On dangerous ground

EIGHT

Dillon,having bathed and changed into a comfortable track suit, sprawled in front of the fire, Hannah Bernstein in the chair opposite. He had just finished his account of the day's events and Ferguson was pouring drinks at the cabinet in the corner.

"Anything for you, Chief Inspector?"

"No thank you, sir."

"Well, the boy here could do with a brandy, I'm sure."

"It was rather a long walk," Dillon said and accepted the glass. "What do you think?"

"About Morgan? Oh, he knows, that was totally apparent from our little exchange."

"So what will his next move be?" Hannah asked.

"I'm not sure, we'll see what tomorrow brings." Ferguson sat down. "It's an interesting situation, by the way, the shooting rights and the fishing. Kim tells me he was fishing in Loch Dhu on the day before we arrived when some damn rascals who work for this Murdoch fellow as keepers turned up and suggested he leave and not too pleasantly."

"Who are they?"

"I've made inquiries. Tinkers-the last remnants of a broken clan. You know, a touch of all that Scottish romantic nonsense. They've wandered the Highlands since Culloden and all that sort of tosh. Old Hector Munro and his brood. I saw them in Ardmurchan Village yesterday and there's nothing romantic about them. Bunch of ragged, foul-smelling rogues. There's old Hector, Fergus…"

"He'll be the one I had the run-in with."

"Then there's the other brother, Rory, big, rough-looking lout, hair tied in a pony tail. I mean, why do they do that, Dillon? Earrings as well. After all, it's not the seventeenth century."

Hannah burst out laughing and Dillon said, "They broke the mould with you, Brigadier. And you say they ran Kim off the place?"

"Yes, I sent him round to the castle with a stiff letter of complaint to this Murdoch chap, the factor, told him I was considering laying a complaint with the Chief Constable of the county."

"What happened?"

"Murdoch was round like a shot, full of apologies. Said he'd keep them in line. Gave me some cock-and-bull story about arctic tern nesting near Loch Dhu and not wanting to disturb them. Apologized for the Munros. Said he'd kick their backsides and so on."

Dillon went and helped himself to another brandy. He came back to the fire. "We're entitled to be here, to shoot deer in the forest, to fish in the loch?"

"Of course we are," Ferguson said. "Mind you, Morgan doesn't like it, I mean, he made that clear on the doorstep, didn't he?"

"Let's draw his teeth then. I'll put my head in the jaws of the tiger tomorrow. You've got all we need for the fishing?"

"And the shooting."

"Good, I'll try Loch Dhu in the morning, plenty of trout, I suppose?"

"Masses, dear boy. Quarter-pounders-or occasional pounders."

"Good, I'll take a rod down there after breakfast."

Hannah said, "The Munros could prove unpleasant if they catch you, especially after your bout with Fergus. I was with the Brigadier when we saw them in Ardmurchan Village. They really are a fearsome-looking clan. I'd say they are the sort who don't take kindly to being beaten."

"And neither do I." Dillon finished his drink. "I'll see you at breakfast," and he went up to bed.

At the same moment, Asta was sitting opposite Morgan by the fire in the great hall at the castle when Marco came in, a piece of paper in his hand.

"Fax from London, Signore."

Morgan read it quickly, then laughed out loud. "Dear God, listen to this. The Bernstein woman is a Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch, at Scotland Yard, but it's Dillon who takes the biscuit. Sean Dillon, once an actor, RADA and the National Theatre, superb linguist, speaks many languages. First-class pilot, expert diver. Good God, he worked for the Israelis in Beirut."

"But what was he doing there?"

"Sinking PLO boats, apparently. Not choosy, our Mr. Dillon. He's worked for just about everyone you've ever heard of and that includes the KGB in the old days."

"You mean he's some kind of mercenary?" Asta asked.

"That's one way of putting it, but before that he was for some years with the Provisional IRA, one of their most feared enforcers. There's even a suggestion he was behind the attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War."

"Then why would he be working for Ferguson?"

"I suppose the Brits were the only people he hadn't worked for and you know how unscrupulous they are. They'd use anybody to suit their purposes."

"A thoroughly dangerous man," Asta said. "How exciting."

Morgan handed the fax to Marco. "Oh, we've handled thoroughly dangerous men before, haven't we, Marco."

"Many times, Signore, will there be anything else?"

"Yes, bring me some coffee and tell Murdoch I'll see him now."

Asta got up. "I'm for bed. Can we ride tomorrow?"

"Why not?" He took her hand. "Sleep well."

She kissed him on the forehead and went away up the great staircase. Morgan reached for a cigar, clipped it and lit it, and Murdoch entered, his oilskin coat wet.

"Well?" Morgan asked.

"No luck, I'm afraid, that old bastard Hector Munro was immovable. He said Fergus had gone off on his evening rounds and they hadn't seen him since. He's lying, of course."

"What did you do?"

"Searched their stinking caravans, which he didn't like, but I insisted."

"I want Fergus," Morgan said. "I want him where I can deal with him personally. He put his filthy hands on my daughter and no man does that and gets away with it. Try again tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr. Morgan, good night, sir."

Murdoch went out and Marco came in with the coffee. As he poured it, Morgan said in Italian, "What do you think of him?"

"Murdoch? A piece of dung, Signore, no honor, only money counts there."

"That's what I thought, keep an eye on him. You can go to bed now."

Marco went out and Morgan sat there brooding, drinking his coffee and gazing into the fire.

He was sitting in the study at the desk at eight the following morning working his way through various business papers when there was a knock at the door and Murdoch looked in.

"I have Angus here, sir."

"Bring him in."

Angus entered, took off his tweed cap and rolled it between his hands. "Mr. Morgan, sir."

Morgan looked him over. "You look like a practical man to me, would I be right?"

"I hope so, sir."

Morgan opened a drawer and took out a bundle of notes, which he tossed across. Angus picked it up. "Five hundred pounds. Anything unusual happens at Ardmurchan Lodge you phone Murdoch."

"I will, sir." He was sweating slightly.

"Have you been there this morning?"

"To do the wood supply, sir."

"And what's happening?"

"Mr. Dillon was having an early breakfast before going for the fishing on Loch Dhu. He asked my advice."

Morgan nodded. "Good. On your way."

Angus left and Murdoch said, "If the Munros come across him, he could be in trouble."

"Exactly what I was thinking." Morgan smiled and at that moment Asta came in wearing a hacking jacket and jodhpurs.

"There you are," she told him. "You said we could go riding."

"And why not?" He glanced at Murdoch. "Get the horses ready, you can come with us." He smiled. "We could have a look at the loch."

The waters of Loch Dhu were darker than even the name suggested, still and calm in the gray morning and yet dappled by falling rain. Dillon wore waders, an old rainhat, and an Australian drover's waterproof with caped shoulders, both of which he had found at the lodge.

He lit a cigarette and took his time over putting his rod together. Behind him the heather was waist deep, a line of trees above, and a plover lifted into the morning. A wind stirred the surface of the loch and suddenly a trout came out of the water beyond the sandbar, a good foot in the air, and disappeared again.

Suddenly Dillon forgot everything, remembering only his uncle's sheep farm in County Down and the lessons he'd given his young nephew in the great art. He tied the fly Ferguson had recommended, apparently one of his own manufacture, and went to work.

His first dozen casts were poor and inexpert, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked two quarter-pounders. The rain still fell relentlessly. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip, and cast out beyond the sandbar to where a black fin sliced through the water. His cast was the most accurate he'd ever made, the fly skimming the surface, the rod bent over and his line went taut.

Two pounds if it was an ounce. His reel whined as the hooked trout made for deep water and he moved along the sandbank, playing it carefully. The line went slack and he thought he'd lost it, but the trout was only resting and a moment later the line tightened again. He played it for a good ten minutes before turning to reach for his net. He lifted the floundering fish, removed the hook, and turned back to shore.

A harsh voice said, "Well and good, me bucko, a fine dinner for us."

The man who had spoken was old, at least seventy. He wore a tweed suit that had seen better days and white hair showed beneath his Glengarry bonnet. His face was weatherbeaten and wrinkled and covered with a heavy stubble and he had a shotgun crooked in his right arm.

Behind him, two men stood up in the heather. One was large and rawboned with a perpetual smile, and that would be Rory, Dillon told himself. The other was Fergus, a livid bruise down one side of his face, his mouth swollen.

"That's him, Da, that's the bastard who attacked me," and he raised his shotgun waist high.

Rory knocked it to one side and it discharged into the ground. "Try not to play the fool as usual, little brother," he said in Gaelic.

Dillon, an Irish speaker, had no difficulty in understanding, especially when Hector said, "He doesn't look much to me," and swung a punch.

Dillon ducked, avoiding it, but his foot slipped and he fell into the shallows. He scrambled up and the old man raised his shotgun. "Not now, my brave wee man," he said in English. "You'll get your chance. Slow and easy. Walk on."

As Dillon moved forward, Fergus said, "Wait till I've done with you," and swung the butt of his shotgun. Dillon avoided it easily and Fergus went down on one knee.

Rory lifted him by the scruff of his neck. "Will you listen or must I kick your arse?" he demanded in Gaelic and pushed him ahead.

"God help him but he never will learn that one," Dillon told him in Irish. "Some men stay children all their lives."

Rory's mouth went slack with astonishment. "By God, Da, did you hear that, the strangest Gaelic I ever heard."

"That's because it's Irish, the language of kings," Dillon said. "But close enough that we can understand each other," and he walked on ahead of them.

There was smoke beyond the trees, the sound of children's voices, so they were not taking him to Morgan and he realized he had made something of a miscalculation. They moved down into a hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old with canvas tilts and patched many times, far removed from the romantic idea of a caravan. There was an air of poverty to everything from the shabby clothes worn by the women who squatted by the fire drinking tea to the bare feet of the children who played in the grass beside several bony horses.

Fergus gave Dillon a push that sent him staggering forward and the women scattered. The children paused in their play and came to watch. Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees, and took out a pipe. Fergus and Rory stood slightly behind Dillon.

"An attack on one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Dillon, or whatever your name is. The great pity you weren't knowing that." He stuffed tobacco into his pipe. "Rory." Rory moved fast, pulling Dillon's arms behind him, and the old man said, "Enjoy yourself, Fergus."

Fergus moved in fast and punched Dillon in the stomach right and left handed. Dillon made no move except to tense his muscles, and Fergus drove a fist into his ribs on the right side. "Now for that pretty face of yours," he said. "Hold his head up, Rory."

In taking a handful of Dillon's hair, Rory had to release one of his arms. Dillon flicked a foot forward catching Fergus in the crutch, half-turned delivering a reverse elbow strike to the edge of Rory's jaw. The big man released him, staggering back, and Dillon ran for it and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out a foot.

He rolled desperately as they all kicked at him, even the children, and then there was the drumming of horses, and a voice called, "Stop that, damn you!" and a shotgun was fired.

The women and children broke and ran and Dillon got up to find Murdoch on horseback, a shotgun braced against his thigh. Behind him Carl Morgan and Asta rode down into the hollow. Dillon was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the wagons.

"Stay there, you silly bastard," Rory hissed in Gaelic, then glanced at Dillon in alarm, realizing he had heard.

Carl Morgan urged his mount down into the hollow. The hooves of his horse scattered the fire, and he pulled on the right rein so that the animal turned, its hind quarters catching Hector Munro a blow that sent him staggering.

He reined in. "Tell them who I am," he ordered.

"This is Mr. Carl Morgan, new tenant of Loch Dhu Castle," Murdoch said, "and your employer."

"Is that so?" Hector Munro said.

"So bare your head, you mannerless dog," Murdoch told him, leaned down from his horse, and plucked the old man's bonnet from his head and threw it down.

Rory took a step forward and Dillon said in Irish, "Easy boy, there's a time and a place for everything."

Rory turned, frowning, and his father said, "The man Dillon was fishing in the loch, we were only doing our duty."

"Don't lie to me, Munro," Murdoch told him. "Mr. Dillon is nephew to Brigadier Ferguson, tenant at Ardmurchan Lodge, and don't tell me you didn't know that. You scoundrels know everything that goes on in the district before it bloody well happens."

"Enough of this," Morgan said and looked down at Munro. "You wish to continue to work for the estate?"

"Why yes, sir," the old man said.

"Then you know how to behave in future."

"Yes, sir." Munro picked up his bonnet and put it on.

"And now that son of yours, Fergus. He assaulted my daughter. I want him."

"And we have not seen him, sir, as I told Mr. Murdoch. If he gave offense to the young lady I'm sorry, but the great one for wandering is Fergus."

"Away for days sometimes," Rory said. "Who could be knowing where he might be?" He glanced at Dillon briefly, but Dillon said nothing.

Morgan said, "I can wait. We'll go now, Mr. Dillon."

"I'll be fine," Dillon said. "I want to get my fishing tackle. I can walk back." He moved to Asta's stirrup and looked up at her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Just fine," Dillon said. "I do this kind of thing most mornings, it gives me an appetite for lunch."

Morgan said, "I'll be in touch, Dillon. Come on, Asta," and he cantered away.

Dillon turned to look down into the hollow at the Munros. Fergus crawled out from under the wagon and Dillon called in Irish. "So there you are, you little rascal. I'd take care if I were you."

He went down to the shore and retrieved his rod and fishing basket. As he turned to go, Rory Munro moved out of the trees. "Now why would you do a thing like that for Fergus, and you and he bad friends?" he asked in Gaelic.

"True, but then I dislike Morgan even more. Mind you, the girl is different. If Fergus touches her again I'll break both his arms."

Rory laughed. "Oh, the hard one are you, small man?"

"You could always try me," Dillon told him.

Rory stared at him, frowning, and then a slow smile appeared. "And perhaps that time will come," he said, turned, and walked back into the trees.

Dillon drank tea by the fire at Ardmurchan Lodge while he detailed the events of the morning to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein.

"So the plot thickens," Ferguson said.

"Lucky for you that Morgan turned up when he did," Hannah said. "You might have been a hospital case by now."

"Yes, a useful coincidence," Ferguson said.

"And you know how much I believe in those," Dillon told him.

Hannah frowned. "You think Morgan was behind the whole thing?"

"I'm not sure about that, but I believe he expected it. That's why he turned up."

"Very possibly." Ferguson nodded. "Which raises the question of how he knew you were going to go fishing this morning."

"I know, life's just one big mystery," Dillon said. "What happens now?"

"Lunch, dear boy, I thought we might venture into Ardmurchan Village and sample the delights of the local pub. They must offer food of some sort."

"Pub grub, Brigadier, you?" Hannah Bernstein said.

"And you, Chief Inspector, although I hardly expect it will be kosher."

"I'll find out," she said. "I think that chap Angus is working in the garden." She opened the French windows and went out, returning a few moments later. "He says the Campbell Arms does do food. Shepherd's pie, things like that."

"Real food," Ferguson said. "How wonderful. Let's get going then."

Morgan was standing on the terrace at the top of the steps with Asta when Murdoch joined them. "I've just had a phone call from Angus. Our friends are going to the Campbell Arms for lunch."

"Really?" Morgan said.

"It could lead to an interesting situation. The day after tomorrow is the local fair and Highland Games. There are tinkers around, horse traders, and so on. The Munros will probably be there."

"Is that so?" Morgan smiled and turned to Asta. "We couldn't possibly miss that, could we?" He raised his voice and called, "Marco!" Russo appeared in the open windows. "Bring the estate car round, we're going to the village for a drink and you drive. I've a feeling we might need you."

The Campbell Arms was very old, built of gray granite, but the sign that hung above the door was freshly painted. Dillon parked across the street and he and Hannah and Ferguson got out and crossed, pausing as a young gypsy rode by bareback on a pony leading three others behind. There was a poster on the wall advertising the Ardmurchan Fair and Games.

"That looks like fun," Ferguson said and opened the door and led the way in.

There was an old-fashioned snug bar, the type that in the old days was for women only. This was empty, but a further door gave access to a large saloon, beams in the ceiling. There was a long bar with a marble top, scores of bottles behind ranged against a great mirror. There was a peat fire on an open hearth, tables, chairs, booths with high-backed wooden settles. It was not exactly shoulder-to-shoulder, but perhaps a crowd of thirty or more, some obviously gypsies to do with the fair, others more local, old men wearing cloth caps and leggings, or in some cases Highland bonnets and plaids like Hector Munro, who stood at one end of the bar with Rory and Fergus.

There was a buzz of conversation that stopped abruptly as Ferguson stepped in, the others at his shoulder. The woman behind the bar came round wiping her hands on a cloth. She wore an old hand-knitted jumper and slacks. "You are welcome in this place, Brigadier," she said in a Highland accent and took his hand. "My name is Molly."

"Good to be here, my dear," he said. "I hear your food is excellent."

"Over here." She led them to one of the booths by the fire and turned to the room. "Get on with your drinking while I handle the damned English," she told them in Gaelic.

Sean Dillon said in Irish, "A bad mistake you make in my case, woman of the house, but I'll forgive you if you can find me a Bushmills whiskey."

She turned, her mouth open in surprise, then put a hand to his face. "Irish is it? Good lad yourself and I might surprise you." They settled down and she added in English, "Fish pie is what there is today if you have a mind to eat. Fresh cod, onions, and potatoes."

"Which sounds incredible to me," Ferguson told her. "I'll have a Guinness, lager beer for the lady, and whatever you and my friend here have decided."

"A man after my own heart and a good Scots name to you."

She went off and as the conversation flowed again Dillon lit a cigarette. "The old man with the granite face and the bonnet at the end of the bar is Hector Munro, the damaged one is Fergus, and the bit of rough with the good shoulders that's looking at you so admiringly, Hannah, my love, is Rory."

She flushed. "Not my type."

Dillon turned and nodded to the Munros. "Oh, I don't know, with a couple of drinks in you at the shank of the night, who knows?"

"You are a bastard, Dillon."

"I know, it's been said before."

Hector Munro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came over, shouldering men aside. "Mr. Dillon, you did my son a service," he said in English, "and for that I thank you. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot."

"This is my uncle, Brigadier Ferguson," Dillon said.

"I ken the name Ferguson," Munro said. "There are a few not many miles from here Tomentoul way, they were on our left flank at Culloden fighting King George's bloody Germans."

"You do have a lengthy memory," Ferguson said. "Almost two hundred and fifty years long. Yes, my ancestors did fight at Culloden for Prince Charles."

"Good man yourself." Munro pumped his hand and went back to the bar.

"My goodness, we are trapped in memory lane," Ferguson said as Molly brought the drinks. She put them on the table and the door opened and Morgan and Asta walked in, Murdoch and Marco behind them.

There was another silence, Morgan surveying the room, and then he came forward with Asta. Behind him Marco stayed at the bar and Murdoch approached Molly. Morgan and Asta sat on the settle opposite Ferguson and his party.

"Brigadier, what a pleasure. I didn't have a chance to introduce you to my daughter last night. Asta-Brigadier Ferguson."

"A pleasure, my dear," Ferguson told her. "You know my nephew. This charming lady, by the way, is my secretary, Miss Hannah Bernstein."

Murdoch came from the bar with glasses and a bottle of white wine. "Not much choice, sir, it's a Chablis."

"As long as they didn't make it in the back yard it will be fine," Morgan said. "What about the food?"

"Fish and potato pie, old boy," Ferguson said. "They only have one dish a day."

"Then fish and potato pie it is," Morgan told him. "We're hardly having lunch at the Caprice."

"Indeed not," Ferguson said. "Very different waters."

"Exactly." Murdoch poured the wine and Morgan raised his glass. "What shall we drink to?"

"Confusion to our enemies," Dillon said. "A good Irish toast."

"How very apt."

Asta drank a little wine and said, "How nice to meet you, Miss Bernstein. Strange, but in the time we were together, Dillon never mentioned you. Having met you, of course, I understand why."

"Try and behave yourself, why don't you," Dillon told her.

Her eyes widened in outrage and Morgan frowned, and then Murdoch leaned over and whispered in his ear and Morgan turned and looked toward the bar. At that moment Fergus was sliding toward the door.

Morgan called in Italian, "Stop him, Marco, that's the one I want."

Marco put a hand to Fergus's chest and pushed him back and Hector Munro and Rory took a step forward. "Leave my son be or you answer to me," the old man said.

Morgan called, "Munro, I asked for your son earlier and you claimed no knowledge as to his whereabouts. As your employer, I expected better."

"My son is my business. What touches him touches us all."

"Please spare me that kind of peasant claptrap. He assaulted my daughter and for that he must pay."

And Fergus was frightened now, his face white and desperate. He tried to dodge around Marco, who caught him with ease, grabbing him by the neck, turning him, sending him to his knees before Morgan.

The bar was totally silent. "Now then, you animal," Morgan said.

Rory came in on the run. "Here's for you," he cried and swung a punch into the base of Marco's spine. The Sicilian shrugged it off, turned, blocking Rory's next punch, and gave him a right that landed high on the left cheek, sending Rory staggering back against the bar.

Fergus, cowering in fear on the floor, saw his chance, got up to make for the door. Marco, turning, was already moving to block him off when Hannah Bernstein stuck out a foot and tripped him. Marco went sprawling and Fergus was out of the door like a weasel.

"Dreadful, isn't it," Ferguson said to Morgan. "I can't take her anywhere."

As Marco got up, Rory moved in from the bar and Dillon jumped in between them. "This dog is mine," he said in Irish to Rory. "Now drink your beer like a good lad and let be."

Rory stared at him, rage in his eyes, then took a deep breath. "As you say, Irishman, but if he lays a hand on me again, he is my meat," and he turned and went back to the bar.

"Strange," Ferguson said to Morgan, "but since meeting you life's taken on an entirely new meaning."

"Hasn't it?" Morgan said amiably, and at that moment Molly arrived with a huge tray containing plates of her fish and potato pie.

"My word that does smell good." Ferguson beamed. "Let's tuck in, I'm sure we're going to need all our strength."

Afterwards, standing in the street outside, Morgan said, "I wondered about dinner tomorrow night perhaps. I thought it might be nice to invite Lady Katherine."

"Excellent thought," Ferguson said. "Delighted to accept."

Asta said, "Do you ride, Dillon?"

"It's been known."

"Perhaps you could join us tomorrow morning. We could mount you with no trouble."

"Ah, well there you have me," he said. "My uncle promised to take me deer stalking tomorrow. Have you ever tried it?"

"Deer stalking? That sounds absolutely wonderful." She turned. "Carl? I'd love to go."

"Not my style and I've business to take care of tomorrow."

Ferguson said amiably, "We'd be delighted to have you join us, my dear, that is if you have no objection, Morgan?"

"Why should I, an excellent idea."

"We'll pick you up," Ferguson said. "Nine-thirty." He raised his tweed hat. "Goodbye for now," and turned and led the way back to the Range Rover.

"Right, let's go," Morgan said, and Asta led the way to the parked station wagon.

Murdoch murmured, "A word, sir, I've an idea where Fergus might have gone."

"Is that so?" Morgan said. "All right, we'll take Miss Asta home and then you can show me."

At Ardmurchan Lodge Ferguson shrugged off his coat and went and stood with his back to the fire. "And what do you make of that?"

"The heavy blocking the door, sir, is his present minder, one Marco Russo," Hannah Bernstein said. "I checked with Immigration. He came in with Morgan. Information from the Italian police indicates he's a known Mafia enforcer and member of the Luca family."

"A thoroughly nasty bit of work if you ask me," Ferguson said and turned to Dillon. "What's all this deer stalking nonsense then?"

"You've never stalked deer, Brigadier?" Dillon shook his head. "You've never lived, and you a member of the upper classes."

"Of course I've stalked deer," Ferguson told him. "And kindly keep your fatuous comments to yourself. What I want to know is why are we taking the girl tomorrow? You obviously wanted it, which is why I asked her."

"I'm not sure," Dillon said. "I'd like to get to know her a little better. It might lead somewhere."

Hannah Bernstein said, "Dillon, get one thing straight, that is one tough, capable, and intelligent young lady. If you think she doesn't know exactly how Morgan makes his money you're fooling yourself. Observe them, use your eyes. They're a very intimate couple. I'd give you odds she knows exactly what they're doing up here."

Dillon said, "Which is exactly why I want to cultivate her."

"I agree," Ferguson said. "So we go as planned in the morning. Kim can be a gun bearer, you'll stay here and hold the fort, Chief Inspector."

"As you say, sir."

Ferguson turned to Dillon. "Anything else?"

"Yes, I've decided to pay a visit to the castle tonight. Check things out, see what's going on. Any objections?"

"Not at all. Come to think of it, it's rather a good idea." Ferguson smiled. "Strange, but Morgan's actually quite civilized when you meet him, don't you agree?"

"Not really, sir," Hannah Bernstein said. "As far as I'm concerned he's just another gangster in a good suit."