Читать книгу On Dangerous Ground - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

‘A strange man, Sean Dillon,’ Ferguson said.

‘I’d say that was an understatement, sir,’ Hannah Bernstein told him.

They were sitting in the rear of Ferguson’s Daimler, threading their way through the West End traffic.

‘He was born in Belfast, but his mother died in childbirth. His father came to work in London, so the boy went to school here. Incredible talent for acting. He did a year at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and one or two roles at the National Theatre. He also has a flair for languages, everything from Irish to Russian.’

‘All very impressive, sir, but he still ended up shooting people for the Provisional IRA.’

‘Yes, well that was because his father, on a trip home to Belfast, got caught in some crossfire and was killed by a British Army patrol. Dillon took the oath, did a fast course on weaponry in Libya and never looked back.’

‘Why the switch from the IRA to the international scene?’

‘Disenchantment with the glorious cause. Dillon is a thoroughly ruthless man when he has to be. He’s killed many times in his career; but the random bomb that kills women and children? Let’s say that’s not his style.’

‘Are you trying to tell me he actually has some notion of morality?’

Ferguson laughed. ‘Well, he certainly never played favourites. Worked for the PLO, but also as an underwater specialist for the Israelis.’

‘For money, of course.’

‘Naturally. Our Sean does like the good things in life. The attempt to blow up Downing Street, that was for money. Saddam Hussein was behind that. And yet eighteen months later he flies a light plane loaded with medical supplies for children into Bosnia and no payment involved.’

‘What happened, did God speak down through the clouds to him or something?’

‘Does it matter? The Serbs had him, and his prospects, to put it mildly, looked bleak. I did a deal with them which saved him from a firing squad. In return he came to work for me, slate wiped clean.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but that’s a slate that will never wipe clean.’

‘My dear Chief Inspector, there are many occasions in this line of work when it’s useful to be able to set a thief to catch one. If you are to continue to work for me, you’ll have to get used to the idea.’ He peered out as they turned into Grafton Street. ‘Are you sure he’s at this place?’

‘So they tell me, sir. His favourite restaurant.’

‘Excellent,’ Ferguson said. ‘I could do with a bite to eat myself.’

Sean Dillon sat in the upstairs bar of Mulligan’s Irish Restaurant and worked his way through a dozen oysters and half a bottle of Krug champagne to help things along as he read the evening paper. He was a small man, no more than five feet five, with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore dark cord jeans, an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. The eyes were his strangest feature, like water over a stone – clear, no colour – and there was a permanent slight ironic quirk to the corner of his mouth, the look of a man who no longer took life too seriously.

‘So there you are,’ Charles Ferguson said and Dillon glanced up and groaned. ‘No place to hide, not tonight. I’ll have a dozen of those and a pint of Guinness.’

A young waitress standing by had heard. Dillon said to her in Irish, ‘A fine lordly Englishman, a colleen, but his mother, God rest her, was Irish, so give him what he wants.’

The girl gave him a smile of true devotion and went away. Ferguson sat down and Dillon looked up at Hannah Bernstein. ‘And who might you be, girl?’

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, Special Branch, my new assistant and I don’t want you corrupting her. Now, where’s my Guinness?’

It was then that Hannah Bernstein received her first shock for, as Dillon stood, he smiled and it was like no smile she had ever seen before, warm and immensely charming, changing his personality completely. She had come here wanting to dislike this man, but now.…

He took her hand. ‘And what would a nice Jewish girl like you be doing in such bad company? Will you have a glass of champagne?’

‘I don’t think so, I’m on duty.’ She was slightly uncertain now and took a seat.

Dillon went to the bar, returned with another glass and poured Krug into it. ‘When you’re tired of champagne, you’re tired of life.’

‘What a load of cobblers,’ she said, but took the glass.

Ferguson roared with laughter. ‘Beware this one, Dillon, she ran across a hoodlum emerging from a supermarket with a sawn-off shotgun last year. Unfortunately for him she was working the American Embassy detail that week and had a Smith and Wesson in her handbag.’

‘So you convinced him of his wicked ways?’ Dillon said.

She nodded. ‘Something like that.’

Ferguson’s Guinness and oysters appeared. ‘We’ve got trouble, Dillon, bad trouble. Tell him, Chief Inspector.’

Which she did in a few brief sentences. When she was finished, Dillon took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter.

‘So, what do you think?’ she asked.

‘Well, all we know for certain is that Billy Quigley is dead.’

‘But he did manage to speak to the Brigadier,’ Hannah said. ‘Which surely means Ahern will abort the mission.’

‘Why should he?’ Dillon said. ‘You’ve got nothing except the word that he intends to try and blow up the President sometime tomorrow. Where? When? Have you even the slightest idea, and I’ll bet his schedule is extensive!’

‘It certainly is,’ Ferguson said. ‘Downing Street in the morning with the PM and the Israeli Prime Minister. Cocktail party on a river steamer tomorrow night and most things in between.’

‘None of which he’s willing to cancel?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Ferguson shook his head. ‘I’ve already had a call from Downing Street. The President refuses to change a thing.’

Hannah Bernstein said, ‘Do you know Ahern personally?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dillon told her. ‘He tried to kill me a couple of times and then we met for face-to-face negotiations during a truce in Derry.’

‘And his girlfriend?’

Dillon shook his head. ‘Whatever else Norah Bell is, she isn’t that. Sex isn’t in her bag. She was just an ordinary working-class girl until her family was obliterated by an IRA bomb. These days she’d kill the Pope if she could.’

‘And Ahern?’

‘He’s a strange one. It’s always been like a game to him. He’s a brilliant manipulator. I recall his favourite saying. That he didn’t like his left hand to know what his right hand was doing.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘Just that nothing’s ever what it seems with Ahern.’

There was a small silence then Ferguson said, ‘Everyone is on this case. We’ve got them pumping out a not very good photo of the man himself.’

‘And an even more inferior one of the girl,’ Hannah Bernstein said.

Ferguson swallowed an oyster. ‘Any ideas on finding him?’

‘As a matter of fact I have,’ Dillon said. ‘There’s a Protestant pub in Kilburn, the William of Orange. I could have words there.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Ferguson swallowed his last oyster and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’

The William of Orange in Kilburn had a surprising look of Belfast about it, with the fresco of King William victorious at the Battle of the Boyne on the whitewashed wall at one side. It could have been any Orange pub in the Shankill.

‘You wouldn’t exactly fit in at the bar, you two,’ Dillon said as they sat in the back of the Daimler. ‘I need to speak to a man called Paddy Driscoll.’

‘What is he, UVF?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Let’s say he’s a fundraiser. Wait here. I’m going round the back.’

‘Go with him, Chief Inspector,’ Ferguson ordered.

Dillon sighed. ‘All right, Brigadier, but I’m in charge.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Do as he says.’

Dillon got out and started along the pavement. ‘Are you carrying?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Good. You never know what will happen next in this wicked old world.’

He paused in the entrance to a yard, took a Walther from his waistband at the rear, produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it into place; then he slipped it inside his flying jacket. They crossed the cobbled yard through the rain, aware of music from the bar area where some loyalist band thumped out ‘The Sash My Father Wore’. Through the rear window was a view of an extensive kitchen, and a small, grey-haired man seated at a table doing accounts.

‘That’s Driscoll,’ Dillon whispered. ‘In we go.’ Driscoll, at the table, was aware of some of his papers fluttering in a sudden draught of wind, looked up and found Dillon entering the room, Hannah Bernstein behind him.

‘God bless all here,’ Dillon said, ‘and the best of the night yet to come, Paddy, me old son.’

‘Dear God, Sean Dillon.’ There was naked fear on Driscoll’s face.

‘Plus your very own Detective Chief Inspector. We are treating you well tonight.’

‘What do you want?’

Hannah leaned against the door and Dillon pulled a chair over and sat across the table from Driscoll. He took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘Michael Ahern. Where might he be?’

‘Jesus, Sean, I haven’t seen that one in years.’

‘Billy Quigley? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Billy because I happen to know he drinks here regularly.’

Driscoll tried to tough it out. ‘Sure, Billy comes in all the time, but as for Ahern.…’ He shrugged. ‘He’s bad news that one, Sean.’

‘Yes, but I’m worse.’ In one swift movement Dillon pulled the Walther from inside his flying jacket, levelled it and fired. There was a dull thud, the lower half of Driscoll’s left ear disintegrated and he moaned, a hand to the ear, blood spurting.

‘Dillon, for God’s sake!’ Hannah cried.

‘I don’t think He’s got much to do with it.’ Dillon raised the Walther. ‘Now the other one.’

‘No, I’ll tell you,’ Driscoll moaned. ‘Ahern did phone here yesterday. He left a message for Billy. I gave it to him around five o’clock when he came in for a drink.’

‘What was it?’

‘He was to meet him at a place off Wapping High Street, a warehouse called Olivers. Brick Wharf.’

Driscoll fumbled for a handkerchief, sobbing with pain. Dillon slipped the gun inside his flying jacket and got up. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘That didn’t take long.’

‘You’re a bastard, Dillon,’ Hannah Bernstein said as she opened the door.

‘It’s been said before.’ Dillon turned in the doorway. ‘One more thing, Paddy, Michael Ahern killed Billy Quigley earlier tonight. We know that for a fact.’

‘Dear God!’ Driscoll said.

‘That’s right. I’d stay out of it if I were you,’ and Dillon closed the door gently.

‘Shall I call for back-up, sir?’ Hannah Bernstein said as the Daimler eased into Brick Wharf beside the Thames.

Ferguson put his window down and looked out. ‘I shouldn’t think it matters, Chief Inspector. If he was here, he’s long gone. Let’s go and see.’

It was Dillon who led the way in, the Walther ready in his left hand, stepping through the Judas gate, feeling for the switch on the wall, flooding the place with light. At the bottom of the steps he found the office switch and led the way up. Billy Quigley lay on his back on the other side of the desk. Dillon stood to one side, shoving the Walther back inside his flying jacket, and Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein moved forward.

‘Is that him, sir?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Ferguson sighed. ‘Take care of it, Chief Inspector.’

She started to call in on her mobile phone and Ferguson turned and went down the stairs followed by Dillon. He went out into the street and stood by a rail overlooking the Thames. As Dillon joined him, Hannah Bernstein appeared. Ferguson said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t know that Billy was an informer,’ Dillon said.

Ferguson turned to Hannah. ‘Which means?’

‘If Dillon’s right, sir, Ahern is playing some sort of game with us.’

‘But what?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘There are times for waiting, Brigadier, and this is one of them,’ Dillon said. ‘If you want my thoughts on the matter, it’s simple. We’re in Ahern’s hands. There will be a move tomorrow, sooner rather than later. Based on that, I might have some thoughts, but not before.’

Dillon lit a cigarette with his old Zippo, turned and walked back to the Daimler.

It was just before nine the following morning when Ahern drove the Telecom van along the Mall, stopping at the park gates opposite Marlborough Road. Norah followed him in a Toyota saloon. Ali Halabi was standing by the gates dressed in a green anorak and jeans. He hurried forward.

‘No sign of Quigley.’

‘Get in.’ The Arab did as he was told and Ahern passed him one of the orange Telecom jackets. ‘He’s ill. Suffers from chronic asthma and the stress has brought on an attack.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it matters. All you have to do is drive the van. Norah and I will lead you to your position. Just get out, lift the manhole cover then walk away through the park. Are you still on?’

‘Absolutely,’ Halabi said.

‘Good. Then follow us and everything will be all right.’

Ahern got out. Halabi slid behind the wheel. ‘God is great,’ he said.

‘He certainly is, my old son.’ Ahern turned and walked back to Norah parked at the kerb in the Toyota.

Norah went all the way round, passing Buckingham Palace, turning up Grosvenor Place and back along Constitution Hill by the park. On Ahern’s instructions she pulled in at the kerb opposite the beech tree and paused. Ahern put his arm out of the window and raised a thumb. As they moved away, the Telecom van eased into the kerb. There was a steady flow of traffic. Ahern let her drive about fifty yards then told her to pull in. They could see Halabi get out. He went round to the back of the van and opened the doors. He returned with a clamp, leaned down and prised up the manhole cover.

‘He’s working well, is the boy,’ Ahern said.

He took a small plastic remote-control unit from his pocket and pressed a button. Behind them the van fireballed and two cars passing it, caught in the blast, were blown across the road.

‘That’s what dedication gets for you.’ Ahern tapped Norah on the shoulder. ‘Right, girl dear. Billy told them they’d get an explosion and they’ve got one.’

‘An expensive gesture. With Halabi gone we won’t get the other half of the money.’

‘Two and a half million pounds on deposit in Switzerland, Norah, not a bad pay day, so don’t be greedy. Now let’s get out of here.’

It was late in the afternoon, with Ferguson still at his desk at the Ministry of Defence, when Hannah Bernstein came in.

‘Anything new?’ he asked.

‘Not a thing, sir. Improbable though it sounds, there was enough of Halabi left to identify, his fingerprints anyway. It seems he must have been on the pavement, not in the van.’

‘And the others?’

‘Two cars caught in the blast. Driver of the front one was a woman doctor, killed instantly. The man and woman in the other were going to a sales conference. They’re both in intensive care.’ She put the report on his desk. ‘Quigley was right, but at least Ahern’s shot his bolt.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sir, you’ve seen the President’s schedule. He was due to pass along Constitution Hill at about ten o’clock on the way to Downing Street. Ahern must have known that.’

‘And the explosion?’

‘Premature. That kind of thing happens all the time, you know that, sir. Halabi was just an amateur. I’ve looked at his file in depth. He had an accountancy degree from the London School of Economics.’

‘Yes, it all makes sense – at least to me.’

‘But not to Dillon. Where is he?’

‘Out and about. Nosing around.’

‘He wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, that one.’

‘I suppose that’s why he’s still alive,’ Ferguson told her. ‘Help yourself to coffee, Chief Inspector.’

At the studio flat in Camden Ahern stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed brilliantine into his hair. He combed it back, leaving a centre parting, then carefully glued a dark moustache and fixed it in place. He picked up a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then compared himself with the face on the security pass. As he turned, Norah came in the room. She wore a neat black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Like him she wore spectacles, rather large ones with black rims. She looked totally different.’

‘How do I look?’ she said.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ he told her. ‘What about me?’

‘Great, Michael. First class.’

‘Good.’ He led the way out of the bathroom and crossed to a drinks cabinet. He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. ‘It’s not champagne, Norah Bell, but it’s good Irish whiskey.’ He poured and raised his glass. ‘Our country too.’

‘Our country too,’ she replied, giving him that most ancient of loyalist toasts.

He emptied his glass. ‘Good. All I need is our box of cutlery and we’ll be on our way.’

It was around six-thirty when Ferguson left the Ministry of Defence with Hannah Bernstein and told his driver to take him to his flat in Cavendish Square. The door was opened by Kim, the ex-Gurkha corporal who had been his manservant for years.

‘Mr Dillon has been waiting for you, Brigadier.’

‘Thanks,’ Ferguson said.

When they went into the living room Dillon was standing by the open French window, a glass in his hand. He turned. ‘Helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘Where have you been?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘Checking my usual sources. You can discount the IRA on this one. It really is Ahern and that’s what bothers me.’

‘Can I ask why?’ Hannah Bernstein said.

Dillon said, ‘Michael Ahern is one of the most brilliant organizers I ever knew. Very clever, very subtle, and very, very devious. I told you, he doesn’t let his left hand know what his right is doing.’

‘So you don’t think he’s simply shot his bolt on this one?’ Ferguson said.

‘Too easy. It may sound complicated to you, but I think everything from Quigley’s betrayal and death to the so-called accidental explosion of the Telecom van on the President’s route was meant to happen.’

‘Are you serious?’ Hannah demanded.

‘Oh, yes. The attempt failed so we can all take it easy. Let me look at the President’s schedule.’

Hannah passed a copy across and Ferguson poured himself a drink. ‘For once I really do hope you’re wrong, Dillon.’

‘Here it is,’ Dillon said. ‘Cocktail party on the Thames river boat Jersey Lily. The Prime Minister, the President and the Prime Minister of Israel. That’s where he’ll strike, that’s where he always intended, the rest was a smokescreen.’

‘You’re mad, Dillon,’ Ferguson said. ‘You must be,’ and then he turned and saw Hannah Bernstein’s face. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Six-thirty, sir.’

‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s get moving. We don’t have much time.’

At the same moment, Ahern and Norah were parking the Toyota in a side street off Cheyne Walk. They got out and walked down towards Cadogan Pier. There were police cars by the dozen, uniformed men all over the place, and at the boarding point a portable electronic arch that everyone had to pass through. Beside it were two large young men in blue suits.

Ahern said, ‘Secret Service, the President’s bodyguard. I think they get their suits from the same shop.’

He and Norah wore their identity cards on their lapels and he grinned and passed a plastic box to one of the Secret Servicemen as they reached the arch. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance, but there’s two hundred knives, spoons and forks in there. It might blow a fuse on that thing.’

‘Give it to me and you go through,’ the Secret Serviceman said.

They negotiated the arch and he opened the plastic box and riffled the cutlery with his hand. At that moment several limousines drew up.

‘For Christ’s sake, man, it’s the Israeli Prime Minister,’ his colleague called.

The Secret Serviceman said to Ahern, ‘You’ll have to leave this box. On your way.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Ahern went up the gangplank followed by Norah. At the top he simply slipped through a door and, following a plan of the ship he had memorized, led the way to a toilet area.

‘Wait here,’ he told Norah and went into the men’s restroom marked number four.

There was a man washing his hands. Ahern started to wash his hands also. The moment the man left, he went to the red fire bucket in the corner, scrabbled in the sand and found two Walthers wrapped in cling film, each with a silencer on the end. He slipped one into the waistband of his trousers at the rear and concealed the other inside his uniform blazer. When he went outside he checked that no one was around for the moment and passed the second Walther to Norah, who slipped it into the inside breast pocket of her blazer under the left armpit.

‘Here we go,’ he said.

At that moment a voice with a heavy Italian accent called, ‘You two, what are you doing?’ When they turned a grey-haired man in a black coat and striped trousers was coming along the corridor. ‘Who sent you?’

Ahern, already sure of his facts, said, ‘Signor Orsini. We were supposed to be at the buffet at the French Embassy, but he told us to come here at the last minute. He thought you might be short-handed.’

‘And he’s right.’ The head waiter turned to Norah. ‘Canapés for you and wine for you,’ he added to Ahern. ‘Up the stairs on the left. Now get moving,’ and he turned and hurried away.

The Prime Minister and the President had already boarded and the crew were about to slip the gangway when Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah drew up in the Daimler. Ferguson led the way, hurrying up the gangway, and two Secret Servicemen moved to intercept him.

‘Brigadier Ferguson. Is Colonel Candy here?’

A large, grey-haired man in a black suit and striped tie hurried along the deck. ‘It’s all right. Is there a problem, Brigadier?’

‘These are aides of mine, Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein.’ Behind him the gangway went down as the crew cast off and the Jersey Lily started to edge out into the Thames. ‘I’m afraid there could be. The explosion this morning? We now believe it to be a subterfuge. You’ve had a photo of this man Ahern. Please alert all your men. He could well be on the boat.’

‘Right.’ Candy didn’t argue and turned to the two Secret Servicemen. ‘Jack, you take the stern, George, go up front. I’ll handle the President. Alert everybody.’

They all turned and hurried away. Ferguson said, ‘Right, let’s try to be useful in our own small way, shall we?’

There was music on the night air provided by a jazz quartet up in the prow, people crowding around, mainly politicians and staff from the London embassies, the President, the Prime Minister and the Israeli Prime Minister moving among them, waiters and waitresses offering wine and canapés to everyone.

‘It’s a nightmare,’ Ferguson said.

Candy appeared, running down a companionway. ‘The big three will all say a few words in about ten minutes. After that we continue down past the Houses of Parliament and disembark at Westminster Pier.’

‘Fine.’ Ferguson turned to Dillon as the American hurried away. ‘This is hopeless.’

‘Maybe he’s not here,’ Hannah said. ‘Perhaps you’re wrong, Dillon.’

It was as if he wasn’t listening to her. ‘He’d have to have a way out.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘The stern, let’s look at the stern.’

He led the way to the rear of the ship quickly, pushing people out of the way, and leaned over the stern rail. After a moment he turned. ‘He’s here.’

‘How do you know?’ Ferguson demanded.

Dillon reached over and hauled in a line and an inflatable with an outboard motor came into view. ‘That’s his way out,’ he said. ‘Or it was.’ He reached over, opened the snap link that held the line, and the inflatable vanished into the darkness.

‘Now what?’ Hannah demanded.

At that moment a voice over the Tannoy system said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister.’

Dillon said, ‘He isn’t the kind to commit suicide, so he wouldn’t walk up to him in the crowd.’ He looked up at the wheelhouse perched on top of the ship, three levels of decks below it. ‘That’s it. It has to be.’

He ran for the steps leading up, Hannah at his heels, Ferguson struggling behind. He looked along the first deck, which was deserted, and started up the steps to the next. As he reached it, the Prime Minister said over the Tannoy, ‘I’m proud to present to you the President of the United States.’

At the same moment as Dillon reached the deck he saw Michael Ahern open the saloon door at the far end and enter, followed by Norah Bell carrying a tray covered by a white napkin.

The saloon was deserted. Ahern moved forward and looked down through the windows to the forward deck where the President stood at the microphone, the British and Israeli Prime Ministers beside him. Ahern eased one of the windows open and took out his gun.

The door opened gently behind him and Dillon moved in, his Walther ready. ‘Jesus, Michael, but you never give up, do you?’

Ahern turned, the gun against his thigh. ‘Sean Dillon, you old bastard,’ and then his hand swung up.

Dillon shot him twice in the heart, a double thud of the silenced pistol that drove him back against the bulkhead. Norah Bell stood there, frozen, clutching the tray.

Dillon said, ‘Now, if there was a pistol under that napkin and you were thinking about reaching for it, I’d have to kill you, Norah, and neither of us would like that, you being a decent Irish girl. Just put the tray down.’

Very slowly, Norah Bell did as she was told and placed the tray on the nearest table. Dillon turned, the Walther swinging from his right hand, and said to Ferguson and Hannah, ‘There you go, all’s well that ends well.’

Behind him Norah hitched up her skirt, pulled the flick knife from her stocking and sprang the blade, plunging it into his back. Dillon reared up in agony and dropped his Walther.

‘Bastard!’ Norah cried, pulled out the knife and thrust it into him again.

Dillon lurched against the table and hung there for a moment. Norah raised the knife to strike a third blow and Hannah Bernstein dropped to one knee, picked up Dillon’s Walther and shot her in the centre of the forehead. At the same moment Dillon slipped from the table and rolled on to his back.

It was around midnight at the London Clinic, one of the world’s greatest hospitals, and Hannah Bernstein sat in the first-floor reception area close to Dillon’s room. She was tired, which in the circumstances was hardly surprising, but a diet of black coffee and cigarettes had kept her going. The door at the end of the corridor swung open and, to her astonishment, Ferguson entered followed by the President and Colonel Candy.

‘The President was returning to the American Embassy,’ Ferguson told her.

‘But in the circumstances I felt I should look in. You’re Chief Inspector Bernstein, I understand.’ The President took her hand. ‘I’m eternally grateful.’

‘You owe more to Dillon, sir. He was the one who thought it through, he was the one who knew they were on board.’

The President moved to the window and peered in. Dillon, festooned with wires, lay on a hospital bed, a nurse beside him.

‘How is he?’

‘Intensive care, sir,’ she said. ‘A four-hour operation. She stabbed him twice.’

‘I brought in Professor Henry Bellamy of Guy’s Hospital, Mr President,’ Ferguson said. ‘The best surgeon in London.’

‘Good.’ The President nodded. ‘I owe you and your people for this, Brigadier, I’ll never forget.’

He walked away and Colonel Candy said, ‘Thank God it worked out the way it did; that way we can keep it under wraps.’

‘I know,’ Ferguson said. ‘It never happened.’

Candy walked away and Hannah Bernstein said, ‘I saw Professor Bellamy half an hour ago. He came to check on him.’

‘And what did he say?’ Ferguson frowned. ‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, he’ll live, sir, if that’s what you mean. The trouble is Bellamy doesn’t think he’ll ever be the same again. She almost gutted him.’

Ferguson put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

‘You mean am I upset because I killed someone tonight? Not at all, Brigadier. I’m really not the nice Jewish girl Dillon imagines. I’m a rather Old Testament Jewish girl. She was a murderous bitch. She deserved to die.’ She took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘No, it’s Dillon I’m sorry for. He did a good job. He deserved better.’

‘I thought you didn’t like him,’ Ferguson said.

‘Then you were wrong, Brigadier.’ She looked in through the window at Dillon. ‘The trouble is I liked him too much and that never pays in our line of work.’

She turned and walked away. Ferguson hesitated, glanced once more at Dillon, then went after her.