'Excellent. God help Jack Fox and the Colosseum this evening. I think I'll go and watch.'
'You have to be a member,' Hannah Bernstein said.
'Which, thanks to my computer, I am. In fact, you all are.' The waiter appeared with his breakfast. 'My God, this looks good.' He picked up a knife and fork and got to work. 'I assume it had occurred to you that if Dillon and Blake wanted to create mayhem in the Colosseum tonight, they also needed to be members?'
'Of course it did.' Ferguson smiled. 'And I knew you'd take care of it. It'll be an interesting night ahead of us, I think.' 'You can sure as hell say that,' Blake agreed.

Roper's expertise produced plastic membership cards for all of them, plus photos of Rossi and Cameci, the restaurant's minders, to add to those of Falcone and Russo, and that evening, at eight o'clock, they were passed through the door at the Colosseum by Henry, Roper in a light collapsible wheelchair pushed by Dillon.
The main room was already busy, waitresses in minuscule skirts moving through the crowd offering champagne. Dillon took a glass and looked up.
'Any good?' Blake asked.
'If you like sparkling wine, but champagne it's not.'
'Ah, well, Fox will be into profit margins,' Ferguson observed.
They stood in a small group by the bar, and Hannah said,
'There are a couple of villains you're interested in, sir. The Jago brothers, Harold and Tony, at the end of the bar.'
The others took a look.
Ferguson said, 'Very unsavoury.'
'Yes, well, we can sort them out later,' Dillon said. 'The thing is, who's going to start the ball rolling?'
'Well, actually, I've had another of my ideas,' Ferguson said. 'We have six dice, so why not two each?'
'Brigadier, I can see why you achieved high command,' Blake told him. 'Agreed, Sean?'
'Why not?' Dillon turned to Roper. 'Here we go. Show-time.'
Roper passed the dice across and Dillon gave the others theirs. 'There you go.'
'Into action, then,' Ferguson said. 'Let's get on with it,' and turned for the dice table. 'Oh, and palm your dice smoothly, gentlemen.'
In the restaurant, Fox enjoyed his scrambled eggs and smoked salmon again and tried a little Krug champagne.
'Great stuff, this,' he said to Falcone. 'But not the vintage. It's the non-vintage that's really special. Different grapes.'
Russo appeared. 'There's a problem, Signore. You remember those two from the Four Seasons in New York, Dillon and Johnson?'
'Yes?'
'They're here now, in the main room.'
'Really?' Fox emptied his glass. 'Well, let's take a look.'
Falcone pulled back the chair, and Fox stood up and walked out into the most active part of the casino.
Russo said, 'Over there, Signore. Next to some woman and another man. In the striped suit, see?'
Fox snorted. 'That "some woman", Russo, is Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Scotland Yard's Special Branch. And that "another man" is Brigadier General Ferguson, head of a special intelligence unit for the Prime Minister. An absolutely devious old bastard. I guarantee you they're not here for a friendly game of cards.'
'So what do we do, Signore?' Falcone asked. 'Move them out?'
'Don't be stupid,' Fox said. 'This is one of the most prestigious gambling clubs in London. Scandal is the last thing we want. You expect me to expel a brigadier general and his friends? No, we wait and see what they're up to.'
The dice table was a popular one, every inch taken up by the crowd standing around. Ferguson said to Hannah, 'Would you like to have a go, Superintendent?'
'No, sir. I don't know craps. It's not one of my vices.'
'Well, it's one of mine,' Blake said. 'Let's do it.'
He had to wait ten minutes for his chance, then took the offered dice and started. Strangely enough, he did quite well for the first three throws, actually won money. Then he palmed the dice and tossed two of Roper's.
'Snake eyes.'
There was a groan from the crowd.
The dealer passed the dice to Dillon, who palmed them for the real article, and made two successful throws. Then, just when he had everything riding on the toss – 'snake eyes!' 'Hey,' he said ruefully, 'bad luck I understand, but this is diabolical.'
Ferguson moved in. 'Let me try, old boy. Mind you, these dice do seem to have lost their edge.' He turned to the croupier. 'Let me have a new pair.'
The croupier complied. Ferguson rolled and immediately came up with snake eyes. He turned to a military-looking man with a stiff moustache next to him. 'How strange.' He laughed. 'We all keep getting the same thing.'
'Yes,' the military-looking man said slowly. The croupier's rake reached out, but the military-looking man said, 'Not so fast,' and grabbed the dice.
The croupier said, 'I hope monsieur isn't suggesting there could be something wrong?'
'Let's see.'
The man rolled the dice and threw them the length of the table: again, snake eyes. The croupier's rake reached out and the military gentleman beat him to it.
'Oh, no, you don't. That's snake eyes too many times. These dice are loaded.' There was a sudden murmur from the crowd and he turned to an ageing gentleman. 'See for yourself. Pair of ones guaranteed.'
The man threw and the result was clear. The outrage in the
crowd was plain to see, and Mori hurried down the steps. 'Ladies and gentlemen, please. A misunderstanding.' Are you the manager?' Ferguson demanded.
'Yes,' Mori replied.
'Then oblige us by throwing those dice.'
Mori hesitated. People in the crowd shouted, 'Get on with it.'
Mori threw. The dice rolled. Snake eyes.
The crowd roared in anger. The military-looking man said, 'That settles it. Loaded dice, and I've lost a bundle here in the last few weeks. We need the police.'
'Ladies and gentlemen, please,' Mori called.
Fox, Falcone and Russo stayed well to the rear.
Hannah Bernstein moved forward and said to Mori, 'The dice, sir, I'll have them.'
'And who the devil are you?' He was so upset he asked her in Italian.
Hannah replied with fluency in the same language. 'Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch.' She looked at the dice she picked up. 'I notice that, in accordance with the Gaming Act, these carry the club's registered mark. Do you agree?'
'Well, yes,' Mori said lamely, then added, 'Someone must have substituted false ones.'
The military-looking man said, 'Don't be stupid. What on earth would be the point of a player substituting for the real dice a pair that would make him lose?'
There was a roar from the crowd, Mori sagged across the table, and Hannah said, 'In accordance with the statutory provisions of the Gaming Act, sir, I must issue an order closing you down until such time as Westminster Magistrate's Court can consider the matter. I believe you also own twelve betting shops in the City of London. Is that so?'
'Yes,' Mori told her.
'I'm afraid they must close, also. Any infringement of this order means a fine of one hundred thousand pounds with further penalties thereafter.'
'Of course.' Mori raised his voice shakily. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid we must close by order of the police. Please leave now. Don't forget your things.'
The crowd faded, and at the rear were Ferguson, Bernstein, Dillon, Blake, and Roper in his wheelchair. At the door, Dillon turned and waved to Fox.
'Hey, there you are, old buddy. Have a good night!'
They went out. Fox turned to Falcone. 'I want to know where they go. There must be a couple of young punks available. Not Rossi or Comeci.'
Russo said, 'There's Borsalino and Salvatore in the kitchen.' 'Get them now. I know who most of them are, but not the one in the wheelchair. Then follow him to hell.'

They took Roper from his wheelchair, eased him into the Daimler, and then followed him, after folding his wheelchair.
'Now what?' Blake asked.
'We wait for Fox to react,' Dillon said.
'Shall we eat?' Ferguson asked.
'Not me, Brigadier,' Roper told him. 'I want to check out the computer again. Take me home, then you lot go and enjoy yourselves.'
But already following the Daimler was a very ordinary Ford car driven by a young man named Paolo Borsalino, with his friend, Alex Salvatore, sitting beside him. In Sicilian terms, they were Piccioti, youngsters gaining respect, doing the odd killing, climbing up the ladder. Borsalino had acted as executioner three times, and Salvatore twice, and they were eager to do more.
The Daimler stopped in Regency Square, and Dillon got out, set up Roper's wheelchair and helped him into it. They all got out and Dillon took Roper's key and opened his door.
Ferguson said, 'We'll speak tomorrow. Excellent job, Captain.'
'We aim to please, Brigadier.'
Dillon pushed Roper up the ramp into the hall. 'You're a hell of a fella, Roper.'
'Well, considering your background, I take that as a compliment.'
Dillon closed the door and went back to the others. 'Now what?'
'Fredo's – it's round the corner from Cavendish Square. A nice Italian restaurant,' Ferguson said. 'We can have a look at what's next.'
The Daimler drove away, and Borsalino and Salvatore, parked at the end of the square, watched them go. Salvatore said, 'Now what?'
'You watch the car,' Borsalino said. 'I'll be back.'
He walked to the other side of the square and found a corner shop, the kind that stayed open until midnight. The man behind the counter was Indian. Borsalino asked for two packs of Marlboros.
'You know, I saw this guy earlier getting out of a taxi in the square in a wheelchair. I thought I knew him, but I'm not sure.'
'That would be Mr Roper,' the Indian said. 'He was a captain in the Royal Engineers. Blown up in Ireland.'
'Oh, well, I've got it wrong. Thanks, anyway.'
Borsalino returned to the Ford, called Fox on the mobile, and relayed the information, also telling him where they were.
Fox said, 'Stay there. I'll be back.'
At that point, he was still in Mori's office at the casino. He picked up the telephone and called Maud Jackson in New York. It was late afternoon there and she was enjoying a pot of tea and cookies.
Fox said, 'Maud, I'm having serious problems here in London with Ferguson and company. There's a wild card, a British Royal Engineers captain in a wheelchair, blown up in Ireland, name of Roper. I'd like to know who he is right away.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm going back to the Dorchester. We had problems at the Colosseum.'
'Sounds like a bad night. Give me an hour.'
At the Dorchester, in the Oliver Messel Suite, Fox drank Krug champagne and looked across the wonderful London view by night from the terrace. Russo was down in the suite he and Falcone were sharing, but Falcone was standing by, as usual.
'More trouble, Signore?'
'We'll see, Aldo.'
The phone rang and he answered it. Maud Jackson said, 'Boy, do I have a good one for you. This Roper was blown up by the IRA, all right, and now he's a legend – in computers. Jack, if he's into your affairs, you've got serious trouble.'
'Thanks, Maud, you're an angel.'
'Yeah, well, don't forget to send a cheque.'
Fox put down the phone and said to Falcone, 'Take him out.'
'Me personally, Signore?'
'Of course not. Get over to Regency Square. See Borsalino and Salvatore. Give them their instructions. Have them get rid of him. I smell big trouble where he's concerned.'
'At your orders, Signore,' Falcone said. 'I'll leave Russo here.'
He used Fox's Mercedes limousine, driven by Fox's Italian driver, Fabio, closed the screen, and called Don Marco on his mobile and brought him up to date.
'This isn't good,' Don Marco said. 'I'm beginning to smell trouble here myself. Keep me informed, Aldo.'
Falcone found Borsalino and Salvatore in the Ford parked in the square very close to Roper's place. They were, of course, all attention.
'Stay here for the moment. This guy in the wheelchair? You take him out, but make it look like an accident. You wait if it takes all night. You wait if it takes until tomorrow, but he's finished. Capisce?'
'Anything you say,' Borsalino told him.
Falcone left then, went back to the Daimler. Fabio said, 'Back to the Dorchester?'
'No, I'm hungry. Find somewhere close by where we can get something simple. You know, a bacon and egg sandwich.'
'I know just the place, Signore.'
'Good. Then we'll come back and see what the situation is.'

At the computer bank, Roper trawled all the way through from Jack Fox to Brendan Murphy, the pride of the Provisional IRA. There were some fascinating facts there. Then he tried the Jago brothers and found a litany of crime on a Dickensian level. He sat back. Excellent.
He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock, and he felt hungry, which was okay, because Ryan's Irish Restaurant on the far side of the square stayed open until one and knew him well.
He eased himself into a raincoat and then transferred to his electric wheelchair and made for the front door.
Rain bounced down. He raised a small telescopic umbrella as he went down the ramp and started along the pavement. Falcone, sitting in the Mercedes, saw him go.
Fabio said, 'Signore?'
'Let's leave it to the boys.'
Roper coasted along, his umbrella raised, a slightly incongruous figure. In the Ford, Borsalino and Salvatore saw him.
'Now what?' Salvatore demanded.
'We take him out,' Borsalino said. 'Come on.'
He was out of the Ford in a second, Salvatore on his heels, and ran after the wheelchair.
'Hey, Signore, you need a hand?'
Roper knew trouble when he saw it, but said, 'No, thanks, I'm fine.'
Salvatore was on one side of the chair, Borsalino the other.
Borsalino said, 'No, really, I think you need some help –like, into traffic. What do you think about that?'
'That really would be unfortunate,' Roper said.
Falcone, watching from the Mercedes, said to Fabio, 'You've
been around the family for a long time. What do you think?' 'That it stinks, Signore. Where do they find these kids?' 'I agree. Just coast along and let's see what happens.' The end of the square before the main road was dark, and
at that moment deserted.
Borsalino said, 'Shit! There's no traffic here. What are we going to do?'
Salvatore said, 'Roll him down the block. We'll find it. You having a good time, my friend?'
'Depends on your point of view.' Roper's hand came out of the right-hand side pocket of his wheelchair, holding a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer on the end. He jammed it into the back of Salvatore's left knee and pulled the trigger. There was a muted cough, and the Italian cried out and stumbled into the gutter.
Roper turned slightly in the chair, the gun raised, and Borsalino jumped back. 'You really wouldn't have got by in Belfast, old son,' Roper said. 'Not for a minute,' and as Borsalino turned to run, shot him in the back of the right thigh.
They lay together on the pavement. Roper paused and looked down. He took out a mobile phone and dialled nine, nine, nine. When the operator answered, he said, 'There are two men down on the pavement in Regency Square. Looks like a shooting.'
'Your name, sir?'
'Don't be stupid.'
He switched off his coded mobile and moved on.
In the Mercedes, Fabio said, 'My God, Signore, what do we do?'
Already, in the distance, they could hear the sound of a police siren.
'Nothing,' Falcone told him. 'We do nothing.' He watched the two men trying to get up. 'Just get out of here.'
As they left the square, a police car turned in, and as they moved up the main road, an ambulance appeared.

In Ryan's Restaurant, Roper ordered Irish stew and a pint of Guinness, phoned Ferguson on his mobile, and gave him the bad news.
'Where are you?' Ferguson asked, and Roper told him. 'All right, stay where you are. We'll come for you.'
Ferguson put down the phone at his Cavendish Square flat and turned to Hannah, Dillon and Blake. 'That was Roper. He went out for a late meal and two men of Italian persuasion had a go. Told him they'd push him into the late-night traffic.'
'What happened, sir?' Hannah asked.
'He shot them in the legs,' Ferguson said. 'Would you believe that? Left them on the pavement.'
'Frankly, I don't have the slightest difficulty in believing it,' Dillon told him. 'Jack Fox moved fast.'
'So now what?' Blake asked.
Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'Superintendent?'
'I doubt they'll talk, sir, not if they value their lives. And I doubt that this will be the last attempt that Jack Fox makes.'
'You're right,' said Ferguson. 'We'll move Roper to the Holland Park safe house. Anything he wants, you know, all his gadgets and so on, make sure he gets. I think we'll need him. Will you take care of that, Superintendent?'
'As you say, sir.' Hannah went out.
Blake turned to Dillon. 'All right, we've taken care of the casino. What do we hit next?'
Blake turned to Dillon. 'The Jago brothers? The army dump? Beirut?'
'Let's get Roper into the safe house. Once he's got his equipment in order, we'll see.'
At the Dorchester, Fox listened to Falcone's account of what had happened in Regency Square. He actually laughed.
'You mean this fuck in the wheelchair shot them both in the legs?'
'Something like that, Signore.'
Fox shook his head. 'Mind you, with what I've learned about him, I'm not surprised. You can check if he's at his house, but if he's not there, leave it. We've got other things to do.'
'Like what, Signore? I spoke to Mori. The Colosseum will remain closed, as well as the betting shops, until the police and the Director of Public Prosecutions decide what to do, which could take months.'
'We concentrate on other matters. There's the Lebanon connection that Murphy arranged.'
'Beirut, Signore?'
'No, Al Shariz to the south, I believe. Murphy is due in Beirut next week. We'll meet and agree on the goods we're supplying. Forget the casino. There's a fortune to be made there, Aldo, and he pays in gold. I'll see you in the morning.'
Falcone left, went to his room, and phoned Don Marco. The Don said, 'He's digging himself in deeper, isn't he?' 'Do you want me to do anything?'
'No. Just stay in touch.'
'Of course, Don Marco.'

The Holland Park safe house was an Edwardian town house in an acre of gardens surrounded by huge walls. The notice by the gate said Pine Grove Nursing Home, which it definitely wasn't.
Roper was picked up by a contingency squad Hannah had arranged, mostly ordinary-looking young men and women who were actually Special Branch, and always available to Ferguson's demands. Two female sergeants packed Roper's clothes and three men moved equipment, according to his instructions. By one o'clock in the morning, he was in residence at Pine Grove, his various gadgets and computers plugged into sockets in what had been the sitting room.
The police departed, and a small, very pleasant woman said, 'Is everything satisfactory, Major?'
Roper was puzzled. 'Captain.'
'Oh, no, sir. Brigadier Ferguson said Major.'
'And who might you be?'
'Helen Black, sir. Royal Military Police. Sergeant Major.' 'Good God,' Roper said. 'That's an Armani suit.' 'Well, my father left me rather well off.'
'I smell Oxford here.'
'No, Cambridge. New Hall. I worked for the Fourteenth Intel undercover in Derry. You were a bit of a legend.'
'Look where it's got me. A bloody wheelchair, my bits and pieces damaged.'
'Courage never goes out of fashion, sir, in a wheelchair or not. As far as I'm concerned, you're one of the bravest men I've ever met. Now, you're probably peckish. I'll arrange for some sandwiches.'
'Tell me, Sergeant Major, are you my bodyguard? Because there are some pretty bad people out there looking for me.'
'I'm aware of that, sir.' She opened her jacket and revealed a holstered Colt automatic. 'Twenty-five millimetre, with hollowpoint bullets.'
'Well, that should do it.'
She smiled and went out.
Roper phoned Ferguson, in spite of the hour, and when the Brigadier answered, said, 'What's this Major thing?'
'Well, you're still on the Army list. I thought it would give you a bit more authority to promote you. You're established at Holland Park?'
'Yes, with the redoubtable Sergeant Major Black.'
'Redoubtable is right. Inherited money, you know, so she's fairly independent-minded. Her husband's a major in the Blues and Royals. Refused a commission herself. One of the few women to hold the Military Cross. Shot two Provos in Derry. You're in good hands.'
Roper whistled. 'I'd say so. So, what's my next move?' 'I'll put Dillon on.'
There was a pause, and Dillon said, 'Billy the Kid, is that who you are now?'
'Hey, these guys didn't want to play nice, so I figured, stuff them.'
'I'm with you there.'
'So what do you want me to do? Who's next?'
'Well, we've got two choices: the Jagos and Brendan Murphy. What do you know about the Jagos?'
'Not much. They like to knock off security vans. Really old-time stuff. Sawn-off shotguns, like some British gangster movie. The thing is, finding out about the future plans of such people is difficult,' Roper went on. 'Unless Fox committed his plans to the computer, how would I know?'
'It's all a question of inside information,' Dillon said.
And where do you get that?'
'The Jagos are gangsters, right?'
'And what does that prove?'
'Set a gangster to catch a gangster.'
'What in the hell are you talking about?'
'Harry Salter. He's a legendary name in London criminal circles. Did seven years for bank robbery in the seventies, never been inside since. He has warehouse developments, property, pleasure boats on the Thames. Still owns his first buy, a pub called the Dark Man at Wapping, by the river.'
'You sound as if you like him.'
'Well, he's saved me in the past and I've saved him. He's a dinosaur, but a very wealthy dinosaur. Even the cops have given up on him. Works with his nephew, Billy, and a couple of minders, Baxter and Hall. All the rest are accountants.'
'So, you'll go and see him?'
'That's my plan.'
'Fine. Keep me posted. Meantime, I'll check out Mr Murphy.' Roper smiled. 'I like to keep occupied.'
'See you sometime tomorrow.'
Roper sat there thinking, then the door opened and Helen Black came in with two toasted bacon sandwiches. 'Will these do?'
'Can't wait. Are you tired?'
'Not particularly.'
'Good, then would you like me to show you just how effective a computer can be if you know what you're doing?' 'What's the object of the exercise?'
'To hunt down a particularly obnoxious piece of Provisional IRA crap called Brendan Murphy.'
'Just a minute. I remember him. Derry, ninety-four.' 'And years before that.' Roper tried a sandwich. 'Excellent. Now, follow my instructions and I'll show you what to do.