On dangerous ground

FOUR

Ferguson was at his desk when Hannah Bernstein came in and put a file on his desk. "Everything there is on Carl Morgan."

Ferguson sat back. "Tell me."

"His father is a retired Brigadier General, but his mother is the niece of Giovanni Luca which means that, in spite of Yale and all the war hero stuff in Vietnam and his hotels and construction business, he's fronting for the Mafia."

"Some people would say he was the new, legitimate face of the Mafia."

"With the greatest respect, Brigadier, that's a load of crap."

"Why, Chief Inspector, you said a rude word. How encouraging."

"A thug is a thug even if he does wear suits by Brioni and plays polo with Prince Charles."

"I couldn't agree more. Have you checked on Loch Dhu Castle and the situation there?"

"Yes, sir, it's at present leased to Prince Ali ben Yusef from the Oman. He'll be there for another month."

"Not much joy there. Arab royal families are always the very devil to deal with."

"Something else, sir. Carl Morgan has already taken a lease on the place for three months when the Prince leaves."

"Now why would he do that?" Ferguson frowned and then nodded. "The Bible. It's got to be."

"You mean he needs to search for it, sir?"

"Something like that. What else can you tell me about the estate?"

"It's owned by a Lady Rose, Campbell's sister. He was never married. She lives in the gate lodge. She's eighty years of age and in poor health." Hannah looked in the file. "I see there's also a small hunting lodge to rent. Ardmurchan Lodge it's called. About ten miles from the main house in the deer forest."

Ferguson nodded. "Look, let's try the simple approach. Book the Lear out of Gatwick as soon as you like and fly up there and descend on Lady Katherine. Express an interest in this shooting lodge on my behalf. Tell her you've always had an interest in the area because your grandfather served with Campbell in the war. Then raise the question of the Bible. For all we know it could be lying on a coffee table."

"All right, sir, I'll do as you say." The phone went on his desk and she picked it up, listened, and put it down again. "Dillon is having his final check at the hospital."

"I know," Ferguson said.

"About the Bible, sir? Do you really think it could be just lying around?"

"Somehow I don't think so. Luca and Morgan would have thought of that. The fact that they are going ahead with a lease on the place would seem to indicate that they know damn well it isn't."

"That's logical." She put another file on his desk. "Dillon's medical report. Not good."

"Yes. Professor Bellamy spoke to me about it. That's why he's giving him a final examination this morning, then Dillon is coming round to see me."

"Is he finished, sir?"

"Looks like it, but that's not your worry, it's mine, so off you go to Scotland and see what you can find. In the meantime, I'll speak to the Prime Minister. A phone call at this stage will be enough, but I do think he should know what's going on sooner rather than later."

"You can dress now, Sean," Bellamy told him. "I'll see you in my office."

Dillon got off the operating table on which the professor had examined him. The flesh seemed to have shrunk on his bones, there were what appeared to be bruises under his eyes. When he glanced over his shoulder he could see, in the mirror, the angry raised weal of the scars left by the two operations that had saved his life after Norah Bell had gutted him.

He dressed slowly, feeling unaccountably weak, and when he put on his jacket the Walther in the special left pocket seemed to weigh a ton. He went out to the office where Bellamy sat behind his desk.

"How do you feel generally?"

Dillon slumped down. "Bloody awful. Weak, no energy, and then there's the pain." He shook his head. "How long does this go on?"

"It takes time," Bellamy said. "She chipped your spine, damaged the stomach, kidneys, bladder. Have you any idea how close to death you were?"

"I know, I know," Dillon said. "But what do I do?"

"A holiday, a long one, preferably in the sun. Ferguson will take care of it. As for the pain"-he pushed a pill bottle forward-"I've increased your morphine dose to a quarter grain."

"Thanks very much, I'll be a junkie before you know it." Dillon got up slowly. "I'll be on my way. Better see Ferguson and get it over with."

As he got to the door Bellamy said, "I'm always here, Sean."

Hannah, due at Gatwick in an hour, was checking the final details of her trip in the outer office. Loch Dhu was situated in a place called Moidart on the northwest coast of Scotland and not far from the sea, about a hundred and twenty square miles of mountain and moorland with few inhabitants. One good thing. Only five miles from Loch Dhu was an old abandoned airstrip called Ardmurchan used by the RAF as an air-sea rescue base during the war. It could comfortably accommodate the Lear. Four hundred and fifty miles, so the trip would take, say, an hour and a half. Then she would need transport to the Castle. She found the telephone number of the gate lodge and called Lady Katherine Rose.

The first person to answer was a woman with a robust Scottish voice, but after a while her mistress replaced her. Her voice was different, tired somehow and a slight quaver in it. "Katherine Rose here."

"Lady Rose? I wonder if I could come and see you on behalf of a client of mine?" and she went on to explain.

"Certainly, my dear, I'll send my gardener, Angus, to pick you up. I look forward to seeing you. By the way, just call me Lady Katherine. It's customary here."

Hannah put down the receiver and pulled on her coat. The door opened and Dillon entered. He looked dreadful and her heart sank.

"Why, Dillon, it's good to see you."

"I doubt that, girl dear. On the other hand, I must say you look good enough to eat. Is the great man in?"

"He's expecting you. Listen, I'll have to dash, the Lear's waiting for me at Gatwick and I've a fast trip to make to Scotland."

"Then I won't detain you. Happy landings," and he knocked on Ferguson's door and went in.

"God save all here," Dillon said.

Ferguson glanced up. "You look bloody awful."

" 'God save you kindly' was the reply to that one," Dillon told him. "And as I see the brandy over there I'll help myself."

He did, taking it down in one swallow, then lit a cigarette. Ferguson said, "Remarkably bad habits for a sick man."

"Don't let's waste time. Are you putting me out to grass?"

"I'm afraid so. Your appointment was never exactly official, you see. That makes things awkward."

"Ah, well, all good things come to an end."

He helped himself to more brandy and Ferguson said, "Normally there would have been a pension, but in your circumstances I'm afraid not."

Dillon smiled. "Remember Michael Aroun, the bastard I did away with in Brittany in ninety-one after the Downing Street affair? He was supposed to put two million into my bank account and screwed me."

"I remember," Ferguson said.

"I cleaned out his safe before I left. Assorted currencies, but it came to around six hundred thousand pounds. I'll be all right." He finished the brandy. "Well, working with you has been a sincere sensation, I'll say that, but I'd better be on my way."

As he put his hand to the door, Ferguson said formally, "One more thing, Dillon, I presume you're carrying the usual Walther. I'd be obliged if you'd leave it on my desk."

"Screw you, Brigadier," Sean Dillon said and went out.

The flight to Moidart was spectacular, straight over the English Lake District at thirty thousand feet, then Scotland and the Firth of Forth, the Grampian Mountains on the right, and soon the islands, Eigg and Rhum, and the Isle of Skye to the north. The Lear turned east toward the great shining expanse of Loch Shiel, but before it was the deer forest, Loch Dhu Castle and the loch itself, black and forbidding. The co-pilot was navigating and he pointed as they descended and there was the airfield, decaying Nissan huts, two hangars, and an old control tower.

"Ardmurchan field. Air-sea rescue during the big war."

It was on the far side of the loch from the Castle, and as they turned to land Hannah saw an old station wagon approaching. The Lear rolled to a halt. Both the pilots, who were RAF on secondment, got out with her to stretch their legs. The skipper, a Flight Lieutenant Lacey, said, "Back of beyond this, Chief Inspector, and no mistake."

"Better get used to it, Flight Lieutenant. I suspect we'll be up here again," she said and walked toward the station wagon.

The driver was a man in tweed cap and jacket with a red face, blotched from too much whiskey drinking. "Angus, Miss, her ladyship sent me to find you."

"My name's Bernstein," she said and got into the passenger seat. As they drove away she said, "You've no idea how excited I am to be here."

"Why would that be, Miss?" he inquired.

"Oh, my grandfather knew the old Laird during the war, Major Campbell. They served in the Far East together with Lord Mountbatten."

"Ah, well I wouldn't know about that, Miss. I'm only sixty-four, so all I did was National Service and that was in nineteen forty-eight."

"I see. I remember my grandfather saying the Laird had a batman from the estate, a Corporal Tanner. Did you know him?"

"Indeed I did, Miss, he was estate manager here for years. Went on a visit to his daughter in New York and died there. Only the other day that happened."

"What a shame."

"Death comes to us all," he intoned.

It was like a line from a bad play, especially when delivered in that Highland Scots accent, and she lapsed into silence as he turned the station wagon into huge, old-fashioned iron gates and stopped beside the lodge.

Lady Katherine Rose was old and tired and it showed on her wizened face as she sat there in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees. The drawing room in which she greeted Hannah was pleasantly furnished, most of the stuff obviously antique. There was a fire in the hearth, but she had a French window open.

"I hope you don't mind, my dear," she said to Hannah, "I need the air, you see. My chest isn't what it used to be."

A pleasant, rather overweight woman in her fifties bustled in with tea and scones on a tray, which she placed on a mahogany table. "Shall I pour?" she said, and like Angus her accent was Highland.

"Don't fuss, Jean, I'm sure Miss Bernstein is quite capable. Off you go."

Jean smiled, picked up a shawl which had slipped to the floor, and put it around the old woman's shoulders. Hannah went and poured the tea.

"So," Lady Katherine said, "your employer is Brigadier Charles Ferguson, is that what you said?"

"Yes. He was wondering whether there might be a chance of renting Ardmurchan Lodge for the shooting. I did contact your agents in London but was given to understand that the big house was leased."

"Indeed it is, an Arab Prince no less, a dear man with several children who keep descending on me. Far too generous. He sends me food I can't eat and bottles of Dom Perignon I can't drink."

Hannah put her cup of tea on a side table. "Yes. I heard he was in residence for another month and after that an American gentleman."

"Yes, a Mr. Morgan. Scandalously wealthy. I've seen his picture in the Tatler magazine playing polo with Prince Charles. His lawyer flew up to see me just like you in a jet plane. He's taken the place for three months." She didn't bother with the tea. "There are some cigarettes in the silver box. Get one for me, there's a dear, and help yourself, if you indulge." She held it in a hand that shook slightly. "That's better," she said as she inhaled. "Clears my chest. Anyway, to business. Ardmurchan Lodge is free and has full sporting rights. Deer, grouse next month, then fishing. There are two bathrooms, five bedrooms. I could arrange servants."

"No need for that. The Brigadier has a manservant who also cooks."

"How very convenient. And you'd come too?"

"Some of the time at least."

"The Brigadier must be as wealthy as this American, what with private airplanes and so forth. What does he do?"

"Various things on the international scene." Hannah hurried on. "I was telling your gardener what a thrill it was for me to be here. I first heard of Loch Dhu when I was a young girl from my mother's father. He was an army officer during the Second World War and served on Lord Louis Mountbatten's staff in the Far East." She was making it up as she went along. "Gort was his name, Colonel Edward Gort. Perhaps your brother spoke of him?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear. You see, Ian was involved in a dreadful air crash in India in forty-four. He was only saved by the courage of his batman, Jack Tanner, a man who'd grown up with him on the estate here. My brother was hospitalized on and off for years. Brain damage, you see. He was never the same. He never talked about the war. To be frank, the poor dear never talked much about anything. He wasn't capable."

"How tragic," Hannah said. "My grandfather never mentioned that. I believe the last time he saw him was in China."

"That must have been before the crash."

Hannah got up and poured more tea into her cup. "Can I get you anything?"

"Another cigarette, my dear, my only vice and at my age, what does it matter?"

Hannah did as she was told, then walked to the French window and looked out from the terrace at the great house in the distance. "It looks wonderful. Battlements and turrets, just as I imagined it would be." She turned. "I'm a hopeless romantic. It was the idea of the Laird of the Clan, as my grandfather described it, that intrigued me. Bagpipes and kilts and all that sort of thing." She came back. "Oh, and there was another rather romantic side to it. He told me that Major Campbell always carried a silver Bible with him that was a family heirloom. He'd had it at Dunkirk, but the story was that all the Campbells had carried it into battle for centuries."

"You're right," she said. "It was certainly in Rory Campbell's pocket when he died at the Battle of Culloden fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie. It's interesting that you should mention it. I haven't thought about that Bible in years. I suppose it must have been lost in the plane crash."

"I see," Hannah said carefully.

"Certainly nothing survived except poor Ian and Jack Tanner, of course." She sighed. "I just heard the other day that Jack died in New York on a visit to see his daughter. A good man. He ran things on the estate for me for years. The new man, Murdoch, is a pain. You know the kind. College degree in estate management so he thinks he knows everything."

Hannah nodded and got up. "So, we can have Ardmurchan Lodge?"

"Whenever you like. Leave me the details and I'll have Murdoch send you a contract."

Hannah was already prepared for that and took an envelope from her handbag, which she placed on the table. "There you are. The Brigadier's office is in Cavendish Square. I'll find Angus, shall I, and get him to run me back to the plane?"

"You'll find him in the garden."

Hannah went and took her hand, which was cool and weightless. "Goodbye, Lady Katherine."

"Goodbye, my dear, you're a very lovely young woman."

"Thank you."

She turned to the French window and Lady Katherine said, "A strange coincidence. When that lawyer was here he asked about the Bible, too. Said Mr. Morgan had mentioned reading about it in an article on Highland legends in some American magazine. Isn't that extraordinary?"

"It certainly is," Hannah said. "He must have been disappointed it wasn't on show."

"That was the impression I received." The old woman smiled. "Goodbye, my dear."

Hannah found Angus digging in the garden. "Ready to go, Miss?"

"That's right," she said.

As they walked round to the front, a Range Rover drew up and a tall, saturnine young man in a hunting jacket and a deerstalker cap got out. He looked at her inquiringly.

"This is Miss Bernstein," Angus told him. "She's been seeing the Mistress."

"On behalf of my employer, Brigadier Charles Ferguson," she said. "Lady Katherine has agreed to rent the Ardmurchan Lodge to us."

He frowned. "She didn't mention anything to me about it." He hesitated, then put out his hand. "Stewart Murdoch. I'm the estate factor."

"I only spoke to her this morning."

"Then that explains it. I've been at Fort William for two days."

"I've left her full details and look forward to receiving the contract." She smiled and got into the station wagon. "I must rush, there's a Lear waiting for me at Ardmurchan. We'll meet again, I'm sure."

Angus got behind the wheel and drove away. Murdoch watched them go, frowning, then went inside.

The Lear took off, climbing steeply, rising to thirty thousand feet rapidly. Hannah checked her watch. It was only just after two. With luck she'd be at Gatwick by three-thirty, sooner with a tailwind. Another hour to reach the Ministry of Defence. She picked up the phone and told the co-pilot to patch her in to Ferguson.

His voice was clear and sharp. "Had a good trip?"

"Excellent, sir, and the lease on Ardmurchan Lodge is in the bag. No luck with the Bible. The lady hasn't seen it in years. Always presumed it was lost in the plane crash."

"Yes, well we know it wasn't, don't we?"

"Looks like we're in for a sort of country house weekend treasure hunt, sir."

"You mean Morgan is, Chief Inspector."

"So how do we handle it?"

"I don't know, I'll think of something. Come home, Chief Inspector, I'll look for you at the office."

She put down the phone, made herself a cup of instant coffee, and settled back to read a magazine.

When she reached the Ministry she found Ferguson pacing up and down in his office. "Ah, there you are, I was beginning to despair," he said unreasonably. "And don't bother to take your coat off, we can't keep the Prime Minister waiting."

He took down his coat from the stand, picked up his Malacca cane, and went out and she hurried after him, slightly bewildered.

"But what's going on, sir?"

"I spoke to the Prime Minister earlier and he told me he wished to see us the moment you got back, so let's get cracking." • • • The Daimler was admitted at the security gates at the end of Downing Street with no delay. In fact, the most famous door in the world opened the second they got out of the car, and an aide took their coats and ushered them up the stairs past all the portraits of previous Prime Ministers and along the corridor, knocking gently on the door of the great man's study.

They went in, the door closed behind them, the Prime Minister looked up from his desk. "Brigadier."

"May I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, Prime Minister, my assistant?"

"Chief Inspector." The Prime Minister nodded. "I was naturally more than intrigued by your telephone call this morning. Now tell me everything you've discovered about this affair so far."

So Ferguson told him, leaving nothing out.

When he was finished, the Prime Minister turned to Hannah. "Tell me about your visit to this place."

"Of course, Prime Minister."

As she ended, he said, "No question that Lady Katherine could be wrong?"

"Absolutely not, Prime Minister, she was adamant that she hadn't seen it, the Bible I mean, in years."

There was silence while the Prime Minister brooded. Ferguson said, "What would you like us to do?"

"Find the damn thing before they do, Brigadier, we've had enough trouble with Hong Kong. It's over, we're coming out, and that's it, so if this thing exists, you find it and burn it. And I don't want the Chinese involved. There would be hell to pay, and keep our American cousins out of it too."

It was Hannah who had the temerity to cut in. "You really think all this is true, Prime Minister, that it exists?"

"I'm afraid I do. After the Brigadier phoned me this morning I spoke with a certain very distinguished gentleman, now in his nineties, who was once a power at the Colonial Office during the war. He tells me that many years ago, he recalls rumours about this Chungking Covenant. Apparently it was always dismissed as a myth."

"So what do you wish us to do, Prime Minister?"

"We can hardly ask Prince Ali ben Yusef for permission to ransack the house and we can hardly send the burglars in."

"He leaves in four weeks and Morgan moves straight in," Hannah said.

"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Once he's in he can take his time and do anything he wants." The Prime Minister looked up at Ferguson. "But you'll be there at this Ardmurchan Lodge to keep an eye on things. What do you intend to do?"

"Improvise, sir." Ferguson smiled.

The Prime Minister smiled back. "You're usually rather good at that. See to it, Brigadier, don't let me down. Now you must excuse me."

As they settled in the back of the Daimler, Hannah said, "What now?"

"We'll go up to Ardmurchan Lodge just before Morgan in three to four weeks. In the meantime, I want a check on him. Use all international police contacts. I want to know where he goes and what he does."

"Fine."

"Good, now let me give you dinner. Blooms, I think, in Whitechapel. You can't say no to that, Chief Inspector, the finest Jewish restaurant in London."

After leaving the Ministry of Defence, Dillon had simply caught a taxi to Stable Mews not far from Ferguson's flat in Cavendish Square. He had a two-bedroom cottage there at the end of the cobbled yard. By the time he reached it the pain had come again quite badly, so he took one of the morphine capsules Bellamy had prescribed and went and lay down on the bed.

It obviously knocked him out and when he came awake quite suddenly it was dark. He got up, visited the toilet, and splashed water over his face. In the mirror he looked truly awful and he shuddered and went downstairs. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He really needed something to eat, he knew that, and yet the prospect of food was repugnant to him.

Perhaps a walk would clear his head and then he could find a cafe. He opened the front door. Rain fell gently in a fine mist through the light of the street lamp on the corner. He pulled on his jacket, aware of the weight of the Walther, and paused, wondering whether to leave it, but the damn thing had been a part of him for so long. He found an old Burberry trenchcoat and a black umbrella and ventured out.

He walked from street to street, pausing only once to go into a corner pub where he had a large brandy and a pork pie, which was so disgusting that just one bite made him want to throw up.

He continued to walk aimlessly. There was a certain amount of fog now, crouching at the end of the street, and it gave a closed-in feeling to things as if he was in his own private world. He felt a vague sense of alarm, probably drug paranoia, and somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck eleven, the sound curiously muffled by the fog. There was silence now, and then the unmistakable sound of a ship's foghorn as it moved down river, and he realized the Thames was close at hand.

He turned into another street and found himself beside the river. There was a corner shop still open. He went in and bought a packet of cigarettes and was served by a young Pakistani youth.

"Would there be a cafe anywhere near at hand?" Dillon asked.

"Plenty up on High Street, but if you like Chinese, there's the Red Dragon round the corner on China Wharf."

"An interesting name," Dillon said, lighting a cigarette, hand shaking.

"The tea clippers used to dock there in the old days of the China run." The youth hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"Nothing to worry about, just out of hospital," Dillon said, "but it's kind of you to ask."

He walked along the street past towering warehouses. It was raining heavily now, and then he turned the corner and saw a ten-foot dragon in red neon shining through the rain. He put down his umbrella, opened the door, and went in.

It was a long, narrow room with dark paneled walls, a bar of polished mahogany, and a couple of dozen tables each covered with a neat white linen cloth. There were a number of artifacts on display and Chinese watercolors on the wall.

There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He was no more than five feet tall and very fat, and in spite of his tan gabardine suit bore a striking resemblance to a bronze statue of Buddha, which stood in one corner. He was eating a dish of cuttlefish and chopped vegetables with a very Western fork and ignored Dillon completely.

There was a Chinese girl behind the bar. She had a flower in her hair and wore a cheongsam in black silk, embroidered with a red dragon which was twin to the one outside.

"I'm sorry," she said in perfect English. "We've just closed."

"Any chance of a quick drink?" Dillon asked.

"I'm afraid we only have a table license."

She was very beautiful with her black hair and pale skin, dark, watchful eyes and high cheekbones, and Dillon felt like reaching out to touch her and then the red dragon on her dark dress seemed to come alive, undulating, and he closed his eyes and clutched at the bar.

Once in the Mediterranean on a diving job for the Israelis that had involved taking out two PLO high-speed boats that had been involved in landing terrorists by night in Israel, he had run out of air at fifty feet. Surfacing half-dead he'd had the same sensation as now of drifting up from the dark places into light.

The fat man had him in a grip of surprising strength and put him into a chair. Dillon took several deep breaths and smiled. "Sorry about this. I've been ill for some time and I probably walked too far tonight."

The expression on the fat man's face did not alter, and the girl said in Cantonese, "I'll handle this, Uncle, finish your meal."

Dillon, who spoke Cantonese rather well, listened with interest as the man replied, "Do you think they will still come, niece?"

"Who knows? The worst kind of foreign devils, pus from an infected wound. Still, I'll leave the door open a little longer." She smiled at Dillon. "Please excuse us. My uncle speaks very little English."

"That's fine. If I could just sit here for a moment."

"Coffee," the girl said. "Very black and with a large brandy."

"God save us, the brandy is fine, but would you happen to have a cup of tea, love? It's what I was raised on."

"Something we have in common."

She smiled and went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, then moved to the end of the bar and peered out through the window.

"They are here, Uncle."

As she came round the end of the bar, the door opened and four men entered. The leader was six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a cavalry twill car coat that looked very expensive.

He smiled quite pleasantly. "Here we are again then," he said. "Have you got it for me?"

The accent was unmistakably Belfast. The girl said, "A waste of your time, Mr. McGuire, there is nothing for you here."

Two of his companions were black, the fourth an albino with lashes so fair they were almost transparent. He said, "Don't give us any trouble, darlin', we've been good to you. A grand a week for a place like this? I'd say you were getting off lightly."

She shook her head. "Not a penny."

McGuire sighed, plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand, and threw it into the bar mirror, splintering the glass. "That's just for openers. Now you, Terry."

The albino moved fast, his right hand finding the high neck of the silk dress, ripping it to the waist, baring one of her breasts. He pulled her close, cupping the breast in one hand.

"Now then, what have we here?"

The fat man was on his feet and Dillon kicked a chair across to block his way. "Stay out of this, Uncle, I'll handle it," he called in Cantonese.

The four men turned quickly to face Dillon and McGuire was still smiling. "What have we got here then, a hero?"

"Let her go," Dillon said.

Terry smiled and pulled the girl closer. "No, I like it too much." All the frustration, the anger and the pain of the last few weeks rose like bile in Dillon's mouth and he pulled out the Walther and fired blindly, finishing off the bar mirror.

Terry sent the girl staggering. "Look at his hand," he whispered, "he's shaking all over the place."

McGuire showed no sign of fear. "The accent makes me feel at home," he said.

"I mind yours too, old son," Dillon told him. "The Shankhill or the Falls Road, it's no difference to me. Now toss your wallet across."

McGuire didn't even hesitate and threw it on the table. It was stuffed with notes. "I see you've been on your rounds," Dillon said. "It should take care of the damage."

"Here, there's nearly two grand there," Terry said.

"Anything over can go to the widows and orphans." Dillon glanced at the girl. "No police, right?"

"No police."

Behind her the kitchen door opened and two waiters and a chef emerged. The waiters carried butchers' knives, the chef a meat cleaver.

"I'd go if I were you," Dillon said. "These people have rather violent ways when roused."

McGuire smiled. "I'll remember you, friend. Come on, boys," and he turned and went out.

They heard the car start up and drive away. What little strength Dillon had left him. He sagged back in the chair and replaced the Walther. "I could do with that brandy now."

And she was angry, that was the strange thing. She turned on her heel and pushed past the waiters into the kitchen.

"What did I do wrong?" Dillon asked as the staff followed her through.

"It is nothing," the fat man said. "She is upset. Let me get you your brandy."

He went to the bar, got a fresh bottle and two glasses, came back, and sat down. "You spoke to me in Cantonese. You have visited China often?"

"A few times, but not often. Hong Kong mainly."

"Fascinating. I am from Hong Kong and so is my niece. My name is Yuan Tao."

"Sean Dillon."

"You're Irish and visit Hong Kong only now and then and yet your Cantonese is excellent. How can this be?"

"Well, it's like this. Some people can do complicated mathematics in their head quicker than a computer."

"So?"

"I'm like that with languages. I just soak them up." Dillon drank a little brandy. "I presume that lot have been here before?"

"I understand so. I only flew in yesterday. I believe they have been pressing their demands here and elsewhere for some weeks."

The girl returned wearing slacks and a sweater. She was still angry and ignored her uncle, glaring at Dillon. "What do you want here?"

Yuan Tao cut in. "We owe Mr. Dillon a great deal."

"We owe him nothing and he has ruined everything. Is it just coincidence that he walks in here?"

"Strangely enough, it was," Dillon said. "Girl dear, life's full of them."

"And what kind of man carries a gun in London? Another criminal."

"Jesus," Dillon told Yuan Tao, "the logic on her. I could be a copper or the last of the vigilantes doing a Charles Bronson eradicating the evildoers." The brandy had gone to his head and he got up. "I'll be on my way. It's been fun," and he got up and was out of the door before they could stop him.