Day of Reckoning

5

LONDON

The following morning, Ferguson's plane landed at Farley Field, with the usual pilots, Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Parry, in the cockpit. A Flight Sergeant Madoc had also been on board, to see to the passengers' wants.

It was March weather again, the rain driving in towards the waiting Daimler. Madoc produced an umbrella as the four of them — Ferguson, Dillon, Bernstein and Johnson — went down the steps and led the way. They scrambled into the Daimler, and Ferguson leaned out to the two pilots.

'It could be a busy time ahead, so don't make plans.'

They both smiled. 'Excellent, sir,' Lacey said.

'Just one thing, Lacey. I do think you should wear correct uniform.'

Lacey was staggered. 'Brigadier?'

'Check the promotions list out today. I put you up for Squadron Leader, and for once the Ministry of Defence has acted sensibly. In addition, in view of recent hazardous pursuits at my behest, you've both been awarded the Air Force Cross.'

They stared at him. 'Good God, sir,' Parry said. 'Sincere thanks.'

'Nonsense. Go and have a drink on it.'

Ferguson closed the door, and the chauffeur drove away. Dillon said, 'I always knew it. At heart, you're a sentimentalist.'

'Don't be stupid, Dillon, they've earned it.' Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'We'll drop these two off at Dillon's house, then carry on to my place in Cavendish Square. I suggest you contact Roper as soon as possible to arrange a meeting.'

Blake said, 'Could someone tell me about this Roper guy?'

'Well, you recall the White House Connection and Lady Helen Grant? She wanted to know how to work the computer field in a nefarious way,'Hannah told him. 'She asked the London branch of her organization for help and they sent Roper.'

'A remarkable man,' Ferguson said. 'He was a captain in the Royal Engineers, a bomb disposal expert, awarded the Military Cross and the George Cross, and then he got careless. A silly little car bomb in Belfast ended him up in a wheelchair. Computers became a whole new career for him,and he proved to have a real genius for them. As Lady Helen Grant found out.'

Blake was silent, remembering Lady Helen and the White House Connection case that had so nearly ended in disaster. So Roper had been her computer man.

'I look forward to meeting him,' Blake said.

The Daimler turned into Stable Mews, and Dillon and Blake got out. Hannah said, 'I'll contact Roper straight away.'

Blake carried the bags, and Dillon unlocked the door at the mews house and led the way in. It was small, Victorian, with Turkish carpet runners and wood block floors. The living room was delightful, sofa and chairs in black leather placed among scattered rugs, a superb painting over the fireplace.

'My God, that's fabulous,' Blake said.

A great Victorian painter, Atkinson Grimshaw. Liam Devlin gave it to me. Remember him?'

'How could I forget? He saved our bacon. Is he still around?'

'Ninety years old and pretending to be seventy-five. Come on, I'll show you your room. Then we'll go to the King's Head on the other side of the square for what we call great pub grub in England.'

'Sean, I know what great pub grub is. It's usually the best food in London. So lead the way.'

As they were sitting in the King's Head, drinking Guinness and eating shepherd's pie, Dillon's coded mobile rang faintly.

Hannah said, 'I've contacted Roper. He lives on Regency Square, only half a mile from you.'

'Shall we go round?'

'No, he said he prefers the exercise. He operates one of those state-of-the-art electric wheelchairs. He hates being regarded as a cripple.'

'I hear what you're saying, dear girl.'

'He'll see you at Stable Mews at two-thirty.'

'We'll be there.'

‘Another thing. I put out a search on the Special Branch computer. Guess who's arriving at Gatwick this evening? Jack Fox, Aldo Falcone and Giovanni Russo.',

'As Ferguson would say, quite delicious. This should prove interesting.'

He put the phone down, turned to Blake, and filled him in.

An hour later, at Stable Mews, it was Blake who happened to be at the sitting room window and looking out into the street, when he witnessed the arrival of the strange young man in the electric wheelchair. The man wore a navy blue reefer coat, a white scarf at his throat. When Blake went into the hall, Dillon already had the door open.

'Ah, Mr Dillon. I've seen your face on my computer. Roper's the name.'

He had hair to his shoulders, hollow cheeks and very blue eyes. His face was a taut mask of scar tissue, the kind you only got from burns.

'Come in,' Dillon said cheerfully.

'Only if you help me over the step. It's the one thing these gadgets can't manage.'

Dillon obliged, then pushed him along the hall into the kitchen, Blake following.

Roper said, 'What I could really do with is a nice cup of tea.' He turned to Blake. 'Lieutenant.'

Blake smiled. 'Should I say "sir"?'

'Of course. I outrank you.'

Forty-five miles later they'd filled him in on everything they needed from him. Roper said. 'Fine. I'll go into everything. The Solazzo family, Jack Fox, the Colosseum operation, these Jago brothers. Oh, and this Brendan Murphy. I remember the name from my Irish service. A hard man, as I recall.'

'No, a fanatic, Brendan,' Dillon said. 'I had dealings with him in the old days. Hates the peace process, and now we hear he's into arms dumps — and possibly worse, this hint of an involvement with Saddam in Beirut.'

'So I'll access Army HQ at Lisburn, the RUC, the Garda in Dublin, maybe the Security Services.'

'You can do that?' Dillon asked.

'Dillon, I can even access your lot, and Ferguson probably knows that. I'm the hand of God, so leave it with me.'

'Okay,' Blake said. 'But in case you don't know, Fox turns up in London this evening, plus his two minders.'

'Falcone and Russo.' Roper smiled tranquilly. 'Mafia hard men. Ireland was my business for eleven years and terrorists were my enemy, but in a strange way you can empathize with your enemy, both IRA and Loyalists. These two wouldn't last half an hour in Derry or Belfast.'

'So, what happens now?' Blake asked.

Well, from what I've been told, you want to see the Colosseum severely damaged.'

'Exactly.'

'Good. Then wheel me out into the street and I'll go home and organize it.'

Blake said, 'You'll be able to do it, then?'

Roper nodded. 'No problem. God wouldn't have given some people brains if He'd wanted the scum to inherit the earth.' He turned to Dillon. 'I'll see you at six at my place in Regency Square. You will then put into operation what I tell you to. Is that acceptable?'

'Bloody cheek,' said Dillon, but then he smiled. 'I'm sure it Will be, so let's get on with it,' and Dillon wheeled him out.

Roper's apartment in Regency Square was on the ground floor, with a slope to the front door for his wheelchair. Everything from the bathroom to the kitchen had been designed for a handicapped person. In what would have been the sitting room was a kind of computer laboratory, with every kind of equipment on view on a workbench.

He answered the door when Dillon, Blake and Hannah Bernstein arrived. 'Ah, there you are.'

He led the way through to the sitting room. 'Here we are, then.' He tapped a keyboard and the screen started to fill. 'Colosseum Casino, Smith Street. General Manager, Angelo Mori. Minders, Francesco Cameci, Tino Rossi.' Photos appeared. After a while, he tapped again and ground plans came up.

'Lots of security,' Blake said.

'Not if you know your way in.'

'So what would be the point?' Dillon asked.

A top casino stands on its reputation. The slightest hint of scandal, and the Gaming Act enters into it and the place can be dosed down.'

There was silence. Dillon said, 'And how do we achieve that?'

'Tonight will tell you, if you do what I say and go in hard.'

'You mean go in feloniously, Captain,' Hannah said. 'That sums it up. You want this bastard, we go for the throat.'

Dillon said, 'That suits me, and as the Superintendent knows, I've been guaranteed the full cooperation of the Department by Brigadier Ferguson, so let's hear what you have in mind.'

'It's very simple. What's one of the oldest games of chance in the world? They loved it at the height of the Roman Empire. They still love it.'

Blake smiled. 'Craps.'

'Exactly. You simply throw the dice and pray the right number comes up. People can't resist.'

Dillon said, 'So what do you want?'

'Dice, old boy. Steal me some dice.'

'Why?' Blake asked.

'Because every casino has its own made to order. Unique. Of course, once I have them at my workbench I make a slight adjustment, put a spot of lead inside, and they become what's known in the trade as loaded dice. Now, if the house is using loaded dice, the punters are bound to lose.'

'But how do you make the house actually use the loaded dice?' Blake asked.

'That's the whole point about having house dice. You or Dillon join the crowd making a wager. When your turn comes and the dealer gives you the dice, you palm them and use the ones I've doctored. They'll have the house logo on them, so everyone will assume they're the real thing. Of course, it will be necessary to bring this unfortunate situation to the attention of the other gamblers. The results could be devastating for the casino.'

'You wicked man, you,' Dillon said.

'You or Blake, I think, should be the ones. I wouldn't dream of asking the Superintendent.' He smiled at Hannah. 'I happen to know you're Jewish Orthodox, with a rabbi for a grandfather.'

She smiled. 'My grandfather might surprise you. His poker is deadly.'

Dillon said, 'Sounds good to me. So what's the plan?'

At ten o'clock that evening, Jack Fox arrived at the Colosseum, backed by Falcone and Russo. He was stopped at the door by a large man in evening dress.

'Membership card, sir.'

'I don't need one. I own this casino.'

'Very funny.'

The bouncer put a hand on Fox's shoulder and Russo said,

'You want me to break your right arm? You just made the biggest mistake of your life.'

'Signor Fox, what a pleasure,' a voice called, and Angelo Mori, the general manager, rushed down the stairs, followed by his two minders. 'Is there a problem?'

'Hell, no,' Fox said, and smiled at the bouncer. 'What's your name?'

'Henry, sir.' He looked very worried.

'You're doing a good job, Henry.' Fox took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-pound note, and slipped it into Henry's breast pocket. 'In fact, you're doing a great job. Anyone else comes in and says they own the joint, kick them in the balls.'

There was sweat on Henry's forehead. 'Yes, sir, anything you say.'

Inside, the main room was crowded, every kind of game in progress. Fox nodded approvingly. 'Looks good. How's the cash flow?'

'Terrific.'

Fox turned to Mori's minders, Cameci and Rossi. 'You two behaving yourselves?' He used Italian.

'Absolutely,' Rossi told him. 'Don Marco is well?'

If this seemed overly familiar, it wasn't. Rossi came from the same village as the Solazzo family, close to Corleone in Sicily.

'He is very well,' Fox continued in Italian. 'And I appreciate your concern.' He turned to Mori. 'We just flew in, and I'm starving. The restaurant is still open, I trust.'

'For you, it never closes, Signore.'

'Fifty,' Tony answered.

Harold said, 'Shut your mouth,' and turned back to Fox. I'll read the file, but I can tell you now we're in, Jack. Leave the team to me.'

'Good man.' Fox smiled. 'Now, let's have a bottle of champagne on it.'

The casino dosed at two in the morning; by three all was quiet, with only a security guard in the office by the main entrance, watching TV.

Along the street beside the basement entrance was a grey British Telecom van. The rear door opened and Blake Johnson, wearing a hard hat and yellow oilskins, got out, carrying two grappling hooks, and lifted a manhole cover in the pavement. Dillon passed him an inspection lamp and a red warning light saying: Danger. Men at Work. He then passed some canvas screens and an awning against the rain. There was an army of wires and switches. Blake tried to take an interest.

Inside the van Roper, in a wheelchair, sat opposite a very simple-looking computer set-up. Dillon, in black tee shirt and jeans, crouched beside him. Roper punched the keys.

'How's it looking?' Dillon asked.

'So far, so good. Don't worry, the great Roper is never wrong.' There was the sound of a car slowing outside and he raised a hand. 'Wait.'

Blake looked out from under the awning, the rain pitiless. The police patrol car slowed, the driver leaned out.

'What a bloody way to make a living at this time in the morning.'

'You, too,' Blake told him, putting on his best British accent.

The policeman smiled and drove away.

Dillon said, 'Let's do it.'

'Fine. As I told you, I can screw the entire security system, but only for fifteen minutes, so you'll need to be fast.'

'Hell, I've been all over those ground plans you showed me. I know where I'm going.'

'You better had. I'm starting now, so count to ten and get down to that basement door.'

Various lights flickered on the screen, reds and greens, there came a faint sound, and then Dillon was out of there, past Blake and down to the basement, pulling up his hood.

He had a small flashlight, but really didn't need it, for there were subdued security lights everywhere. He had no worries about cameras. As Roper had told him, they were frozen, too.

Remembering the ground plans from the computer screen, he went up the steps fast, passed through the kitchens, and emerged by the entrance to the restaurant. He could see into the glass office by the main door. The security guard was fiddling with the TV, which had gone off.

Dillon slipped through the shadows into the main gambling room and round the right table. There was a tray of dice on the table, all very neat, but he left them alone, and instead dropped to one knee by the right-hand side of the table, where the dealer stood. There was a stack of dice there.

He took six, no more, and put them into his pocket, turned, and went out fast.

The security guard was still arguing with the TV. Dillon slipped through the shadow, went down the steps, and speeded into the basement, closing the door behind him. He stepped past Blake, gave him a thumbs-up, and went into the van. He took the six dice from his pocket and put them on the bench in front of Roper.

'There you go.'

'Thirteen minutes,' Roper said. 'You did well.' He tapped the keys and sat back. 'Everything normal again.' 'Now what?'

'We clear up and get out of here.'

Dillon removed his hood and went out to Blake. 'It worked. I got what he wanted, so let's get moving. I'll help you.' 'Okay,' Blake said.

Dillon collapsed the screens and awning and put them into the truck, while Blake replaced the manhole cover. A few moments later, they drove away, Dillon at the wheel.

At Roper's place in Regency Square, they sat and watched him at the bench examining the dice with an eyeglass.

'Will it be okay?' Blake asked.

'Of course it will, old boy. Being a perfectionist, however, I prefer solitude when engaged in sensitive work, so be good and dear off. You won't be able to use these things until tomorrow night anyway, so I've got all the time in the world.'

Dillon nodded to Blake and they stood up. 'We'll check in tomorrow, then.'

'You do that,' Roper said, ignoring them completely as he picked up a tiny electric drill of the kind used by jewellers.

The following morning at eight, Dillon's phone rang, and Ferguson said, 'As I've had no intimations of disaster, you must have pulled it off last night.'

'Absolutely. We're in Roper's hands now.'

'What are you and Blake up to?'

'We're going to the King's Head for a full English breakfast.'

'I can't wait to join you.'

Which he did half an hour later, accompanied by Hannah Bernstein. They all ordered, and Ferguson said, 'You haven't checked with Roper yet?'

'Give him a chance, sir,' Hannah said, as the waiter arrived with the breakfasts on a large tray.

Dillon said, 'Pass your bacon to me, Hannah. I wouldn't want to put your fine Jewish principles under siege.' 'You're so kind, Dillon.'

And then the door opened with a bang and Roper surged in. 'Smells great.' He turned to the waiter. 'The same for me.'

'I must say, you look astonishingly well,' Ferguson said.

'You mean for a cripple who hasn't been to bed all night?' Roper asked, and took the six dice from his pocket and rolled them on the table. They all came up ones. 'Snake eyes.' He turned to Blake. 'Isn't that what you call them in Vegas?'

'It sure as hell is.'

'Excellent. God help Jack Fox and the Colosseum this evening. I think I'll go and watch.'

'You have to be a member,' Hannah Bernstein said.

'Which, thanks to my computer, I am. In fact, you all are.' The waiter appeared with his breakfast. 'My God, this looks good.' He picked up a knife and fork and got to work. 'I assume it had occurred to you that if Dillon and Blake wanted to create mayhem in the Colosseum tonight, they also needed to be members?'

'Of course it did.' Ferguson smiled. 'And I knew you'd take care of it. It'll be an interesting night ahead of us, I think.' 'You can sure as hell say that,' Blake agreed.