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.