make sure it’s there.”
“And afterwards?
“That would be up to you. I’m sure you can arrange some sort of phoney marine expedition. A suitable front while the real business of raising the gold goes on.” He grinned. “I’ve every faith in you.”
There was a black limousine parked at the curb by the house, a hard-looking man with a broken nose leaning against it. He wore a dark blue chauffeur’s uniform.
“My driver.” “And bodyguard from the look of him.” “Giovanni Moil.” So!!azo took Barry’s hand. “A real pleasure. I like meeting legends, Mr. Barry; one so seldom gets the chance. I’ll be in touch.” He got into the passenger seat and Mod went round and slid behind the wheel. “Did it go well, Signore?” he asked as he drove away “Very well,” Sollazo told him. “To the.airport, Giovanni. We return to New York,” and he leaned back, closed his eyes, and went over everything Barry had told him.
IT was NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING IN NEW York when he presented himself once again at the Trump Tower apartment. Don Antonio sat there, hands clasped over the silv handle of his cane, and listened as Sollazo told hineverything be had learned from Barry.
When he was finished, the old Don nodded; “An amazing story.” “So we proceed?” “Of course. A very lucrative venture. The essential first step is to obtain the location of the Irish Rose from this man Ryan.” “I agree. On the other hand, Why should he deal with me at all when there is nothing in it for him?” “Do you think you could accomplish his release from prison?” “I doubt lt.’It was a policeman he killed, remem-her.”
The Don nodded. “There are more ways than one of skinning a eat. I’m sure you will come up with something and you do have Salamone at the prison.
He could prove invaluable. I leave this in your capable hands.” He smiled. “Now, a glass of wine. I see the President is visiting London,. by the way.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
DON ANTONIO WAS RIGHT, FOR IN LONDON THE most important matter on the Prime Minister’s agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of-the week. It was Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s sole concern. H was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languisid in heavy traffic.
“Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.”
“Sure and sometimes it has,” Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.
He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.
“I’d like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon- I can hardly be late for that.” “He’s a decent enough stick,” Dillon said. “He’ll see you right.” The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in Vogue. She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bemstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.
“You’re hopeless, Dillon,” she said. “No respect for anyone, you Irish.” “It’s all that rain, girl dear,” he said.
– “Don’t waste your time on him,[. Ferguson told her. “A hopeless case.” The Daimler was.admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door oTlum-ber Ten. “I shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” Ferguson told them.
“Will that old bwser Simon Carter be there?” Dillon asked.
“That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services,” Ferguson said.
“Yes, well don’t forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American President’s visit stink.” “Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.” He cwssed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.