Billy was right, it was bitterly cold, but he kept on going, surfacing once to check his position, then going back under. He surfaced again by the anchor line, dumped the inflatable, the tank, his mask, and the fins, then pulled himself up to the anchor chain port. He peered through cautiously. The stern deck under the awning was empty, the sound of laughter coming from the saloon and then a cry of pain. Dillon hauled himself through, took the dive bag from around his neck and produced the Walther. He waved to the dock, and as he moved toward the saloon, the speedboat started up.
There was another cry of pain and he peered in through the porthole in the door. Salter and his two minders, Baxter and Hall, were seated on three chairs, arms bound behind them. A large man in a dark suit, presumably Hooker, was holding a butane cylinder, the kind of thing used for stripping paint. His brutal face had an expression of joy on it as he touched the flame to Baxter’s left cheek.
Baxter yelled in pain, and Harry Salter said, “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”
“Really?” Hooker said. “I don’t think so, because by the time I’ve finished you’ll be a well-done hamburger. How’s this for starters?”
The trouble was there were only two of his men there, laughing, glasses in their hands, so where was the third? But Dillon couldn’t afford to wait, and as Hooker advanced on Salter, he flung open the door and stepped in.
“I don’t think so.”
Hooker stared stupidly at him. “What in the hell have we got here? Take him, boys.”
One of them slipped a hand inside his pocket and Dillon shot him in the thigh.
Salter leaned back and laughed out loud. “Dear God, Dillon, you little Irish bastard. I don’t know what you’ve done to yourself, but I recognize the voice.”
Dillon said to Hooker, “Just switch the burner off and put it on the table.”
“Fuck you!” Hooker told him.
“What a pity,” Dillon said and shot off part of Hooker’s left ear.
Hooker screamed and dropped the burner, which for some reason went out. Hooker had a hand at his ear, blood pouring between his fingers, and Dillon nodded to the one man left undamaged.
“Cut them loose.”
He wasn’t aware of any movement behind him because the door stood open, only the barrel of a shotgun against his neck. He turned his head slightly and saw, in the mirrored wall, a small, gypsy-looking man with dark, curling hair, holding a sawed-off.
The man reached for the Walther in Dillon’s hand and Hooker snarled, “Kill him! Blow his bleeding head off!”
In that moment, Dillon saw the door at the other end of the saloon open, and Blake Johnson, Billy behind him, stepped in. Dillon dropped to one knee, Blake’s hand swept up holding the Beretta, a perfect shot that caught the gypsy in the right shoulder, spinning him round as he dropped the sawed-off.
“What kept you?” Dillon asked.
Billy raised the pump gun. “I’ll kill the lot of you!”
“No, you won’t, Billy, leave off,” Harry Salter told him. “Just cut us free.” He glanced at Baxter’s burnt face. “Don’t worry, George, I’ll get you patched up at the London Clinic. Only the best for my boys.” Released, he stood, flexing his hands. “Dillon, you look ridiculous, but I’ll remember you in my will.”
The one Dillon had shot in the thigh and the gypsy were sprawled on the bench seat beneath the mirror. Hooker leaned against the table, moaning, blood everywhere.
Salter laughed. “Out of your league, but you never realized it.”
“Let’s go,” Dillon said. “Your speedboat awaits.”
“All right.” Salter turned to Hooker. “Very good Indian surgeon near Wapping High Street. Name of Aziz. Tell him I sent you.” He went out on deck, and they all followed. He paused at the top of the steps down to the speedboat. “I was forgetting. Let me have that Walther, Dillon.”
Dillon handed it over without hesitation and Salter went back into the saloon. There was a shot followed by another, a cry of pain. He reappeared and handed the Walther back to Dillon.
“What did you do?” Dillon asked as they went down the ladder.
“What your lot do, the bleeding IRA. I gave him one in each kneecap, put him on sticks,” Salter said. “I could have killed him, but he’d be a better advert that way. Now let’s get the hell out of here, and introduce me to your friend. He seems to know what he’s doing.”
Back at the Dark Man, Hall took Baxter away for medical assistance and Salter, Blake, and Billy sat in a booth on the empty bar.
“Champagne, Dora,” Salter called. “You know this bugger likes Krug, so Krug it is.”
Billy said, “Here, I’ll help you, Dora,” and he got up and went behind the bar.
Salter said, “Bloody lucky for me you came along. What was it you wanted to see me about?”
“Something special,” Dillon said. “Very hush-hush, but mixed in is a lawyer who called on a prisoner at Wandsworth using a phoney name. One George Brown.”
“How can you be sure he was a lawyer, or not, for that matter?”
“Let’s put it this way. The way he handled himself would seem to indicate that he knows his way round the criminal system. I thought you might recognize him.”
He took four photos of the mysterious Brown from his inside pocket and spread them out. Salter looked them over. “Sorry, old son, never seen him before.”
Dora came over wrestling with the cork of a bottle of Krug and Billy followed with an ice bucket. He put it down on the table and looked down at the photos. “Blimey, what’s he doing there?”
There was a slight, stunned silence and Dillon said, “Who, Billy, who is he?”
“Berger – Paul Berger.” He turned to Salter. “You remember how Freddy Blue was up for that fraud case nine months ago, taking down payments for television sets that never arrived?”
“Sure I do.”
“This guy, Berger, was his lawyer. He came up with some law nobody had ever heard of and got him off. Very smart. He’s a partner in a firm called Berger and Berger. I remember because I thought it sounded funny.”
Dillon said to Dora, “Get me the telephone book, will you?”
Billy poured champagne. “Was that what you wanted?”
“Billy, you just struck gold for us.” Dillon raised his glass. “Here’s to you.” He took the champagne straight down and got up. “I’ll phone Ferguson.”
He moved down the bar and made his call. After a while, he came back. “Okay?” Blake asked.
“Yes, Ferguson’s having a check via BT.”
“Let’s hope they don’t have a Maccabee on their information service staff,” Blake said.
“Hardly likely. They can’t be everywhere, so no sense in getting paranoid.”
“And what’s a Maccabee?” Salter asked. “Sounds like a bar of chocolate to me.”
“Anything but, Harry,” and Dillon held out his glass for a refill.
His mobile rang and he switched on, taking out a pen and writing what Ferguson told him on the back of a bar mat.
“Fine, we’ll be in touch.” He switched off and nodded to Johnson. “I’ve got his home address. Camden Town. Let’s move.”
He got up and Salter took his hand. “Hope you find what you need.”
“Glad to have been of service, Harry.”
“Not as bloody glad as I am,” Salter said.
ELEVEN
The address was in a lane called Hawk’s Court off Camden High Street. “Fifteen – that’s it,” Blake said, and Dillon slowed.
The street was lined with villas built on the high tide of Victorian prosperity and varied greatly. It was obviously what real estate agents call an up-and-coming area, with young professionals moving in and improving the properties they had bought. The result was that some of the houses looked seedy and rundown and others had new windows and shutters and brightly painted doors with brasswork.