On Dangerous Ground (24 page)

“Marvelous,” Dillon said. “I’m immortalized for posterity.”

“Don’t be silly.” Bellamy swabbed the line of stitches, then put a length of plaster along them. “I put you together again and then you go off and try to commit suicide.”

Dillon swung his legs to the floor, stood and reached for his jacket. “I’m fine now. You’re a bloody medical genius, so you are.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, just pay your bill and if you feel like telling me the secret of your remarkable recovery sometime, I’d love to know.”

They went out into the corridor where Hannah Bernstein waited. “Six stitches, Chief Inspector, that’ll spoil his beauty.”

“You think that would bother this one?” Dillon asked.

Hannah pulled down the collar of his jacket, which was standing up. “He drinks whiskey of the Irish variety and smokes far too many cigarettes, Professor, what am I to do with him?”

“She didn’t tell you I also play cards,” Dillon said.

Bellamy laughed out loud. “Go on, get out of here, you rogue, I have work to do,” and he walked away.

The night duty clerk at the Information Centre at the Ministry of Defence usually had little to do. She was a widow called Tina Gaunt, a motherly-looking lady of fifty whose husband, an army sergeant, had died in the Gulf War. She was rather sweet on Dillon, had seen his confidential report, and while horrified at his IRA background had also been secretly rather thrilled.

“Second World War RAF records and the National Service period after the war are still available in the Hurlingham Cellars, as we call them, but they’re out in Sussex. We do have a microfiche availability on the computer, of course, but it’s usually more of an outline than anything else. I may not be able to help.”

“Sure and I can’t believe that of a darling woman like yourself,” Dillon told her.

“Isn’t he terrible, Chief Inspector?” Tina Gaunt said.

“The worst man in the world,” Hannah told her. “Let’s start with this service record. Wing Commander Keith Smith.”

“Right, here goes.” Her fingers went to work nimbly on the keys and she watched the screen, then paused, frowning. “Wing Commander Smith, D.S.O., D.F.C. and Bar, Legion of Honour. My goodness, a real ace.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. My father was a Lancaster bomber pilot during the war. It’s always been a bit of a hobby of mine, all those Battle of Britain pilots, the great aces, but I’ve never heard of this one.”

“Isn’t that strange?” Hannah said.

Tina Gaunt tried again. She sat back a moment later. “Even stranger, there’s a security block. Just his rank and his decoration, but no service record.”

Hannah glanced at Dillon. “What do you think?”

“You’re the copper, do something about it.”

She sighed. “All right, I’ll telephone the Brigadier,” and she went out.

Tina Gaunt stood with the phone to her ear and nodded. “All right, Brigadier, I’ll do it, but you see my back’s covered.” She put the phone down. “The Brigadier’s assured me that he’ll have a grade-one warrant on my desk signed by the Secretary of State for Defence tomorrow. Under the circumstances, I’ve agreed to cut corners.”

“Fine,” Dillon said, “let’s get moving then.”

She started on the keyboard again and once again sat back frowning. “I’m now cross-referenced to SOE.”

“SOE? What’s that?” Hannah demanded.

“Special Operations Executive,” Dillon told her. “Set up by British Intelligence on Churchill’s orders to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.”

“Set Europe ablaze, that’s what he said,” Tina Gaunt told them and tapped the keys again. “Ah, it’s all explained.”

“Tell us,” Dillon said.

“There was a squadron at Tempsford, one-three-eight Special Duties. It was known as the Moonlight Squadron, all highly secret. Even the pilots’ wives thought their husbands just flew transports.”

“And what did they do?” Hannah asked.

“Well they used to fly Halifax bombers painted black to France and drop agents by parachute. They also flew them in in Lysanders.”

“You mean landed and took off again in occupied territory?” Hannah said.

“Oh, yes, real heroes.”

“So now we know how Wing Commander Keith Smith won all those medals,” Dillon said. “When did he die?”

She checked her screen again. “There’s no date for that here. He was born in nineteen-twenty. Entered the RAF in nineteen thirty-eight aged eighteen. Retired as an Air Marshal in nineteen seventy-two. Knighted.”

“Jesus,” Dillon said. “Have you an address for him?”

She tried again and sat back. “No home address and, as I said, the information on the fiche is limited. If you wanted more, you’d have to try the Hurlingham Cellars tomorrow.”

“Damn,” Dillon said. “More time to waste.” He smiled. “Never mind, you’ve done well, my love, God bless you.”

He turned to the door and Hannah said, “I’ve had a thought, Tina, do you know about this place they had in East Grinstead during the war for burns patients?”

“But they still do, Chief Inspector, the Queen Victoria Hospital. Some of their wartime patients go back every year for checkups and further treatment. Why?”

“Smith was a patient there. Burned hands.”

“Well I can certainly give you the number.” Tina checked the computer, then wrote a number on her notepad, tore it off, and passed it across.

“Bless you,” Hannah said and followed Dillon out.

In Ferguson’s office, it was quiet and she sat on the edge of his desk, the phone to her ear, and waited. Finally she got her answer.

“I see. Air Marshal Sir Keith Smith,” an anonymous voice said. “Yes, the Air Marshal was here for his annual check in June.”

“Good, and you have his home address?” Hannah started to write. “Many thanks.” She turned to Dillon.

“Hampstead Village, would you believe that?”

“Everything comes full circle.” Dillon glanced at his watch. “Nearly half-ten. We can’t bother the ould lad tonight. We’ll catch him in the morning. Let’s go and get a snack.”

They sat in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester drinking champagne and a waitress brought scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

“This is your idea of a snack?” Hannah said.

“What’s wrong with having the best if you can afford it? That thought used to sustain me when I was being chased through side streets and the sewers of the Bogside in Belfast by British Paratroopers.”

“Don’t start all that again, Dillon, I don’t want to know.” She ate some of her smoked salmon. “How do you think we’ll fare with the good Air Marshal?”

“I would imagine rather well. Anyone who could win all those medals and rise to the rank he did has got to be hot stuff. My bet is he’s never forgotten a thing.”

“Well, we’ll find out in the morning.” The waitress brought coffee and Hannah took out her notebook. “You’d better give me a list of the diving equipment you’re going to need and I’ll get them started on it at the office first thing.”

“All right, here goes. The suppliers will know what everything is. A mask, nylon diving suit, medium, with a hood because it’ll be cold. Gloves, fins, four weight belts with twelve pounds in the pockets, a regulator, buoyancy control device, and half a dozen empty air tanks.”

“Empty?” she said.

“Yes, we’re flying rather high. You’ll also get a portable Jackson Compressor, the electric type. I’ll fill the tanks using that and an Orca dive computer.”

“Anything else?”

“Three hundred feet of nylon rope, snap links, a couple of underwater lamps, and a big knife. That should take care of it. Oh, and a couple of Sterling submachine guns, the silenced variety.” He smiled. “To repel boarders.”

She put the notebook in her handbag. “Good, can I go now? We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Of course.” They moved to the door and he paused to pay the bill. As they went out into the foyer, he said, “You wouldn’t consider stopping at Stable Mews on the way?”

“No, Dillon, what I’d really like to do is surprise my mother.”

Ferguson’s driver eased the Daimler into the curb, the Head Porter opening the door for her. “I think that’s marvelous,” Dillon said. “It shows such an affectionate nature.”

“Stuff you, Dillon,” she said and the Daimler drew away.

“Taxi, sir?” the porter asked.

“No, thanks, I’ll walk,” Dillon said and he lit a cigarette and strode away.

The house was in a quiet backwater not far from Hampstead Heath. It was just nine-thirty the following morning when Dillon and Hannah arrived in Ferguson’s Daimler. The chauffeur parked it in the street and they went in through a small gate in a high wall and walked through a small garden to the front door of a Victorian cottage. It was raining slightly.

“This is nice,” Hannah said as she rang the bell.

After a while it was opened by a middle-aged black woman. “Yes, what can I do for you?” she asked in a West Indian accent.

“We’re from the Ministry of Defence,” Hannah told her. “I know it’s early, but we’d very much like to see Sir Keith if that’s possible.”

“Not too early for him.” She smiled. “He’s been in the garden an hour already.”

“In this rain?” Dillon asked.

“Nothing keeps him out of that garden. Here, I’ll show you.” She took them along a flagged path and round the corner to the back garden. “Sir Keith, you’ve got visitors.”

She left them there and Hannah and Dillon walked to a small terrace with open French windows to the house. On the other side of the lawn they saw a small man in a rainproof anorak and an old Panama hat. He was pruning roses. He turned to look at them, his eyes sharp and blue in a tanned face that was still handsome.

He came forward. “Good morning, what can I do for you?”

Hannah got her ID out and showed it to him. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, assistant to Brigadier Charles Ferguson of the Ministry of Defence.”

“And my name is Dillon, Sean Dillon.” The Irishman held out his hand. “I work for the same department.”

“I see.” The Air Marshal nodded. “I’m familiar with Brigadier Ferguson’s work. I served on the three services joint security committee for five years after I retired. Am I to assume this is a security matter?”

“It is indeed, Sir Keith,” she said.

“But it goes back a long way,” Dillon told him. “To when you crashed a Lysander into Loch Dhu in the Scottish Highlands back in nineteen forty-six.”

The old man said in astonishment, “That
is
going back a bit. You’d better come inside and I’ll get Mary to make some tea and we can talk about it,” and he led the way in through the French windows.

“That was so long ago,” Sir Keith said. His housekeeper brought tea in on a tray. “That’s all right, Mary,” he told her. “We’ll manage.”

“I’ll pour, if I may,” Hannah said.

“Of course, my dear. Now what is it you want exactly?”

“You met a Major Ian Campbell at the East Grinstead burns unit,” Dillon said.

“I certainly did.” Sir Keith held up his hands. The skin was light and shiny and the middle finger was missing on the left one. “That was from a run-in with an ME262, that was the jet fighter the Germans did so well with at the end of things. February, nineteen forty-five. Blew me out of the sky over Northern France. I was in a Lysander you see, no contest.”

“Yes, we checked your records at the Ministry of Defence,” Dillon said. “Found out about your work for SOE. We had to pull strings for that. You’re still classified.”

“Am I, by God.” He took the cup of tea Hannah offered and laughed.

“We got onto you through Ian Campbell’s sister,” Hannah said. “Lady Katherine Rose.”

“Good Lord, is she still alive? Was an ATA pilot in the war. Wonderful woman.”

“Yes, she still lives up there on the Loch Dhu estate,” Dillon said. “It was she who told us about you coming down in the loch in a Lysander.”

“That’s right, March of forty-six, I was on my way to a new command at Stornaway, tried to land in damn bad weather at Ardmurchan and lost my engine on the approach. I was lucky to get out. The plane sank almost at once.” He spooned sugar into his tea. “But why are you interested in that?”

“Do you remember calling in at East Grinstead and finding Ian Campbell on the point of death?” Hannah asked.

“That’s right, though I heard he recovered later.”

“You told his batman you were flying to Stornaway and offered to take his Laird’s belongings and drop in at Ardmurchan.”

“That’s right, two suitcases, that was the reason I was going to land there anyway.” He looked slightly bewildered. “But what’s that got to do with it?”

“There was something of vital importance in one of those suitcases,” she said. “Something of national importance.”

“Good heavens, what on earth could it be?”

She hesitated. “Well actually, Sir Keith, the matter is classified. We’re acting on the Prime Minister’s instructions.”

“Well you would be if Ferguson’s involved.”

Dillon turned to her. “Jesus, girl, he was decorated from here to Christmas, knighted by the Queen, and ended up an Air Marshal. If he can’t keep a secret, who can?”

“Yes, you’re right,” she said. “Of course you are.” She turned back to Sir Keith. “Strictly in confidence.”

“My word on it.”

So she told him about the Chungking Covenant, everything.

Sir Keith searched in the bottom drawer of a bureau, found an old cardboard file and a folded map which he brought across to the dining table.

“The file is a copy of the original accident report. There had to be a hearing, always is, but I was completely exonerated.” He held up his hands. “The state of these never stopped me flying.”

“And the map?” Dillon asked.

“See for yourself, Ordnance Survey map of the area. Large scale as you can see.” He unfolded it. There was Loch Dhu, the castle, and Ardmurchan Lodge. “I was meticulous in noting my exact position when the Lysander went down. See the red line from the little jetty at Ardmurchan Lodge? That’s where I landed.”

Dillon ran a finger along the line. “That seems clear enough.”