On Dangerous Ground, page 9
“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 anymore.”
“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 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 the Fourth of 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 Ardmurchan 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.”
Kim, once a Corporal in the Ghurkas, had been Ferguson’s body servant, cook, and general man-about-the-house since army days.
“Good, and Morgan?”
“The Prince moves out on Sunday morning. He has slots arranged from Air Traffic Control from Ardmurchan 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 he 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 could be 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 went, 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 the gutter was where it was that meant there was only roof space above him. It could be an attic, but there was 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 into 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 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 toward 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 tucked Chowdray under the chin with the Walther—“you’ll loathe guns even more.”
