On Dangerous Ground (27 page)

Ferguson and Kim, waiting in the heavy rain, suddenly became aware of the sound of an engine. Quickly Ferguson picked up one of the Sterlings, handed it to Kim, and reached for the other himself. He cocked it quickly.

“Don’t hesitate,” he said to Kim. “If it’s Morgan and the man, Marco, they’ll kill us without the slightest hesitation.”

“Have no fear, Sahib, I have killed many times as the Sahib well knows.”

A voice called high and clear, “Is that you, Brigadier? It’s Asta.”

Ferguson hesitated and said to Kim, “Stay ready.”

The Loch Dhu Castle boat, the
Katrina
, drifted out of the mist, Asta at the wheel in the deck house. She wore rubber boots, a white sweater, and jeans.

“It’s only me, Brigadier, can I come alongside?”

“What on earth’s going on?” Ferguson said. “Kim saw you leaving in the Citation.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “That was Carl and Marco. He told me to go back to the castle in the Shogun and wait for him. Did you see me go into the hangar, Kim?”

“Oh, yes, Memsahib.”

“It was Morgan and Marco who boarded the plane. I drove back in the Shogun afterwards.”

Kim turned to Ferguson and said awkwardly, “I am sorry, Brigadier Sahib, I left as the plane took off. I did not see the Memsahib drive away.”

“Never mind that now.” Ferguson put down the Sterling. “Take the line from the Memsahib and tie her boat alongside.”

She switched off the engine and came to the rail. “Is Dillon down there now?”

“Yes, dropped in about fifteen minutes ago.”

“How very convenient.” The door to the saloon opened and Carl Morgan emerged, a Browning Hi-Power in his hand and Marco behind him holding an Israeli Uzi submachine gun.

FOURTEEN

AT THAT PRECISE MOMENT DILLON BROKE THROUGH to the surface and floated there, looking up at them all. He raised his mask.

“Asta, what is this?”

“It means we’ve been had, I’m afraid,” Ferguson said.

Dillon looked straight up at her. “You’re on his side in spite of what he did to your mother?”

Morgan’s face turned dark with anger. “I’ll take pleasure in making you pay for that filthy lie. Asta told me all about it. I loved my wife, Dillon, more than anything in this life. She gave me the daughter I’d never had and you think I could have killed her?”

There was silence, only the sound of the rain hissing into the loch. Dillon said, “I’d say you’re well suited to each other.”

Morgan put an arm around her. “She did her work well telling you about my plan to fly to Arisaig, omitting the fact that we didn’t actually intend to get on the plane. I knew one of you would be waiting, probably that man of yours, Ferguson, so we just stayed in the hangar until he’d gone. I saw him running off through the trees through my field glasses. Then all that was needed was Asta to pilot the boat while Marco and I stayed below and the poor old Brigadier fell for it, Dillon. Strange how I always get my way, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ferguson said, “I must say you have excellent connections. Probably with the Devil.”

“But of course,” Morgan raised his voice. “Are you there, Munro?”

“On our way in,” Munro called and the rowboat appeared, Rory at the oars.

“What about the woman?”

“Locked her in the cellar.”

They bumped against the hull of the motor cruiser and climbed on board.

Morgan looked down at Dillon. “So here we are at the final end of things. Did you find the plane?”

Dillon just floated there, staring up at him, and Morgan said, “Don’t fuck with me, Dillon, if you do I’ll blow the Brigadier’s head off and that would be a pity because I’ve got plans for him.”

“Really?” Ferguson said.

“Yes, you’re going to love this. I’ll take you back to Palermo with me and then we’ll sell you to one of the more extreme Arab fundamentalist groups in Iran. You should fetch a rather high price. They’d love to get their hands on a British Intelligence officer as senior as you, and you know what those people are like, Ferguson, they’ll take the skin off you inch by inch. Before they’ve finished you’ll be singing like a bird.”

“What a vivid imagination you have,” Ferguson said.

Morgan nodded to Marco, who fired a burst from the Uzi into the water close to Dillon. “Now don’t mess with me, Dillon, or I swear the next burst takes your boss apart.”

“All right, I get the picture.” Dillon put in his mouthpiece, pulled down his mask, and let himself sink.

He didn’t bother with the anchor line, simply jackknifed halfway down and continued headfirst, reaching the bottom to the left of the Lysander above a forest of waving fronds. When he turned on his lamp, the first thing he saw was Fergus Munro on his back, a length of chain wrapped around his body. His face was swollen and bloated, the eyes staring, but he was completely recognizable. Dillon hovered, looking down at him, then pulled out his knife and cut the rope that held the chain. The body bounced from the bottom and he got a grip on Fergus’s jacket and towed the corpse back to the downlines.

He left it on the sandy bottom, untied the flimsier case and went and clipped it beside the metal case on the other line. Then he went back to the body, towed it across to the second downline and tied it on, winding the rope round the waist and fastening it with the snap link. Then he pulled on the line that secured the cases and started up.

Kim and Ferguson were still hauling the line in when Dillon surfaced. He floated beside the cases, untied the leather one, and passed it up to Kim. It was already falling apart and broke in the Ghurka’s hands, spilling a mass of rotting clothes onto the deck.

“That’s no bloody good,” Morgan said, leaning over the rail and looking down into the whaler. “The other one, Dillon, the other.”

Dillon pushed the metal suitcase against the hull and Ferguson and Kim reached over to get it. Dillon murmured, “If you get a chance to jump, I can give you air under the surface, but only one of you. In a minute I’ll be going down again and I want you to haul in the other line, Kim, it’s vital.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Ferguson whispered. “But I’ve never even liked swimming. What you suggest is a quite appalling prospect. Kim might feel differently.”

“Hurry it up!” Morgan called.

They got the suitcase over and into the bottom of the whaler. The metal was blackened and streaked with green seaweed.

“Get it open,” Morgan ordered.

Ferguson tried the clasps on the locks, but they were rigid. “Damn thing’s corroded, won’t budge.”

“Well try harder.”

Dillon pulled the knife from his leg sheath and handed it up to Kim, who forced it behind the two clasps in turn and ripped them off, then he worked the point of the knife under the edge of the lid and prised. Quite suddenly, the lid lifted. There were clothes inside, mildewed but in surprisingly good condition. There was a uniform tunic on top, still recognizable with Major’s crowns on the epaulettes.

“Come on, damn you!” Morgan was intensely excited as he leaned over the rail. “Empty it out!”

Kim turned the case over, spilling its contents into the bottom of the whaler, and found it at once, a booksize package wrapped in yellow oilskin.

“Open it, man, open it!” Morgan ordered.

It was Ferguson who unwrapped the oilskin, layer by layer, until he held in his hand the Bible, its silver blackened by the years.

“It would seem to be what we’ve all been looking for,” he said.

“Go on, get it open, see if it’s still there.”

Ferguson took the knife from Kim and ran its point along the inside of the front cover. The secret compartment flicked open, the folded document inside, immediately apparent. Ferguson unfolded it, read it, then he looked up, face calm.

“Yes, this would appear to be the fourth copy of the Chungking Covenant.”

“Give it to me,” and Morgan reached down. Ferguson hesitated and Marco raised the Uzi threateningly. “You can die now,” Morgan said. “It’s your choice.”

“Very well.” Ferguson passed up the document.

“Now get up here yourself,” Morgan told him and turned. “As for you, Dillon . . .”

But Dillon had gone, dropping under the surface. Marco fired a futile burst into the water and Kim ducked and kept hauling on the line and suddenly Fergus Munro’s body surfaced, a totally macabre sight.

“God help me, it’s Fergus!” Hector Munro called, leaning over the rail. Rory joined him, staring down into the water. “What happened to him, Da?”

“Ask your friend Morgan. He and his henchman here beat him to death,” Ferguson said.

“You bastards!” Hector Munro cried and he and Rory turned, their shotguns coming up too late as Marco raked both of them with a long burst from the Uzi, driving them over the rail into the water.

“Get out of it, Kim!” Ferguson cried and the Ghurka dived headfirst from the whaler into the dark water, pulling himself down with powerful strokes as Marco sprayed the water behind him.

There is a technique known as buddy breathing to any experienced diver by which, if there is no alternate source of air available, it is possible to share your air supply with a companion by passing the regulator back and forth between you.

Dillon, at twelve feet, reached up and caught Kim by the foot, pulled him close, took out his mouthpiece and passed it across. The hardy little warrior, a veteran of thirty years of campaigning, understood at once, took in a supply of air, then passed it back.

Dillon started to kick with his fins, making for the shore, pulling Kim along beside him and sharing the air supply as they went. After a while, he raised his thumb and started up, surfacing into a cocoon of mist, no sign of the boats at all. A moment later, Kim came up beside him, coughing.

Dillon said, “What happened after I dived?”

“When the body surfaced, the Munros went crazy. Marco shot both of them with the Uzi.”

“And the Brigadier?”

“Cried to me to jump, Sahib.”

Dillon could hear the motor cruiser moving away at high speed, but not across the loch in the direction of the castle.

“Where in the hell are they going?” he said.

“There is that old concrete jetty the RAF used just below the airstrip, Sahib,” Kim told him. “Perhaps they’re making for that.”

“And a quick departure,” Dillon said and at that moment there was a thunder of engines overhead as Morgan’s Citation made its approaches.

Dillon said, “Right, we can’t be far from the jetty, so let’s get moving,” and he made for the shore.

They landed ten minutes later. Dillon stripped off his equipment and ran toward the house, still wearing his diving suit, Kim jogging at his heels. The Irishman flung open the front door, ran into the study and opened the top drawer in the desk. There was a Browning in there. As he checked it, Kim came in.

“Sahib?”

“I’m going up to the airstrip. You get the Memsahib from the cellar and tell her what’s happened.”

He ran outside and cut across the back lawn. No point in taking the Range Rover, he’d be quicker on foot and the rubber and nylon diving socks he wore protected his feet. He ran into the wood, weaving in and out amongst the trees, aware that the engines of the Citation hadn’t stopped. As he emerged from the wood, he could see it taxiing to the end of the runway and turning into the wind. At the same moment, Morgan and Asta, Marco holding the Uzi against Ferguson’s back, came round the corner of the main hangar and started toward the Citation. Dillon stopped running and watched helplessly as they boarded. A moment later the Citation roared along the runway and lifted into the sky.

When Dillon arrived back at Ardmurchan Lodge and went in the door Hannah rushed to meet him. “What happened? I heard the plane taking off.”

“Exactly. Morgan had it all worked out. He didn’t even go back to the castle. Not a minute wasted. I arrived in time to see them boarding, he and Asta, Marco and the Brigadier. They took off straight away.”

“I’ve been onto headquarters. I’ve asked them to check the flight plan they filed.”

“Good. Get straight onto them again and order Lacey to get up here in the Lear like it was yesterday.”

“I’ve ordered that too, Dillon,” she said.

“Nothing like Scotland Yard training. I’m going to change.”

When he returned he was wearing black jeans, a white polo neck sweater, and his old black flying jacket. Hannah was in the sitting room at Ferguson’s desk, the telephone at her ear. Kim came in with a jug of coffee and two cups.

She put the phone down. “They were routed to Oslo.”

“That makes sense. He wanted to be out of our air space fast. Then what?”

“Refueling, then onwards to Palermo.”

“Well, that’s what he said his intended destination was. He’s taking the Covenant to Luca.”

“And the Brigadier?”

“Didn’t Kim tell you? He’s going to sell him to some Arab fanatics or other in Iran.”

“Can’t we stop him in Oslo?”

Dillon looked at his watch. “The rate that thing goes he’ll be just about landing. Can you imagine how long it would take to go through Foreign Office channels to the Norwegian Government? No chance, Hannah, he’s long gone.”

“Then that leaves the Italian Government, Palermo.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “The best joke I’ve heard in a long time. This is Don Giovanni Luca we’re talking about, the most powerful man in Sicily. He has judges killed to order.”

She was upset now and it showed, her face very pale. “We can’t let them get away with it, Dillon, Morgan and that conniving little bitch.”

“Yes, she was good, wasn’t she?” He smiled bleakly. “She certainly fooled me.”

“Oh, to hell with your damned male ego, it’s the Brigadier I’m thinking of.”

“And so am I, girl dear. You get back to headquarters and tell them you want to contact Major Paolo Gagini of the Italian Secret Intelligence Service in Palermo. He should be more than interested. After all, he’s the one who brought the story of the Covenant to Ferguson in the first place. He’s also the expert on Luca, according to the file you showed me. Let’s see what he can come up with.”