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 Irish Rose that sank off the coast of County Down in Ulster at the same time.” He grinned. “That’s it. Naturally I expect all this yesterday.”

“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.

“Enjoy them. Later over the coffee we talk business.”

DARKNESS WAS FALLING as they sat on the boardwalk and the maid served coffee. When she was finished, he waved her away.

“What happens now?” Kathleen asked.

“Marco will take you to a small beach cottage not far from here. You’ll be safe there. Mori will keep an eye on you.”

“And then?”

“MacArthur Airport is not far away. I keep a Gulfstream there. You’ll fly to Dublin with my nephew and Mori.” He smiled. “Unless the circumstances change.”

There was a certain menace to that smile and Kathleen shivered. Ryan said, “What are we getting at here?”

“Your niece told my nephew that he could only have the position of the Irish Rose, the bearings and so forth, when you are safe in Ireland.”

“That’s right.”

“I require them now, an act of faith if you like.” He smiled again.

Kathleen shook her head and said stubbornly, “Oh, no, mister, you wait until we’re in Ireland.”

“Then that, too, must wait,” he said. “At least for you, Signorina.” He turned to Ryan. “You go, she stays here and takes her chances.”

Ryan exploded. “You can’t do that.”

“I can do anything, my friend. I learned from my father many years ago to always look for a man’s weakness. Yours is your niece, Mr. Ryan.” He stood up. “Think about it. Come, Marco, give them time.”

When they had gone Kathleen said, “The bastards. I’d like to shoot the lot of them.”

“Well, you can’t and we don’t have a choice. We’ve got to get out of America as soon as possible. I couldn’t face going back inside, but I also couldn’t face leaving you here.”

“So you’ll do it? What if they dump us? What if you give him the position and that bugger Mori shoots us?”

“I don’t think so. I’m too useful to them for a number of reasons, and if they intend to shoot us at some stage, they can just as easily do it in Ireland.” He smiled bleakly. “No, I’ll give him what he wants.”

“Then give him a false position,” she said.

“You’re not thinking straight. At some point in time we’ll be in a boat with these bowsers and a diver going down, and if the Irish Rose isn’t there, then that bastard Mori will give us a bullet in the head and over the side.” Ryan shook his head. “No, we must get out of here and safely to Ireland. You see, there’s another reason. The truth is I haven’t been strictly honest with you.”

She gazed at him searchingly. “Tell me.”

So he did.

AFTERWARDS SHE SAT there holding his hand. “All these years and you never told me.”

“I always did say I never trusted anyone in my life, not even you.”

“Well, you do now, and you’re right. We must get to Ireland. Once we’re there we’ll think of something.” She raised her voice. “Don Antonio?”

He appeared with Sollazo. “You’ve thought it over?”

“Yes, and we agree.”

“Excellent.” Sollazo took his diary from his breast pocket and a pen. Don Antonio Russo smiled. “I knew you were a practical young woman, Signorina, the moment I clapped eyes on you.”