by Jack Higgins
Darkness enfolded him and when he finally opened his eyes, his mouth was sharply cool. He took a long, shuddering breath and when he got to his feet, his limbs seemed to be filled with power. He wondered how Bellamy would react, and yet the results were there for all to see. A hand that no longer trembled, a clear eye and a strength he would never have believed possible.
Su Yin came in at that moment wearing cream slacks and a Spanish shirt in vivid orange. She was combing her hair. "You look pleased with yourself."
"And why wouldn't I? I've spent the afternoon in bed with a supremely beautiful woman and I still feel like Samson."
She laughed. "You're hopeless, Sean. Get me a taxi."
He phoned the usual number, then turned. "What about tonight? We could eat late at the Ritz and catch the cabaret."
"It's not possible." She put a hand to her face. "I know how good you feel these days, but you can't have everything in this life." She hesitated. "You miss Yuan Tao, don't you?"
"Very much, which is strange considering he only left five days ago."
"Would you miss me as much?"
"Of course. Why do you ask?"
"I'm going home, Sean. My sister and her husband are opening a new night club in Hong Kong. My uncle phoned me last night. They need me."
"And the Red Dragon?"
"Will continue quite happily with my head waiter promoted to manager."
"And me?" he said. "What about me?"
"Are you trying to say you love me?" He hesitated before replying and it was enough. "No, Sean, we've had as good a time together as any two people could hope for in this life, but everything passes and it's time for me to go home."
"How soon?"
"Probably the weekend." As the doorbell went, she picked up her briefcase. "There's my taxi. I must go. I've lots to do."
He went with her to the door and opened it. The taxi was waiting, engine running. She paused on the step. "This isn't the end, Sean. You'll call me?"
He kissed her lightly on both cheeks. "Of course."
But he wouldn't, he knew that and she knew it too, he could tell that by the way she paused before getting into the taxi, glancing back as if aware that it was the last time, and then the door slammed and she was gone.
He was in the shower for a good fifteen minutes, thinking about it, when the front door bell rang. Perhaps she'd come back? He found a bathrobe and went out, drying his hair with a towel. When he opened the door a man in brown overalls stood there, a clipboard in his hand, a British Telecom van parked behind him.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, we've had four telephone breakdowns already this morning in the mews. Could I check your box?" He held up a British Telecom identity pass with his photo on it above the name J. Smith.
"Sure and why not?" Dillon turned and led the way along the corridor. "The junction box is under the stairs. I'll just go and change."
He went upstairs, finished drying his hair, combed it and pulled on an old track suit and trainers, then went downstairs. The telephone engineer was under the stairs.
"Everything all right?" Dillon asked.
"I think so, sir."
Dillon turned to go through the living room to the kitchen and saw a large laundry basket in the middle of the room. "What in the hell is this?" he demanded.
"Oh, that's for you."
A second telephone engineer in the same uniform overalls stepped from behind the door holding an Italian Beretta automatic pistol. He was getting on a little and had a wrinkled and kindly face.
"Jesus, son, there's no need for that thing, just tell me what you want," Dillon said and moved to the wide Victorian fireplace and stood with his hand on the mantelpiece.
"I wouldn't try to grab for the Walther you keep hanging from a nail just into the chimney, sir, we've already removed it," the older man said. "So just lie on the floor, hands behind your neck."
Dillon did as he was told as Smith joined them. "Steady does it, Mr. Dillon," he said and Dillon was aware of a needle jabbing into his right buttock.
Whatever it was, it was good. One moment he was there, the next he was gone, it was as simple as that. • • • He came back to life as quickly as he had left it. It was night now and the only illumination in the room was from a kind of night light on the locker beside the single bed on which he lay. He still wore his track suit; they hadn't even taken off his trainers. He swung his legs to the floor, took a couple of deep breaths, then heard voices and a key rattled in the lock. He hurriedly lay back and closed his eyes.
"Still out. Is that all right, Doc?" It was Smith speaking, Dillon recognized his voice.
Someone else said, "Let me see." A finger checked his pulse on the right wrist and then his track suit top was unzipped and a stethoscope applied. "Pulse fine, heart fine," the doctor said and rolled back Dillon's eyelids one after the other and probed with a light. He was a tall, cadaverous Indian in a white coat, and Dillon, by an act of supreme will, stayed rigid, staring. "No, he'll be awake soon. One cannot be certain of the time element with these drug dosages. There are individual variations in response. We'll come back in an hour."
The door closed, the key turned. Two bolts were also rammed home. Dillon was on his feet now, moved to the door and stood there listening. There was little point in wasting time on the door, that was obvious. He moved to the window and drew the curtain and was immediately presented with solid bars. He peered out. Rain fell steadily, dripping through a leak from the gutter which was just above his head. There was a garden outside, a high wall about fifty yards away.
If the gutter was where it was that meant there was only roof space above him. It could be an attic, but there was only one way to find out.
There was a small wooden table and a chair against the wall. He dragged the table into the corner by the window and climbed into it. The plaster of the ceiling was so old and soft that when he put his elbow into it, it broke at once, shards of plaster crumbling, dropping into the room. He enlarged the hole quickly, tearing wooden lathing away with his bare hands. When it was large enough, he got down, placed the chair on the table, then clambered up on it, pulling himself up to find a dark, echoing roof space, a chink of light drifting through a crack here and there.
He moved cautiously, walking on beams. The roof space was extensive and obviously covered the whole house, a rabbit warren of half-walls and eaves. He finally came to a trapdoor which he opened cautiously. Below was a small landing in darkness, stairs leading down to where there was diffused light.
Dillon dropped to the landing, paused to listen, and then went down the stairs. He found himself at one end of a long corridor which was fully lit. He hesitated, and at that moment, a door opened on his left and Smith and the Indian doctor walked out. And Smith was fast, Dillon had to give him that, pulling a Walther from his pocket even as Dillon moved in, smashing a fist into his stomach and raising a knee into the man's face as he keeled over. Smith dropped the Walther as he fell and Dillon picked it up.
"All right, old son," he said to the doctor. "Answers. Where am I?"
The Indian was hugely alarmed. "St. Mark's Nursing Home, Holland Park, Mr. Dillon. Please." His hands fluttered. "I loathe guns."
"You'll loathe them even more when I've finished with you. What's going on here? Who am I up against?"
"Please, Mr. Dillon." The man was pleading now. "I just work here."
There was a sudden shout and Dillon turned to see the second of his kidnappers standing at the end of the corridor. He drew his Beretta, Dillon took a quick snap-shot with the Walther, the man went over backwards. Dillon shoved the Indian into the room, turned, and went headlong down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom a shrill alarm bell sounded monotonously over and over again. Dillon didn't hesitate, reaching the corridor on the ground floor in seconds, running straight for the door at the far end. He unlocked it hurriedly and plunged out into the garden.
It was raining hard. He seemed to be at the rear of the house and somewhere on the other side
he heard voices calling and the bark of a dog. He ran across a piece of lawn and carried on through bushes, a hand raised to protect his face from flailing branches, until he reached the wall. It was about fifteen feet high, festooned with barbed wire. Possible to climb a nearby tree, perhaps, and leap across, but the black wire strung at that level looked ominous. He picked up a large branch lying on the ground and reached up. When he touched the wire there was an immediate flash.
He turned and ran on, parallel to the wall. There was more than one dog barking now, but the rain would help kill his scent, and then he came to the edge of trees and the drive to the gates leading to the outside world. They were closed and two men stood there wearing berets and camouflage uniforms and holding assault rifles.
A Land-Rover drew up and someone got out to speak to them, a man in civilian clothes. Dillon turned and hurried back toward the house. The alarm stopped abruptly. He paused by the rear entrance he had exited from earlier, then opened it. The corridor was silent and he moved along it cautiously and stood at the bottom of the stairs.
There were voices in the distance. He listened for a moment, then went cautiously back up the stairs. The last place they'd look for him, or so he hoped. He reached the corridor on the top floor. Smith and the other man had gone, but as Dillon paused there, considering his next move, the door opened on his right, and for the second time that night the Indian doctor emerged.
His distress was almost comical. "Oh, my God, Mr. Dillon, I thought you well away by now."
"I've returned to haunt you," Dillon told him. "You didn't tell me your name."
"Chowdray-Dr. Emas Chowdray."
"Good. I'll tell you what we're going to do. Somewhere in this place is the person in charge. You're going to take me to where he is. If you don't"-he tucked Chowdray under the chin with the Walther-"you'll loathe guns even more."
"No need for this violence, I assure you, Mr. Dillon, I will comply."
He led the way down the stairs, turning along a corridor on the first floor, reaching a carpeted landing. A curving Regency staircase led to a magnificent hall. The dogs were still barking in the garden outside, but it was so quiet in the hall they could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
"Where are we going?" Dillon whispered.
"Down there, the mahogany door," Chowdray told him.
"Down we go then."
They descended the carpeted stairs, moved across the hall to the door. "The library, Mr. Dillon."
"Nice and easy," Dillon said. "Open it."
Chowdray did so and Dillon pushed him inside. The walls were lined with books, a fire burned brightly in an Adam fireplace. Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein stood by the fire talking to the two fake telephone engineers.
She turned and smiled. "Come in, Mr. Dillon, do. You've just won me five pounds. I told these two this is exactly where you would end up."
SIX
The car which dropped Dillon at his cottage in Stable Mews waited while he went in. He changed into gray slacks, a silk navy blue polo neck sweater, and a Donegal tweed jacket. He got his wallet, cigarette case, and lighter and was outside and into the car again in a matter of minutes. It was not long afterwards that they reached Cavendish Square and he rang the bell of Ferguson's flat. It was Hannah Bernstein who answered.
"Do you handle the domestic chores as well now?" he asked. "Where's Kim?"
"In Scotland," she told him. "You'll find out why. He's waiting."
She led the way along the corridor into the sitting room where they found Ferguson sitting beside the fire reading the evening paper. He looked up calmly. "There you are, Dillon. I must say you look remarkably fit."
"More bloody games," Dillon said.
"A practical test which I thought would save me a great deal of time and indicate just how true the reports I've been getting on you were." He looked at Hannah. "You've got it all on video?"
"Yes, sir."
He returned to Dillon. "You certainly gave poor old Smith a working over, and as for his colleague, it's a good job you only had blanks in that Walther." He shook his head. "My God, Dillon, you really are a bastard when you get going."
"God bless your honor for the pat on the head," Dillon said. "And is there just the slightest chance you could be telling me what in the hell this is all about?"
"Certainly," Ferguson said. "There's a bottle of Bushmills on the sideboard. You get the file out, Chief Inspector."
"Thank you," Dillon said with irony and went and helped himself.
Ferguson said, "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it. Remarkable fellow this Yuan Tao. Wish he could work for me."
"I suppose you could always try to buy him," Dillon said.
"Not really," Ferguson said. "He owns three factories in Hong Kong and one of the largest shipping lines in the Far East, besides a number of minor interests, restaurants, that sort of thing. Didn't he tell you?"
"No," Dillon said and then he smiled. "He wouldn't have. He's not that sort of bloke, Brigadier."
"His niece seems an attractive girl."
"She is. She's also returning to Hong Kong this weekend. I bet you didn't know that."
"What a pity. We'll have to find another way of filling your time."
"I'm sure you won't have the slightest difficulty," Dillon told him.
"As usual, you've hit the nail on the head. I obviously wanted you back anyway, but as it happens something special has come up, something that I think requires the Dillon touch. For one thing, there's a rather attractive young lady involved, but we'll come to that later. Chief Inspector, the file."
"Here, sir," she said and handed it to him.
"Have you heard of a man called Carl Morgan?"
"Billionaire hotel owner, financier amongst other things," Dillon said. "Never out of the society pages in the magazines. He's also closely linked with the Mafia. His uncle is a man called Don Giovanni Luca. In Sicily he's Capo di tutti Capi, Boss of all the bosses."
Ferguson was genuinely impressed. "How on earth do you know all this?"
"Oh, about a thousand years ago when I worked with a certain illegal organization called the IRA, the Sicilian Mafia was one of the sources from which we obtained arms."
"Really," Hannah Bernstein said dryly. "It might be useful to have you sit down and commit everything you remember about how that worked to paper."
"It's a thought," Dillon told her.
She handed him a file. "Have a look at that."
"Delighted."
"I'll make some tea, sir."
She went out and Dillon sat on the windowseat, smoking a cigarette. As he finished, she returned with a tray and he joined them by the fire.
"Fascinating stuff this Chungking Covenant business." There were some photos clipped to the back of the file, one of them of Morgan in polo kit. "The man himself. Looks like an advert for some manly aftershaves."
"He's a dangerous man," Hannah said as she poured tea. "Don't kid yourself."
"I know, girl dear," he said. There were other photos, some showing Morgan with the great and good and a couple with Luca. "He certainly knows everybody."
"You could say that."
"And this?" Dillon asked.
The last photo showed Morgan on his yacht at Cannes Harbor, reclining in a deck chair, a glass of champagne in hand, gazing up at a young girl who leaned on the rail. She looked about sixteen and wore a bikini, blond hair to her shoulders.
"His stepdaughter, Asta, though she uses his name," Hannah told him.
"Swedish?"
"Yes. Taken more than four years ago. She's twenty-one in three weeks or so. We have a photo of her in Tatler somewhere taken with Morgan at Goodwood races. Very, very attractive."
"I'd say Morgan would agree with you, to judge from the way he's looking at her in that picture."
"Why do you say that particularly?" Ferguson asked.
"He smiles a lot usually, he's smiling on all the other photos, but no
t on this one. It's as if he's saying, 'I take you seriously.' Where does the mother fit in? You haven't indicated her on any photos."
"She was drowned a year ago while diving off a Greek island called Hydra."
"An accident?"
"Faulty air tank, that's what the autopsy said, but there's a copy of an investigation mounted by the Athens police here." Hannah produced it from the file. "The Brigadier tells me you're an expert diver. You'll find it interesting."
Dillon read it quickly, then looked up frowning. "No accident this. That valve must have been tampered with. Did it end at that?"
"The police didn't even raise the matter with Morgan. I got this from their dead file courtesy of a friend in Greek Intelligence," Ferguson told him. "Morgan has huge interests in Greek shipping, casinos, hotels. There was an order from the top to kill the investigation."
"They'd never have got anywhere," Hannah said. "Not with the kind of money he has and all that power and influence."
"But what we're saying is he killed his wife or arranged to have it done," Dillon said. "Why would he do that? Was she wealthy?"
"Yes, but nothing like as rich as he is," Ferguson said. "My hunch is that perhaps she'd got to know too much."
"And that's your opinion?" Dillon asked Hannah Bernstein.
"Possibly." She picked up the photo taken on the yacht. "But maybe it was something else. Perhaps he wanted Asta."
Dillon nodded. "That's what I was thinking." He turned to Ferguson. "So what are we going to do on this one?"
Ferguson nodded to Hannah, who took charge. "The house at Loch Dhu, Morgan goes in this coming Monday. The Brigadier and I are going up on Friday, flying to this old RAF station at Ardmurchan, and we move into Ardmurchan Lodge where Kim is already in residence."
"And what about me?"
"You're my nephew," Ferguson said. "My mother was Irish, remember? You'll join us a few days later."
"Why?"
"Our information is that Asta isn't going with Morgan. She's attending a ball at the Dorchester, which is being given by the Brazilian Embassy on Monday night. Morgan was supposed to go and she's standing in for him," Hannah said. "We've discovered that she flies to Glasgow on Tuesday and then intends to take the train to Fort William and from there to Arisaig, where she'll be picked up by car."