk to me about the law and all that kind of crap. I'm going to take him down in whatever way I have to, so my advice to you is to stay out of it.'
Dillon pulled open the panel and said to the driver, 'Pull over for five minutes and pass the umbrella.'
The man did as he was told, and Dillon got out and opened the huge golfing umbrella as Blake joined him. They stood by the wall and looked out at the East River. Dillon lit a cigarette.
'Listen, Blake, you're one of life's good guys, and Jack Fox is one of life's bad guys.'
'And you, Sean, what are you?'
Dillon turned, his eyes blank, face wiped of all emotion. 'Oh, I'm his worst nightmare, Blake. I was engaged in what I saw as war for twenty-five years with the Brits and the IRA. Fox and his fucking Mafia think they're big stuff. Well, let me tell you something. They wouldn't last five minutes in Belfast.'
'So what are you saying?'
'We take this animal out, only we do it my way. It's too easy to shoot him on the street. I want this to be slow and painful. We destroy his miserable little empire bit by bit, until he has nothing left. And then we destroy him.'
Blake smiled slowly. 'Now, that I would like. Where do we begin?'
'Well, according to Katherine, there's this place called Hadley's Depository in Brooklyn where they process cheap liquor.'
'So?'
'So let's take it out.'
'You mean that?'
'Sure. Just the two of us.'
Blake's face was pale with excitement. 'You really mean this ?'
'It's a start, me old son.'
'Then you're on, by God.'

Hadley's Depository was beside a pier close to Clark Street on the river in Brooklyn. It was eleven o'clock that night, black rods of March rain falling, as Dillon and Blake drove up in an old Ford panel truck and parked at the side of the road.
They stood by a wall and Dillon lit a cigarette as they looked the place over. 'This shouldn't be hard,' he said. 'You, me, and no one else. An in-and-out job.'
'There's just one thing, Sean. I don't want any victims here.'
'No problem. If there's a night shift, we leave it. If there's just security, we'll handle them. There'll be only one victim here, Blake: Jack Fox and his income from the booze business.' He laughed and hit Blake on the shoulder. 'Hey, trust me. It'll work.'
The following day, Blake went through files and accessed city and police records to find out everything he could about the Hadley Depository. When he saw Dillon for lunch at a small Italian family restaurant, he was quite strong again, probably because he had an end in view.
'It's funny, but this place has no record. Not even a hint with the police.'
'So Fox is a clever bastard. Do you have any details on how it operates?'
'I know the security firm who handles it. Two men guard the place. On the other hand, since the warehouse is not what it seems to be, who knows? They could have a night shift.'
'We'll see.' Dillon smiled, looking like the Devil himself. 'No waiting, Blake. We go in and stiff the place. Give Fox something to think about.'
'When?'
'Tonight, for God's sake.'
Blake said, 'You're right. To hell with him.'
It was midnight when they drove up to Hadley's Depository in the old Ford. Blake was driving and pulled into a side turning. Both he and Dillon wore dark pants and sweaters. Now, as they sat there, they pulled on ski masks, and Dillon took a Browning out of a handbag and stuffed it into the waistband of his pants at the rear.
'Bring the 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 Mirabelli 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. Okay?'
'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 I can do something about that.'
'The British Army and the SAS couldn't catch him in twenty years,' Blake said, 'so I doubt you'll have much luck. In fact, you're already running out of luck, aren't you, Jack? We know you front for the Solazzo empire. But you also have a personal sideline, a cheap liquor still in Brooklyn. Or at least you used to.'
'Hey,' Dillon said. 'Isn't that the place that got blown up last night? What a coincidence.' He smiled beautifully. 'Well, that isn't going to help the cash flow.'
Fox said, 'I don't know what you're talking about. That had nothing to do with me.'
'Oh, I believe it did,' Blake told him. 'And then there's all that family money you lost in the Asian banking collapse, money you didn't have the right to invest. Unless Don Marco knew and approved of it all? Which I doubt.'
Fox said calmly, 'What are you getting at
'That you're in deep shit with Don Marco unless you come up with some very considerable cash very soon.' Dillon smiled. 'And we intend to see that you don't get it.'
Fox turned to Falcone. 'Aldo, break this little bastard's right arm for me.'
Falcone moved forward, and Dillon's left foot flicked as he kicked the Sicilian under his right kneecap. At the same moment Blake took a Walther from under his jacket and laid it on the table. Falcone was down on one knee, grabbed for the table, and pulled himself up. Russo had a hand on the gun under his left shoulder.
'Is this what you want?' Blake asked. 'A gunfight at the OK Corral?'
'Not really,' Fox said. 'Let's leave it to a more appropriate time. Just go.'
'Our pleasure.' Blake stood up, and Dillon rose beside him.
'I have a line for you that I remember from some old movie I saw on television. To our next merry meeting in hell.' 'I look forward to it,' Fox told him.
They turned and went out.
Falcone said, 'They knew about the Depository.'
'So did a lot of people. It was an open secret. How many clubs did we deal with? A secret's only a secret when one person knows it.'
'You don't think they know about anything else?'
'No, they were just bluffing. Come on. We have to leave for London soon.' Fox drained the champagne in his glass and made a face. 'You know, that little bastard was right. This stuff is bad.'

In the bar at the Plaza, Dillon and Blake were sharing a pot of tea and Irish whiskeys when Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein appeared.
'My goodness,' Ferguson said. 'Here you two sit enjoying yourselves, when according to Captain Harry Parker somebody torched up Mr Jack Fox's illegal liquor still last night.'
'Do you tell me?' Dillon shook his head. 'Isn't that dreadful.'
Are you coming home, Dillon?'
'Why not? I think I'm done with business here for the moment.'
'I would point out that when I saved you from the Serbs and took you on board, I offered to dear your rather terrible slate.' 'So you did.'
'But, on the other hand, you still haven't learned to behave yourself.'
'That's the Irish for you.'
Ferguson said, 'Sean, you still work for me. Use your judgement, but please keep me informed.'
'Jesus, Brigadier, I won't let you down. There's only one thing.'
And what would that be?'
'I intend to totally destroy Jack Fox and the Solazzo family. In Ireland, London, Beirut – wherever it takes me.' Dillon turned to Blake. 'Is that okay with you?'
'It sure as hell is. I'll see the President tomorrow and retire if I have to.'
Dillon turned and smiled at Ferguson. 'There it is, Charles.'
Ferguson smiled. 'Wonderful. Absolutely delicious.' He smiled, then didn't. 'In this case I actually approve of what you're up to. You will use Superintendent Bernstein as your connection. The full facilities of the department will be available.'
He stood up, and Dillon said, 'It's the grand man you are, Brigadier!'
'Well, I am half Irish.'
'I'll get on with it, then.'
'All the way. Finish Fox and the family.'
'Consider it done.'
'There is one thing. It's disturbing that Fox knows so much about us. What was it he said? You can access anything with the right kind of genius?'
'That's right.'
'Well, I know such a genius in London.'
Hannah Bernstein smiled. 'Roper, sir?'
'Exactly. See that the introductions are made at the right time, will you, Superintendent?'
She nodded.
'Good. Well' – he stood up – 'time to go. We'll see you later, Superintendent?'
They left. Dillon turned to Blake. 'You didn't figure much in that. What happens now?'
'I've got to clear myself with the President.'
'Then what?'
'Let's hit the bastard in London.'
'Sounds good to me.'
Cazalet had gone down to his old family house on Nantucket. Blake couldn't wait for his return, so he ordered a helicopter on departmental authority and flew down.
The President was walking the beach with his beloved flatcoat retriever, Murchison, followed by Clancy Smith. The surf roared, the sky was grey, a little rain drifted in, and the President read for the fifth time the fax he'd received from Harry Parker. There was a roaring in the distance. Clancy had a hand to his ear and mumbled into his mouthpiece. He looked up. 'Helicopter, Mr President. It's Blake.'
'Good. Let's go back to the house.'
They were halfway there when Blake appeared.
'Give us a little space, Clancy,' the President said.
They walked along the edge of the surf, Murchison running in and out. Cazalet said, 'Idiot. I'll have to hose him down.'
'I know. Sea water isn't good for his skin.'
Cazalet waved to Clancy, who lit a Marlboro away from the wind and handed it over.
Cazalet passed the fax to Blake. 'I'm afraid I leaned on your friend Harry Parker. I asked what was happening with this whole unhappy business.'
'And he told you.' Blake smiled. 'Well, he would. After all, I placed him under Presidential warrant. So, you know everything, Mr President.'
'Yes. A bad business. But it's wonderful that Brigadier Ferguson and Superintendent Bernstein flew over to support you.'
'And Sean Dillon.'
'As always!' Cazalet smiled. 'You know, it's a remarkable coincidence, that fire destroying Fox's warehouse like that.'
'Mr President . .
'No, Blake, let me speak. You've been looking tired lately. I think you need a break. Let's see what a month does. You should travel. Get to London, Europe. See some sights. Hmmm? Any departmental facilities you need are yours.'
'What can I say, Mr President?'
Cazalet said, face hard, 'Nothing at all. If you and Dillon can take those bastards down, then it'll be better for all of us.' He smiled crookedly. 'However, it would seriously inconvenience me if you didn't return from your vacation in one piece.'
'Yes, Mr President. I'll see to it.'
'Good.' Cazalet flicked his cigarette into the surf. 'Now, come back to the house for lunch and then, on your way.'

At Don Marco's apartment at Trump Tower, the old man listened as Falcone related what had happened at the Four Seasons.
Don Marco nodded. 'What does my nephew intend?'
'We're going to London, landing at Heathrow.'
'He's using the Gulfstream?'
'Yes, Signore.' Falcone hesitated. 'You don't know this?'
'Oh, I'm sure he'll tell me when he's ready. You have my coded mobile number. Keep me informed. I wish to know what he's up to at all times.'
He held out his hand, Falcone kissed it and withdrew. Don Marco rose, went to the piano, and picked up a photo of Jack Fox, the war hero in his Marine uniform.
'What a pity,' he said softly. 'All the virtues, as well as vanity and stupidity.'
He replaced the photo on the piano and went out.