On dangerous ground

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 not 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."

"How do you know this?" Dillon asked.

"Oh, let's say we have a friend on the staff at the Berkeley," she said.

"Why take the train from Glasgow when she could fly direct to Ardmurchan on Morgan's Citation?"

"God knows," Ferguson said. "Perhaps she fancies the scenic route. That train goes through some of the most spectacular scenery in Europe."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"The Chief Inspector has a gold-edged invitation for one Sean Dillon to attend the Brazilian Embassy Ball on Monday night," Ferguson told him. "It's black tie for you, Dillon, you do have one?"

"Sure and don't I need it for those spare nights I'm a waiter at the Savoy? And what do I do when I'm there?"

For the first time Hannah Bernstein looked unsure. "Well, try and get to know her."

"Pick her up, you mean? Won't that look something of a coincidence when I turn up at Ardmurchan lodge later?"

"Quite deliberate on my part, dear boy. Remember our little adventure in the American Virgins?" Ferguson turned to Hannah. "I'm sure you've read the file, Chief Inspector. The late lamented Senor Santiago and his motley crew knew who we were just as we knew who they were and what they were up to. It was what I call a we know that you know that you know that we know situation."

"So?" Dillon said.

"Morgan at Loch Dhu for nefarious purposes, an isolated estate miles from anywhere in the Highlands of Scotland, discovers he's got neighbors up for the shooting staying on the other side of the Loch at Ardmurchan Lodge. He'll be checking us out the minute he knows we're there, dear boy, and don't tell me we could all use false names. With the kind of company he keeps, especially his Mafia contacts in London, he'll not have the slightest difficulty in sorting us out."

"All right, point taken, but I know you, you old bugger, and there's more to it."

"Hasn't he an elegant turn of phrase, Chief Inspector?" Ferguson smiled. "Yes, of course there is. As I've indicated, I want him to know we're there, I want him to know we're breathing down his bloody neck. Of course I'll also see that the story, Morgan taking Loch Dhu and Asta standing in for him at the Brazilian Embassy affair, is leaked to the Daily Mail's gossip column. You could always say later that you read that, were intrigued because you were going to the same spot, so you went out of your way to meet her. It won't make the slightest difference. Morgan will still smell stinking fish."

"Won't that be dangerous, Brigadier?" Hannah Bernstein commented.

"Yes it will, Chief Inspector, that's why we have Dillon." He smiled and stood up. "It's getting late and dinner is indicated. You must be famished, both of you. I'll take you to the River Room at the Savoy. Excellent dance band, Chief Inspector, you can have a turn round the floor with the desperado here. He may surprise you."

When Monday night came Dillon arrived early at the Dorchester. He wore a dark blue Burberry trenchcoat, which he left at the cloakroom. His dinner jacket was a totally conventional piece of immaculate tailoring by Armani, single breasted with lapels of raw silk, black studs vivid against the white shirt. He was really rather pleased with his general appearance and hoped that Asta Morgan would feel the same. He fortified himself with a glass of champagne in the Piano Bar and went down to the grand ballroom where he presented his card and was admitted to discover the Brazilian Ambassador and his wife greeting their guests.

His name was called and he went forward. "Mr. Dillon?" the Ambassador said, a slight query in his voice.

"Ministry of Defence," Dillon said. "So good of you to invite me." He turned to the Ambassador's wife and kissed her hand gallantly. "My compliments on the dress, most becoming."

She flushed with pleasure and as he walked away he heard her say in Portuguese to her husband, "What a charming man."

The ballroom was already busy, a dance band playing, exquisitely gowned women, most men in black tie, although there was a sprinkling of military dress uniforms and here and there a church dignitary. With the crystal chandeliers, the mirrors, it was really quite a splendid scene and he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and worked his way through the crowd looking for Asta Morgan and seeing no sign of her. Finally he went back to the entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.

It was almost an hour later that he heard her name called. She wore her hair up revealing the entire face, the high Scandinavian cheek bones, and the kind of arrogance that seemed to say that she didn't give a damn about anyone or anything, for that matter. She wore an absurdly simple dress of black silk, banded at the waist, the hem well above the knee, black stockings, and carried an evening purse in a sort of black chain mail. Heads turned to watch as she stood talking to the Ambassador and his wife for quite some time.

"Probably making Morgan's excuses," Dillon said softly.

Finally she came down the stairs, pausing to open her purse. She took out a gold cigarette case, selected one, then searched for a lighter. "Damn!" she said.

Dillon stepped forward, the Zippo flaring in his right hand. "Sure and nothing's ever there when you want it, isn't that the truth?"

She looked him over calmly, then held his wrist and took the light. "Thank you."

As she turned to go, Dillon said cheerfully, "Six inches at least those heels, mind how you go, dear girl, a plaster cast wouldn't go well with that slip of a dress."

Her eyes widened in astonishment, then she laughed and walked away.

She seemed to know a vast number of people, working her way from group to group, occasionally posing for society photographers, and she was certainly popular. Dillon stayed close enough to observe her and simply waited to see what the night would bring.

She danced on a number of occasions, with a variety of men including the Ambassador himself and two Government ministers and an actor or two. Dillon's opportunity came about an hour later when he saw her dancing with a Member of Parliament notorious for his womanizing. As the dance finished he kept his arm round her waist as they left the floor. They were standing by the buffet and she was trying to get away, but he had her by the wrist now.

Dillon moved in fast. "Jesus, Asta, I'm sorry I'm so late. Business." The other man released her, frowning, and Dillon kissed her on the mouth. "Sean Dillon," he murmured.

She pushed him away and said petulantly, "You really are a swine, Sean, nothing but excuses. Business. Is that the best you can do?"

Dillon took her hand, totally ignoring the MP. "Well, I'll think of something. Let's take a turn round the floor."

The band played a foxtrot and she was light in his arms. "By God, girl, but you do this well," he said.

"I learned at boarding school. Twice a week we had ballroom dancing in the hall. Girls dancing together, of course. Always a row over who was to lead."

"I can imagine. You know when I was a boy back home in Belfast we used to club together so one of the crowd could pay to get in at the dancehall, then he'd open a fire door so the rest got in for free."

"You dogs," she said.

"Well at sixteen you didn't have the cash, but once in, it was fantasy time. All those girls in cotton frocks smelling of talcum powder." She grinned. "We lived in a very working class area. Perfume was far too expensive."

"And that's where you perfected your performance?"

"And what performance would that be?"

"Oh, come off it," she said. "The smooth act you pulled back there. Now I'm supposed to be grateful, isn't that how it goes?"

"You mean we vanish into the night so that I can have my wicked way with you?" He smiled. "I'm sorry, my love, but I've other things planned and I'm sure you do." He stopped on the edge of the floor and kissed her hand. "It's been fun, but try and keep better company."

He turned and walked away and Asta Morgan watched him go, a look of astonishment on her face. • • • The pianist in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester was Dillon's personal favorite in the whole of London. When the Irishman appeared, he waved and Dillon joined him, leaning on the piano.

"Heh, you look great, man, something special tonight?"

"Ball for the Brazilian Embassy, the great and the good sometimes making fools of themselves."

"Takes all sorts. You want to fill in? I could do with a visit to the men's room."

"My pleasure."

Dillon slipped behind the piano and sat down as the pianist stood. A waitress approached, smiling. "The usual, Mr. Dillon?"

"Krug, my love, non-vintage." Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case, lit it, and moved into "A Foggy Day in London Town," a personal favorite.

He sat there, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, smoke drifting up, immersed in the music and yet still perfectly aware of Asta Morgan's approach.

"A man of talent, I see."

"As an old enemy of mine once said, a passable barroom piano, that's all, fruits of a misspent youth."

"Enemy you say?"

"We supported the same cause, but had different attitudes on how to go about it, let's put it that way."

"A cause, Mr. Dillon? That sounds serious."

"A heavy burden." The waitress arrived with the Krug in a bucket and he nodded. "A glass for the lady, we'll sit in the booth over there."

"I was a stranger in the city," she said, giving him some of the verse.

"Out of town were the people I knew," he replied. "Thank the Gershwins for it, George and Ira. They must have loved this old town. Wrote it for a movie called A Damsel in Distress. Fred Astaire sang it."

"I hear he could dance a little too," she said.

The black pianist returned at that moment. "Heh, man, that's nice."

"But not as good as you. Take over." Dillon got out of the way as the pianist sat beside him.

They sat in the booth and Dillon lit a cigarette for her and gave her a glass of champagne.

"I'd judge you to be a man of accomplishment and high standards and yet you drink non-vintage," she said as she sampled the Krug.

"The greatest champagne of all, the non-vintage," he said. "It's quite unique. It's the grape mix, and not many people know that. They go by what's printed on the label, the surface of things."

"A philosopher too. What do you do, Mr. Dillon?"

"As little as possible."

"Don't we all? You spoke of a cause, not a job or a profession, a cause. Now that I do find interesting."

"Jesus, Asta Morgan, here we are in the best bar in London drinking Krug champagne and you're turning serious on me."

"How do you know my name?"

"Well the Tatler knows it and Hello and all those other society magazines you keep appearing in. Hardly a secret, you and your father keeping such high-class company. Why, they even had you in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot last month with the Queen Mother, God save her, and me just a poor Irish peasant boy with his nose to the window."

"I was in the Enclosure because my father had a horse running, and I doubt whether you've ever put your nose to a window in your life, Mr. Dillon. I've a strong suspicion you'd be much more likely to kick it in." She stood up. "My turn to leave now. It's been nice and I'm grateful for you intervening back there. Hamish Hunt is a pig when he's been drinking."

"A girl like you, my love, would tempt a cardinal from Rome and no drink taken," Dillon told her.

For a moment she changed, the hard edge gone, flushed, looking slightly uncertain. "Why, Mr. Dillon, compliments and at this time of night? Whatever next?"

Dillon watched her go, then got up and followed. He paid his check quickly, retrieved his Burberry and pulled it on, walking out into the magnificent foyer of the Dorchester. There was no sign of her at the entrance and the doorman approached.

"Cab, sir?"

"I was looking for Miss Asta Morgan," Dillon told him. "But I seem to have missed her."

"I know Miss Morgan well, sir. She's been at the ball tonight. I'd say her driver will be picking her up at the side entrance."

"Thanks."

Dillon walked round and followed the pavement, the Park Lane traffic flashing by. There were a number of limousines parked, waiting for their passengers, and as he approached, Asta Morgan emerged wearing a rather dramatic black cloak, the hood pulled up. She paused, looking up and down the line of limousines, obviously not finding what she was looking for and started along the pavement. At the same moment the MP, Hamish Hunt, emerged from the hotel and went after her.

Dillon moved in fast, but Hunt had her by the arm and up against the wall, his hands under her cloak. His voice was loud, slurred with the drink. "Come on, Asta, just a kiss."

She turned her face away and Dillon tapped him on the shoulder. Hunt turned in surprise and Dillon ran a foot down his shin, stamping hard on Hunt's instep, then head-butted him sharply and savagely and with total economy. Hunt staggered back and slid down the wall.

"Drunk again," Dillon said. "I wonder what the voters will say," and he took Asta's hand and pulled her away.

A Mercedes limousine slid up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur jumped out. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting, Miss Asta, the police were moving us on earlier, I had to go round."

"That's all right, Henry."

A uniformed police officer moved along the pavement toward Hunt, who was sitting against the wall, and Asta opened the rear door of the Mercedes and pulled Dillon by the hand.

"Come on, we'd better get out of here."

He followed her in, the chauffeur got behind the wheel and eased into the traffic. "Jesus, ma'am, the grand car you've got here and me just a poor Irish boy up from the country and hoping to make a pound or two."

She laughed out loud. "Poor Irish boy, Mr. Dillon, I've never heard such rot. If you are, it's the first one I've heard of who wears clothes by Armani."

"Ah, you noticed?"

"If there's one thing I'm an expert on it's fashion. That's my fruits of a misspent youth."

"Sure and it's the terrible old woman you are already, Asta Morgan."

"All right," she said. "Where can we take you?"

"Anywhere?"

"The least I can do."

He pressed the button that lowered the glass window separating them from the chauffeur. "Take us to the Embankment, driver," he said and raised the window again.

"The Embankment?" she said. "What for?"

He offered her a cigarette. "Didn't you ever see those old movies where the fella and his girl walked along the pavement by the Embankment overlooking the Thames?"

"Before my time, Mr. Dillon," she said and leaned forward for a light, "but I'm willing to try anything once."

When they reached the Embankment, it was raining. "Would you look at that now," Dillon said.

She put the partition window down. "We're going to walk, Henry. Pick us up at Lambeth Bridge. Have you an umbrella?"

"Certainly, Miss Asta."

He got out to open the doors and put up a large black umbrella, which Dillon took. Asta slipped a hand in his arm and they started to walk. "Is this romantic enough for you?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't have thought you the romantic type," she said. "But if you mean do I like it, yes. I love the rain, the city by night, the feeling that anything could be waiting just up around the next corner."

"Probably a mugger these days."

"Now I know you're not a romantic."

He paused to get out his cigarettes and gave her one. "No, I take your point. When I was young and foolish a thousand years ago life seemed to have an infinite possibility to things."

"And what happened?"

"Life." He laughed.

"You don't mess about, do you? I mean, back there with that creep Hamish Hunt, you went in hard."

"And what does that tell you?"

"That you can take care of yourself, and that's unusual in a man who wears an evening suit that cost at least fifteen hundred pounds. What do you do?"

"Well now, let's see. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, but that was a long time ago. I played Lyngstrand in Ibsen's Lady from the Sea at the National Theatre. He was the one who coughed a lot."

"And afterwards? I mean you obviously gave up acting or I'd have heard of you."

"Not entirely. You might say I took a considerable interest in what might be termed the theater of the street back home in the old country."

"Strange," she said. "If I had to guess I'd say you'd been a soldier."

"And who's the clever girl then?"

"Damn you, Dillon," she said. "Mystery piles on mystery with you."

"You'll just have to unpeel me layer by layer like an onion, but that would take time."

"And that's exactly what I don't have," she said. "I'm going up to Scotland tomorrow."

"I know," Dillon said. "There was a mention in Nigel Dempster's gossip column in the Mail this morning. 'Carl Morgan takes the lease on a Highland Estate for the shooting,' that was the byline. It also said you were standing in for him tonight at the Brazilian Embassy Ball."

"You are well informed."

They had reached Lambeth Bridge by now and found the Mercedes waiting. Dillon handed her in. "I enjoyed that."

"I'll drop you off," she said.

"No need."

"Don't be silly, I'm curious to see where you live."

"Anything to oblige." He got in beside her. "Stable Mews, Henry, that's close to Cavendish Square. I'll show you where when we get there."

When they turned into the cobbled street, it was still raining. He got out and closed the door. Asta put the window down and looked out at the cottage.

"All in darkness. No lady friend, Dillon?"

"Alas no, but you can come in for a cup of tea if you like."

She laughed. "Oh, no, I've had enough excitement for one night."

"Another time perhaps."

"I don't think so. In fact, I doubt whether we'll ever see each other again."

"Ships that pass in the night?"

"Something like that. Home, Henry," and as she put up the window the Mercedes pulled away.

Dillon watched it go, and as he turned to open the door he was smiling.