On Dangerous Ground (26 page)

“What are you going to do?” Morgan demanded.

“Walk the dog. You can come too, Carl.”

“In this rain? You must be crazy. Don’t be too long,” he told her and turned back inside.

She put the umbrella up and moved down the steps of the terrace. “Come on, boy,” she called and the Doberman came out of the study in a flash and hurried across the lawn.

There was a small summer house and Dillon moved to stand to one side of it. The dog stopped dead and whined. Dillon gave that peculiar low whistle and the dog bounded to his side and licked his hand gently.

“Where are you, boy?” Asta said.

“Over here,” Dillon said softly.

“It’s you, Dillon.” She hurried forward and stood there, clutching the umbrella. “What are you up to this time?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to let you go without a word,” he said. “You are leaving in the morning, that’s right, isn’t it?” He pulled off his ski mask.

“Eight o’clock,” she said.

“Yes, that’s what Morgan told us at the airfield. So graceful in defeat he was. So bloody graceful that we didn’t believe a word of it. He’s coming back, isn’t he, Asta?”

She nodded. “He didn’t expect you to believe him, that’s what he told me. He said you’d expect him to return so the only thing to get right was the timing.”

“All right, tell me.”

“We leave at eight in the Citation. Carl said he would anticipate you making the dive the moment we’re on our way.”

“Then what?”

“You know how far Arisaig is?”

“About twenty miles.”

“Exactly. There’s another ex-RAF airstrip there like Ardmurchan. He and Marco took the estate car down there and came back in the Shogun. The Citation will land there after leaving Ardmurchan. We’ll come back by road in the estate car. The pilots will give it an hour, then fly back to Ardmurchan.”

“Where we’ll have been caught with our pants down?” Dillon said.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, well, we’ll have to see what we can come up with.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re managing, are you?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m managing just fine.”

“Good for you.” He pulled on the ski mask. “Keep the faith,” and he disappeared into the darkness.

Carl Morgan appeared on the terrace. “Are you there, Asta?”

“Yes, Carl, I’m coming,” she said and went across the lawn, the umbrella raised, her hand in the dog’s collar.

Kim was at the airstrip by eleven-thirty. He hadn’t taken the car in case he was seen and lay on the edge of a small copse with a pair of field glasses and observed the Citation in the hangar. He could see the two pilots walking around doing their checks, and after a while, the Shogun appeared. It stopped just outside the hangar and Morgan and Asta got out. The two pilots came forward, there was a brief conversation, and they got the luggage out. As Morgan and Asta went into the hangar, Marco drove the Shogun inside.

Kim waited. After a while the engines fired and the Citation moved out into the open and taxied to the end of the runway, turning into the wind. He watched it race to the end of the runway and lift into the gray sky, then got up and ran back to the lodge.

Dillon had his diving suit on and was already pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with four air tanks down to the little jetty, where Hannah and Ferguson waited in the whaler. It was raining unmercifully and yet in spite of it there was a cloud of mist ten or twelve feet high rolling across the water, reducing visibility considerably. Ferguson wore an anorak and a rain hat, Hannah was wearing an old raincoat and trilby she had found in the cloakroom. There was a smaller rowing boat, several inches of water swishing around inside it.

As Hannah got out of the whaler to meet him he said, “Pull that one out of the way.”

She did as he said, and as he started to pass the air tanks down to Ferguson there was the sound of the plane taking off. “There they go,” Ferguson said.

“Right,” Dillon told him. “I’ll make do with the four tanks. With any kind of luck I won’t need all of them. I’ll get the rest of my gear.”

He pushed the wheelbarrow back up to the lodge, loaded it with everything else including the two Sterlings. As he started back down to the jetty, Kim came out of the trees on the run. He caught up with Dillon just before he reached the whaler.

“You saw them go?” Ferguson demanded.

“Yes, Sahib, they arrived in the Shogun. I saw Morgan and the lady get out and go inside to the plane. The man, Marco, was there too. He drove the Shogun into the hangar. The plane came out and took off very quickly.”

“You mean they got on inside the hangar?” Dillon said.

“Yes, Sahib.”

Dillon frowned, pausing as he handed the rest of the gear down and Ferguson said, “You’re worried.”

“For some reason, yes.”

“I can’t see why. He himself told us he was going. We expected him to try and work a flanker on us and Asta told us exactly what he planned. And Kim did see them leave.”

“He saw the plane leave,” Dillon said. “But what the hell, let’s get moving.”

Kim jumped down into the whaler and Dillon passed everything down. Ferguson put the two Sterlings on the stern seat. “One thing is certain, dear boy, anyone who tried to take us on when we’ve got those things to repel boarders would have to be crazy.”

“Let’s hope so.” Dillon handed Hannah up. “Now you take care.”

She took a Walther from her pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“Well I do worry, that’s how I’ve lasted as long as I have.”

He dropped into the boat, went to the stern, and started the outboard motor. Hannah unfastened the line and tossed it into the boat. “Good luck,” she called as they eased away.

“Like I said, take care, the foolish one you can be on occasions, though lovable with it,” Dillon called and took the whaler round in a broad curve.

Hannah watched them go, then turned and walked back up to the lodge. She went in the front door, took off the raincoat and the old trilby hat. She was cold and her feet were damp. She shivered, and decided to make a cup of coffee and went into the kitchen. She started to fill the kettle at the sink. There was a slight eerie creaking behind her. The larder door swung open and Hector Munro stepped out, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

And her Walther was in the raincoat.
Ah God, Dillon, she thought, you’re right, I am a fool. She turned and darted to the open kitchen door, straight into Rory Munro. Like his father he carried a sawed-off and he held her easily in one arm.

His face looked terrible, raw and bruised, but he smiled for all that. “And where would you be going, darling?”

He pushed her gently back into the room where Hector sat on the edge of the table filling his pipe. “Now be a good lassie and you’ll come to no harm. There’s a nice dry cellar for you, we’ve already checked.”

“No windows to break out of, mind you,” Rory said, “and an oak door with double bolts that you’d need a fire axe to break through.”

“Aye,” Munro told her. “You’ll do well enough, not even a need to tie your wrists.”

“See how lucky you are?” Rory said.

She stepped away from him and went to the other side of the kitchen to face them. “You’re working for Morgan, aren’t you? But why?” She gestured to Rory. “Remember what happened in the boxing ring. Look at what that animal Marco did to your son’s face.”

“But Mr. Morgan wasn’t responsible for that, a bit of sport surely. My lad can take his knocks.” The old man put a match to his pipe. “And then there is the question of the ten thousand pounds we’re getting for helping him.”

“What does he intend to do?”

“Ah well, you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Hector Munro told her.

She took a deep breath. “I’m a police officer, did you know that?”

Rory laughed out loud and Munro said, “What bloody nonsense are you trying now, girl? Everybody knows you’re secretary to the Brigadier.”

“I can show you my ID, let me get it. I’m a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”

“Detective Chief Inspector?” Munro shook his head sadly. “Events have turned her wits, Rory.” He got up, walked to the cellar door and opened it. “Down with her.”

Rory shoved her through, the door closed, the bolts rammed home. She lost her balance and slipped several steps, banging a knee painfully. And then she remembered the one thing she should have said, the one thing that might have had an effect.

Fergus.

She went up the steps, found the switch and turned it on, and light came on down in the cellar. She hammered on the door with clenched fists.

“Let me out,” she called. “I’ve got something to tell you. He killed your son, he killed Fergus.”

But by that time there was no one there to answer her.

Hector Munro and his son walked down toward the jetty in the rain. They could hear the whaler’s outboard but couldn’t see the boat itself because of the mist. They went along the jetty and paused beside the rowing boat.

“Dammit, there’s nine inches of water in the bottom,” Rory said.

“And a bucket under the seat for you to bale her out with, so get on with it.” Hector took out an old silver watch on a chain and consulted it. “Not that we’re in a hurry. We’ve got thirty minutes to wait, by my reckoning.”

Rory had laid down the shotgun and got into the rowing boat, cursing as water slopped over his boots. He looked up into the rain. “By God, it’s to be hoped Fergus has a roof of some sort over his head wherever he is.”

“Never mind, he won’t need to keep out of the way much longer, they’ll all be away out of it,” Hector Munro told him. “Now get on with it, boy.”

Rory picked up the bucket and started to bale.

Ferguson took over the tiller while Dillon consulted the map. After a while the Irishman said, “It’s got to be about here.” He turned and could just see the chimneys of the lodge above the mist, the wood behind. “Yes, that’s the line according to Sir Keith’s notation on this map. Kill the engine.” They almost stopped, drifting slowly, and he turned to Kim to find the Ghurka already putting the anchor over.

Dillon had cut the great coil of nylon rope into two lengths of one hundred feet with snap links on the ends. He tied a weight belt to each of them and turned to Kim, who was securing them round the center seat.

“Over we go,” Dillon said and the Ghurka slipped them over.

Dillon pulled up the cowl of his diving suit, strapped the knife in its orange sheath to his leg. Then he assembled his equipment, clamping a tank to his inflatable. The Orca computer went out on the line of his air pressure gauge, then Kim helped him into the jacket, taking the weight of the tank until Dillon had strapped the Velcro wrappers across his chest. He fastened the weight belt around his waist, then pulled on his gloves. He sat down to get his fins on. It was all very awkward because of the size and shape of the boat, but that couldn’t be helped. He got one of the lamps and looped it around his left wrist. He spat in his mask, leaned over and swilled it in the water, and pulled it on. Then he sat on the thwart, checked that the air was flowing freely through his mouth piece, waved at Ferguson, and went over backwards.

He swam under the keel of the boat until he found the anchor line, which, adopting the usual procedure, he followed down, pausing a couple of times to equalize the pressure in his ears by swallowing hard. To his surprise, the water was quite clear, dark, but rather like black glass.

He went feet first, hauling himself down the anchor line, aware of the other two lines they had put down close at hand. He checked his Orca computer. Forty, then suddenly sixty, seventy, seventy-five. It was darker there and he switched on the powerful lamp and there was the bottom.

It wasn’t as he had expected, nothing like the silt he had looked for. Instead, large patches of sand in between a kind of seagrass, great fronds waving to and fro in the current at least six feet in length.

He hovered, checking the computer to see how long he had, then moved away from the anchor line, the beam of the halogen light splayed out in front of him, and there it was, a dark shadow at first, tilted up on its nose, tail high.

The Bristol Perseus engine was quite visible due to fuselage corrosion and the triple propeller was still there. The canopy had been pushed back, obviously when Sir Keith had got out fast after hitting the surface of the loch. There was a corrugated metal ladder leading up to the passenger section and beside it, the outline of RAF roundels.

Dillon went into the pilot’s section headfirst. It was all still intact in a kind of skeleton form, the instrument panel, the control column. He turned and pressed into the passenger section. There were two seats, only the tubular construction remaining, leather and cloth long since rotted away.

The suitcases were there, as for some strange reason he had always known they would be. One was metal, the other two leather, and when he touched one of those, it started to crumble. He ran his hand across the metal one and the faint etching of a name appeared. There were three words. The first two were hopelessly faded, but when he rubbed with his gloved hand, the lamp held close, the name Campbell was plain.

He backed out, pulling the metal case out first, depositing it on the sand beside the Lysander, then he went back for the other two. The first one stayed reasonably intact, but the second seemed to come apart in his hand. When it burst open, he caught a brief glimpse of decaying clothes, some corroded toilet articles, what was left of an RAF sidecap, and the remnants of a tunic with RAF pilot’s wings above medal ribbons. Keith Smith’s case obviously. Dillon scrabbled in the detritus and came up with a blackened silver cigarette case. Something to take back to the old boy at least. He stuffed it into one of the pockets in his inflatable, then swam back to where the two down lines from the whaler dangled to the bottom. He fastened the case to one of the line’s snap links, then returned to the metal case, brought it back with him, and fastened it to the end of the other line.

He paused, making sure that everything was in order, then started up, one foot a second.