On dangerous ground sd-3 Read online

  Ruffolo sampled a little of the champagne. "Excellent, Signorina. What you mean is you would like to land in England illegally, no trace that you are there, am I right?"

  "Exactly, Captain."

  "There is no problem on this. There is a private airfield in Sussex we can use. I've done this before. There is so much traffic in the London approaches that if I go in from the sea at six hundred feet there is no trace. Is it London you wish to go to?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Only thirty miles away by road. No problem."

  "Wonderful," she said, got up and went back to the champagne bucket. "The Capo will be pleased. Now let me give you another glass of champagne."

  SIXTEEN

  It was just before six the following evening when the Daimler was admitted through the security gates at Downing Street. Dillon, Ferguson, and Hannah Bernstein sat in the back and when the chauffeur opened the door for them it was only Ferguson and Hannah who got out.

  Ferguson turned. "Sorry about this but you'll have to wait for us, Dillon. I don't expect we'll be long."

  "I know." Dillon smiled. "I embarrass the man."

  They went to the door where the duty policeman, recognizing Ferguson, saluted. It opened at once and they passed inside, where an aide took their coats and Ferguson's Malacca cane. They followed him upstairs and along the corridor. A second later and he was admitting them to the study where they found the Prime Minister sitting behind his desk working his way through a mass of papers.

  He glanced up and sat back. "Brigadier, Chief Inspector. Do sit down."

  "Thank you, Prime Minister," Ferguson said and they pulled chairs forward.

  The Prime Minister reached for a file and opened it. "I've read your report. An absolutely first-class job. Dillon seems to have acted with his usual rather ruthless efficiency."

  "Yes, Prime Minister."

  "On the other hand, without him we'd have lost you, Brigadier, and I wouldn't have liked that at all, a disaster for all of us, wouldn't you agree, Chief Inspector?"

  "Absolutely, Prime Minister."

  "Where is Dillon now, by the way?"

  "Waiting outside in my Daimler, Prime Minister," Ferguson told him. "I feel it the sensible thing to do considering Dillon's rather unusual background."

  "Of course." The Prime Minister nodded and then smiled. "Which leaves us with the Chungking Covenant." He took it from the file. "Remarkable document. It raises such infinite possibilities, but as I said at the first meeting we had about this affair, we've had enough trouble with Hong Kong. We're getting out and that's it, which is why I told you to find the damn thing and burn it."

  "I rather thought you'd like to do that yourself, Prime Minister."

  The Prime Minister smiled. "Very thoughtful of you, Brigadier."

  There was a fire burning brightly in the grate of the Victorian fireplace. He got up, went to it, and placed the document on top. The edges curled in the heat, then it burst into flame. A moment later it was simply gray ash already dissolving.

  The Prime Minister turned, came round his desk. "I'd like to thank you both." He shook hands with them. "And thank Dillon for me, Brigadier."

  "I will, Prime Minister."

  "And now you must excuse me, I'm due at the House of Commons. An extra Prime Minister's question time. We must let members have their moment of fun."

  "I understand, Prime Minister," Ferguson said.

  Behind them, by the usual mysterious alchemy, the door opened and the aide reappeared to show them out.

  "It went well then?" Dillon said as the Daimler turned out through the security gates into Whitehall.

  "You could say that. He enjoyed the pleasure of putting the Chungking Covenant on the fire himself."

  "Well that was nice for the man."

  "He did ask the Brigadier to thank you, Dillon," Hannah said.

  "Did he now?" Dillon turned to Ferguson, who sat with his hands folded over the silver handle of his Malacca cane. "You didn't mention that."

  "Didn't want it to go to your head, dear boy." He opened the partition window. "Cavendish Square." He sat back. "I thought we'd all have a drink at my place."

  "Oh, Jesus, your honor," Dillon said. "It's so kind of you to ask us, the grand man like yourself."

  "Stop playing the stage Irishman, Dillon, it doesn't suit you."

  "Terribly sorry, sir." Dillon was all public school English now. "But the fact is I'd take it as a real honor if you and the Chief Inspector would have a drink with me at my place." He opened the partition window again. "Change of venue, driver, make it Stable Mews."

  As Dillon closed the window Ferguson sighed and said to Hannah, "You'll have to excuse him, he used to be an actor, you see."

  The Daimler turned into the cobbled yard of Stable Mews and stopped outside Dillon's cottage. "Wait for us," Ferguson told his driver as the Irishman unlocked the front door and Hannah followed him in. Ferguson joined them, closing the door.

  "This is really rather nice," he said.

  "Come in the sitting room." Dillon led the way in, feeling for the switch and when the light came on, Asta Morgan was sitting in the wing-backed chair by the fireplace. She wore a jump suit in black crushed velvet and a black beret. More important, she held a Walther in her lap, a silencer screwed to the end of the barrel.

  "Well this is nice, here I was waiting for you, Dillon, and I get all three." Her eyes glittered, her face was very pale, dark shadows under her eyes.

  "Now don't be a silly girl," Ferguson told her.

  "Oh, but I've been a very clever girl, Brigadier. I'm not even supposed to be in the country and when I've finished here, my plane's waiting on a quiet little airstrip in Sussex to fly me out again."

  "What do you want, Asta?" Dillon said.

  "Turn round and lean on the table. As I remember, you favor a gun in the waistband at the back. That's how you killed Carl." There was nothing there. She checked his armpits. "No gun, Dillon. That's rather careless."

  "We've been to Downing Street, you see," Ferguson said. "Most sophisticated alarm system in the world there. Try passing through the security gates with any kind of gun and all hell would break loose."

  "Yes, well you can bend over too." Ferguson did as he was told and when she was finished she turned to Hannah. "Empty your handbag on the floor."

  Hannah did as she was told and a compact, gold lipstick, wallet, comb, and car keys scattered on the floor. "See, no gun, the Brigadier was telling the truth."

  "Stand over there," Asta ordered, "and you move to the right, Brigadier." Dillon still had his back to her. "I thought I'd killed you back there at the farm, Dillon. I'd like to know how I failed."

  "Bulletproof vest," he said. "They're all the rage these days."

  "Oh, you're good with the one-liners," she said, "but you ruined everything for me, Dillon, took Carl from me and for that you pay."

  "And what would you suggest?" Dillon said, easing his feet apart ever so slightly.

  "Two in the stomach, that should make you squirm."

  Hannah Bernstein reached for a small Greek statue that stood on the coffee table next to her and threw it at her. Asta ducked and fired wildly, catching Hannah in the left shoulder and knocking her back across the sofa. Dillon made his move, but she turned, the barrel of the Walther pushing out toward him.

  "Goodbye, Dillon."

  Behind her there was a click as Charles Ferguson turned the silver handle of his Malacca cane to one side, the nine-inch poniard it contained flashed out, and he plunged it into her back, penetrating her heart, the point emerging through the front of the jump suit.

  She didn't even have time to cry out, the Walther falling from a nerveless hand, and she lurched forward, Dillon's hands catching each arm. Ferguson withdrew the poniard. She glanced down at her chest in a kind of amazement, looked at Dillon once more as if she didn't believe what was happening, and then her knees gave way and she went down, rolling on her back.

  Dillon let her go and crossed t
o Hannah, who lay back against the sofa, a hand to her shoulder, blood oozing between her fingers. He got his handkerchief out and put it in her hand. "Hold this against it hard. You'll be all right, I promise you."

  He turned to find Ferguson on the telephone. "Yes, Professor Henry Bellamy for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. An emergency." He stood there waiting, the bloodstained poniard in his hand, the cane on the floor. "Henry? Charles here. Gunshot wound in the left shoulder, Chief Inspector Bernstein. I'll have Dillon bring her round to the London Clinic now. I'll see you later."

  He put the phone down and turned. "Right, Dillon, into the Daimler and round to the clinic fast. Bellamy will be there as soon as you are."

  Dillon helped Hannah up and glanced at Asta. "What about her?"

  "Quite dead, but I'll see to it. Now get moving."

  He followed them along the hall, opened the door, and saw them into the Daimler, then he went back. He had laid the poniard on the desk and now he picked it up, took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped the blade carefully. He replaced it in the Malacca cane, stood looking down at her, then picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  A calm, detached voice said, "Yes?"

  "Ferguson. I have a disposal for you. Absolutely top priority. I'm at Stable Mews round the corner from Cavendish Square."

  "Dillon's place?"

  "That's right. I'll wait for you."

  "Twenty minutes, Brigadier."

  Ferguson replaced the receiver, stepped over Asta's body, went to Dillon's drinks cabinet and poured a Scotch.

  Dillon was sitting in the corridor outside the operating theater an hour later when Ferguson joined him. "How are things?" the Brigadier said as he sat down.

  "We'll know soon. Bellamy said a simple extraction job. He didn't anticipate any problems." Dillon lit a cigarette. "You moved fast back there, Brigadier, I really thought I was on the way out."

  "Well you weren't."

  "What have you done about it?"

  "Called in the disposal unit. I waited for them. She'll be processed through a certain crematorium in North London that we find rather useful. Six pounds of gray ash by tomorrow morning and as far as I'm concerned they can do what they like with it. We won't tell the Chief Inspector until she's back on her feet."

  "I know," Dillon said. "That fine Hassidic conscience of hers."

  The theater door opened and Bellamy emerged, mask down. They got up. "How is she?" Ferguson demanded.

  "Fine. Nice clean wound. A week in the hospital, that's all. She'll be on the mend in no time. Here she comes now."

  A nurse pushed out Hannah Bernstein on a trolley. Her face was drawn and pale under a white skullcap. The nurse paused for them to look down and Hannah's eyelids flickered, then opened.

  "Dillon, is that you?"

  "As ever was, girl dear."

  "I'm glad you're all right. You are a bastard, but for some strange reason I like you."

  Her eyes closed again. "Take her away, nurse," Bellamy said and turned to Ferguson. "I'll get off now, Charles, see you tomorrow," and he walked away.

  Ferguson put a hand on Dillon's shoulder. "I think we should go too, dear boy, it's been a hell of a day. I think a drink is in order."

  "Now where shall we go?" Ferguson said as the Daimler pulled away.

  Dillon slid back the glass partition. "The Embankment, Lambeth Bridge end will do fine."

  Ferguson said, "Any particular reason?"

  "The night of the Brazilian Embassy Ball, Asta Morgan and I walked along the Embankment in the rain."

  "I see," Ferguson said and sat back without another word.

  Ten minutes later, the Daimler pulled in by the bridge. It was raining hard and Dillon got out and walked to the parapet beside the river. Ferguson joined him a moment later holding an umbrella.

  "As I said, she was as mad as a hatter, not your problem, dear boy."

  "Don't worry, Brigadier, just exorcising the ghost." Dillon took out a cigarette and lit it. "Actually, she can rot in hell as far as I'm concerned. Now let's go and get that drink," and he turned and went back to the car.

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