On Dangerous Ground (10 page)

“Who knows? The worst kind of foreign devils, pus from an infected wound. Still, I’ll leave the door open a little longer.” She smiled at Dillon. “Please excuse us. My uncle speaks very little English.”

“That’s fine. If I could just sit here for a moment.”

“Coffee,” the girl said. “Very black and with a large brandy.”

“God save us, the brandy is fine, but would you happen to have a cup of tea, love? It’s what I was raised on.”

“Something we have in common.”

She smiled and went behind the bar and took down a bottle of brandy and a glass. At that moment a car drew up outside. She paused, then moved to the end of the bar and peered out through the window.

“They are here, Uncle.”

As she came round the end of the bar, the door opened and four men entered. The leader was six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a cavalry twill car coat that looked very expensive.

He smiled quite pleasantly. “Here we are again then,” he said. “Have you got it for me?”

The accent was unmistakably Belfast. The girl said, “A waste of your time, Mr. McGuire, there is nothing for you here.”

Two of his companions were black, the fourth an albino with lashes so fair they were almost transparent. He said, “Don’t give us any trouble, darlin’, we’ve been good to you. A grand a week for a place like this? I’d say you were getting off lightly.”

She shook her head. “Not a penny.”

McGuire sighed, plucked the bottle of brandy from her hand, and threw it into the bar mirror, splintering the glass. “That’s just for openers. Now you, Terry.”

The albino moved fast, his right hand finding the high neck of the silk dress, ripping it to the waist, baring one of her breasts. He pulled her close, cupping the breast in one hand.

“Now then, what have we here?”

The fat man was on his feet and Dillon kicked a chair across to block his way. “Stay out of this, Uncle, I’ll handle it,” he called in Cantonese.

The four men turned quickly to face Dillon and McGuire was still smiling. “What have we got here then, a hero?”

“Let her go,” Dillon said.

Terry smiled and pulled the girl closer. “No, I like it too much.” All the frustration, the anger and the pain of the last few weeks rose like bile in Dillon’s mouth and he pulled out the Walther and fired blindly, finishing off the bar mirror.

Terry sent the girl staggering. “Look at his hand,” he whispered, “he’s shaking all over the place.”

McGuire showed no sign of fear. “The accent makes me feel at home,” he said.

“I mind yours too, old son,” Dillon told him. “The Shankhill or the Falls Road, it’s no difference to me. Now toss your wallet across.”

McGuire didn’t even hesitate and threw it on the table. It was stuffed with notes. “I see you’ve been on your rounds,” Dillon said. “It should take care of the damage.”

“Here, there’s nearly two grand there,” Terry said.

“Anything over can go to the widows and orphans.” Dillon glanced at the girl. “No police, right?”

“No police.”

Behind her the kitchen door opened and two waiters and a chef emerged. The waiters carried butchers’ knives, the chef a meat cleaver.

“I’d go if I were you,” Dillon said. “These people have rather violent ways when roused.”

McGuire smiled. “I’ll remember you, friend. Come on, boys,” and he turned and went out.

They heard the car start up and drive away. What little strength Dillon had left him. He sagged back in the chair and replaced the Walther. “I could do with that brandy now.”

And she was angry, that was the strange thing. She turned on her heel and pushed past the waiters into the kitchen.

“What did I do wrong?” Dillon asked as the staff followed her through.

“It is nothing,” the fat man said. “She is upset. Let me get you your brandy.”

He went to the bar, got a fresh bottle and two glasses, came back, and sat down. “You spoke to me in Cantonese. You have visited China often?”

“A few times, but not often. Hong Kong mainly.”

“Fascinating. I am from Hong Kong and so is my niece. My name is Yuan Tao.”

“Sean Dillon.”

“You’re Irish and visit Hong Kong only now and then and yet your Cantonese is excellent. How can this be?”

“Well, it’s like this. Some people can do complicated mathematics in their head quicker than a computer.”

“So?”

“I’m like that with languages. I just soak them up.” Dillon drank a little brandy. “I presume that lot have been here before?”

“I understand so. I only flew in yesterday. I believe they have been pressing their demands here and elsewhere for some weeks.”

The girl returned wearing slacks and a sweater. She was still angry and ignored her uncle, glaring at Dillon. “What do you want here?”

Yuan Tao cut in. “We owe Mr. Dillon a great deal.”

“We owe him nothing and he has ruined everything. Is it just coincidence that he walks in here?”

“Strangely enough, it was,” Dillon said. “Girl dear, life’s full of them.”

“And what kind of man carries a gun in London? Another criminal.”

“Jesus,” Dillon told Yuan Tao, “the logic on her. I could be a copper or the last of the vigilantes doing a Charles Bronson eradicating the evildoers.” The brandy had gone to his head and he got up. “I’ll be on my way. It’s been fun,” and he got up and was out of the door before they could stop him.

FIVE

DILLON WAS TIRED, VERY TIRED, AND THE PAVEMENT seemed to move beneath his feet. He followed the road and it brought him alongside the Thames. He stood at some railings staring into the fog, aware of another ship moving out there. He was confused, things happening in slow motion, not aware that someone was behind him until an arm slipped around his neck, cutting off his air. A hand slipped inside his jacket and found the Walther. Dillon was shoved into the railings, stayed there for a moment, then turned and moved forward.

The albino, Terry, stood there holding the Walther. “Here we are again then.”

A black limousine pulled into the curb. Dillon was aware of someone else at his back, took a deep breath, and brought up all his resources. He swung his right foot up, caught Terry’s hand, and the Walther soared over the railings into the Thames. He jerked his head back, crunching the nose of the man behind, then ran along the pavement. He turned the corner and found himself on a deserted wharf blocked by high gates securely padlocked.

As he turned, the limousine arrived and they all seemed to come at him together. The first man with an iron bar which clanged against the gate as Dillon lost his footing and fell, rolling desperately to avoid the swinging kicks. And then they had him up, pinning him against the gates.

McGuire, lighting a cigarette, stood by the limousine. He said, “You asked for this, friend, you really did. Okay, Terry, slice him up.”

Terry’s hand came out of his pocket holding an old-fashioned, cut-throat razor which he opened as he came forward. He was quite calm and the blade of the razor flashed dully in the light of a street lamp and somewhere a cry echoed flatly on the damp air. Terry and McGuire swung round and Yuan Tao came walking out of the rain.

The jacket of his gabardine suit was soaked and somehow he was different, moving with a kind of strange relentlessness as if nothing could ever stop him, and McGuire said, “For God’s sake, put him out of his misery.”

The man with the iron bar darted round the limousine and ran at Yuan Tao, the bar swinging, and the Chinese actually took the blow on his left forearm with no apparent effect. In the same moment his right fist jabbed in a short screwing motion that landed under the man’s breast bone. He went down like a stone without a sound.

Yuan Tao leaned over him for a second and McGuire ran round the limousine and kicked out at him. The older man caught the foot with effortless ease and twisted so that Dillon could have sworn he heard bone crack, then he lifted, hurling McGuire across the bonnet of the car. He lay on the pavement, moaning. Yuan Tao came round the limousine, his face very calm, and the man holding Dillon from the rear released him and ran away.

Terry held up the razor. “All right, fatty, let’s be having you.”

“What about me then, you bastard?” Dillon said, and as Terry turned, gave him a punch in the mouth, summoning all his remaining strength.

Terry lay on the pavement, cursing, blood on his mouth, and Yuan Tao stamped on his hand and kicked the razor away. A van turned into the street and braked to a halt. As the chef got out, the two waiters came ’round the corner holding the man who had run away.

“I’d tell them to leave him in one piece,” Dillon said in Cantonese. “You’ll need him to drive this lot away.”

“An excellent point,” Yuan Tao said. “At least you are still in one piece.”

“Only just. I’m beginning to see why your niece was annoyed. Presumably you were actually hoping McGuire would show up?”

“I flew in especially from Hong Kong for the pleasure. Su Yin, my niece, cabled for my help. A matter of family. It was difficult for me to get away. I was at a retreat at one of our monasteries.”

“Monasteries?” Dillon asked.

“I should explain, Mr. Dillon, I am a Shaolin monk, if you know what that is.”

Dillon laughed shakily. “I certainly do. If only McGuire had. It means, I suspect, that you’re an expert in kung fu?”

“Darkmaster, Mr. Dillon, our most extreme grade. I have studied all my life. I think I shall stay for two or three weeks to make sure there is no more trouble.”

“I shouldn’t worry, I think they’ll have got the point.”

McGuire, Terry, and one of the blacks still lay on the pavement and the chef and two waiters brought the fourth man forward. Yuan Tao went and spoke to them in Cantonese and then returned. “They’ll deal with things here. Su Yin is waiting in her car at the restaurant.”

They walked back, turned the corner, and found a dark sedan parked under the Red Dragon. As they approached she got out and, ignoring her uncle, said to Dillon in Cantonese, “Are you all right?”

“I am now.”

“I am sorry for my behavior.” She bowed. “I deserve punishment as my honorable uncle pointed out. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Dillon told her and from the direction of the river a scream sounded.

She turned to her uncle. “What was that?”

“The little worm with the white hair, the one who shamed you before us, I told them to cut off his right ear.”

Su Yin’s face didn’t alter. “I thank you, Uncle.” She bowed again, then turned to Dillon. “You will come with us now, Mr. Dillon,” and this time she spoke in English.

“Girl dear, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said and got in the back of the car.

“If you have studied judo or karate you will have heard of kiai, the power that makes a man perform miracles of strength and force. Only the greatest of masters acquire this and only after years of training and discipline, both mental and physical.”

“Well you certainly have it,” Dillon said. “I can still see that steel bar bounce off your arm.”

He was immersed to his neck in a bath of water so hot that sweat ran down his face. Yuan Tao squatted against the wall in an old robe and peered at him through the steam.

Dillon carried on, “Once in Japan I was taken to see an old man of eighty, a Zen priest with arms like sticks. I think he might have weighed seven stone. He remained seated while two karate black belts repeatedly attacked him.”

“And?”

“He threw them effortlessly. I was told later that his power sprang from what they called the
tanden
, or second brain.”

“Which can only be developed by years of meditation. All this is a development of the ancient Chinese art of Shaolin Temple Boxing. It came from India in the sixth century with Zen Buddhism and was developed by the monks of Shaolin Temple in Hohan province.”

“Isn’t that a rough game for priests? I mean, I had an uncle, a Catholic priest, who taught me bareknuckle boxing as a boy and him a prize fighter as a younger man, but this . . .”

“We have a saying. A man avoids warfare only by being prepared for it. The monks learned that lesson. Centuries ago members of my family learned the art and passed it down. Over the centuries my ancestors fought evildoers on behalf of the poor, even the forces of the Emperor when necessary. We served our society.”

“Are you talking of the Triad Society here?” Dillon asked. “I thought they were simply a kind of Chinese version of the Mafia.”

“Like the Mafia, they started as secret societies to protect the poor against the rich landowners and like the Mafia they have become corrupted over the years, but not all.”

“I’ve read something about this,” Dillon said. “Are you telling me you are a Triad?”

“Like my forefathers before me I am a member of the Secret Breath, the oldest of all, founded in Hohan in the sixteenth century. Unlike others, my society has not been corrupted. I am a Shaolin monk, I also have business interests, there is nothing wrong in that, but I will stand aside for no man.”

“So all this and your fighting ability has been handed down?”

“Of course. There are many methods, many schools, but without
ch’i
they are nothing.”

“And what would that be?”

“A special energy. When accumulated just below the navel, it has an elemental force which is infinitely greater than physical force alone. It means that a fist is simply a focusing agent. There is no need for the tremendous punches used by Western boxers. I strike from only a few inches away, screwing my fist on impact. The result may be a ruptured spleen or broken bones.”

“I can believe that, but deflecting that steel bar with your arm. How do you do that?”

“Practice, Mr. Dillon, fifty years of practice.”

“I haven’t got that long.” Dillon stood up and Yuan Tao passed him a towel.

“One may accomplish miracles in a matter of weeks with discipline and application, and with a man like you I doubt whether one would be starting from scratch. There are scars from knife wounds in your back and that is an old bullet wound in the left shoulder and then there was the gun.” He shrugged. “No ordinary man.”