'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.
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.