Midnight Runner (31 page)

F
erguson and Hannah were already in the reception area at Rosedene, talking to Martha, when he went in.

"How's he doing?" Dillon asked.

"Not too well. There was an infection of some sort, which hasn't helped."

"I saw him this morning," Hannah said. "He was talking about going home."

"Does he know what happened at the Bacu?" Dillon asked.

"Not yet. The General didn't tell me about it until he phoned to say what time you'd be arriving. I knew you'd be seeing the Senator, so I thought I'd leave it to you."

"All right," Ferguson said. "Let's go in."

Quinn was sitting up, still wearing the sling and reading a book. "You're back." He laid the book down. "What happened? Good news, I hope?"

"Good news and bad," Dillon said, and told him.

Afterwards, Quinn said, "I'm really sorry about Billy. But you guys sure got the job done: Kate Rashid must be livid."

"I imagine so. We put a major spoke in her grand scheme. What about you? How are you feeling?" Dillon asked.

"You mean my health or my head?"

"Both," Ferguson put in.

"Bellamy's a fine surgeon. I'll heal eventually, so I'm not worried about that. But I've been thinking a lot while I've been lying here and I've come to a decision. I'm not up to the hard stuff anymore."

"What about 'vengeance is mine, saith the Lord'?" Dillon said.

Quinn shook his head. "I spent a lot of time working it through. I decided that Helen was worth more than that. And so is her memory."

It was Hannah who said gently, "And Kate Rashid and Rupert Dauncey?"

"Oh, they'll get theirs. From the sound of it, they've already started to. It's a downward slope for them now--they'll destroy themselves. Just as I almost destroyed myself. It's a powerful drug, revenge--and just as deadly."

"I'm glad to hear it, for your sake," Ferguson told him. "Try and get some rest now."

"Just one more thing. I wouldn't like to think any of my friends thought they were doing me a favor by taking things further."

He looked directly at Dillon, who said, "Now do I look like that kind of fella? On the other hand, Kate Rashid did shoot Billy in the back seven times. If his bulletproof waistcoat hadn't stopped four rounds, he'd be a corpse now."

"So you're the one talking vengeance?"

"No, I'm the one under suspended sentence of death, together with the General and Harry Salter. You could say I'm concerned to know whether I should wear my titanium waistcoat at all times. Goodnight, Senator."

Ferguson and Hannah followed him out. She said, "Sean, you're not going to do anything silly?"

"Did you ever know me to? Go on, be off with you, the two of you."

"I'll see you at my office at nine in the morning. Meanwhile, no funny business, and that's an order," Ferguson said, and he and Hannah left.

They went down the steps to the Daimler. Ferguson said, "Why does Dillon do it? It's as if he's looking for death."

"No, sir, that's not it. In fact, he doesn't care whether he lives or dies anymore."

"God help him, then."

Dillon stood on the top step and watched them go. The Telecom van was across the street. He went down the steps to his Mini Cooper, got behind the wheel, and drove away quickly.

Newton was in the passenger seat, as Cook drove. He took a sawed-off shotgun from under the seat, opened it to check the cartridges, and snapped it shut.

"When do we hit him?" Cook asked.

"He's got to go home sooner or later. We'll try him getting out of the car." He patted the shotgun. "He may be hot stuff, but not with one of these pointing between his eyes. That's what separates the men from the boys."

Not far from Stable Mews and on the other side of the square was Dillon's local pub, the Black Horse. There were many vehicles parked there at that time of night. Dillon turned in, parked at the end of a line of cars, and went into the saloon bar. He didn't order a drink, simply stood at the window and looked out to see the Telecom van reversing into a parking space.

He left the saloon bar, went into the lounge, which was crowded with people, and let himself out of a side door. He moved down the line of parked cars, bending low, and reached the rear of the van. Newton was smoking and had the window down. Cook said, "Maybe one of us should go in and see what he's up to?"

"Don't be stupid. He'd recognize us, and what he's up to is having a drink."

"Alas, no." Dillon took out his Walther and touched Newton on the side of the skull. "What he's up to is considering whether to blow your brains out, and this is a silenced weapon. You'd sit here, the both of you, for quite a long time before anyone realized you'd shuffled off this mortal coil. That's poetry, by the way, but then, I'm Irish."

"What do you want?" Newton's voice was harsh.

"That, for a starter." Dillon reached inside and took the shotgun, which he placed on the roof. "Now yours," he told Cook. "You must have something." Cook hesitated, then took a Smith & Wesson .38 from an inside pocket and offered it butt first. "Strange how people are always giving me guns," Dillon said.

"Can we go now?" Newton asked.

"Not until you tell me what Dauncey intended. What was going to happen to me? A bullet in the head and into the Thames?"

"No, it wasn't like that."

Dillon yanked open the door and put the muzzle of the Walther against Newton's knee. "As I said, this is silenced, so no one will hear a thing while I kneecap you. As you may know, I was IRA for years, so putting you on sticks doesn't give me a problem."

"No, not that. I'll tell you. Dauncey said the Countess wanted us to jump you, sling you in the back of the van, and drive you down to Dauncey Place. He was very specific. She wanted you in one piece."

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Dillon shut the door and stood back. "If you two were SAS, then God help the country. I'd say you need a different line of work." He fired into the front offside tire, which collapsed at once. "I'll just make it the one. Changing it will give you something to do. Please give Dauncey my best. Tell him I'll see him soon."

He picked the shotgun and the revolver off the roof, went to the Mini Cooper, and drove away. Newton got out. "All right, let's change the bloody tire."

"What about Dauncey?"

"He can go fuck himself. But I'll call him anyway. I'd like to think he can sort that bastard out if he visits them."

"Then what do we do?"

"You heard the man. Find a different line of work."

Dillon parked the Mini Cooper outside the cottage, went in and straight upstairs. He wasn't angry, but remarkably cool. It was no longer a question of letting it go, as Ferguson and the others had wanted, even Billy. He knew one thing with absolute certainty: Kate Rashid would never let it go, not where he was concerned.

But for the moment, he was bushed, the effects of the last few days rolling up on him, and that would never do. He needed to be at his best. He punched the security system on by the front door, went up to his bedroom, and undressed. He put the silenced Walther on the small table beside the bed, got in, and left the lights on. In spite of that, he immediately plunged into a profound sleep.

A while later, he came awake with a start, checked his watch, and found that it was half past three. He felt fine, clear-headed, his brain sharp. He got up, pulled on his black cords, then put on the titanium waistcoat, the shirt over it, and finally the flying jacket. He found an old and favorite white scarf to finish things off, then went downstairs and opened the secret door again. He took out the Colt .25 and checked it. A lightweight weapon, but not with the hollow point cartridges with which it was loaded.

He replaced it in the ankle holster, pulled up his trouser leg, and strapped the holster in place just above the top of the left jump boot. He already had the silenced Walther under his left arm, and now he took out the other Walther and slipped it into his belt against the small of his back.

He went and found his silver cigarette case, filled it from a box, slipped it into his inside right pocket, and also found his old Zippo lighter. All this he had done calmly and meticulously. It was like preparing for war.

There was a mirror in the hall by the door. He took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and smiled at himself.

"Well, here we go again, me old son," he said, and left.

I
n the library at Dauncey Place, Kate Rashid sat by the great fireplace, a black Doberman called Carl on the floor beside her. A log fire burned on the hearth, and she was ablaze with jewelry and wearing her usual black jumpsuit. She and Rupert hadn't been to bed, had simply sat there waiting. The door opened, and Rupert came in with coffee things on a silver tray, which he placed on a table close to her.

"I don't think he's coming, sweetie."

"But your man Newton told you he was coming." She poured coffee into two cups.

"Not quite true. What he actually said was that Dillon had told him to tell me he'd see me soon. Why should that have meant tonight?"

"I know it is, because I know Dillon like no one else," she said serenely. "He'll be here."

"For what? Breakfast?"

He went to the sideboard and found a bottle of Remy Martin. "Do you want one?"

"I don't need it. Perhaps you do."

"Nasty, sweetie, nasty." He poured a large one, returned to the table, and put it in his coffee. "Your diamonds are amazing tonight. Why are you wearing them?"

"I wouldn't want to disappoint him," and there was that half-smile again, the glitter in the eyes.

My God, she really is mad. He swallowed the coffee and cognac down and glanced at his watch. "Almost six. He's certainly taking his time."

He went to the French windows, opened them, and peered out over the terrace and beyond the balustrade to the trees. It was still dark, but dawn was beginning to break and it was raining heavily.

"Bloody awful weather." He lit a cigarette and went back to the fireside.

D
illon reached the outskirts of the village after just over a two-hour drive, passed the massive gates to Dauncey Place, and turned into the parking area at the church a quarter of a mile down the road. There were a dozen or so vehicles there already, probably owned by villagers from the cottages on either side of the narrow road. He took an old Burberry trench coat from the trunk of the Mini and a cloth cap, put them on, and set off through the rain.

He had no fixed plans. Something was in motion and he was just going with the flow. He thought back to the Heidegger quote again. For authentic living, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Was that what it had always been about? A mad game, constantly seeking death? Any half-baked psychiatrist could have told him that. He turned in through the gates and started up the drive through the heavy rain. The darkness was lightening perceptibly, and halfway along the drive he saw something a hundred yards to his right beyond some beech trees that surprised him. He hesitated, then went to explore. It was Kate Rashid's Black Eagle, which he'd seen at the Dauncey Aero Club.

"Now there's a thing," he said softly, turned, went back to the drive, and continued toward the house. He saw the light in the library at once and turned off the drive and worked his way through the trees, staying in their cover when he reached the edge of the lawn.

He saw Rupert open the French windows and stand there for a few moments and then turned back into the room. Dillon let him go and then started across.

I
n the library, Carl whined, then growled deeply. "Seek, boy, seek him out," Kate Rashid said, and the dog vanished through the French windows. She turned to Rupert. "You know what to do."

He produced a Walther, moved to one side of the fireplace, and pulled back the heavy tapestry, revealing a door. When he opened it, there was a toilet inside. He stepped in, leaving the door slightly open, and dropped the tapestry.

The Doberman ran across the lawn, barking, and Dillon whistled, a strange and eerie sound, and the Doberman stopped dead. Dillon whistled again, all the loneliness in the world in it, and the Doberman whined and sidled up.

"See, you're just a pussycat at heart. You didn't know I had the gift, did you? Neither did your mistress. Be a good boy and we'll go and see her," and he started across the lawn, the dog following.

In the library, Rupert called softly, through the tapestry, his voice muffled, "What in the hell's happened to Carl?"

"I don't know," she replied.

Dillon moved in through the French windows, the Doberman at his side. "God bless all here. Jesus, it's a wet one." He took off the Burberry and rain hat. "What's his name?"

"Carl," she said calmly.

"Don't blame him, Kate, I have a way with dogs, have had since childhood. Would there be a drink in the place?"

"On the sideboard. I can't guarantee Irish whiskey, though."

"Sure, and I'll find something." He helped himself to Scotch, and Carl went with him to the sideboard, sitting.

"Remarkable," she said. "Those things are supposed to be the fiercest guard dogs in the world."