Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

It was Hannah who had the temerity to cut in. "You really think all this is true, Prime Minister, that it exists?"

"I'm afraid I do. After the Brigadier phoned me this morning I spoke with a certain very distinguished gentleman, now in his nineties, who was once a power at the Colonial Office during the war. He tells me that many years ago, he recalls rumours about this Chungking Covenant. Apparently it was always dismissed as a myth."

"So what do you wish us to do, Prime Minister?"

"We can hardly ask Prince Ali ben Yusef for permission to ransack the house and we can hardly send the burglars in."

"He leaves in four weeks and Morgan moves straight in," Hannah said.

"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Once he's in he can take his time and do anything he wants." The Prime Minister looked up at Ferguson. "But you'll be there at this Ardmurchan Lodge to keep an eye on things. What do you intend to do?"

"Improvise, sir." Ferguson smiled.

The Prime Minister smiled back. "You're usually rather good at that. See to it, Brigadier, don't let me down. Now you must excuse me."

As they settled in the back of the Daimler, Hannah said, "What now?"

"We'll go up to Ardmurchan Lodge just before Morgan in three to four weeks. In the meantime, I want a check on him. Use all international police contacts. I want to know where he goes and what he does."

"Fine."

"Good, now let me give you dinner. Blooms, I think, in Whitechapel. You can't say no to that, Chief Inspector, the finest Jewish restaurant in London."

After leaving the Ministry of Defence, Dillon had simply caught a taxi to Stable Mews not far from Ferguson's flat in Cavendish Square. He had a two-bedroom cottage there at the end of the cobbled yard. By the time he reached it the pain had come again quite badly, so he took one of the morphine capsules Bellamy had prescribed and went and lay down on the bed.

It obviously knocked him out and when he came awake quite suddenly it was dark. He got up, visited the toilet, and splashed water over his face. In the mirror he looked truly awful and he shuddered and went downstairs. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He really needed something to eat, he knew that, and yet the prospect of food was repugnant to him.

Perhaps a walk would clear his head and then he could find a cafe. He opened the front door. Rain fell gently in a fine mist through the light of the street lamp on the corner. He pulled on his jacket, aware of the weight of the Walther, and paused, wondering whether to leave it, but the damn thing had been a part of him for so long. He found an old Burberry trenchcoat and a black umbrella and ventured out.

He walked from street to street, pausing only once to go into a corner pub where he had a large brandy and a pork pie, which was so disgusting that just one bite made him want to throw up.

He continued to walk aimlessly. There was a certain amount of fog now, crouching at the end of the street, and it gave a closed-in feeling to things as if he was in his own private world. He felt a vague sense of alarm, probably drug paranoia, and somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck eleven, the sound curiously muffled by the fog. There was silence now, and then the unmistakable sound of a ship's foghorn as it moved down river, and he realized the Thames was close at hand.

He turned into another street and found himself beside the river. There was a corner shop still open. He went in and bought a packet of cigarettes and was served by a young Pakistani youth.

"Would there be a cafe anywhere near at hand?" Dillon asked.

"Plenty up on High Street, but if you like Chinese, there's the Red Dragon round the corner on China Wharf."

"An interesting name," Dillon said, lighting a cigarette, hand shaking.

"The tea clippers used to dock there in the old days of the China run." The youth hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"Nothing to worry about, just out of hospital," Dillon said, "but it's kind of you to ask."

He walked along the street past towering warehouses. It was raining heavily now, and then he turned the corner and saw a ten-foot dragon in red neon shining through the rain. He put down his umbrella, opened the door, and went in.

It was a long, narrow room with dark paneled walls, a bar of polished mahogany, and a couple of dozen tables each covered with a neat white linen cloth. There were a number of artifacts on display and Chinese watercolors on the wall.

There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He was no more than five feet tall and very fat, and in spite of his tan gabardine suit bore a striking resemblance to a bronze statue of Buddha, which stood in one corner. He was eating a dish of cuttlefish and chopped vegetables with a very Western fork and ignored Dillon completely.

There was a Chinese girl behind the bar. She had a flower in her hair and wore a cheongsam in black silk, embroidered with a red dragon which was twin to the one outside.

"I'm sorry," she said in perfect English. "We've just closed."

"Any chance of a quick drink?" Dillon asked.

"I'm afraid we only have a table license."

She was very beautiful with her black hair and pale skin, dark, watchful eyes and high cheekbones, and Dillon felt like reaching out to touch her and then the red dragon on her dark dress seemed to come alive, undulating, and he closed his eyes and clutched at the bar.

Once in the Mediterranean on a diving job for the Israelis that had involved taking out two PLO high-speed boats that had been involved in landing terrorists by night in Israel, he had run out of air at fifty feet. Surfacing half-dead he'd had the same sensation as now of drifting up from the dark places into light.

The fat man had him in a grip of surprising strength and put him into a chair. Dillon took several deep breaths and smiled. "Sorry about this. I've been ill for some time and I probably walked too far tonight."

The expression on the fat man's face did not alter, and the girl said in Cantonese, "I'll handle this, Uncle, finish your meal."

Dillon, who spoke Cantonese rather well, listened with interest as the man replied, "Do you think they will still come, niece?"

"Who knows? The worst kind of foreign devils, pus from an infected wound. Still, I'll leave the door open a little longer." She smiled at Dillon. "Please excuse us. My uncle speaks very little English."

"That's fine. If I could just sit here for a moment."

"Coffee," the girl said. "Very black and with a large brandy."

"God save us, the brandy is fine, but would you happen to have a cup of tea, love? It's what I was raised on."

"Something we have in common."

She smiled and went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, then moved to the end of the bar and peered out through the window.

"They are here, Uncle."

As she came round the end of the bar, the door opened and four men entered. The leader was six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a cavalry twill car coat that looked very expensive.

He smiled quite pleasantly. "Here we are again then," he said. "Have you got it for me?"

The accent was unmistakably Belfast. The girl said, "A waste of your time, Mr. McGuire, there is nothing for you here."

Two of his companions were black, the fourth an albino with lashes so fair they were almost transparent. He said, "Don't give us any trouble, darlin', we've been good to you. A grand a week for a place like this? I'd say you were getting off lightly."

She shook her head. "Not a penny."

McGuire sighed, plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand, and threw it into the bar mirror, splintering the glass. "That's just for openers. Now you, Terry."