Jack Higgins: On dangerous ground

"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 to 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.