"Isn't that a rough game for priests? I mean, I had an uncle, a Catholic priest, who taught me bareknuckle boxing as a boy and him a prize fighter as a younger man, but this…"
"We have a saying. A man avoids warfare only by being prepared for it. The monks learned that lesson. Centuries ago members of my family learned the art and passed it down. Over the centuries my ancestors fought evildoers on behalf of the poor, even the forces of the Emperor when necessary. We served our society."
"Are you talking of the Triad Society here?" Dillon asked. "I thought they were simply a kind of Chinese version of the Mafia."
"Like the Mafia, they started as secret societies to protect the poor against the rich landowners and like the Mafia they have become corrupted over the years, but not all."
"I've read something about this," Dillon said. "Are you telling me you are a Triad?"
"Like my forefathers before me I am a member of the Secret Breath, the oldest of all, founded in Hohan in the sixteenth century. Unlike others, my society has not been corrupted. I am a Shaolin monk, I also have business interests, there is nothing wrong in that, but I will stand aside for no man."
"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.