Ten minutes later he was ushered into Deputy Warden Cook’s office. Cook, sitting behind his desk, looked up. “What is it, Paolo? You told my secretary life or death.”
“Mr. Cook, I got a dynamite story I want to see
an FBI a/ent called Blake Johnson.”
“You do, do you, just like that?”
“Listen, Mr. Cook, if I stay. here I’m dead. You want that?”
Cook frowned and. he sat back. “That bad?” He nodded slower. “And that important?”
“IVs big, okay. It could even give you a few answers on Kelly and how he busted out.”
Cook was immediately on the alert. “You know something?”
“Only for Blake Johnson.”
“All right. Wait outside. I’ll check with the FBI.” IT WAS PERHAPS HALF AN HOUR LATER THAT HE opened his door and called Salamone in. “Mr. Johnson is no longer with the FBI. He works with some presidential security unit in Washington. I’m going to phone him now and I’ll let you talk to him.” “That’s fine by me.”
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 alono.
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 lt him away for bank robbery once. I’ll talk to him.ive 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 crxlentials, 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
go9 me is way beyond any normal criminal matter. It’s no exaggeration to tell you that grave matters of national security are involve&” “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 th local hospital. Salamone indicated that he might know something about that.’ Johnson, who had told Salam0ne 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 behalL”
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 al2IO
most 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 une 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 eally solid information on this. He needed that before speaking to the President.