by Daniel Kemp
When Daniel Cardiff's plane touched down in New York late Tuesday night he followed Dicky's instructions to the letter, after all they were not difficult, relying on impression rather than results. On exiting the subway in Manhattan, he walked to the St Regis Hotel where Fraser had made the reservation. He checked into his lavish room on the seventh floor then showered and, whilst watching a pre-recorded game of baseball on the TV, dived into the telephone directories searching for the name; Salvatore Guigamo. It took him under an hour to find the address and fifteen minutes in a cab to arrive outside Salvatore's restaurant on Worth Street.
“It looks all kosher to us, sir. He rode the subway into town then a leisurely stroll to the Regis. He never looked over his shoulder once. Came straight here from his room, a swanky great penthouse suite. No cheap chicken run this affair. It's as you said, sir, he's a top ranker. He's shaking hands with Salvatore Guigamo as we speak. Yes, they're in full sight of me as I'm in a kiosk across the road. Joe is taking a few snaps. He's not intending to stay as the cab has still got its flag down. They ain't trying to conceal anything, sir.” The Bureau agent announced to Henry Cavendish who was seated at his desk in the FBI headquarters building.
“I don't trust the Brits. This is too easy. I reckon they're playing us. I'm sending two agents to the Regis to work alongside you two. When you're back there point him out, then you two relieve them in the morning. He certainly has enough of my interest to keep tabs on.”
That Wednesday morning, after taking a light breakfast of fruit and cereals at the hotel, Daniel again adhered to Dicky's instructions as though he was made of super-glue. He took a cab from the front entrance to the British Consulate. It was a little after ten when he passed through the foyer. On signing for the diplomatic pouch and then placing it in the brown leather briefcase he'd brought with him, courtesy of Fraser Ughert, Daniel retraced his journey, but this time only as far as number 351, West 38th Street where he rang the entrance bell for apartment number eight on the second floor. After giving the occupant of that apartment the unopened diplomatic pouch, Daniel walked back to his hotel on 5th Avenue carrying the now empty briefcase. He had never heard the word 'tradecraft' nor was aware of any procedures he could have taken to assess his position. None were necessary. “Impression is everything,” Dicky had told Daniel. The fact that Joe and Harold found it easy in the extreme to follow him would have widened even the most prodigious of smiles in Dicky's impressive portfolio.
Unseen by anyone, including agent Harold Lawson who had stayed watching the front door of 351, a heavily built figure of a man emerged from a rear window on the second floor of the block that Cardiff had entered and silently slid down the drainpipe, then made his way to Pennsylvania railway station where he stoically waited for the 12:03 arrival from Hartford, Connecticut. He never had long to wait.
* * *
“Ah, there you are and here am I. 'Tis a long time since I've cast my eyes on your ugly mush, Raymond. Wish I could say that I've missed you. But hey, we're all on the same side nowadays, isn't that the truth. A man we both know told me that you would have a little something for me?”
Raymond lifted his gaze from the stone floor and vacantly stared at the haunting heart-shaped face with deep-set eyes that glared back at him, whilst both recalled the times when they would have been on opposing sides during the bloody days of aggression still being fought between warring Irish factions from which they'd escaped. He didn't want to hang around exchanging memories.
“I'm thinking it was James Joyce who said it, but I could be mistaken as I'm not a man who reads much, and it could have been some drunk on the Falls Road; no man's an island, Miss Slattery. Time marches on and thankfully some of us survive.”
“That it does and no mistake. Me, I'm thinking that it was James Cagney who said that line along with; 'I'm On Top Of The World, Ma'.”
“Well, someone has to be, don't they and by the look of things it's neither of us, that's for sure.” Raymond replied as he handed over the parcel then turned his back and left.
* * *
The journey and arrival of David Lewis and that of Fergus Andrews differed greatly from Daniel's. Whereas he had been awake through his seven-and-a-half hour flight reading useless information, theirs had been one of both sleep and study. As the first complimentary drinks had been finished and cleared away, David handed his travelling companion four folded, closely typed, sheets of paper.
“I came across this earlier today, Fergus. It's a breakdown of Sir Archibald's brief association with a former Irish insurgent who he successfully altered course towards us. Name is Bridget Slattery. She's also worked alongside Job and Jack. We gave her a present a few years back which she devoured with great gusto. Very messy table manners! Have a close study reading between the lines as you go, Fergus. Archie became very attached to her. Very attached indeed!”
“I will, David.” Fraser then hesitated slightly before asking a question that bothered him from the outset. “Is it okay if I shorten that to Dave, as we might get the Duke of Windsor and yourself mixed up a bit, sir?”
“Fine,” Dicky replied and promptly fell fast asleep.
* * *
Bridget Slattery breezed past the outside tables, now dressed with white tablecloths and festooned with lighted candles, their flames dancing beside the late diners carrying their conversation into the almost starless sky, and entered Salvatore's restaurant.
“Looks like rain,” she said to Luciano, the night-time maître d', who acknowledged that fact with a sigh of resignation.
“Is he in?” she asked.
“In la cucina!” Luciano replied.
The preparation of food in the kitchen had ceased, leaving all but a few staff clearing plates from the deep sinks and stacking them away on stainless steel shelving whilst others wiped surfaces and replenished stock cupboards and refrigerators. There was a faint sloshing noise of a mop in the distance.
Sally sat alone in a corner checking table receipts. He had a large balloon glass of red wine in one hand and a fat cigar in the other.
“Buona sera, signorina. Come stai?”
Dispensing with pleasantries, Bridget went straight to the point.
“Where's Jack, Sally?”
“He is at the Chiesa di Santo Stefano with my sister, signorina.”
“Is he hurt?” she asked incredulously.
“Not him, no! The red-haired man who came with him is though. He was shot.”
“Badly?” Bridget was distressed.
“Lost some toes, I think, but he'll live,” he replied as he shuffled the receipts.
“Was it an accident, Sally?” She enquired, slightly calmer, but still agitated.
“It was an accident that the man who tried to kill him was shot and it was an accident that your friend still lives.”
“Is that man now dead?”
“He is, signorina!”
“Where's Job?”
Sally stopped his work, put down the glass of wine and looked at his garish wristwatch.
“By this time he should be at a smelting factory in Newark stoking the furnaces, signorina. Can I get you something to eat?” he enquired.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Early Thursday Morning In New York
The Return
The sedative must have been a heavy dose, as I didn't wake until almost eight o'clock to a bright sunlit, morning sky with no evidence of the overnight rain that Monica had mentioned. I could still taste the anaesthetic in my mouth and that sensation was heightened by the absolute quietude I awoke to. Passively I lay there for an unquantifiable passage of time. It could have been seconds or minutes but for whatever length it was, all I did was stare at the ceiling not recognising what I was looking at. Suddenly I remembered an image I'd had during the night of someone examining my foot. It was an indefinite figure, blurred at its edges and ghostlike. I wriggled my toes. It was then that I remembered where I was and why I was there.
With an uneasy feeling I sat uprig
ht, throwing aside the bed linen covering my right foot, but I couldn't see anything other than a wide, crêpe bandage where the toes would have been. I thought she said only three toes were amputated, I silently thought having nobody to ask. The thought of undoing the bandage crossed my mind just as I could smell brewing coffee which served only to remind me of the pain in my face. I swore out loud as my stitches stretched inside my jaw, adding the word hell after the usual profanity.
“My, you are a noisy person first thing in the morning as well as during the night, Shaun. Feeling out of sorts, are we?”
It was Fianna, who was curled up under a blanket on a chair in the corner, out of my eye-line.
“I know what you're thinking. You want a look at your toes, don't you? Well, you can't. I changed the dressing whilst you were asleep last night, so leave it alone,” she said as she flung back her makeshift covering and made towards me.
“How long have you been there?” I asked without emotion, thinking only of the discomfort of my face.
“I came when you were in dreamland, Shaun. You looked a mess then and you look even worse now you're awake.”
“That's all I need. A bossy red-headed sister scolding me when I haven't done anything. Where are we, Fianna?” I asked as if I was a schoolboy seeking favour with his teacher.
“We're in an annex of the convent behind Saint Stephen's church in Brooklyn. If you're quick you can catch an early confessional. But I bet it's not that you're wanting. You'd rather find a greasy cafe and have me spoon-feed you a fry-up for your breakfast, crispy fried bread with all the trimmings?” she laughed in derision.
“What on earth made you get shot in the foot? Were you running away?” This time she added the insult of imitating someone running away in fear….Don't shoot, don't shoot me, please, please, she added, still giggling her head off as she ran backwards and forwards across the small room with her arms flailing in all directions. I couldn't help myself but laugh at the sight. It didn't last long because of the pain.
“Oh, hell! I need the bathroom. I think I'll wet myself if you don't get me there quick,” I shouted.
“There's nothing quick that you'll be doing for a long time, peg-leg. Hold on to it, because I'm damned if I will.” This time we were mimicking each other's laugh, as I eased myself from the bed and took the first tentative steps since being shot.
“Here, take my shoulder,” Fianna offered. “I hope the seat is down as you won't be able to stand on your own and I'm only your nurse not your concubine.”
“I'm so pleased about that. Had enough of sex for a while, thanks very much,” I replied.
“Not with my Penina, I hope?”
“You were way off in your guess with that one. Straight as an arrow with some lovely kinky bits thrown in.” My turn to laugh first. “Then there was her mother, Leeba, and the girl at—” I wasn't allowed to add the name of my female acquaintance at the Tat & Tail club.
“Sounds as though I've arrived in the nick of time, not only for your sexual wellbeing but to save the maidens of New York. Although I wouldn't include Leeba in any definition of maidenhood. She's old enough to be our mother, Shaun. Was it a lover of one of those ladies that mistook your feet for your head?” Another burst of laughter accompanied her admonishment.
“Stop bragging and get in there,” she added as we stood outside what appeared to be a utility room stuffed full of boxes, with a toilet pan added as an afterthought.
“Love the sanitation in this hospital. Was it better at the Clifford residence? Solid gold taps with parchment as loo paper I expect?”
“Not quite, but something along those lines,” she declared as I stumbled towards the pan.
“I did only have three toes cut off didn't I, as everything is wrapped up down there, Fianna?”
“Only three, Shaun. All will be as right as rain when the stitches mend. By the way, there's a pair of open-toe sandals back in that room of yours with some fancy clothes that were brought over from an apartment I'm told you have here in New York. I would say that since you arrived you seem to have landed on your feet, but that's not really the case now, is it? A one footed playboy just doesn't cut it somehow,” another laugh.
“How do I hide this face of mine?” I asked. “If it was ugly before, it's more so now!” I had caught sight of myself in the mirror above a sink that was also in the room.
“Stop fishing for compliments and concentrate on what you're doing. I don't think the nuns here want to wipe-up your spillage,” she replied.
“It's good to see you, Fianna. At least I think it is,” I said, more of an apology than a heartfelt greeting.
“Well now that's a relief as here I was wondering if you welcomed me being back or I embarrassed you. You're not wearing that ring of mine nor am I hearing friendship in your voice, Shaun. You did get that letter I left you, didn't you?”
“Yes, and I read it. The ring was a bit tiny for my fat fingers so I left it in a bank deposit box along with a few other things. I knew that you were in deep with Jack, but it wasn't until now that I realised just how deep. You've been in this building many times, haven't you?” There was no hesitation to her reply.
“I have that, and what's more it's no secret. 'Tis the truth you're after I'm thinking, well, in that case here goes. This was the first place I came to when I escaped from England. I wasn't waiting on any sacred floor for the police to find me covered in Father Finnegan's blood after I killed him, I came to America. That was the first time I used the name of Fianna Redden. I was here for a short time working for Jack before going back to the England. From then on everything I've told you is the truth minus a few details that are none of your business. The one thing about Jack Price that you can always rely on is him being thorough. Whatever story he tells, he tells it with conviction and enough passion that even his mother would believe it. I've worked for the IRA and against them. I'm working this op now and next week, or next year, maybe something completely different, but in the back of my mind is the knowledge that Jack has thought it all through to the tenth degree and beyond. As far as I know there are only the two of us that he uses regularly; me and Job. From Salvatore he gets all what he needs to cover the edges. But, and this is a big, enormous but, I don't think he is in charge. There's at least one other Johnny in all of this, if not more.”
“Let's see if I've got this story right. Jack gives you Finnegan as a reward for all your great work for the security services of GB but flatly denies working for them? Then he flies you here to settle a debt on their behalf. All a bit odd, Fianna, don't you think?”
“I've never asked who signs my wage slips, Shaun. I don't care who pays me just as long as I'm paid!”
“What's happened to Michael Clifford, is he dead?” I asked.
“If by that you're asking if I killed him on my way out, then the answer is no. But if you're asking if he's dying, then the answer is yes, and that will occur very soon if it's not already happened.”
“Have you poisoned him?” I asked quite calmly.
“You're too damn pleasant talking about death for my liking, Shaun. I won't answer that question of yours. That's something I don't see you having the need to know.”
“I might be in that position of needing to know if Jack is right and my name is in the line of ascendency for his command, Fianna. He told me he has put my name down as his successor.”
“Now there's a thing, to be sure! Personally I wouldn't want you to take his job, but you're your own man, so if it's what you want go for it. But again you're wrong. You're missing a huge point here. If I did poison Clifford, and I'm only saying if, then Jack would not want to know. Do you know why?”
I had finished in the makeshift washroom and was tentatively making my way back to the bed, holding onto her arm.
“No, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”
“Because he would have issued the orders and would already know that I wouldn't be here without carrying them through, that's why.” Angrily she glared at me.
“Both of you are equally guilty,” I replied.
“Right! But what about Job? He's involved in the whole thing so does he carry some responsibility?” she asked, delving into my theory-based morality with her questions.
“Yes, he does and by applying that rule of guilt by association then so do I,” I replied with self-examining honesty.
My physical weakness was being pounded upon by a reality of a different kind. True, I'd wanted adventure when Jack proposed my inclusion in his maze of truth and lies, being stretched in what I could achieve beyond the strict rules contained in that Instruction Book of the Metropolitan Police, but now I was included in a plot where perhaps a person had been killed on the pronouncement of an individual I knew so little of. There wasn't enough time to minutely examine my inner soul to find any logic as to why I had remained before I was hit by another blow. This one could have taken my head off my shoulders had it been a punch.
“There's the rub, eh. What was the title of that thesis you wrote when you lazed away under the spires of Oxford, the one on morality? Was it called; The Good and Evil of Man?”
I had once read a brief outline on how acupuncture can cure certain pain. Put in simple terms it outlined how one medieval battleground injury would take away the pain of a previous one. Apparently it was developed by the Chinese who up until that point I had respect for. Her knowledge of my written thoughts did not wound me in the way that a spear or sword would have done, but not only did it take away all the thoughts about my face and foot, but also my sinking pride. I had not locked my suitcase, and what's more, someone had taken a good old look through the contents.