by Jack Higgins
Dillon said, 'That suits me, and as the Superintendent knows, I've been guaranteed the full cooperation of the Department by Brigadier Ferguson, so let's hear what you have in mind.'
'It's very simple. What's one of the oldest games of chance in the world? They loved it at the height of the Roman Empire. They still love it.'
Blake smiled. 'Craps.'
'Exactly. You simply throw the dice and pray the right number comes up. People can't resist.'
Dillon said, 'So what do you want?'
'Dice, old boy. Steal me some dice.'
'Why?' Blake asked.
'Because every casino has its own made to order. Unique. Of course, once I have them at my workbench I make a slight adjustment, put a spot of lead inside, and they become what's known in the trade as loaded dice. Now, if the house is using loaded dice, the punters are bound to lose.'
'But how do you make the house actually use the loaded dice?' Blake asked.
'That's the whole point about having house dice. You or Dillon join the crowd making a wager. When your turn comes and the dealer gives you the dice, you palm them and use the ones I've doctored. They'll have the house logo on them, so everyone will assume they're the real thing. Of course, it will be necessary to bring this unfortunate situation to the attention of the other gamblers. The results could be devastating for the casino.'
'You wicked man, you,' Dillon said.
'You or Blake, I think, should be the ones. I wouldn't dream of asking the Superintendent.' He smiled at Hannah. 'I happen to know you're Jewish Orthodox, with a rabbi for a grandfather.'
She smiled. 'My grandfather might surprise you. His poker is deadly.'
Dillon said, 'Sounds good to me. So what's the plan?'
At ten o'clock that evening, Jack Fox arrived at the Colosseum, backed by Falcone and Russo. He was stopped at the door by a large man in evening dress.
'Membership card, sir.'
'I don't need one. I own this casino.'
'Very funny.'
The bouncer put a hand on Fox's shoulder and Russo said,
'You want me to break your right arm? You just made the biggest mistake of your life.'
'Signor Fox, what a pleasure,' a voice called, and Angelo Mori, the general manager, rushed down the stairs, followed by his two minders. 'Is there a problem?'
'Hell, no,' Fox said, and smiled at the bouncer. 'What's your name?'
'Henry, sir.' He looked very worried.
'You're doing a good job, Henry.' Fox took out his wallet, extracted a fifty-pound note, and slipped it into Henry's breast pocket. 'In fact, you're doing a great job. Anyone else comes in and says they own the joint, kick them in the balls.'
There was sweat on Henry's forehead. 'Yes, sir, anything you say.'
Inside, the main room was crowded, every kind of game in progress. Fox nodded approvingly. 'Looks good. How's the cash flow?'
'Terrific.'
Fox turned to Mori's minders, Cameci and Rossi. 'You two behaving yourselves?' He used Italian.
'Absolutely,' Rossi told him. 'Don Marco is well?'
If this seemed overly familiar, it wasn't. Rossi came from the same village as the Solazzo family, close to Corleone in Sicily.
'He is very well,' Fox continued in Italian. 'And I appreciate your concern.' He turned to Mori. 'We just flew in, and I'm starving. The restaurant is still open, I trust.'
'For you, it never closes, Signore.'
'Fifty,' Tony answered.
Harold said, 'Shut your mouth,' and turned back to Fox. I'll read the file, but I can tell you now we're in, Jack. Leave the team to me.'
'Good man.' Fox smiled. 'Now, let's have a bottle of champagne on it.'
The casino dosed at two in the morning; by three all was quiet, with only a security guard in the office by the main entrance, watching TV.
Along the street beside the basement entrance was a grey British Telecom van. The rear door opened and Blake Johnson, wearing a hard hat and yellow oilskins, got out, carrying two grappling hooks, and lifted a manhole cover in the pavement. Dillon passed him an inspection lamp and a red warning light saying: Danger. Men at Work. He then passed some canvas screens and an awning against the rain. There was an army of wires and switches. Blake tried to take an interest.
Inside the van Roper, in a wheelchair, sat opposite a very simple-looking computer set-up. Dillon, in black tee shirt and jeans, crouched beside him. Roper punched the keys.
'How's it looking?' Dillon asked.
'So far, so good. Don't worry, the great Roper is never wrong.' There was the sound of a car slowing outside and he raised a hand. 'Wait.'
Blake looked out from under the awning, the rain pitiless. The police patrol car slowed, the driver leaned out.
'What a bloody way to make a living at this time in the morning.'
'You, too,' Blake told him, putting on his best British accent.
The policeman smiled and drove away.
Dillon said, 'Let's do it.'
'Fine. As I told you, I can screw the entire security system, but only for fifteen minutes, so you'll need to be fast.'
'Hell, I've been all over those ground plans you showed me. I know where I'm going.'
'You better had. I'm starting now, so count to ten and get down to that basement door.'
Various lights flickered on the screen, reds and greens, there came a faint sound, and then Dillon was out of there, past Blake and down to the basement, pulling up his hood.
He had a small flashlight, but really didn't need it, for there were subdued security lights everywhere. He had no worries about cameras. As Roper had told him, they were frozen, too.
Remembering the ground plans from the computer screen, he went up the steps fast, passed through the kitchens, and emerged by the entrance to the restaurant. He could see into the glass office by the main door. The security guard was fiddling with the TV, which had gone off.
Dillon slipped through the shadows into the main gambling room and round the right table. There was a tray of dice on the table, all very neat, but he left them alone, and instead dropped to one knee by the right-hand side of the table, where the dealer stood. There was a stack of dice there.
He took six, no more, and put them into his pocket, turned, and went out fast.
The security guard was still arguing with the TV. Dillon slipped through the shadow, went down the steps, and speeded into the basement, closing the door behind him. He stepped past Blake, gave him a thumbs-up, and went into the van. He took the six dice from his pocket and put them on the bench in front of Roper.
'There you go.'
'Thirteen minutes,' Roper said. 'You did well.' He tapped the keys and sat back. 'Everything normal again.' 'Now what?'
'We clear up and get out of here.'
Dillon removed his hood and went out to Blake. 'It worked. I got what he wanted, so let's get moving. I'll help you.' 'Okay,' Blake said.
Dillon collapsed the screens and awning and put them into the truck, while Blake replaced the manhole cover. A few moments later, they drove away, Dillon at the wheel.
At Roper's place in Regency Square, they sat and watched him at the bench examining the dice with an eyeglass.
'Will it be okay?' Blake asked.
'Of course it will, old boy. Being a perfectionist, however, I prefer solitude when engaged in sensitive work, so be good and dear off. You won't be able to use these things until tomorrow night anyway, so I've got all the time in the world.'
Dillon nodded to Blake and they stood up. 'We'll check in tomorrow, then.'
'You do that,' Roper said, ignoring them completely as he picked up a tiny electric drill of the kind used by jewellers.
The following morning at eight, Dillon's phone rang, and Ferguson said, 'As I've had no intimations of disaster, you must have pulled it off last night.'
'Absolutely. We're in Roper's hands now.'
'What are you and Blake up to?'
'We're going to the King's Head for a full En
glish breakfast.'
'I can't wait to join you.'
Which he did half an hour later, accompanied by Hannah Bernstein. They all ordered, and Ferguson said, 'You haven't checked with Roper yet?'
'Give him a chance, sir,' Hannah said, as the waiter arrived with the breakfasts on a large tray.
Dillon said, 'Pass your bacon to me, Hannah. I wouldn't want to put your fine Jewish principles under siege.' 'You're so kind, Dillon.'
And then the door opened with a bang and Roper surged in. 'Smells great.' He turned to the waiter. 'The same for me.'
'I must say, you look astonishingly well,' Ferguson said.
'You mean for a cripple who hasn't been to bed all night?' Roper asked, and took the six dice from his pocket and rolled them on the table. They all came up ones. 'Snake eyes.' He turned to Blake. 'Isn't that what you call them in Vegas?'
'It sure as hell is.'
'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.
6
'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 su
bstituted 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.
