'Shall we go round?'
'No, he said he prefers the exercise. He operates one of those state-of-the-art electric wheelchairs. He hates being regarded as a cripple.'
'I hear what you're saying, dear girl.'
'He'll see you at Stable Mews at two-thirty.'
'We'll be there.'
‘Another thing. I put out a search on the Special Branch computer. Guess who's arriving at Gatwick this evening? Jack Fox, Aldo Falcone and Giovanni Russo.',
'As Ferguson would say, quite delicious. This should prove interesting.'
He put the phone down, turned to Blake, and filled him in.
An hour later, at Stable Mews, it was Blake who happened to be at the sitting room window and looking out into the street, when he witnessed the arrival of the strange young man in the electric wheelchair. The man wore a navy blue reefer coat, a white scarf at his throat. When Blake went into the hall, Dillon already had the door open.
'Ah, Mr Dillon. I've seen your face on my computer. Roper's the name.'
He had hair to his shoulders, hollow cheeks and very blue eyes. His face was a taut mask of scar tissue, the kind you only got from burns.
'Come in,' Dillon said cheerfully.
'Only if you help me over the step. It's the one thing these gadgets can't manage.'
Dillon obliged, then pushed him along the hall into the kitchen, Blake following.
Roper said, 'What I could really do with is a nice cup of tea.' He turned to Blake. 'Lieutenant.'
Blake smiled. 'Should I say 'sir'?'
'Of course. I outrank you.'
Forty-five miles later they'd filled him in on everything they needed from him. Roper said. 'Fine. I'll go into everything. The Solazzo family, Jack Fox, the Colosseum operation, these Jago brothers. Oh, and this Brendan Murphy. I remember the name from my Irish service. A hard man, as I recall.'
'No, a fanatic, Brendan,' Dillon said. 'I had dealings with him in the old days. Hates the peace process, and now we hear he's into arms dumps — and possibly worse, this hint of an involvement with Saddam in Beirut.'
'So I'll access Army HQ at Lisburn, the RUC, the Garda in Dublin, maybe the Security Services.'
'You can do that?' Dillon asked.
'Dillon, I can even access your lot, and Ferguson probably knows that. I'm the hand of God, so leave it with me.'
'Okay,' Blake said. 'But in case you don't know, Fox turns up in London this evening, plus his two minders.'
'Falcone and Russo.' Roper smiled tranquilly. 'Mafia hard men. Ireland was my business for eleven years and terrorists were my enemy, but in a strange way you can empathize with your enemy, both IRA and Loyalists. These two wouldn't last half an hour in Derry or Belfast.'
'So, what happens now?' Blake asked.
Well, from what I've been told, you want to see the Colosseum severely damaged.'
'Exactly.'
'Good. Then wheel me out into the street and I'll go home and organize it.'
Blake said, 'You'll be able to do it, then?'
Roper nodded. 'No problem. God wouldn't have given some people brains if He'd wanted the scum to inherit the earth.' He turned to Dillon. 'I'll see you at six at my place in Regency Square. You will then put into operation what I tell you to. Is that acceptable?'
'Bloody cheek,' said Dillon, but then he smiled. 'I'm sure it Will be, so let's get on with it,' and Dillon wheeled him out.
Roper's apartment in Regency Square was on the ground floor, with a slope to the front door for his wheelchair. Everything from the bathroom to the kitchen had been designed for a handicapped person. In what would have been the sitting room was a kind of computer laboratory, with every kind of equipment on view on a workbench.
He answered the door when Dillon, Blake and Hannah Bernstein arrived. 'Ah, there you are.'
He led the way through to the sitting room. 'Here we are, then.' He tapped a keyboard and the screen started to fill. 'Colosseum Casino, Smith Street. General Manager, Angelo Mori. Minders, Francesco Cameci, Tino Rossi.' Photos appeared. After a while, he tapped again and ground plans came up.
'Lots of security,' Blake said.
'Not if you know your way in.'
'So what would be the point?' Dillon asked.
A top casino stands on its reputation. The slightest hint of scandal, and the Gaming Act enters into it and the place can be dosed down.'
There was silence. Dillon said, 'And how do we achieve that?'
'Tonight will tell you, if you do what I say and go in hard.'
'You mean go in feloniously, Captain,' Hannah said. 'That sums it up. You want this bastard, we go for the throat.'
Dillon said, 'That suits me, and as the Superintendent knows, I've been guaranteed the full cooperation of the Department by Brigadier Ferguson, so let's hear what you have in mind.'
'It's very simple. What's one of the oldest games of chance in the world? They loved it at the height of the Roman Empire. They still love it.'
Blake smiled. 'Craps.'
'Exactly. You simply throw the dice and pray the right number comes up. People can't resist.'
Dillon said, 'So what do you want?'
'Dice, old boy. Steal me some dice.'
'Why?' Blake asked.
'Because every casino has its own made to order. Unique. Of course, once I have them at my workbench I make a slight adjustment, put a spot of lead inside, and they become what's known in the trade as loaded dice. Now, if the house is using loaded dice, the punters are bound to lose.'
'But how do you make the house actually use the loaded dice?' Blake asked.
'That's the whole point about having house dice. You or Dillon join the crowd making a wager. When your turn comes and the dealer gives you the dice, you palm them and use the ones I've doctored. They'll have the house logo on them, so everyone will assume they're the real thing. Of course, it will be necessary to bring this unfortunate situation to the attention of the other gamblers. The results could be devastating for the casino.'
'You wicked man, you,' Dillon said.
'You or Blake, I think, should be the ones. I wouldn't dream of asking the Superintendent.' He smiled at Hannah. 'I happen to know you're Jewish Orthodox, with a rabbi for a grandfather.'
She smiled. 'My grandfather might surprise you. His poker is deadly.'
Dillon said, 'Sounds good to me. So what's the plan?'
At ten o'clock that evening, Jack Fox arrived at the Colosseum, backed by Falcone and Russo. He was stopped at the door by a large man in evening dress.
'Membership card, sir.'
'I don't need one. I own this casino.'
'Very funny.'
The bouncer put a hand on Fox's shoulder and Russo said,
'You want me to break your right arm? You just made the biggest mistake of your life.'
'Signor Fox, what a pleasure,' a voice called, and Angelo Mori, the general manager, rushed down the stairs, followed by his two minders. 'Is there a problem?'
'Hell, no,' Fox said, and smiled at the bouncer. 'What's your name?'
'Henry, sir.' He looked very worried.
