'It's damn unfortunate Casey survived.'
'Even more unfortunate that Aidan Bell was economical with the truth,' Kate told him.
'True, but it's only to be expected with people like him. I'm going to let it go for now. I still need him.'
'So what happens now?'
'I think I'll teach Ferguson a lesson. He made Dillon into a direct threat, so it's time to get rid of Dillon.' He turned to Michael. 'That's your task. Use Ali Salim, from the Party of God. He's good enough. Only, keep out of it yourself.'
'And when do you want this business handled, brother?'
'As soon as possible. If Salim is available, let him get on with it now. But leave it up to him. You're a good boy, Michael, but not against the Dillons of this world.' He turned to Kate. 'You agree?'
'Absolutely.' She kissed Michael on the cheek. 'Just give it to Ali Salim.'
Dillon and Hannah had a light meal at a small Italian restaurant near his townhouse in Stable Mews. They'd discussed the situation until it was coming out of their ears, their chief worry being whether Ferguson had pushed it too hard or not. They were on tea and coffee when Blake, who had phoned on Dillon's mobile earlier, came in.
'You want something to eat?' Dillon asked.
'I had scrambled eggs with Ferguson at his place.' He sat down. 'I've spoken to the President. He thinks Paul Rashid is nuts.'
'Then if he is, so am I.' Dillon shook his head. 'The curse of our civilization these days has been the unrestricted growth of capitalism and the interference of Western companies into places like Arabia, intent only on making a buck. We're from societies that think money is everything. What we should realize is we can be dealing with people who think it means nothing, and the Bedu are like that.'
'That's all right for Rashid,' Blake said. 'He is a pretty rich Bedu.'
'Yes, but everything he's involved in is Bedu-controlled, Rashid-controlled. There's a difference. Anyway, do you want to walk round to my place, have a drink there?'
'I'm parked outside, we can drive,' Blake said.
He went out with Hannah, Dillon hung on to pay the bill, then went after them.
Ali Salim was a Yemeni Arab of thirty-five with wild eyes and a dark, pockmarked skin. He had accepted the contract without hesitation and made light of Dillon's reputation.
'So, this one is trouble, you say? I will give him more trouble than he has ever known. Where will I find him?'
They were in the sitting room of Ali's flat near Marble Arch. He opened a drawer and took out a Beretta. Michael was confused and unhappy. He found the man disturbing, but then his brother had been insistent that he stay out of the affair personally.
'He lives in Stable Mews, number five. I'll take you there in my car and drop you off.'
'Then let's do it.' Ali took a bunch of keys from a drawer. 'Picklocks, just in case he's not there to answer the door. Keep your money. This I do for your beloved brother, who is an example to us all.'
Dillon unlocked the front door and led the way in, Hannah following, Blake behind. They moved down the hall and entered the sitting room, and Ali Salim was there, standing behind the door. He struck Dillon a heavy blow across the side of the head with his Beretta. Dillon staggered across the room and fell to one knee.
Ali grabbed Hannah and pushed her hard, putting her on her knees, her purse flying from her hand. Salim pivoted and struck Blake a glancing blow across the head as well, then aimed his pistol at Dillon. Hannah grabbed for her purse, reached inside and took out her Walther and, glimpsing her out of the corner of his eye, Ali Salim turned and shot her three times.
Blake grabbed at Ali Salim's legs and was hit across the head again. Dillon got to his feet and reached inside the chimney to where he kept his ace in the hole, a Walther suspended from a nail by the trigger guard.
His hand swung up and he shot Ali Salim between the eyes, hurling him back over a chair. Ali writhed on the ground, blood all over his face, and Dillon stepped close and shot him twice in the heart.
He dropped to one knee and checked Hannah. Her eyes were glazed and there was blood everywhere. He got up, went to the phone and dialled.
'Rosedene? Dillon. There's been a major incident. Superintendent Bernstein's been shot three times. We're at my house. Get over here right away.'
He went into his bedroom, ransacked a cupboard and returned with two or three field service wound packs. 'Get these on her, Blake,' he said -Johnson was on his feet, looking no worse for wear – and went to Ali's body, searched it and came up with a wallet.
He phoned Ferguson. When the General answered, he said, 'I came back to my house with Hannah and Blake, and an Arab hit man was waiting. According to his ID, he's one Ali Salim. He shot Hannah three times, and I shot him dead. I've spoken to Rosedene. An ambulance is on the way.'
'Dear God,' Ferguson said.
'If I were you, I'd notify her family. I'll send Blake with her. I'll stay here to clean up.'
'Leave it to me,' Ferguson said, managing to stay calm.
Dillon used the phone again. There was an instant reply. 'Dillon here, I've got a disposal for you. Immediate. The consignment is at my place.'
'On our way,' a voice said.
Dillon replaced the receiver, the doorbell rang, and when he answered, three paramedics came in with a stretcher. He led the way into the sitting room, where Blake crouched by Hannah.
'Three gunshot wounds. Close range. This Beretta was used.' He handed over Ali Salim's weapon.
They busied themselves over her quickly, put her on a drip, then got her onto a stretcher.
'Go with her, Blake. I'll catch up.'
Suddenly he was alone. He lit a cigarette and went and poured a Bushmills. He drank it down and poured another, his hand shaking a little.
'If she dies, Rashid,' he said softly, 'then God help you.'
A moment later, the doorbell rang again. He answered and admitted two cadaverous middle-aged men in dark suits and overcoats, one of them with a bodybag in black plastic over his left arm.
'In here.'
Dillon led the way through. 'Dear me,' the older one said when he saw Ali Salim.
'Save your sympathy. He shot Superintendent Bernstein three times. I've got his wallet. I'll pass it on to General Ferguson. Just get him out of here.'
'Of course, Mr Dillon.'
Later, thinking about Hannah Bernstein and all they'd been through together, he felt not rage but concern. It was, after all, the business they were in. Rage would come later. He found a leather trenchcoat and let himself out.
Many people thought that Arnold Bernstein was the finest general surgeon in London, but to operate on his own daughter would have been unethical, which was why Professor Henry Bellamy of Guy's Hospital was in charge. He allowed Bernstein to observe in the operating theatre, which was as far as ethics would go.
Ferguson, Dillon, and Blake waited in the anteroom with Rabbi Julian Bernstein, Hannah's grandfather. They drank coffee and tea and waited through the four-hour operation.
'You must hate us all, Rabbi,' Ferguson told him.
The old man shrugged. 'How could I? This was the life she chose.'
The door opened, and Bellamy and Bernstein came out, still in their surgical gowns. They stood up and Ferguson said, 'How bad is it?'
'Very bad,' Bellamy told him. 'The stomach is damaged, the bladder, the spleen. One bullet went through the left lung, her spine is chipped. It's a miracle she's here.'
'But she is?' Dillon said.
'Yes, Sean, she is, and I think she'll pull through, but it's going to take time.'
'Thank God,' Rabbi Bernstein said.
'No, thank a great surgeon,' Dillon said, turned, and went out.
Ferguson called to him, 'Sean, wait.'
He caught up with Dillon on the front steps, Blake at his shoulder. 'Sean, you're not going to do anything stupid?'
'Now why would I do a thing like that?'
'I'll deal with Rashid.'
Dillon stood stone still, gazing at him. 'Then soon, General, soon. If you don't, I will. Just remember that.' And he went down the steps and walked away.