Hannah got through to Ferguson with no trouble at all, using her satellite-linked mobile phone. He was at his flat in Cavendish Square, sitting beside the fire in the drawing room, and he listened patiently while she filled him in.
“My God, but they really shafted us on this one, whoever they are.”
“But what would they want with Dillon, sir? And what about the real Carter?”
“God knows, but we’ll know soon enough. They said they’d be in touch and they also said Dillon would be back. We’ll just have to wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll contact Lacey at Malta and tell him to fly back to Palermo to pick you up in the morning, and I’ll ask Gagini to send the car back for you.”
“I’d be grateful,” she said.
“Just come home, Chief Inspector, nothing else to be done at the moment.”
Ferguson sat there thinking about it for a while, then phoned Wandsworth Prison and asked to speak to the head of security.
Dillon came half-awake in the darkness of the cabin. His handcuffs had been taken off and it was very dark. He tried to make sense of the luminous dial of his watch, which appeared to indicate that he had been out for about eight hours. The motion of the ship indicated a reasonably fast speed and he stood up, felt by the door, and found the light switch.
The porthole was bolted tight and painted black. His mouth was bone dry, but there was a small corner basin and a plastic cup, which he filled with water several times, sitting on the edge of the bed. A key turned in the door, it opened, and Aaron came in. A different man was behind him carrying a tray.
“I thought you’d be up and about by now,” Aaron said. “This is Raphael, by the way, bearing gifts. There’s a razor and shaving cream and shampoo. You’ll find a little shower room through that door. More importantly, a flask of tea, milk and ham sandwiches.”
“Ham?” Dillon said. “And you a nice Jewish boy?”
“Yes, disgraceful, isn’t it, but then, as I told you, I went to St. Paul’s. We’ll see you later.”
They left and Dillon started on the sandwiches, which were excellent, then had a cup of tea. He felt surprisingly good considering the drug, and afterwards, stripped, had a shower and a shave and dressed again. Afterwards, he got his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. There were books on a shelf. He glanced through them and found an old copy of From Russia with Love by Ian Fleming. James Bond. Somehow it seemed appropriate, and he got on the bunk bed and started to read.
It was a couple of hours later when the key turned and the door opened. Aaron came in, with Arnold at his back.
Dillon held up the book. “Did you know this is a first edition? They’re bringing a fat price at the auctions these days.”
“I’ll remember that,” Aaron said. “Sorry to be a bore, but it’s time for bed again, Mr. Dillon. Hand out, please.”
And as there wasn’t much Dillon could do about that, he complied. Aaron tapped the back of the hand and applied the needle.
“You’re sure I won’t end up a vegetable?” Dillon asked.
“No chance, Mr. Dillon. You’re a very important man. In fact, you’d be surprised at how important a man you are.”
But Dillon was already falling back against the pillow, the sounds fading.
At that moment, Marie de Brissac, seated by the window of her room, painting, glanced up as the door opened and David Braun came in carrying a tray. He placed it on the table. There were cakes and a jug of coffee, and he stood back to look at the painting.
“Excellent. My sister used to paint in watercolors. It’s a difficult medium.”
“You say she used to?”
“She’s dead, Countess. I had two sisters. They were killed when an Arab terrorist blew up a student bus in Jerusalem.”
She was shocked and it showed. “I’m very sorry, David, truly sorry,” and she reached for one of his hands.
His reaction was electric and most disturbing, particularly the realization of the effect this wonderful woman had on him. He pulled away hastily.