It was just after six and Dillon was in the study reading the evening paper by the fire when the doorbell sounded. He went and opened it and found old Mr. c.o.x standing there, a hea.r.s.e parked at the curb. He was holding a cardboard box in his hands.

"Is Miss Grant at home?"

"Yes, I'll get her for you," Dillon told him.

"No need." c.o.x handed him the box. "The ashes. They're in a traveling urn inside. Give her my best respects."

He went down to the hea.r.s.e and Dillon closed the door. The Admiral had gone out to an early evening function at his club, but Jenny was in the kitchen. Dillon called to her and she came out.

"What is it?"

He held up the box. "Mr. c.o.x just left this for you," and turned and went into the study and put it on the table. She stood beside him, looking at it, then gently opened the lid and took out what was inside. It wasn't really an urn, just a square box in dark, patterned metal with a clasp holding the lid in place. The bra.s.s plate said: Henry Baker 1929-1992.

She put it down on the table and slumped into a chair. "That's what it all comes down to at the final end of things, five pounds of gray ash in a metal box."

She broke then and started to cry in total anguish. Dillon put his hands on her shoulders for a moment only. "Just let it come, it'll do you good. I'll make you a cup of coffee," and he turned and went along to the kitchen.

She sat there for a moment and it was as if she couldn't breathe. She had to get out, needed air. She got up, went into the hall, took the Admiral's old trenchcoat down from the stand and pulled it on. When she opened the door it had started to rain. She belted the coat and hurried along the pavement and Smith, sitting in the van with Johnson, saw her pa.s.s the entrance to the alley.

"Perfect," he said. "Let's get on with it," and he got out and went after her, Johnson at his heels.

Dillon went along the hall to the study, the cup of coffee in his hand, and was aware first of the silence. He went into the study, put down the cup and went back to the hall.

"Jenny?" he called and then noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

"For G.o.d's sake," he said, took down his flying jacket and went out, putting it on. There was no sign of her, the street deserted. He'd have to take a chance, turned left and ran along the pavement toward Great Peter Street.

It was raining very hard now and he paused on the corner for a moment, looking left and then right, and saw her at the far end where the street met Millbank. She was waiting for a gap in the traffic, saw her chance and darted across to Victoria Tower Gardens by the river, and Dillon also saw something else, Smith and Johnson crossing the road behind her. At that distance, he didn't actually recognize them, but it was enough. He swore savagely and started to run.

It was almost dark as Jenny crossed to the wall overlooking the Thames. There was a lamp about every twenty feet, rain slanting in a silver spray through a yellow light, and a seagoing freighter moved downstream, its red and green navigation lights plain. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself and felt better. It was at that moment she heard a movement behind her, turned and found Smith and Johnson standing there.

She knew she was in trouble at once. "What do you want?" she demanded and started to edge away.

"No need to panic, darling," Smith said. "A little conversation is all we need, a few answers."

She turned to run and Johnson was on her like a flash, pinning her arms and forcing her back against the wall. "Jenny, isn't it?" he asked and as she struggled desperately, he smiled. "I like that, do it some more."

"Leave off," Smith told him. "Can't you ever think of anything except what's in your pants?" Johnson eased away, but moved round to hold her from the rear and Smith said, "Now about this U-boat in the Virgin Islands. You don't really expect us to believe you don't know where it is?"

She tried to struggle and Johnson said, "Go on, answer the man or I'll give you a slapping."

A voice called, "Put her down. I mean, she doesn't know where you've been, does she? She might catch something."

Dillon's Zippo lighter flared as he lit the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth. He walked forward and Smith went to meet him. "You want trouble, you've got it, you little squirt," and he swung a tremendous punch.

Dillon swayed to one side, reaching for the wrist, twisted it so that Smith cried out in agony, falling to one knee. Dillon's clenched fist swung down in a hammer blow of tremendous force across the extended arm, snapping the forearm. Smith cried out again, fell over on his side.

Johnson said, "You little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He threw Jenny to one side and took an automatic pistol from his left-hand raincoat pocket. Dillon moved in fast, blocking the arm to the side, so that the only shot Johnson got off went into the ground. At the same time the Irishman half-turned, throwing the other man across his extended leg, ramming his heel down so hard that he fractured two of Johnson's ribs.

Johnson writhed on the ground in agony and Dillon picked up the automatic. It was an old Italian Beretta, small caliber, somewhere close to a point-two-two.

"Woman's gun," Dillon said, "but it'll do the job." He crouched down beside Johnson. "Who do you work for, sonny?"

"Don't say a word," Smith called.

"Who said I was going to?" Johnson spat in Dillon's face. "Get f.u.c.ked."

"Suit yourself."

Dillon rolled him over, put the muzzle of the gun against the back of his left knee and fired. Johnson gave a terrible cry and Dillon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back.

"Do you want me to do the other one? I'll put you on sticks if you like."

"No," Johnson moaned. "We work for Santiago - Max Santiago."

"Really?" Dillon said. "And where would I find him?"

"He lives in Puerto Rico, but lately he's been in Paris."

"And you did the burglary at Lord North Street?"

"Yes."

"Good boy. See how easy it was?"

"You stupid b.u.g.g.e.r," Smith said to Johnson. "You've just dug your own grave."

Dillon tossed the Beretta over the wall into the Thames. "I'd say he's been very sensible. Westminster Hospital's not too far from here, first-cla.s.s casualty department and free, even for animals like you, thanks to the National Health Service."

He turned and found Jenny staring at him in a daze and he took her arm. "Come on, love, let's go home."

As they walked away Smith called, "I'll get you for this, Dillon."

"No you won't," Dillon said. "You'll put it down to experience and hope that this Max Santiago feels the same way."

They emerged from the gardens and paused at the pavement edge, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Dillon said, "Are you all right?"

"My G.o.d!" she said wonderingly. "What kind of man are you, Sean Dillon, to do that?"

"They'd have done worse to you, my love."

He took her hand and ran with her across the road.

When they reached the house she went straight upstairs and Dillon went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, thinking about things as he waited for it to boil. Max Santiago? Progress indeed, something for Ferguson to get his teeth into there. He was aware of Jenny coming down the stairs and going into the study, made the coffee, put the cups on a tray. As he went to join her he realized she was on the phone.

"British Airways? What's the last flight to Paris tonight?" There was a pause. "Nine-thirty? Can you reserve me a seat? Grant - Jennifer Grant. Yes, I'll pick it up at reservations. Yes, Terminal Four, Heathrow."

She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. "Doing a runner are you?"

"I can't take it. I don't understand what's going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can't get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I'm going to get out now while I can."

"To Paris?" he said. "I heard you on the phone."

"That's just a jumping-off point. There's someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to." She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. "Henry's sister."

"Sister?" Dillon frowned.

"I'm probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don't ask me and don't ask me where I'm going after Paris."

"I see."

She glanced at her watch. "Seven o'clock, Dillon, and the flight's at nine-thirty. I can make it, only don't tell Ferguson, not until I've gone. Help me, Dillon, please."

"Then don't waste time in talking about it," he said. "Go and get your bags now and I'll ring for a taxi."

"Will you, Dillon, honestly?"

"I'll go with you myself."

She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, "You daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d, what's getting into you?" and he picked up the phone.

It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn't afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he'd had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he'd driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.

"How is he?" Smith asked.

"As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He'll limp for the rest of his life."

"That f.u.c.king little Irish b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Smith said.

"You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?"

"Why should he?" Smith was alarmed. "Nothing to do with him this one."

"I thought it might, that's all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around."

"No, not his bag this." Smith got up. "I'll get myself off home. I'll be in to see him tomorrow."

He went out of the gla.s.s front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.

The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o'clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.

"Time for a drink?" Dillon suggested.

"Why not?"

She seemed in better spirits now and waited for him in the corner of the bar until he returned with an Irish whisky and a gla.s.s of white wine. "You're feeling better, I can tell," he said.

"It's good to be on the move again, to get away from it all. What will you tell Ferguson?"

"Nothing about you until the morning."

"You'll tell him I flew to Paris?"

"No point in not doing, he'd find that out in five minutes from a check on British Airways' pa.s.senger computer."

"That doesn't matter, I'll be well on my way by then. What about you?"

"St. John next stop. Tomorrow or the day after."

"See Bob Carney," she said. "Tell him I sent you, and introduce yourself to Billy and Mary Jones. They're running the cafe and bar for me while I'm away."

"What about you? When will you be back?"

"I don't honestly know. A few days, a week, I'll see how I feel. I'll look you up when I get back if you're still there."

"I don't know where I'll be staying."

"It's easy to find someone in St. John."

The flight was called and they finished their drinks, went down to the concourse and he accompanied her to the security entrance. "I'm sorry if I've made trouble for you with the Brigadier," she said.

"Entirely my pleasure," he a.s.sured her.

"You're quite a guy, Dillon." She kissed him on the cheek. "Frightening, mind you, but thank G.o.d you're on my side. I'll see you."

Dillon watched her go, then turned and made his way to the nearest row of telephones, took out a card with telephone numbers which Ferguson had given him and rang the Cavendish Square number. Kim answered the phone and informed him that the Brigadier was dining at the Garrick Club. Dillon thanked him, went out to the rank and took the first cab in the line.

"London," he said. "The Garrick Club. You know where that is?"

"Certainly, guv." The driver examined Dillon's open-necked shirt in the rear-view mirror. "Wasting your time there, guv, dressed like that. They won't let you in. Jacket-and-tie job. Members and their guests only."

"We'll have to see, won't we?" Dillon told him. "Just take me there."

When they reached the Garrick, the driver pulled in at the curb and turned. "Shall I wait, guv?"

"Why not? I'll be straight out again if what you say is true."

Dillon went up the steps and paused at the desk. The uniformed porter was civil enough. "Can I help you, sir?"

Dillon put on his finest public-school accent. "I'm looking for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I was told he was dining here tonight. I need to see him most urgently."

"I'm afraid I can't allow you upstairs, sir. We do require a jacket and tie, but if you care to wait here I'll have a message sent to the Brigadier. What was the name, sir?"

"Dillon."

The porter picked up the telephone and spoke to someone. He put the phone down. "He'll be with you directly, sir."