Dillon was tired, very tired, and the pavement seemed to move beneath his feet. He followed the road and it brought him alongside the Thames. He stood at some railings, staring into the fog, aware of another ship moving out there. He was confused, things happening in slow motion, not aware that someone was behind him until an arm wrapped round his neck, cutting off his air. A hand slipped inside his jacket and found the Walther. Dillon was shoved into the railings, stayed there for a moment then turned and moved forward.
The albino, Terry, stood there holding the Walther. ‘Here we are again, then.’
A black limousine pulled into the kerb. Dillon was aware of someone else at his back, took a deep breath and brought up all his resources. He swung his right foot up, caught Terry’s hand and the Walther soared over the railings into the Thames. He jerked his head back, crunching the nose of the man behind, then ran along the pavement. He turned the corner and found himself on a deserted wharf blocked by high gates, securely padlocked.
As he turned, the limousine arrived and they all seemed to come at him together, the first man with an iron bar which clanged against the gate as Dillon lost his footing and fell, rolling desperately to avoid the swinging kicks. And then they had him up, one of them pinning him against the gates.
McGuire, lighting a cigarette, stood by the limousine. He said, ‘You asked for this, friend, you really did. OK, Terry, slice him up.’
Terry’s hand came out of his pocket holding an old-fashioned cut-throat razor which he opened as he came forward. He was quite calm and the blade of the razor flashed dully in the light of a street lamp and somewhere a cry echoed flatly on the damp air. Terry and McGuire swung round and Yuan Tao came walking out of the rain.
The jacket of his gabardine suit was soaked and somehow he was different, moving with a kind of strange relentlessness, as if nothing could ever stop him, and McGuire said, ‘For God’s sake, put him out of his misery.’
The man with the iron bar darted round the limousine and ran at Yuan Tao, the bar swinging, and the Chinese actually took the blow on his left forearm with no apparent effect. In the same moment his right fist jabbed in a short screwing motion that landed under the man’s breastbone. He went down like a stone without a sound.
Yuan Tao leaned over him for a second and McGuire ran round the limousine and kicked out at him. The older man caught the foot with effortless ease and twisted, so that Dillon could have sworn he heard bone crack, then he lifted, hurling McGuire across the bonnet of the car. He lay on the pavement, moaning. Yuan Tao came round the limousine, his face very calm, and the man holding Dillon from the rear released him and ran away.
Terry held up the razor. ‘All right, fatty, let’s be having you.’
‘What about me, then, you bastard,’ Dillon said and, as Terry turned, gave him a punch in the mouth, summoning all his remaining strength.
Terry lay on the pavement, cursing, blood on his mouth, and Yuan Tao stamped on his hand and kicked the razor away. A van turned into the street and braked to a halt. As the chef got out, the two waiters came round the corner holding the man who had run away.
‘I’d tell them to leave him in one piece,’ Dillon said in Cantonese. ‘You’ll need him to drive this lot away.’
‘An excellent point,’ Yuan Tao said. ‘At least you are still in one piece.’
‘Only just. I’m beginning to see why your niece was annoyed. Presumably you were actually hoping McGuire would show up?’
‘I flew in especially from Hong Kong for the pleasure. My niece Su Yin cabled for my help. A matter of family. It was difficult for me to get away. I was at a retreat at one of our monasteries.’
‘Monasteries?’ Dillon said.
‘I should explain, Mr Dillon; I am a Shaolin monk, if you know what that is.’
Dillon laughed shakily. ‘I certainly do. If only McGuire had. It means, I suspect, that you’re an expert in kung fu?’
‘Darkmaster, Mr Dillon; our most extreme grade. I have studied all my life. I think I shall stay for two or three weeks to make sure there is no more trouble.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, I think they’ll have got the point.’
McGuire, Terry and one of the blacks still lay on the pavement and the chef and two waiters brought the fourth man forward. Yuan Tao went and spoke to them in Cantonese and then returned. ‘They’ll deal with things here. Su Yin is waiting in her car at the restaurant.’
They walked back, turned the corner and found a dark saloon parked under the Red Dragon. As they approached she got out and, ignoring her uncle, said to Dillon in Cantonese, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am now.’
‘I am sorry for my behaviour.’ She bowed. ‘I deserve punishment, as my honourable uncle pointed out. Please forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ Dillon told her and from the direction of the river a scream sounded.
She turned-to her uncle. ‘What was that?’
‘The little worm with the white hair, the one who shamed you before us, I told them to cut off his right ear.’
Su Yin’s face didn’t alter. ‘I thank you, Uncle.’ She bowed again then turned to Dillon. ‘You will come with us now, Mr Dillon,’ and this time she spoke in English.
‘Girl dear, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he said and got in the back of the car.
‘If you have studied judo or karate you will have heard of kiai, the power that makes a man perform miracles of strength and force. Only the greatest of masters acquire this and only after years of training and discipline, both mental and physical.’
‘Well, you certainly have it,’ Dillon said. ‘I can still see that steel bar bouncing off your arm.’
He was immersed to his neck in a bath of water so hot that sweat ran down his face. Yuan Tao squatted against the wall in an old robe and peered at him through the steam.
Dillon carried on, ‘Once in Japan I was taken to see an old man of eighty, a Zen priest with arms like sticks. I think he might have weighed seven stone. He remained seated while two karate black belts repeatedly attacked him.’
‘And?’
‘He threw them effortlessly. I was told later that his power sprang from what they called the tanden or second brain.’
‘Which can only be developed by years of meditation. All this is a development of the ancient Chinese art of Shaolin Temple Boxing. It came from India in the sixth century with Zen Buddhism and was developed by the monks of Shaolin Temple in Hohan Province.’
‘Isn’t that a rough game for priests? I mean, I had an uncle, a Catholic priest, who taught me bare-knuckle boxing as a boy and him a prize fighter as a younger man, but this …’
‘We have a saying. A man avoids warfare only by being prepared for it. The monks learned that lesson. Centuries ago members of my family learned the art and passed it down. Over the centuries my ancestors fought evildoers on behalf of the poor, even the forces of the Emperor when necessary. We served our society.’
‘Are you talking of the Triad Society here?’ Dillon asked. ‘I thought they were simply a kind of Chinese version of the Mafia?’
‘Like the Mafia, they started as secret societies to protect the poor against the rich landowners and, like the Mafia, they have become corrupted over the years, but not all.’
‘I’ve read something about this,’ Dillon said. ‘Are you telling me you are a Triad?’
‘Like my forefathers before me, I am a member of the Secret Breath, the oldest of all, founded in Hohan in the sixteenth century. Unlike others, my society has not been corrupted. I am a Shaolin monk, I also have business interests, there is nothing wrong in that, but I will stand aside for no man.’
‘So all this and your fighting ability has been handed down?’
‘Of course. There are many methods, many schools, but without ch’i they are nothing.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘A special energy. When accumulated just below the navel, it has an elemental force which is infinitely greater than physical force alone. It means that a fist is simply a focusing agent. There is no need for the tremendous punches used by Western boxers. I strike from only a few inches away, screwing my fist on impact. The result may be a ruptured spleen or broken bones.’
‘I can believe that, but deflecting that steel bar with your arm. How do you do that?’
‘Practice, Mr Dillon, fifty years of practice.’
‘I haven’t got that long.’ Dillon stood up and Yuan Tao passed him a towel.
‘One may accomplish miracles in a matter of weeks with discipline and application and, with a man like you, I doubt whether one would be starting from scratch. There are scars from knife wounds in your back and that is an old bullet wound in the left shoulder and then there was the gun.’ He shrugged. ‘No ordinary man.’
‘I was stabbed in the back fairly recently,’ Dillon told him. ‘They saved me with two operations, but it poisoned my system.’
‘And your occupation?’
‘I worked for British Intelligence. They threw me out this morning, said I wasn’t up to it any more.’
‘Then they are wrong.’
There was a pause and Dillon said, ‘Are you saying you’ll take me on?’
‘I owe you a debt, Mr Dillon.’
‘Come off it, you didn’t need me. I interfered.’
‘But you didn’t know you were interfering and that makes a difference. It is a man’s intentions which are important.’ Yuan Tao smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to prove your people wrong?’
‘By God and I would so,’ Dillon said and then he hesitated as Yuan Tao handed him a robe. ‘I’d prefer honesty between us from the beginning.’
‘So?’
Dillon stood up and pulled on the robe. ‘I was for years a member of the Provisional IRA and high on the most-wanted list of the Royal Ulster Constabulary and British Intelligence.’
‘And yet you worked for the British?’
‘Yes, well I didn’t have much choice at first.’
‘But now something has changed inside your head?’
Dillon grinned. ‘Is there nothing you don’t know? Anyway, does it make a difference?’
‘Why should it? From the way you struck one of those men tonight I think you have studied karate.’
‘Some, but no big deal. Brown belt and working for black, then I ran out of time.’
‘This is good. I think we can accomplish a great deal. But now we will eat. Flesh on your bones again.’
He led the way along a corridor to a sitting room furnished in a mixture of European and Chinese styles. Su Yin sat by the fire reading a book and wearing a black silk trouser suit.
‘I have news, Niece,’ Yuan Tao said as she got up. ‘Mr Dillon is to spend three weeks as our guest. This will not inconvenience you?’
‘Of course not, Uncle; I will get the supper now.’
She moved to the door, opened it and glanced back at Dillon over her shoulder and, for the first time since they had met, she smiled.
It was the morning of 4 July that Morgan and Asta flew into London. They were picked up at Heathrow by a Rolls laid on by his London head office.
‘The Berkeley?’ she said.
‘Where else, the best hotel in town. I’ve got us the Wellington Suite up on the roof, with the two bedrooms and that wonderful conservatory.’
‘And so convenient for Harrods,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand. ‘When did I ever tell you not to spend my money? I’ll just drop you off; I’ve business at the office, but I’ll be back. Don’t forget we have the Fourth of July party at the American Embassy tonight. Wear something really nice.’
‘I’ll knock their eyes out.’
‘You always do, sweetheart; your mother would have been real proud of you,’ and he took her hand as the Rolls moved away.
Hannah Bernstein knocked and went into Ferguson’s office and found him working hard at his desk. ‘Paper and even more paper.’ He sat back. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve had a phone call from Kim at Ardnamurchan Lodge. He arrived there safely last night in the Range Rover you appropriated. He said the journey was very strenuous, that the mountains reminded him of Nepal, but that the lodge is very nice. Apparently Lady Katherine’s cook, Jeannie, appeared with a meat-and-potato pie to make sure he was all right.’
‘Good, and Morgan?’
‘The Prince moves out on Sunday morning. He has slots arranged from Air Traffic Control from Ardnamurchan Airfield. I’ve checked and Morgan has booked a slot to fly in that lunchtime in his Company Citation. No time for breaking and entering, I’m afraid.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Arrived at Heathrow an hour ago with his stepdaughter; booked into the Wellington Suite at the Berkeley.’
‘Good God, the Duke must be turning in his grave.’
‘Appearance at the American Embassy tonight, sir.’
‘Which means I’ll have to skip that Fourth of July junket. Never mind. Is the other business in hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent. I’ll see you later, then.’
He returned to his work and she went out.
Dillon came awake early from a deep sleep, aware at once of pale evening light filtering in through the curtained window. He was alone. He turned to look at the pillow beside him, at the indentation where her head had been, and then he got up, walked to the window and looked out through the half-drawn curtains to the cobbled street of Stable Mews.
It was a fine evening and he turned and went to the wardrobe feeling relaxed and alive, but more important, whole again. His eyes were calm, his head clear and the ache in his stomach was honest hunger. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He looked younger, fitter in every way. When he turned to examine his back in the mirror, the angry weal of the operation scars from the knife wounds were already fading into white lines. It was extraordinary. Barely four weeks since that night in Wapping. What Yuan Tao had achieved was a miracle. He pulled on a track suit then followed the sound of running water to the bathroom. When he opened the door Su Yin was in the shower.
‘It’s me,’ he called. ‘Are we having dinner tonight?’
‘I have a business to run,’ she called. ‘You keep forgetting.’
‘We could eat late.’
‘All right, we’ll see, now go and do your exercises.’
He closed the door and returned to the bedroom. It was cool in there and quiet, only the faint traffic sounds in the distance. He could almost hear the silence and stood there, relaxing completely, remembering the lines of the ancient Taoist verse that Yuan Tao had taught him.
In motion, be like water
At rest, like a mirror
Respond, like the echo
Be subtle as though non-existent
The ability to relax completely, the most important gift of all, a faculty retained by all other animals except man. Cultivated, it could provide a power that was positively superhuman, created by vigorous discipline and a system of training at least a thousand years old. Out of it sprang the intrinsic energy ch’i, the life force which in repose gave a man the pliability of a child and in action the power of the tiger.
He sat on the floor cross-legged, relaxing totally, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. He closed his eyes and covered his left ear with his right hand. He varied this after five minutes by covering his right ear with his left hand, still breathing deeply and steadily. Then he covered both ears, arms crossed.
Darkness enfolded him and, when he finally opened his eyes, his mouth was sharply cool. He took a long shuddering breath and, when he got to his feet, his limbs seemed to be filled with power. He wondered how Bellamy would react and yet the results were there for all to see. A hand that no longer trembled, a clear eye and a strength he would never have believed possible.
Su Yin came in at that moment wearing cream slacks and a Spanish shirt in vivid orange. She was combing her hair. ‘You look pleased with yourself.’
‘And why wouldn’t I? I’ve spent the afternoon in bed with a supremely beautiful woman and I still feel like Samson.’
She laughed. ‘You’re hopeless, Sean. Get me a taxi.’
He phoned the usual number then turned. ‘What about tonight? We could eat late at the Ritz and catch the cabaret.’
‘It’s not possible.’ She put a hand to her face. ‘I know how good you feel these days, but you can’t have everything in this life.’ She hesitated. ‘You miss Yuan Tao, don’t you?’
‘Very much, which is strange considering he only left five days ago.’
‘Would you miss me as much?’
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m going home, Sean. My sister and her husband are opening a new night club in Hong Kong. My uncle phoned me last night. They need me.’
‘And the Red Dragon?’
‘Will continue quite happily with my head waiter promoted to manager.’
‘And me?’ he said. ‘What about me?’
‘Are you trying to say you love me?’ He hesitated before replying and it was enough. ‘No, Sean, we’ve had as good a time together as any two people could hope for in this life, but everything passes and it’s time for me to go home.’
‘How soon?’
‘Probably the weekend.’ As the doorbell rang, she picked up her briefcase. ‘There’s my taxi. I must go. I’ve lots to do.’
He went with her to the door and opened it. The taxi was waiting, engine running. She paused on the step. ‘This isn’t the end, Sean. You’ll call me?’
He kissed her lightly on both cheeks. ‘Of course.’
But he wouldn’t, he knew that and she knew it too; he could tell that by the way she paused before getting into the taxi, glancing back as if aware that it was the last time, and then the door slammed and she was gone.
He was in the shower for a good fifteen minutes, thinking about it, when the front door-bell rang. Perhaps she’d come back? He found a bathrobe and went out, drying his hair with a towel. When he opened the door a man in brown overalls stood there, a clipboard in his hand, a British Telecom van parked behind him.
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, we’ve had four telephone breakdowns already this morning in the mews. Could I check your box?’ He held up a British Telecom identity pass with his photo on it above the name J. Smith.
‘Sure and why not?’ Dillon turned and led the way along the corridor. ‘The junction box is under the stairs. I’ll just go and change.’
He went upstairs, finished drying his hair, combed it and pulled on an old track suit and trainers then went downstairs. The telephone engineer was under the stairs.
‘Everything all right?’ Dillon asked.
‘I think so, sir.’
Dillon turned to go through the living room to the kitchen and saw a large laundry basket in the middle of the room. ‘What in the hell is this?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, that’s for you.’
A second telephone engineer in the same uniform overalls stepped from behind the door, holding an Italian Beretta automatic pistol. He was getting on a little and had a wrinkled and kindly face.
‘Jesus, son, there’s no need for that thing, just tell me what you want,’ Dillon said and moved to the wide Victorian fireplace and stood with his hand on the mantelpiece.
‘I wouldn’t try to grab for the Walther you keep hanging from a nail just into the chimney, sir, we’ve already removed it,’ the older man said. ‘So just lie on the floor, hands behind your neck.’
Dillon did as he was told as Smith joined them. ‘Steady does it, Mr Dillon,’ he said and Dillon was aware of a needle jabbing into his right buttock.
Whatever it was, it was good. One moment he was there, the next he was gone, it was as simple as that.
He came back to life as quickly as he had left it. It was night now and the only illumination in the room was from a kind of night light on the locker beside the single bed on which he lay. He still wore his track suit, they hadn’t even taken off his trainers. He swung his legs to the floor, took a couple of deep breaths then heard voices and a key rattled in the lock. He hurriedly lay back and closed his eyes.
‘Still out. Is that all right, Doc?’ It was Smith speaking; Dillon recognized his voice.
Someone else said, ‘Let me see.’ A finger checked his pulse on the right wrist and then his track-suit top was unzipped and a stethoscope applied. ‘Pulse fine, heart fine,’ the doctor said and rolled back Dillon’s eyelids one after the other and probed with a light. He was a tall, cadaverous Indian in a white coat and Dillon, by an act of supreme will, stayed rigid, staring. ‘No, he’ll be awake soon. One cannot be certain of the time element with these drug dosages. There are individual variations in response. We’ll come back in an hour.’
The door closed, the key turned. Two bolts were also rammed home. Dillon was on his feet now, moved to the door and stood there listening. There was little point in wasting time on the door, that was obvious. He moved to the window and drew the curtain and was immediately presented with solid bars. He peered out. Rain fell steadily, dripping through a leak from the gutter which was just above his head. There was a garden outside, a high wall about fifty yards away.
If that was the gutter that meant there was only roof space above him. It could be an attic, but only one way to find out.
There was a small wooden table and a chair against the wall. He dragged the table into the corner by the window and climbed on to it. The plaster of the ceiling was so old and soft that when he put his elbow into it it broke at once, shards of plaster crumbling, dropping into the room. He enlarged the hole quickly, tearing wooden lathing away with his bare hands. When it was large enough, he got down, placed the chair on the table, then clambered up on it, pulling himself up to find a dark echoing roof space, a chink of light drifting through a crack here and there.
He moved cautiously, walking on beams. The roof space was extensive and obviously covered the whole house, a rabbit warren of half-walls and eaves. He finally came to a trapdoor which he opened cautiously. Below was a small landing in darkness, stairs leading down to where there was diffused light.
Dillon dropped to the landing, paused to listen and then went down the stairs. He found himself at one end of a long corridor which was fully lit. He hesitated and, at that moment, a door opened on his left and Smith and the Indian doctor walked out. And Smith was fast, Dillon had to give him that, pulling a Walther from his pocket even as Dillon moved in, smashing a fist into his stomach and raising a knee into the man’s face as he keeled over. Smith dropped the Walther as he fell and Dillon picked it up.
‘All right, old son,’ he said to the doctor. ‘Answers. Where am I?’
The Indian was hugely alarmed. ‘St Mark’s Nursing Home, Holland Park, Mr Dillon. Please.’ His hands fluttered. ‘I loathe guns.’
‘You’ll loathe them even more when I’ve finished with you. What’s going on here? Who am I up against?’
‘Please Mr Dillon.’ The man was pleading now. ‘I just work here.’
There was a sudden shout and Dillon turned to see the second of his kidnappers standing at the end of the corridor. He drew his Beretta, Dillon took a quick snap-shot with the Walther, the man went over backwards. Dillon shoved the Indian into the room, turned and went headlong down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom a shrill alarm bell sounded monotonously over and over again. Dillon didn’t hesitate, reaching the corridor on the ground floor in seconds, running straight for the door at the far end. He unlocked it hurriedly and plunged out into the garden.
It was raining hard. He seemed to be at the rear of the house and somewhere on the other side he heard voices calling and the bark of a dog. He ran across a piece of lawn and carried on through bushes, a hand raised to protect his face from flailing branches until he reached the wall. It was about fifteen feet high, festooned with barbed wire. Possible to climb a nearby tree perhaps and leap across, but the black wire strung at that level looked ominous. He picked up a large branch lying on the ground and reached up. When he touched the wire there was an immediate flash.
He turned and ran on, parallel to the wall. There was more than one dog barking now, but the rain would help kill his scent, and then he came to the edge of the trees and the drive to the gates leading to the outside world. They were closed and two men stood there wearing berets and camouflage uniforms and holding assault rifles.
A Land Rover drew up and someone got out to speak to them, a man in civilian clothes. Dillon turned and hurried back towards the house. The alarm stopped abruptly. He paused by the rear entrance he had exited from earlier, then opened it. The corridor was silent and he moved along it cautiously and stood at the bottom of the stairs.
There were voices in the distance. He listened for a moment then went cautiously back up the stairs. The last place they’d look for him, or so he hoped. He reached the corridor on the top floor. Smith and the other man had gone, but, as Dillon paused there, considering his next move, the door opened on his right and, for the second time that night, the Indian doctor emerged.
His distress was almost comical. ‘Oh, my God, Mr Dillon, I thought you well away by now.’
‘I’ve returned to haunt you,’ Dillon told him. ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
‘Chowdray – Dr Emas Chowdray.’
‘Good. I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. Somewhere in this place is the person in charge. You’re going to take me to where he is. If you don’t,’ he chucked Chowdray under the chin with the Walther, ‘you’ll loathe guns even more.’
‘No need for this violence, I assure you, Mr Dillon. I will comply.’
He led the way down the stairs, turning along a corridor on the first floor, reaching a carpeted landing. A curving Regency staircase led to a magnificent hall. The dogs were still barking in the garden outside, but it was so quiet in the hall they could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
‘Where are we going?’ Dillon whispered.
‘Down there, the mahogany door,’ Chowdray told him.
‘Down we go, then.’
They descended the carpeted stairs; moved across the hall to the door. ‘The library, Mr Dillon.’
‘Nice and easy,’ Dillon said. ‘Open it.’
Chowdray did so and Dillon pushed him inside. The walls were lined with books, a fire burned brightly in an Adam fireplace. Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein stood by the fire, talking to the two fake telephone engineers.
She turned and smiled. ‘Come in, Mr Dillon, do. You’ve just won me five pounds. I told these two this is exactly where you would end up.’