Drink With The Devil

NINE

THE FOLLOWING DAY was Thursday, and when Dillon went into Hannah Bernstein’s office on the third floor at the Ministry of Defence it was just before noon.

“My God, Dillon, what time do you call this? He’s been asking for you.”

“The hard night I had, girl dear. In fact, I only came in to ask you to have a delicious light luncheon with me.”

“You’re quite mad.” She pressed her intercom. “He’s here, Brigadier.”

“Send him in.” There was a pause. “And you, Chief Inspector.”

She led the way, opening the door for Dillon, who advanced to the desk, where Ferguson was working at a pile of papers. He didn’t look up.

“God save the good work,” Dillon said and waited. Ferguson ignored him and the Irishman laughed. “God save you kindly is the correct answer to that, Brigadier.”

Ferguson sat back. “I am well aware that as a boy you went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, Dillon. I am well aware that you actually acted with the National Theatre.”

“Lyngstrand in The Lady from the Sea. Ibsen that was,” Dillon reminded him.

“Until you decided to take up the theater of the street for the IRA. As my mother, God rest her, was Irish, I do my best to understand you, but your constant role of the stage Irishman proves wearisome.”

“God save us, Your Honor, but I’ll try to mend my ways.”

“For God’s sake, be serious. You’re leaving me with egg on my face because of this ridiculous bet with Carter. You know how much the Intelligence Service hates our very existence. They’d like nothing better than to make me look a fool in front of the Prime Minister.”

“Don’t I know that?” Dillon said. “That’s why I thought I’d make Carter look the fool.”

Ferguson frowned. “Are you seriously telling me you think you can?”

“Of course.”

The Brigadier frowned. “Where have you been? It’s almost noon.”

“I had a hard night preparing the way, so to speak.”

“Tell me.”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Dillon said. “But one thing I’ll promise you. The next time you’ll see me will be at ten-thirty tomorrow morning on the Terrace together with the President of the United States and the Prime Minister.”

Ferguson sat back staring at him. “My God, Sean, you actually think you can do it?”

“I know I can, Brigadier, and watch yourself. You just called me Sean.”

“Are you going to tell me how?”

“Aspects of it are so illegal that it’s better you shouldn’t know. I’ll discuss it with this good-looking woman here if I can take her to lunch.”

Ferguson laughed in spite of himself. “Oh, go on, you rogue. Get out of here, but if it costs me five hundred pounds it comes out of your salary.”

They returned to Hannah’s office. She said, “You really think you can pull it off?”

“Nothing is impossible to the great Dillon. A magician, that’s what British Intelligence called me in the great days in Ulster. They never laid hands on me once, Hannah, your lot. The master of disguise. Did I tell you about the time I dressed as a woman?”

“I don’t want to know this, Dillon, because if I do, I have to consider how many you killed.”

“Fighting a war, Hannah, that’s what I was doing, but that was then and this is now. Get your coat and we’ll away. I am right about Jewish people? No shellfish, but you can eat smoked salmon?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Good. Krug champagne, scrambled eggs, and smoked salmon, the best in town.”

“But where?”

He held her coat for her. “Jesus, girl, but will you stop asking all these questions?”

HE TOOK HER to the Piano Bar at the Dorchester, the best in London with its magnificent mirrored ceiling, was greeted by the manager as an old friend, and led to a booth. Dillon ordered his usual, Krug champagne non-vintage and scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, and a salad for both of them.

“God, but you live well, Dillon,” she said. “That’s an Armani suit you’re wearing and you can afford these prices.”

“I’m still trying to spend some of that six hundred thousand pounds I got out of Michael Aroun for failing to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet at Number Ten during the Gulf War.”

“You’ve no shame, have you? None at all?”

“Why pretend? It’s what I was and it’s what I am. The same man, Hannah my love, and times you’ve been glad of it.”

The champagne came, was opened, and poured. He toasted her. “To the best-looking policeman in London.”

“That kind of flattery gets you nowhere. Now tell me what’s going on.”

WHEN HE WAS finished, she gazed at him in horror. “You used me, you used privileged police intelligence to get a notorious gangster and his men off the hook?”

“He’s not such a bad old stick.” Dillon sipped some champagne. “And I needed him.”

“How could you do such a thing?”

“Come off it, Hannah. Ferguson does things to suit himself all the time. What about that Lithuanian bastard, Platoff, the other month? If ever a man deserved to be shot it was him, but he was more useful to us than the other people, so Ferguson did a deal and, as I remember, you brokered it.”

She glared at him. “Damn you, Dillon.”

“Sure and you look lovely when you’re angry.” The waiter approached at that moment with their food. “Eat up like a good girl.”

“Dillon, you are a sexist pig.”

“And you are a nice Jewish girl who should be having babies and making her husband’s life miserable instead of shooting people on behalf of Scotland Yard.”

She laughed, in spite of herself. “This is lovely. So tell me how you intend to do it.”

“The river. I’ll swim in.”

“But the current there can be ferocious with the tide running. It’s suicide, Dillon. You mustn’t.”

“Yes, you’re right. That’s why the Terrace is a weak spot in the security system.”

“But how can you hope to get away with it?”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” and he explained.

THE RIVER QUEEN was still tied up at Cable Wharfe when Dillon turned up in the Toyota at eleven o’clock that evening. The pub was just closing and he sat there watching the last customers emerge and walk away toward Wapping High Street. The barmaid stood at the door talking to Billy. She closed the door and he crossed to the boat.

Dillon got out of the Toyota. “Good man yourself, Billy, could you be giving me a hand?”

Billy looked at him, a kind of reluctant admiration on his face. “You know you’re mad, don’t you? I mean, my uncle’s told me what you’re up to. Crazy. For one thing, you won’t even get into the Terrace. The current’s real murder out there.”

“If I don’t get back you can sell the Toyota. My hand on it.”

He held it out and Billy shook it instinctively. “Mad bastard. Okay, what have we got here?” and he opened the rear door of the van.

IN THE SALOON, Dillon laid out his gear watched by Salter and the other three. There was his heavy nylon diving suit with hood, nylon socks, and gloves.

“You’re going to need that bleeding lot,” Salter told him. “That water’s bloody cold tonight.”

“I never thought it wouldn’t be.”

Dillon laid out his fins and clipped the air tank he’d brought to the inflatable. He checked his weight belt, then opened a hang bag and took out a small Halogen lamp and a waterproof purse.

“You won’t need that lamp,” Salter said. “I’ve passed the Terrace regularly in the early hours and they leave that row of Victorian lamps on. Even if you get there, Dillon, you could get done. They must have security guards prowling. One glimpse and you’ve had it.”

“Yes, well I know that.” Dillon opened the waterproof pouch and checked the contents.

“And what’s that?”

“Picklocks. I need to get into one of the storerooms, as I told you, to spend the rest of the night.”

Salter shook his head. “And you know how to use those things.” He shook his head. “No, don’t answer that. With that accent of yours, are you sure you’re not going to shoot the Prime Minister?”

“Perish the thought.” Dillon unzipped a waterproof bag and checked the contents.

“And what have you got there?” Salter asked.

“White shirt, bow tie, nice white jacket, black slacks and shoes.” Dillon smiled. “After all, I am supposed to be a waiter.”

He zipped the bag up again and Billy fell about laughing. “Dillon, I like you, I really do. You’re crazy, you don’t give a stuff, just like me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dillon stood up and looked down at his gear. “That’s it, then.” He turned. “I’m in your hands now, Harry.”

“All right, my old son, let’s go over it.”

THERE WAS A very large scale map on the table and they all gathered round it. “Here we go. House of Commons, Embankment opposite, and there’s Westminster Bridge. Now I’m telling you, this is one of the worst times of the year. A very high tide, turning around three o’clock in the morning, and to float you in I need the tide on the turn and driving down river, but it’s an abnormal speed. A good five knots. Maybe you should consider that.”

“I have,” Dillon told him.

“There’s no way you can control that current by swimming. It’s too strong. But if you’re hanging on the stern as I approach and I drop you at just the right moment, you could have a chance.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “It’ll do me.”

“Crazy.” Salter shook his head. “Crazy.”

Dillon grinned, found a packet of cigarettes, and went out on deck, standing under the canopy and looked at the rain. Salter joined him.

“I love this old river.” He leaned against the bulkhead. “I was a river rat when I was a kid. My old man did a runner and my mum did bits of cleaning to keep body and soul together. Anything I could nick I did, fags, booze, anything.”

“And progressed from there.”

“I’ve never done drugs, never done women, that’s filth as far as I’m concerned. Mind you, I’ve always been a hard bastard. I’ve killed in my time, but only some sod who was out to kill me.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve been at war with the world for more than twenty years.”

“With that accent, does that mean what I think it does?”

Dillon said, “Not any longer, Harry, I do work for a rather shadowy branch of the Security Services. Let’s leave it at that.”

“All right, my old son.” Salter grinned. “But with what you’ve got ahead of you, you’re going to need food in your belly. We’ll all go up to Wapping High Street. Best fish-and-chips shop in London, there.”

JUST BEFORE THREE the River Queen passed under Westminster Bridge and turned, fighting the surging tide. The deck lights were out, only a subdued light in the wheelhouse. Dillon’s gear was laid out in the stern and Salter stood there with him.

“I’m going to take over from Billy at the wheel. When he comes down here he’ll have a two-way radio. You hang off at the stern. You’ll be okay as far as the propellers go. With the design of this boat they’re well underneath.”

“Then what?”

“At what I consider the right moment I’ll call Billy on the radio, and when he gives you the shout, you go. If I get it right, the current should bang you against the Terrace. If I don’t, God help you.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Dillon grinned. “You’re a hell of a fella.”

“Get stuffed, you bloody lunatic,” Salter told him and walked away.

Dillon turned to Hall and Baxter, who stood waiting. “All right, lads, let’s get this lot on.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, he hung on a line from the stern rail, his two equipment bags trailing from his belt, aware of Billy leaning over the rail above him. They were in the shadows, the water very turbulent, and Dillon was conscious of the fierceness of the current. And then Billy called down to him and he let go the line.

HE WENT DOWN five or six feet and the force of the current was incredible, like a great hand seizing him in a relentless grip. He was thrown to the surface, was aware of the River Queen disappearing into the dark, of the lights of the Victorian lamps on the terrace, and then he went under again. A moment later he banged against the stonework of the Terrace, surfaced, and cannoned into the scaffolding that dropped down into the water at the division of the Lords and Commons.

He hung there for a long moment and then unbuckled his inflatable and air tank and let the current take them. He did the same with his fins and mask, paused, then started to climb. He went over the parapet, trailing his two equipment bags, and crouched in the shadows.

A door opened further along the Terrace and a security guard appeared. He walked forward, stood at the parapet, and lit a cigarette, the smoke pungent on the damp air. Dillon waited for five agonizing minutes until finally the man tossed the stub of his cigarette into the river, turned, and went back inside.

Dillon unfastened the lines of his equipment bags, then unzipped his diving suit and stood there naked except for swimming trunks. He dropped the diving suit into the river, then picked up the equipment bags and went to the side of the Terrace Bar where there were storerooms. He opened the small equipment bag, took out the Halogen lamp, and opened the purse containing the picklocks. He switched on the lamp and went to work. It took him less than five minutes and the door opened.

He made a quick exploration. There were stacks of towels and tablecloths, cartons of wine glasses. There were also two toilets and a washbasin in another room at the rear. He opened the larger equipment bag, took out the clothes it contained, and a towel he had put in. He dried himself thoroughly, took off the swimming trunks, and dressed in the waiter’s clothes he had brought.

He checked his watch. It was now a quarter to four. Depending on what time the Terrace staff started, he had about four to five hours to kill. There was a sizeable stock cupboard with various kinds of linen inside. There was no key in the door so he locked it from the inside, arranged some piles of towels into a rough bed. It was surprising how cheerful he felt.

“Harry will be pleased,” he thought and fell almost instantly asleep.

HE CAME AWAKE with a start, aware of the door handle rattling. He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost nine o’clock. He heard a voice call, “The bloody door’s locked. I’ll go and see if I can find a key.”

Footsteps retreated, the outer door opened and closed. Dillon opened the door in seconds, moved into one of the toilet stalls, and locked it. He waited, and after a while the outer door opened and someone entered. There were two of them, because after the door was opened a man said, “Right, take those tablecloths and get cracking.”

A woman said, “All right, Mr. Smith.”

The door banged and the man started whistling and moving around. After a while he moved into the next toilet stall and sat down and lit a cigarette. Dillon flushed the toilet and went out. The man’s white jacket hung on a peg by the basin, a plastic identity card on the jacket. Dillon unpinned it and fastened it to his own jacket so that it was half obscured by his lapel.

When he went outside, the Terrace was already a scene of activity, waiters everywhere at work in the bar and making up tables. Dillon picked up a napkin from a table, draped it over one arm, and reached for a tray. He went straight out past two security guards and up the steps.

FOR AN HOUR he went walkabout, visiting restaurants, not only in the Commons but the House of Lords, keeping constantly on the move, his tray at the ready. Not once was he challenged. God knows what Ferguson would make of that. As for Carter…

It was just after ten that he made his way back to the Terrace. It was a hive of activity. He went in past the security guards and paused. A gray-haired man in black coat and striped trousers was ordering waiters here and there, telling them what to do. He didn’t even give Dillon a second glance when he spoke to him.

“You – canapés from the rear table.”

“Yes, sir,” Dillon said.

He stood against the wall with other waiters, and a few moments later Members of Parliament started to flood in. It was amazing how quickly the Terrace filled up, and the waiters got to work and served refreshments. Dillon did his bit, taking a tray of canapés around, and then he caught sight of Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Carter entering.

Dillon turned away but stood close enough to hear Carter say, “Sorry for you, Ferguson, that little bastard’s left you with egg on your face.”

“If you say so,” Ferguson said.

A moment later, an announcement sounded over the Tannoy. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister and the President of the United States.”

They came through the entrance and stood there and the crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Dillon crossed to the table, picked up a canapé dish with a lid, hovered over it for a moment, then turned. The President and the Prime Minister were moving through the crowd, pausing to speak to people. They reached Simon Carter, Ferguson, and Hannah Bernstein and stopped.

Dillon heard the President say, “Brigadier Ferguson. Good to see you again.” He greeted Carter, then Hannah.

Dillon walked forward. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

He was aware of the look of amazement on Hannah’s face, of Ferguson’s incredulous frown, and on Carter’s face nothing but shock. Dillon lifted the lid of the canapé dish disclosing a five-pound note nestling on top.

“Your fiver, sir.”

Carter was incandescent with rage, but the most interesting reaction was from President Clinton. “Why, Mr. Dillon, is that you?” he said.

IT WAS THE middle of the afternoon and they were together in Ferguson’s office, the three of them.

There was a look of unholy joy on Ferguson’s face. “You cunning Irish bastard.”

“And you a half one.”

“The look on Carter’s face. Delicious. I had to explain to the President and the Prime Minister, of course, which didn’t help Carter. The President thought it was fantastic. I must tell you that after our previous help to him with the peace process in Ireland last year he had a high opinion of you, Dillon. It’s now even higher. So, how did you do it?”

“From the river, Brigadier, but I’d rather not get into details.”

Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Do you know, Chief Inspector?”

“I’m afraid I do, sir.”

“As bad as that, is it?”

“Let’s put it this way. The background to it is so criminal that if I were still working for Special Branch at Scotland Yard I’d have no other choice but to read Dillon his rights and arrest him. However, under the peculiar circumstances of my employment with you, such considerations do not apply.”

“Good God.” Ferguson shook his head. “Still, I knew what I was taking on when I recruited you, Dillon, only myself to blame. Go about your business, the both of you,” and he opened a file in front of him.

AT THE SAME time at Green Rapids Detention Center Kathleen Ryan and her uncle walked through the park. There were as usual, thanks to the warden’s liberal visitation policy, a large number of visitors. Paolo Salamone walked some little distance behind. He had received a phone call from Sollazo as his lawyer just after breakfast.

It had been brief and to the point. “Regarding the matter we discussed the other day and the individual concerned, any further information would certainly help your case.”

Salamone hadn’t known such excitement in a long time. There was a real chance now, with Sollazo and the Don on his side, that he might get some review of his sentence and anything was worth that, which was why he kept an eye out for the Kelly girl. He knew from talking to her uncle that she mainly worked the night shift at the hospital, which was why she was able to visit three, sometimes four times a week.

They didn’t seem to be talking much and he saw them stroll toward one of the small rustic shelters beside the lake. Salamone hurried through a small plantation of trees behind the hut and stood at the back. He could hear them talking quite plainly.

“You seem depressed today, girl.”

“And why shouldn’t I be, you in here like a caged animal.”

“Little I can do about that, little anyone can do.”

“You know, when they transferred you here I was full of hope. That’s why I saw that fella Cassidy you shared a cell with once at Ossining and got the forged passports. I thought there would be a chance of making a break,” Kathleen said.

“Not from here. You know why the regime here is so liberal. Because the security is so tight. Every modern electronic marvel on these walls, cameras scrutinizing every move. I’m going to die here, Kathleen, and that’s the truth of it. Time we talked about your future, time you moved on, and when you decide to go, I’ve things to say.”

“Such as?”

“It can wait.”

“Then don’t talk rubbish. How’s your health?”

“Not bad. I take the pills, do as I’m told. They’ll be taking me down to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning for another heart scan.”

“I’m on the night shift, but I’ll go in and look out for you. I’ll see you again tomorrow anyway, I’ve got the time in the morning. Around eleven.”

“That’s nice.”

They got up and walked away and Salamone went back up through the trees.

As they approached the security gates, Kathleen said, “Are you still on the same pills?”

“No, a new one.” He took a plastic bottle from his shirt pocket. “There you go.”

She checked it. “Dazane?” That’s a new one on me. I’ll check it out at the hospital.” She gave the bottle back to him and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be seeing you.”

SALAMONE PHONED THROUGH to Sollazo’s office using one of the prisoners’ call boxes. The secretary was dubious. Mr. Sollazo was busy, but she finally gave in to Salamone’s persistence and put him through.

“What have you got?” Sollazo asked. “It better be good.”

“I overheard Kelly and his niece talking. She talked about how she’d hoped he’d be able to make a break when he transferred from Ossining to Green Rapids. Some chance. Nobody’s crashed out of here since it opened.”

“So why should this interest me?”

“She was talking about false passports she’d got from some forger called Cassidy, who used to share a cell with Kelly at Ossining.”

“Now that is interesting,” Sollazo said. “Anything else?”

“Not really. Oh, yes, he’s going to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning to have a heart scan. As I said, he suffers from angina. By the way, she said she was going to see him again in the morning at eleven.”

“You’ve done well, Paolo, keep up the good work. Just one thing I didn’t tell you. Liam Kelly is actually Michael Ryan, once a big activist in Irish politics on the Protestant side, and never take him for granted. He’s killed more men than he can remember.”

“Jesus!” Salamone said.

“His niece is Kathleen Ryan. She, too, has killed in her time. These aren’t ordinary crooks, Paolo, they are revolutionaries and, as we know, such people are like wild dogs, a little touched in the head. Never take them for granted.”

“I won’t, Mr. Sollazo, and you’ll do what you can for me?”

“That goes without saying.”

Sollazo put down the phone, sat there thinking about it, then buzzed his secretary. “Find Mori for me, he should be somewhere about.”

He went back to the legal brief in front of him, smiling slightly as he saw the fatal flaw in the District Attorney’s case. There was a knock at the door and Mori entered.

“Yes, Signore,” he said in Sicilian.

Sollazo sat back. “I’ve heard from Salamone, more information on Ryan and his niece. It seems she got false passports from a forger called Cassidy, who shared a cell with Ryan in Sing-Sing. Find him and bring him to me. Somebody will know him.”

“No problem,” Mori told him. “I’ll make a few calls,” and he went out.

IT WAS ONLY one and a half hours later that he parked his limousine outside the small photo and print shop on a Bronx side street and entered. A black youth was attending a machine that churned out holiday snaps.

He paused and came to the counter. “Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Cassidy. Tell him he’s wanted.”

“He’s in the back, I’ll get him.”

“No need, kid, I’ll handle it myself.”

Mori went behind the counter and opened the door. Cassidy, a small balding man with wire spectacles, was working on what to Mori looked like a share certificate.

Mori said, “Up to your old tricks?”

Cassidy, who knew trouble when he saw it, stood up. “What is this?” he blustered.

“I represent the Russo family, and Don Antonio’s nephew and lawyer, Mr. Marco Sollazo, would appreciate your help in a small matter.”

Cassidy went very pale and removed his spectacles with a shaking hand. “Anything I can do.”

“I thought you’d feel like that. You do a nice line in false passports, and I take it you’re the careful kind of guy who keeps records. Am I right?”

Cassidy licked his lips nervously. “That’s right. Who are we talking about?”

“A guy you shared a cell with at Ossining, Liam Kelly. His niece came to see you some time ago.”

“Sure,” Cassidy said. “I’ve got all the details.”

“Then stick them in a file and let’s go. Mr. Sollazo doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“IRISH PASSPORTS YOU say?” Sollazo said to Cassidy, who stood before his desk.

“Sure, Mr. Sollazo, in the names of Daniel and Nancy Forbes. There was no problem getting a current photo of Kelly. They have one of those photo machines at the prison. They’re always needing pictures for various security tags the cons use up there.”

“When was this?”

“Eighteen months ago. They’re current passports of the European Community variety with brown covers. Kelly’s supposed to be an artist. I thought that was good because he paints in his cell.”

“And the girl?”

“Nurse, which is what she is.”

“I know,” Sollazo said. “And this was first-class work?”

“Oh, sure, entry and exit stamps for everywhere from Hong Kong to the U.K. I even gave them visas for Egypt. Good work, I swear on my life, Mr. Sollazo.”

“I’m sure you’re telling the truth.” Sollazo turned to Mori. “If he proves false, Giovanni, you have my permission to break both his legs and arms.”

“A pleasure.” Mori didn’t even smile.

Cassidy was sweating. “Please, Mr. Sollazo, I’m an honest guy.”

Sollazo burst out laughing. “Get out of here.”

Mori saw him through the door, then returned.

“Anything else, Signore?”

“Yes, I want you to go and see Salamone. It seems Ryan is being taken to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning for a heart scan. Find out all you can, how the system works when they take one of the inmates for that kind of check.”

“Does the Signore mean what I think he means?”

“Perhaps. Afterwards, check out the hospital. I don’t need to tell you to be discreet. You always are.”

“Thank you, Signore,” Mori said, face impassive, and went out, and Sollazo went back to work.

SALAMONE WAS DESPERATELY afraid of Mori, but then most people were, for he was the Russo family’s most feared enforcer, so he received him with some trepidation. They walked over the grass toward the lake and Mori told him why he had come.

Salamone, eager to please, was more than helpful. “They use a special security ambulance to take guys down to the hospital. I’ve gone myself when they’ve had a stretcher case needing a nurse.”

“How many guards?”

“The driver and a guy riding shotgun beside him. Usually another two in the back with the cons. It depends how many, but I can tell you Tuesday morning is light, just Kelly or Ryan, or whatever they call him, and a guy called Bryant, who’s going to have a keyhole op on his prostate. I’ve seen the schedule.”

“Fine,” Mori said. “So where would they take Ryan?”

“Third floor. There’s a clinic there called General Heart Surgery.”

“So a guard takes him up there or two maybe?”

“Usually one. I mean, the guy has a heart condition. He’s handcuffed, of course.”

“At all times?”

“Not while he’s having treatment.”

“Good,” Mori said. “That’s all I need to know. You know the old saying from Sicily? ‘Keep the tongue in the mouth or it gets cut out.”’

“Jesus, Giovanni.” Paolo sounded shocked. “I mean, I love my Don.”

“Sure you do.” Mori patted his face and walked away.

THE HOSPITAL CAR park was full, but someone pulled out as Mori arrived, so Mori took the space which he noted was reserved for the Chief of Surgery. He went in through the main entrance. It was very modern, lots of tiling and high technology, staff everywhere, nurses in uniform, doctors in white coats, and many people who were presumably visitors.

He strode confidently through the concourse and took a lift to the fourth floor quite deliberately. The corridor he stepped out into was very quiet. A door opposite said Storeroom, then there was an elevator with very wide doors, obviously designed to carry stretchers and trolleys. Next to it a door said Staff Rest Room. Mori opened it without hesitation and went in.

There were washbasins and toilet cubicles and a row of pegs, some of them occupied by overalls and white coats, one of which had a plastic security card pinned to it in the name of a Doctor Lynn, Radiology. Mori put it on and went out.

He took the elevator down to the third floor, exited, and strolled confidently along, looking for the clinic Salamone had described, and there it was. General Heart Surgery. He opened the swing door and went in.

There were two or three patients on the benches, a young black nurse at reception. She looked up and smiled and Mori put his hands in his pockets so that the white coat parted just in case she knew the name on the identity card.

“Can I help you, Doctor?”

“I’m new, I’m afraid, Radiology. I’ve got to see a patient up here on Tuesday morning, an inmate from Green Rapids Detention Center. I was just checking. You know, getting my bearings. A heart patient.”

“Oh, sure, Mr. Kelly. He’s been here on several occasions. Yes, you’re in the right place. Clinic Three right down the hall, that’s where he’s treated.”

“Well, thank you,” Mori told her and went down the hall. He glanced through the round window in the door of Clinic Three, saw a patient on a trolley, a nurse bending over him.

He passed on to a door marked Fire Exit, opened it, and found himself in a quiet corridor. The doors opposite were marked Freight Elevator. He called it up and when it arrived, punched the basement button. When he stepped out, he found doors standing wide to an underground car park, walked through, and found himself in the car park where he had left his limousine. He stood there smiling, then went and opened the driver’s door, took off the white coat and threw it in the back, then he got behind the wheel.

WHEN KATHLEEN RYAN entered the Pharmacology Department of the hospital, the young doctor on duty was Indian, a Doctor Sieed. She wore a sari. She knew Kathleen and liked her.

“What can I do for you, nurse?”

“My uncle is an angina patient. I was just talking to him and he told me he was on new pills, something I’m not familiar with. Dazane.”

Doctor Sieed nodded. “A recent addition. It has an excellent record, but the dosage is critical. One, three times a day.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“Overdose can be a problem. Three at the same time would actually promote a severe angina attack.”

“Of a critical nature?”

“Probably not, but it would give the patient a bad shock for a couple of days. Tell him to be careful.”

“Thank you.”

Kathleen went along to the staff room, got her coat and shoulder bag, and left by the main entrance. As she walked across the car park, Giovanni Mori drove past her in the limousine and turned into the main road.