Bad Company

He ran a hand up her leg. “Very definitely. Whiskey, liebchen, malt whiskey. We’ll both have one.”

“And then? Can I come back?”

“We’ll see, Elsa, we’ll see.”

At Harry’s Place, they reached the end of their meal and split up. On the pavement, as they all started for their cars, Dillon said, “I’ll hang on with Roper and share his cab.”

“If you like,” Ferguson said.

They departed, the cab drove up, the driver got out and put the ramp down and Dillon pushed Roper inside. “Stable Mews,” he called to the driver when he got in, and turned to Roper. “On your way.”

“What are you up to?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m restless, that’s all.”

“That’s when I worry about you.”

“No need.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“He murdered Sara Hesser.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. I should shoot him, but Ferguson says no, even though we’ve taken out people as bad as Rossi before.”

“Maybe Ferguson is intent on handling this differently.”

“And maybe Marco Rossi has his own ideas about handling. Maybe he’s a lot like me.” The cab drew up in Stable Mews and Dillon got out.

Roper said, “Sean – whatever it is – don’t.”

“You’re a great guy, Roper, one of the few people in this rotten old world I truly admire, but, as we say in Belfast, good night to you.”

He let himself into the cottage, went upstairs, changed into jeans and a bomber jacket, went down, opened the secret drawer under the stairs, selected a Walther and slipped it into the back of his jeans. He left a few moments later in his Mini Cooper.

After the meeting at Harry’s Place, Rossi had phoned Newton and Cook and told them to report to South Audley Street.

“You stay on Ferguson. First thing tomorrow, you find out every single place he goes.”

“But why?” Newton said. “What’s the purpose of this?”

“The purpose, you stupid oaf, is that we’re going to lift him at the right moment.”

There was consternation on both faces. “Now look here,” Cook said. “We’re not into that.”

Marco Rossi said, “You’re into what I say you are or I’ll see you never work again. Do what you’re told and don’t fuck with me.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then Newton said, “As you say, Mr. Rossi.”

“Right, get on with it. And don’t use your car. Get a white van, something anonymous, right?”

They went out and Gibson, who’d been in the room, watching, said, “They used to be SAS? No wonder the Provos did so well. What happens now?”

“There’s an old airbase at Fotley; it’s got a decaying runway but it’s usable. I’ll have one of our planes left there. When we lift Ferguson, I’ll fly it myself.”

“To where?”

“Schloss Adler. The game starts there. The game, Derry, that will bring in Sean Dillon.”

“Well, that will suit me fine.”

In South Audley Street, Dillon left the Mini and walked through light rain to the side street where the Rashid house stood. He stood in the shadows and watched, and suddenly the door opened and Newton and Cook emerged. He recognized them at once and drew back into the shadows. They crossed to their car and got in. It was only then that Dillon hurried across the street, opened the door and put the muzzle of his Walther to Newton ’s temple.

“Hello, guys, am I your worst nightmare or not?”

Newton said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”

“As ever was. What’s going on with Rossi?”

“For God’s sake, we just work for Rashid on security. He’s our new boss. That’s all, I swear.”

He was genuinely fearful and Dillon sensed it. “Okay, piss off, but come up against me and I’ll kill you, both of you.”

They drove away. Dillon turned to walk and the door opened and Rossi emerged in a blue tracksuit, a towel at his throat. He started to run.

Dillon called, “Hey, you bastard.”

Rossi paused, turned and saw him. “Dillon, is that you? What are you going to do, shoot me?”

“I’d love to, but you’ve been put off-limits at the moment.” Dillon shook out a cigarette and lit it. “Killing the old woman – a big war hero like you. It couldn’t have given much of a kick.”

“Fuck you, Dillon,” Rossi said.

“You’ve got it wrong. Right time, right place, I’ll kill you, Marco. She was a nice old lady. You shouldn’t have done it.”

He turned and walked away. Marco Rossi took a deep breath and started to run again. Behind him, the front door of the house gently closed. The Baron had followed him, had wanted a word, and instead had heard everything. He turned, and with a heavy heart mounted the stairs.

The Daimler picked Ferguson up the following morning at Cavendish Place, where Newton and Cook were parked in a British Telecom van, wearing appropriate yellow anoraks. They followed at a discreet distance to Harley Street, watched the Daimler park and waited, Cook opening the rear door of the van, taking out a large toolbox and looking busy. Newton strolled up the street, glancing at the brass nameplate on the door as he passed, and returned to Cook.

He leaned against the van and lit a cigarette. “Some surgeon, name of Merriman.”

Professor Henry Merriman was a large, avuncular man who greeted Ferguson warmly. A young nurse stood at a side table, various medical items laid out beside her.

“A pleasure, General. We’ll get straight on with it. It’s a very quick procedure. Just strip to the waist and Emily here will take care of your things.” He went to the table.

Ferguson got his jacket, tie and shirt off. “I hope it doesn’t hurt,” he said cheerfully.

“Nothing a little local anaesthetic can’t handle.” He turned, a small plastic ampoule in his hand. “Sit down, please, and raise your left arm. It’s instant.”

A slight prick and his skin was numb. “Excellent,” Ferguson said.

Emily was standing with what looked like a small aluminum pistol in one hand. Merriman took it from her. “I call it my stun gun, but that’s a joke.” He placed the muzzle against Ferguson ’s armpit, pulled a trigger. There was the slightest of clicks. He smiled. “You can get dressed.”

He handed the gun to the girl. Ferguson picked up his shirt. “That’s it? What happens now?”

“Nothing. Your implant is already code-indexed into the Omega Program’s computer. Where you go, it goes – any corner of the world.”

Ferguson finished dressing. It made him feel rather gloomy. “What about the toilet? Will it locate me there?”

Which the young nurse found very funny and laughed. Merriman smiled. “A possibility.”

Ferguson said, “Good morning, Professor. It’s been a sincere treat.”

Dillon called in at Roper’s and found him, as usual, at the computer banks. He paused from what he was doing. “Did you do something stupid?”

“I suppose so.” Dillon told him what had happened.

“Damn you, Sean, for an idiot. You’re baiting, stirring the pot.”

“It’s Rossi. I want to see him in…”