Marco said, "I've got you now, you bastard. Put that thing down and turn around." • • • Dillon laid the Celeste on the ground and turned calmly. "Ah, so it's you, Marco, my old son, I wondered where you'd be hiding."

"God knows how you got here, but that doesn't matter now. The only important thing is you're here and I get the pleasure of killing you myself."

He picked up Franco's shotgun with one hand and holstered the Beretta, then he called out, "It's Dillon, Signore Morgan, I've got him here."

"Have you now?" Dillon said.

"This is the Lupara, always used by Mafia for a ritual killing."

"Yes, I had heard that," Dillon said. "The only trouble is, old son, it's only double-barreled and it discharged when Franco went down."

There was one single second when Marco took in what he had said and realized it was true. He dropped the shotgun, his hand went inside his coat to the holstered Beretta.

Dillon said, "Goodbye, me old son." His hand found the silenced Walther in his waistband under the tunic at his back, it swung up and he fired twice, each bullet striking Marco in the heart and driving him back.

Dillon stood there looking down at him, then he replaced the Walther in his waistband, reached down and picked up the Celeste. He took a step forward, looking out through the bushes at the terrace, then fired a long burst, raking the wall beside the window.

"It's Dillon," he called. "I'm here, Morgan." • • • Morgan in the drawing room stood by the dining table, Luca on one side, Asta on the other holding the Walther in her hand.

"Dillon?" he called. "Can you hear me?"

Dillon called back. "Yes."

Morgan went round the table and got Ferguson by the collar. "On your feet," he said. "Or I'll kill you now."

He pushed the Brigadier around the table toward the open windows and the terrace. "Listen to me, Dillon, I've got your boss here. I'll blow his brains all over the room unless you do as I say. After all, he's what you've come for."

There was a marked silence, only the rain falling, and then incredibly Dillon appeared, coming up the steps to the terrace, the Celeste in his hands. He reached the terrace himself and stood there, the rain beating down.

"Now what?" he said.

Morgan, the muzzle of his Browning against Ferguson's temple, pulled him back, step-by-step, until he stood at the end of the table, Luca still sitting on one side of him, Asta on the other, her right hand clutching the Walther against her thigh.

Dillon moved into the entrance, a supremely menacing figure in the camouflaged uniform, his hair plastered to his skull. He spoke in Irish and then smiled.

"That means God bless all here."

Morgan said, "Don't make the wrong move."

"Now why would I?" Dillon moved to one side of the table and nodded to Asta. "Is that a gun in your hand, girl? I hope you know how to use it."

"I know," she said and her eyes were like dark holes, her face very pale.

"Then move to one side." She hesitated and he said, his voice harsh, "Do it, Asta."

She stepped back and Morgan said, "Don't worry. If he fires that thing he takes all of us and that includes the Brigadier, isn't that so, Dillon?"

"True," Dillon said. "I presume the overweight gentleman is your uncle, Giovanni Luca. It would include him too. A great loss to this Honoured Society of yours."

"There is a time for all things, Dillon," the old man said. "I'm not afraid."

Dillon nodded. "I respect that, but you're living in the past, Capo, you've been Lord of Life and Death too long."

"Everything comes to an end sometime, Mr. Dillon," Luca said and there was a strange look in his eyes.

Morgan said, "To hell with this, put the machine pistol on the table, Dillon, or I'll spread Ferguson's brains over the cutlery, I swear it."

Dillon stood there, holding the Celeste comfortably, and Ferguson said, "I abhor bad language, dear boy, but you have my permission to shoot the fucking lot of them."

Dillon smiled suddenly, that deeply personal smile of total charm. "God save you, Brigadier, but I came to take you home and I didn't intend in a coffin."

He moved to the table, placed the Celeste down, and pushed it along to the end where it came to a halt in front of Luca.

There was a kind of relief on Morgan's face and he pushed Ferguson away from him. "So, here we are, Dillon. You're a remarkable man, I'll give you that."

"Oh, don't flatter me, old son."

"Marco?" Morgan asked.

"He's gone the way of all flesh plus two fellas in cloth caps I found prowling in the garden." Dillon smiled. "Sure and I was forgetting the one at the gate. That makes four, Morgan. I'm nearly as good as that tailor in the fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm. He boasted six at one blow, but they were flies on the jam and bread."

"You bastard," Morgan said. "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Dillon turned to Asta. "Are you taking all this in? It's fun, isn't it? Right up your street!"

She said, "Talk all you want, Dillon, you're finished."

"Not yet, Asta, things to be said." He smiled at Morgan. "A strange one, the girl here. She looks like she's off page fifty-two in Vogue magazine, but there's another side to her. She likes the violence. Gets off on it."

"Shut your mouth!" Asta said in a low voice.

"And why should I do that, girl, especially if he's going to blow me away? A few words only. The condemned man's entitled to that."

Morgan said, "You're talking yourself into the grave."

"Yes, well, that's waiting for all of us, the one sure thing, the only difference is how you get there. Now take your wife, for instance, a strange business that."

The Browning seemed suddenly heavy in Morgan's hand. It came down and he held it against his thigh. "What are you talking about, Dillon?"

"She died scuba diving off Hydra in the Aegean Sea, am I right? An unfortunate accident."

"That's right."

"Ferguson got a copy of the report compiled by the Athens police. There were you and your wife, Asta, and a divemaster on board."

"So?"

"She ran out of air and the police report indicates that was no accident. The valve system in her equipment had been interfered with. Difficult to prove anything, especially with a man as powerful as the great Carl Morgan, so they put that report on file."

"You're lying," Morgan said.

"No, I've seen the report. Now who would want to kill her? Hardly the divemaster, so we can eliminate him. We thought it was you and told Asta as much, but you said on the boat it was a filthy lie and seemed to mean it." Dillon shrugged. "That only seems to leave one person."

Asta screamed, "You bastard, Dillon!"

Morgan stilled her with one raised hand. "That's nonsense, it can't be."

"All right, so you're going to kill me, so just answer one question. The night of the dinner party, the brakes were interfered with on our estate car. Now if that was you it would imply you wanted Asta dead because you let her take a ride back to the lodge with us."

"But that's nonsense," Morgan said, "I'd never do anything to harm Asta. It was an accident."

There was a silence and Dillon turned to Asta. When she smiled, it was the most terrible thing he'd ever seen in his life. "You really are a clever one, aren't you?" she said and her hand came up with the Walther.

"You screwed up the braking system and yet you came with us?" he said.

"Oh, I had every confidence in you, Dillon, it seemed likely we'd survive with you at the wheel, but I knew you'd blame Carl and that would strengthen my position with you." She turned to Morgan. "It was all for you, Carl, so I could find out every move they were likely to make."

"And your mother?" Ferguson said. "Was that also for Morgan?"

"My mother?" She stared at them, a strangely blank look on her face, and she turned to Morgan again. "That was different. She was in the way, trying to take you away from me, and she shouldn't have done that. I saved her, saved her from my father." She smiled. "He interfered with our lives once too often." She smiled again. "He liked fast women and he liked fast cars, so I made sure he ran off the road in one."