On dangerous ground sd-3

by Jack Higgins

  "Yes," Dillon said, "so I understand."

  "Is the Brigadier retired or in business or what?"

  "Oh, he was in the army for years, but now he's a consultant to a number of businesses worldwide."

  "And you?"

  "I help out. A sort of middleman, you might say. I've got this thing for languages, so he finds me useful."

  "I'm sure he does."

  Murdoch changed down and swung in through gates following a narrow drive to the house beyond, lights at the window. He braked to a halt. "Ardmurchan Lodge."

  It was raining again, rattling against the windscreen. Morgan said, "It does that a lot, six days out of seven, driving in from the Atlantic."

  "Just think," Asta said, "we could be in Barbados."

  "Oh, it has its points, I'm sure," Dillon said.

  She took his hand. "I hope to get a chance to thank you properly. Perhaps tomorrow?"

  Morgan said, "Plenty of time for that, I'll fix something up. You both need a chance to settle in."

  As Dillon got out, Morgan followed him. "I'll see you to the door."

  At that moment it opened and Ferguson appeared. "Good God, Sean, is that you? We got your message at Arisaig, but I was beginning to get worried. What happened?"

  "A long story, I'll tell you later. Can I introduce our neighbor, Carl Morgan?"

  "What a pleasure." Ferguson took Morgan's hand. "Your reputation precedes you. Will you have a drink before you go?"

  "No, I must get my daughter home," Morgan said. "Another time."

  "I believe we'll be sharing the shooting," Ferguson said genially.

  "Yes, they didn't tell me that when I took the lease," Morgan told him.

  "Dear me, I trust there won't be a problem."

  "Oh, I don't see why there should be as long as we're not shooting from opposite sides." Morgan smiled. "Good night." He got back in the Shogun and it drove away.

  "He knows," Dillon said.

  "Of course he does," Ferguson told him. "Now come in out of this appalling rain and tell me what you've been up to."

  When the Shogun arrived at Loch Dhu Castle, Morgan helped Asta out and said to Murdoch, "You come too, we need to talk."

  "Very well, Mr. Morgan."

  The great iron-banded oak door was opened by Marco Russo wearing a black alpaca jacket and striped trousers. "My God, Marco," Asta said. "I can't believe it, a butler now?"

  She was probably the only human being he ever smiled for, and he did now. "A short engagement only, Miss Asta."

  "Tell the maid to run a bath," Morgan said and turned to Murdoch. "You wait in the study."

  He took Asta through the magnificent baronial hall and placed her in the great oak chair beside the log fire that crackled in the open hearth.

  "Right," he said, "Dillon. He followed you over the mountain. Why?"

  "He told you."

  "That's a load of tripe."

  "Well, he knew who I was and where I was going, but not because of my luggage labels."

  "Explain."

  Which she did-the Brazilian Embassy Ball, the write-up in the Daily Mail's social column, everything.

  "I might have known," Morgan said when she finished.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "As soon as I heard about the new tenant at Ardmurchan Lodge I had him checked. Brigadier Charles Ferguson, Asta, is head of a very elite section of British Intelligence, usually involved with anti-terrorism and responsible to the Prime Minister only."

  "But I don't understand."

  "They know," he said. "The Chungking Covenant."

  "My God!" she said. "And Dillon works for him?" She nodded. "It makes sense now."

  "What does?"

  "Well, I told you Dillon saved me from that beast Hamish Hunt at the ball. What I didn't tell you was that Hunt grabbed me in Park Lane afterwards. He was terribly drunk, Carl, and pretty foul."

  His face was pale again. "And?"

  "Dillon appeared and beat him up. I've never seen anything like it. He was so economical."

  "He would be, a real pro. I thought so." Morgan smiled. "So I owe him not once, but twice." He helped her up. "Off you go and get your bath, we'll have some supper later." As he walked away, he called, "Marco?"

  The Sicilian appeared from the shadows. "Signore?"

  "Listen to this." Very quickly Morgan gave him a resume of events in Italian.

  When he was finished, Marco said, "He sounds hot stuff, this Dillon."

  "Get on to London now. I want answers and they've only got an hour, make that clear."

  "As you say, Signore."

  He walked away and Morgan went and opened the study door. It was a pleasant room, lined with books, French windows to a terrace, and as in the hall, a fire burned on the hearth. Murdoch was standing staring down into it and smoking a cigarette.

  Morgan sat at the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a check book. "Over here."

  "Yes, Mr. Morgan." Murdoch crossed the room and Morgan wrote a check and handed it to him. The factor looked at it in astonishment. "Twenty-five thousand pounds. But what's this for, Mr. Morgan?"

  "Loyalty, Murdoch, I like greedy people and I've formed the opinion that that's what you are."

  Murdoch was stunned. "If you say so, sir."

  "Oh, but I do, and here's the good news, Murdoch. When I leave, you get the same amount, for services rendered, naturally."

  Murdoch had control of himself now, a slight smile on his face. "Of course, sir, anything you say."

  Morgan said, "For several hundred years the Lairds of Loch Dhu took a silver Bible into battle. It was always recovered, even when they died. It was with the old Laird when his plane crashed in India in nineteen forty-four. I've reason to believe it was returned to the castle, but where is it, Murdoch, that's the thing?"

  "Lady Katherine, sir…"

  "Knows nothing, hasn't seen it in years. It's here, Murdoch, tucked away somewhere, and we're going to find it. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Discuss it with the servants. Just tell them it's a valuable family heirloom and there's a reward for whoever finds it."

  "I will, sir."

  "You can go now." Murdoch had the door open when Morgan called, "And Murdoch?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Brigadier Ferguson and Dillon, they're not on our side."

  "I understand, sir."

  "Good and don't forget. I want to know where that bastard Fergus Munro is to be found, preferably tonight."

  "Yes, sir."

  "One more thing. Is there anyone on the estate staff who works at Ardmurchan Lodge?"

  "Ferguson has his own man, sir, this Ghurka body servant. There's Lady Katherine's gardener, Angus. He sees to the garden and the daily wood supply."

  "Can he be bought?"

  Murdoch nodded. "I'd say so."

  "Good. Eyes and ears is what I want. See to it, and find Fergus."

  "I will, sir." Murdoch went out, closing the door.

  Morgan sat there for a while, then noticed a library ladder. On impulse he got up, pushed it to one end of the shelves on one of the walls, and mounted. He climbed to the top and started to remove the books a few at a time, peering behind.

  EIGHT

  Dillon,having bathed and changed into a comfortable track suit, sprawled in front of the fire, Hannah Bernstein in the chair opposite. He had just finished his account of the day's events and Ferguson was pouring drinks at the cabinet in the corner.

  "Anything for you, Chief Inspector?"

  "No thank you, sir."

  "Well, the boy here could do with a brandy, I'm sure."

  "It was rather a long walk," Dillon said and accepted the glass. "What do you think?"

  "About Morgan? Oh, he knows, that was totally apparent from our little exchange."

  "So what will his next move be?" Hannah asked.

  "I'm not sure, we'll see what tomorrow brings." Ferguson sat down. "It's an interesting situation, by the way, the shooting rights and the fi
shing. Kim tells me he was fishing in Loch Dhu on the day before we arrived when some damn rascals who work for this Murdoch fellow as keepers turned up and suggested he leave and not too pleasantly."

  "Who are they?"

  "I've made inquiries. Tinkers-the last remnants of a broken clan. You know, a touch of all that Scottish romantic nonsense. They've wandered the Highlands since Culloden and all that sort of tosh. Old Hector Munro and his brood. I saw them in Ardmurchan Village yesterday and there's nothing romantic about them. Bunch of ragged, foul-smelling rogues. There's old Hector, Fergus…"

  "He'll be the one I had the run-in with."

  "Then there's the other brother, Rory, big, rough-looking lout, hair tied in a pony tail. I mean, why do they do that, Dillon? Earrings as well. After all, it's not the seventeenth century."

  Hannah burst out laughing and Dillon said, "They broke the mould with you, Brigadier. And you say they ran Kim off the place?"

  "Yes, I sent him round to the castle with a stiff letter of complaint to this Murdoch chap, the factor, told him I was considering laying a complaint with the Chief Constable of the county."

  "What happened?"

  "Murdoch was round like a shot, full of apologies. Said he'd keep them in line. Gave me some cock-and-bull story about arctic tern nesting near Loch Dhu and not wanting to disturb them. Apologized for the Munros. Said he'd kick their backsides and so on."

  Dillon went and helped himself to another brandy. He came back to the fire. "We're entitled to be here, to shoot deer in the forest, to fish in the loch?"

  "Of course we are," Ferguson said. "Mind you, Morgan doesn't like it, I mean, he made that clear on the doorstep, didn't he?"

  "Let's draw his teeth then. I'll put my head in the jaws of the tiger tomorrow. You've got all we need for the fishing?"

  "And the shooting."

  "Good, I'll try Loch Dhu in the morning, plenty of trout, I suppose?"

  "Masses, dear boy. Quarter-pounders-or occasional pounders."

  "Good, I'll take a rod down there after breakfast."

  Hannah said, "The Munros could prove unpleasant if they catch you, especially after your bout with Fergus. I was with the Brigadier when we saw them in Ardmurchan Village. They really are a fearsome-looking clan. I'd say they are the sort who don't take kindly to being beaten."

  "And neither do I." Dillon finished his drink. "I'll see you at breakfast," and he went up to bed.

  At the same moment, Asta was sitting opposite Morgan by the fire in the great hall at the castle when Marco came in, a piece of paper in his hand.

  "Fax from London, Signore."

  Morgan read it quickly, then laughed out loud. "Dear God, listen to this. The Bernstein woman is a Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch, at Scotland Yard, but it's Dillon who takes the biscuit. Sean Dillon, once an actor, RADA and the National Theatre, superb linguist, speaks many languages. First-class pilot, expert diver. Good God, he worked for the Israelis in Beirut."

  "But what was he doing there?"

  "Sinking PLO boats, apparently. Not choosy, our Mr. Dillon. He's worked for just about everyone you've ever heard of and that includes the KGB in the old days."

  "You mean he's some kind of mercenary?" Asta asked.

  "That's one way of putting it, but before that he was for some years with the Provisional IRA, one of their most feared enforcers. There's even a suggestion he was behind the attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War."

  "Then why would he be working for Ferguson?"

  "I suppose the Brits were the only people he hadn't worked for and you know how unscrupulous they are. They'd use anybody to suit their purposes."

  "A thoroughly dangerous man," Asta said. "How exciting."

  Morgan handed the fax to Marco. "Oh, we've handled thoroughly dangerous men before, haven't we, Marco."

  "Many times, Signore, will there be anything else?"

  "Yes, bring me some coffee and tell Murdoch I'll see him now."

  Asta got up. "I'm for bed. Can we ride tomorrow?"

  "Why not?" He took her hand. "Sleep well."

  She kissed him on the forehead and went away up the great staircase. Morgan reached for a cigar, clipped it and lit it, and Murdoch entered, his oilskin coat wet.

  "Well?" Morgan asked.

  "No luck, I'm afraid, that old bastard Hector Munro was immovable. He said Fergus had gone off on his evening rounds and they hadn't seen him since. He's lying, of course."

  "What did you do?"

  "Searched their stinking caravans, which he didn't like, but I insisted."

  "I want Fergus," Morgan said. "I want him where I can deal with him personally. He put his filthy hands on my daughter and no man does that and gets away with it. Try again tomorrow."

  "Yes, Mr. Morgan, good night, sir."

  Murdoch went out and Marco came in with the coffee. As he poured it, Morgan said in Italian, "What do you think of him?"

  "Murdoch? A piece of dung, Signore, no honor, only money counts there."

  "That's what I thought, keep an eye on him. You can go to bed now."

  Marco went out and Morgan sat there brooding, drinking his coffee and gazing into the fire.

  He was sitting in the study at the desk at eight the following morning working his way through various business papers when there was a knock at the door and Murdoch looked in.

  "I have Angus here, sir."

  "Bring him in."

  Angus entered, took off his tweed cap and rolled it between his hands. "Mr. Morgan, sir."

  Morgan looked him over. "You look like a practical man to me, would I be right?"

  "I hope so, sir."

  Morgan opened a drawer and took out a bundle of notes, which he tossed across. Angus picked it up. "Five hundred pounds. Anything unusual happens at Ardmurchan Lodge you phone Murdoch."

  "I will, sir." He was sweating slightly.

  "Have you been there this morning?"

  "To do the wood supply, sir."

  "And what's happening?"

  "Mr. Dillon was having an early breakfast before going for the fishing on Loch Dhu. He asked my advice."

  Morgan nodded. "Good. On your way."

  Angus left and Murdoch said, "If the Munros come across him, he could be in trouble."

  "Exactly what I was thinking." Morgan smiled and at that moment Asta came in wearing a hacking jacket and jodhpurs.

  "There you are," she told him. "You said we could go riding."

  "And why not?" He glanced at Murdoch. "Get the horses ready, you can come with us." He smiled. "We could have a look at the loch."

  The waters of Loch Dhu were darker than even the name suggested, still and calm in the gray morning and yet dappled by falling rain. Dillon wore waders, an old rainhat, and an Australian drover's waterproof with caped shoulders, both of which he had found at the lodge.

  He lit a cigarette and took his time over putting his rod together. Behind him the heather was waist deep, a line of trees above, and a plover lifted into the morning. A wind stirred the surface of the loch and suddenly a trout came out of the water beyond the sandbar, a good foot in the air, and disappeared again.

  Suddenly Dillon forgot everything, remembering only his uncle's sheep farm in County Down and the lessons he'd given his young nephew in the great art. He tied the fly Ferguson had recommended, apparently one of his own manufacture, and went to work.

  His first dozen casts were poor and inexpert, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked two quarter-pounders. The rain still fell relentlessly. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip, and cast out beyond the sandbar to where a black fin sliced through the water. His cast was the most accurate he'd ever made, the fly skimming the surface, the rod bent over and his line went taut.

  Two pounds if it was an ounce. His reel whined as the hooked trout made for deep water and he moved along the sandbank, playing it carefully. The line went slack and he thought he'd lost it, but the trout was only
resting and a moment later the line tightened again. He played it for a good ten minutes before turning to reach for his net. He lifted the floundering fish, removed the hook, and turned back to shore.

  A harsh voice said, "Well and good, me bucko, a fine dinner for us."

  The man who had spoken was old, at least seventy. He wore a tweed suit that had seen better days and white hair showed beneath his Glengarry bonnet. His face was weatherbeaten and wrinkled and covered with a heavy stubble and he had a shotgun crooked in his right arm.

  Behind him, two men stood up in the heather. One was large and rawboned with a perpetual smile, and that would be Rory, Dillon told himself. The other was Fergus, a livid bruise down one side of his face, his mouth swollen.

  "That's him, Da, that's the bastard who attacked me," and he raised his shotgun waist high.

  Rory knocked it to one side and it discharged into the ground. "Try not to play the fool as usual, little brother," he said in Gaelic.

  Dillon, an Irish speaker, had no difficulty in understanding, especially when Hector said, "He doesn't look much to me," and swung a punch.

  Dillon ducked, avoiding it, but his foot slipped and he fell into the shallows. He scrambled up and the old man raised his shotgun. "Not now, my brave wee man," he said in English. "You'll get your chance. Slow and easy. Walk on."

  As Dillon moved forward, Fergus said, "Wait till I've done with you," and swung the butt of his shotgun. Dillon avoided it easily and Fergus went down on one knee.

  Rory lifted him by the scruff of his neck. "Will you listen or must I kick your arse?" he demanded in Gaelic and pushed him ahead.

  "God help him but he never will learn that one," Dillon told him in Irish. "Some men stay children all their lives."

  Rory's mouth went slack with astonishment. "By God, Da, did you hear that, the strangest Gaelic I ever heard."

  "That's because it's Irish, the language of kings," Dillon said. "But close enough that we can understand each other," and he walked on ahead of them.

  There was smoke beyond the trees, the sound of children's voices, so they were not taking him to Morgan and he realized he had made something of a miscalculation. They moved down into a hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old with canvas tilts and patched many times, far removed from the romantic idea of a caravan. There was an air of poverty to everything from the shabby clothes worn by the women who squatted by the fire drinking tea to the bare feet of the children who played in the grass beside several bony horses.