"He's a dangerous man," Hannah said as she poured tea. "Don't kid yourself."
"I know, girl dear," he said. There were other photos, some showing Morgan with the great and good and a couple with Luca. "He certainly knows everybody."
"You could say that."
"And this?" Dillon asked.
The last photo showed Morgan on his yacht at Cannes Harbor, reclining in a deck chair, a glass of champagne in hand, gazing up at a young girl who leaned on the rail. She looked about sixteen and wore a bikini, blond hair to her shoulders.
"His stepdaughter, Asta, though she uses his name," Hannah told him.
"Swedish?"
"Yes. Taken more than four years ago. She's twenty-one in three weeks or so. We have a photo of her in Tatler somewhere taken with Morgan at Goodwood races. Very, very attractive."
"I'd say Morgan would agree with you, to judge from the way he's looking at her in that picture."
"Why do you say that particularly?" Ferguson asked.
"He smiles a lot usually, he's smiling on all the other photos, but not on this one. It's as if he's saying, 'I take you seriously.' Where does the mother fit in? You haven't indicated her on any photos."
"She was drowned a year ago while diving off a Greek island called Hydra."
"An accident?"
"Faulty air tank, that's what the autopsy said, but there's a copy of an investigation mounted by the Athens police here." Hannah produced it from the file. "The Brigadier tells me you're an expert diver. You'll find it interesting."
Dillon read it quickly, then looked up frowning. "No accident this. That valve must have been tampered with. Did it end at that?"
"The police didn't even raise the matter with Morgan. I got this from their dead file courtesy of a friend in Greek Intelligence," Ferguson told him. "Morgan has huge interests in Greek shipping, casinos, hotels. There was an order from the top to kill the investigation."
"They'd never have got anywhere," Hannah said. "Not with the kind of money he has and all that power and influence."
"But what we're saying is he killed his wife or arranged to have it done," Dillon said. "Why would he do that? Was she wealthy?"
"Yes, but nothing like as rich as he is," Ferguson said. "My hunch is that perhaps she'd got to know too much."
"And that's your opinion?" Dillon asked Hannah Bernstein.
"Possibly." She picked up the photo taken on the yacht. "But maybe it was something else. Perhaps he wanted Asta."
Dillon nodded. "That's what I was thinking." He turned to Ferguson. "So what are we going to do on this one?"
Ferguson nodded to Hannah, who took charge. "The house at Loch Dhu, Morgan goes in this coming Monday. The Brigadier and I are going up on Friday, flying to this old RAF station at Ardmurchan, and we move into Ardmurchan Lodge where Kim is already in residence."
"And what about me?"
"You're my nephew," Ferguson said. "My mother was Irish, remember? You'll join us a few days later."
"Why?"
"Our information is that Asta isn't going with Morgan. She's attending a ball at the Dorchester, which is being given by the Brazilian Embassy on Monday night. Morgan was supposed to go and she's standing in for him," Hannah said. "We've discovered that she flies to Glasgow on Tuesday and then intends to take the train to Fort William and from there to Arisaig, where she'll be picked up by car."
"How do you know this?" Dillon asked.
"Oh, let's say we have a friend on the staff at the Berkeley," she said.
"Why take the train from Glasgow when she could fly direct to Ardmurchan on Morgan's Citation?"
"God knows," Ferguson said. "Perhaps she fancies the scenic route. That train goes through some of the most spectacular scenery in Europe."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"The Chief Inspector has a gold-edged invitation for one Sean Dillon to attend the Brazilian Embassy Ball on Monday night," Ferguson told him. "It's black tie for you, Dillon, you do have one?"
"Sure and don't I need it for those spare nights I'm a waiter at the Savoy? And what do I do when I'm there?"
For the first time Hannah Bernstein looked unsure. "Well, try and get to know her."
"Pick her up, you mean? Won't that look something of a coincidence when I turn up at Ardmurchan lodge later?"
"Quite deliberate on my part, dear boy. Remember our little adventure in the American Virgins?" Ferguson turned to Hannah. "I'm sure you've read the file, Chief Inspector. The late lamented Senor Santiago and his motley crew knew who we were just as we knew who they were and what they were up to. It was what I call a we know that you know that you know that we know situation."
"So?" Dillon said.
"Morgan at Loch Dhu for nefarious purposes, an isolated estate miles from anywhere in the Highlands of Scotland, discovers he's got neighbors up for the shooting staying on the other side of the Loch at Ardmurchan Lodge. He'll be checking us out the minute he knows we're there, dear boy, and don't tell me we could all use false names. With the kind of company he keeps, especially his Mafia contacts in London, he'll not have the slightest difficulty in sorting us out."
"All right, point taken, but I know you, you old bugger, and there's more to it."
"Hasn't he an elegant turn of phrase, Chief Inspector?" Ferguson smiled. "Yes, of course there is. As I've indicated, I want him to know we're there, I want him to know we're breathing down his bloody neck. Of course I'll also see that the story, Morgan taking Loch Dhu and Asta standing in for him at the Brazilian Embassy affair, is leaked to the Daily Mail's gossip column. You could always say later that you read that, were intrigued because you were going to the same spot, so you went out of your way to meet her. It won't make the slightest difference. Morgan will still smell stinking fish."
"Won't that be dangerous, Brigadier?" Hannah Bernstein commented.
"Yes it will, Chief Inspector, that's why we have Dillon." He smiled and stood up. "It's getting late and dinner is indicated. You must be famished, both of you. I'll take you to the River Room at the Savoy. Excellent dance band, Chief Inspector, you can have a turn round the floor with the desperado here. He may surprise you."
When Monday night came Dillon arrived early at the Dorchester. He wore a dark blue Burberry trenchcoat, which he left at the cloakroom. His dinner jacket was a totally conventional piece of immaculate tailoring by Armani, single breasted with lapels of raw silk, black studs vivid against the white shirt. He was really rather pleased with his general appearance and hoped that Asta Morgan would feel the same. He fortified himself with a glass of champagne in the Piano Bar and went down to the grand ballroom where he presented his card and was admitted to discover the Brazilian Ambassador and his wife greeting their guests.
His name was called and he went forward. "Mr. Dillon?" the Ambassador said, a slight query in his voice.
"Ministry of Defence," Dillon said. "So good of you to invite me." He turned to the Ambassador's wife and kissed her hand gallantly. "My compliments on the dress, most becoming."
She flushed with pleasure and as he walked away he heard her say in Portuguese to her husband, "What a charming man."
The ballroom was already busy, a dance band playing, exquisitely gowned women, most men in black tie, although there was a sprinkling of military dress uniforms and here and there a church dignitary. With the crystal chandeliers, the mirrors, it was really quite a splendid scene and he took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and worked his way through the crowd looking for Asta Morgan and seeing no sign of her. Finally he went back to the entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.
It was almost an hour later that he heard her name called. She wore her hair up revealing the entire face, the high Scandinavian cheek bones, and the kind of arrogance that seemed to say that she didn't give a damn about anyone or anything, for that matter. She wore an absurdly simple dress of black silk, banded at the waist, the hem well above the knee, black stockings, and carried an evening purse in a sort of black chain mail. Heads turned to watch as she stood talking to the Ambassador and his wife for quite some time.