On dangerous ground

FIFTEEN

Thenight sky was clear to the horizon and alive with stars and in the light of the half moon the countryside below was perfectly visible. They were flying at two thousand feet along a deep valley, mountains rising on either side, and when Dillon looked out of one of the windows he could see the white line of a road winding along the valley bottom.

It was all very quick. Gagini climbed to two and a half thousand to negotiate a kind of hump at the end of the valley and beyond was a great sloping plateau and he started down.

Five minutes later he leveled off at eight hundred, turned and called over his shoulder, "Drop the Airstair door. It's any minute now and I don't want to have to go round again, it could alert them. Go when I tell you, and good luck, my friend."

Dillon moved back to the door, awkwardly because of the parachute. He rotated the handle, the door fell out into space, the steps unfolded. There was a roar of air and he held onto the fuselage buffeted by the wind and looked down, and way over on his left was the farmhouse looking just like the photo.

"Now!" Gagini cried.

Dillon took two steps down holding the handrail and then allowed himself to fall, headfirst, turning over once in the plane's slipstream, pulling the ring of the rip cord at the same moment. He looked up, saw the plane climbing steeply over on his left, the noise of the engine already fading.

In the dining room of the farmhouse they had just finished the first course of the dinner and Marco, acting as butler again, was clearing them away when they heard the plane.

"What in the hell is that?" Morgan demanded and he got up and moved out on the terrace, Marco behind him.

The noise of the plane was fading over to the right. Asta came out at that moment. "Are you worried about something?"

"The plane. It seemed so low that for a wild moment I thought it might intend to land."

"Dillon?" She shook her head. "Even he wouldn't be crazy enough to try that."

"No, of course not." He smiled and they went back inside. "Just a passing plane," he said to Luca and he turned to the Brigadier and shrugged. "No cavalry riding to the rescue this time."

"What a pity," Ferguson said.

"Yes, isn't it? We'll continue with the meal, shall we? I'll be back in a moment." He nodded to Marco and went out into the hall with him.

"What is it?" Marco demanded.

"I don't know. That plane made no attempt to land, but it was certainly low when it made its pass."

"Someone sniffing out the lay of the land perhaps," Marco suggested.

"Exactly, then if someone was approaching by road, they could let them know how the situation looked by radio."

Marco shook his head. "No one could get within twenty miles of here by road without us being informed, believe me."

"Yes, perhaps I'm being overcautious, but who have we got?"

"There's the caretaker, Guido. I put him on the gate, and the two shepherds, the Tognolis, Franco and Vito. They've both killed for the Society, they're good men."

"Get them out in the garden and you see to things. I just want to be sure." He laughed and put a hand on Marco's shoulder. "It's my Sicilian half talking."

He returned to the dining room and Marco went to the kitchen where he found Rosa, the caretaker's wife, busy at the stove and the Tognoli brothers seated at one end of the table eating stew.

"You can finish that later," he said. "Right now you get out into the garden just in case. Signore Morgan was unhappy about the plane that passed over."

"At your orders," Franco Togloni said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, and he unslung, from the back of his chair, his Lupara, the sawed-off shotgun that was the traditional weapon of the Mafia since time immemorial. "Come on," he told his brother. "We've got work to do," and they went out.

Marco picked up a glass of red wine that stood on the table. "You'll have to serve the food yourself, Rosa," he said, emptied the glass at a single swallow, then took a Beretta from his shoulder holster and checked it as he went out.

The silence was extraordinary. Dillon felt no particular exhilaration. It was a strange black-and-white world in the moonlight, rather like one of those dreams in which you dreamed you were flying and time seemed to stand still, and then suddenly the ground was rushing up at him and he hit with a thump and rolled over in long meadow grass.

He lay there for a moment to get his breath, then punched the quick release clip and stepped out of the parachute harness. The farmhouse was two hundred yards to the left beyond an olive grove on a slight rise. He started to run quite fast until he reached the grove, got down in the shelter of trees on the other side and found himself approximately seventy-five yards from the crumbling white wall of the farmhouse.

He focused the night glasses on the gate which stood open and saw Guido the caretaker at the gate straight away in cloth cap and shooting jacket, a shotgun over his shoulder, and yet he wasn't the problem. What was, was the large, old-fashioned bell hanging above the gate, rope dangling. One pull on that and the whole place would be roused.

There was a break on the ground to his right, a gully stretching toward the wall perhaps two feet deep. He crawled along it cautiously and finally reached the wall. The grass was long and overgrown at that point and he unslung the silenced Celeste machine pistol and moved cautiously along the wall, keeping to the grass, but it petered out when he was still twenty yards away.

Guido was smoking a cigarette, his back to Dillon, looking up at the stars, and Dillon stood up and moved quickly, out in the open now. When he was ten yards away, Guido turned, saw him at once, his mouth opening in dismay. He reached up for the bellrope and Dillon fired a short burst that lifted him off his feet, killing him instantly.

It was amazing how little noise the Celeste had made, but there was no time to lose. Dillon dragged Guido's body into the shelter of the wall and dashed through the gate. He immediately left the drive and moved into the shelter of the lush, overgrown semitropical garden. Here too the grass badly needed cutting. He moved cautiously through it between the olive trees toward the house. Quite suddenly, it started to rain, one of those sudden showers common to the region at that time of year and he crouched there, aware of the terrace, the open windows, and the sound of voices.

Marco, on his way down the drive, cursed as the rain started to fall, pulled up his collar, and continued to the gate. It was apparent at once that Guido wasn't there. Marco pulled out his Beretta, moved outside, and saw the body lying at the foot of the wall. He reached for the rope, rang the bell furiously for a few moments, then ran inside the gate.

"Someone's here," he called. "Watch yourselves," then he moved into the bushes, crouching. • • • In the dining room there was immediate upheaval. "What's happening?" Luca demanded.

"The alarm bell," Morgan said. "Something's up."

"Well, now, who would have thought it?" Ferguson said.

"You shut your mouth." Morgan went to a bureau, opened a drawer to reveal several handguns. He selected a Browning and handed Asta a Walther. "Just in case," he said and at that moment a shotgun blasted outside.

It was Vito Togloni who, panicking, made the mistake of calling to his brother, "Franco, where are you? What's happening?"

Dillon fired a long burst in the direction of the voice. Vito gave a strangled cry and pitched out of the bushes on his face.

Dillon crouched in the rain, waiting, and after a while heard a rustle in the bushes and Franco's voice low, "Hey, Vito, I'm here."

A second later, he moved out of the bushes and paused under an olive tree. Dillon didn't hesitate, driving him back against the tree with another burst from the Celeste. Franco fell, discharging his shotgun, and lay very still. Dillon moved forward, looking down at him, and behind there was the click of a hammer going back.

Marco said, "I've got you now, you bastard. Put that thing down and turn around." • • • Dillon laid the Celeste on the ground and turned calmly. "Ah, so it's you, Marco, my old son, I wondered where you'd be hiding."

"God knows how you got here, but that doesn't matter now. The only important thing is you're here and I get the pleasure of killing you myself."

He picked up Franco's shotgun with one hand and holstered the Beretta, then he called out, "It's Dillon, Signore Morgan, I've got him here."

"Have you now?" Dillon said.

"This is the Lupara, always used by Mafia for a ritual killing."

"Yes, I had heard that," Dillon said. "The only trouble is, old son, it's only double-barreled and it discharged when Franco went down."

There was one single second when Marco took in what he had said and realized it was true. He dropped the shotgun, his hand went inside his coat to the holstered Beretta.

Dillon said, "Goodbye, me old son." His hand found the silenced Walther in his waistband under the tunic at his back, it swung up and he fired twice, each bullet striking Marco in the heart and driving him back.

Dillon stood there looking down at him, then he replaced the Walther in his waistband, reached down and picked up the Celeste. He took a step forward, looking out through the bushes at the terrace, then fired a long burst, raking the wall beside the window.

"It's Dillon," he called. "I'm here, Morgan." • • • Morgan in the drawing room stood by the dining table, Luca on one side, Asta on the other holding the Walther in her hand.

"Dillon?" he called. "Can you hear me?"

Dillon called back. "Yes."

Morgan went round the table and got Ferguson by the collar. "On your feet," he said. "Or I'll kill you now."

He pushed the Brigadier around the table toward the open windows and the terrace. "Listen to me, Dillon, I've got your boss here. I'll blow his brains all over the room unless you do as I say. After all, he's what you've come for."

There was a marked silence, only the rain falling, and then incredibly Dillon appeared, coming up the steps to the terrace, the Celeste in his hands. He reached the terrace himself and stood there, the rain beating down.

"Now what?" he said.

Morgan, the muzzle of his Browning against Ferguson's temple, pulled him back, step-by-step, until he stood at the end of the table, Luca still sitting on one side of him, Asta on the other, her right hand clutching the Walther against her thigh.

Dillon moved into the entrance, a supremely menacing figure in the camouflaged uniform, his hair plastered to his skull. He spoke in Irish and then smiled.

"That means God bless all here."

Morgan said, "Don't make the wrong move."

"Now why would I?" Dillon moved to one side of the table and nodded to Asta. "Is that a gun in your hand, girl? I hope you know how to use it."

"I know," she said and her eyes were like dark holes, her face very pale.

"Then move to one side." She hesitated and he said, his voice harsh, "Do it, Asta."

She stepped back and Morgan said, "Don't worry. If he fires that thing he takes all of us and that includes the Brigadier, isn't that so, Dillon?"

"True," Dillon said. "I presume the overweight gentleman is your uncle, Giovanni Luca. It would include him too. A great loss to this Honoured Society of yours."

"There is a time for all things, Dillon," the old man said. "I'm not afraid."

Dillon nodded. "I respect that, but you're living in the past, Capo, you've been Lord of Life and Death too long."

"Everything comes to an end sometime, Mr. Dillon," Luca said and there was a strange look in his eyes.

Morgan said, "To hell with this, put the machine pistol on the table, Dillon, or I'll spread Ferguson's brains over the cutlery, I swear it."

Dillon stood there, holding the Celeste comfortably, and Ferguson said, "I abhor bad language, dear boy, but you have my permission to shoot the fucking lot of them."

Dillon smiled suddenly, that deeply personal smile of total charm. "God save you, Brigadier, but I came to take you home and I didn't intend in a coffin."

He moved to the table, placed the Celeste down, and pushed it along to the end where it came to a halt in front of Luca.

There was a kind of relief on Morgan's face and he pushed Ferguson away from him. "So, here we are, Dillon. You're a remarkable man, I'll give you that."

"Oh, don't flatter me, old son."

"Marco?" Morgan asked.

"He's gone the way of all flesh plus two fellas in cloth caps I found prowling in the garden." Dillon smiled. "Sure and I was forgetting the one at the gate. That makes four, Morgan. I'm nearly as good as that tailor in the fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm. He boasted six at one blow, but they were flies on the jam and bread."

"You bastard," Morgan said. "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Dillon turned to Asta. "Are you taking all this in? It's fun, isn't it? Right up your street!"

She said, "Talk all you want, Dillon, you're finished."

"Not yet, Asta, things to be said." He smiled at Morgan. "A strange one, the girl here. She looks like she's off page fifty-two in Vogue magazine, but there's another side to her. She likes the violence. Gets off on it."

"Shut your mouth!" Asta said in a low voice.

"And why should I do that, girl, especially if he's going to blow me away? A few words only. The condemned man's entitled to that."

Morgan said, "You're talking yourself into the grave."

"Yes, well, that's waiting for all of us, the one sure thing, the only difference is how you get there. Now take your wife, for instance, a strange business that."

The Browning seemed suddenly heavy in Morgan's hand. It came down and he held it against his thigh. "What are you talking about, Dillon?"

"She died scuba diving off Hydra in the Aegean Sea, am I right? An unfortunate accident."

"That's right."

"Ferguson got a copy of the report compiled by the Athens police. There were you and your wife, Asta, and a divemaster on board."

"So?"

"She ran out of air and the police report indicates that was no accident. The valve system in her equipment had been interfered with. Difficult to prove anything, especially with a man as powerful as the great Carl Morgan, so they put that report on file."

"You're lying," Morgan said.

"No, I've seen the report. Now who would want to kill her? Hardly the divemaster, so we can eliminate him. We thought it was you and told Asta as much, but you said on the boat it was a filthy lie and seemed to mean it." Dillon shrugged. "That only seems to leave one person."

Asta screamed, "You bastard, Dillon!"

Morgan stilled her with one raised hand. "That's nonsense, it can't be."

"All right, so you're going to kill me, so just answer one question. The night of the dinner party, the brakes were interfered with on our estate car. Now if that was you it would imply you wanted Asta dead because you let her take a ride back to the lodge with us."

"But that's nonsense," Morgan said, "I'd never do anything to harm Asta. It was an accident."

There was a silence and Dillon turned to Asta. When she smiled, it was the most terrible thing he'd ever seen in his life. "You really are a clever one, aren't you?" she said and her hand came up with the Walther.

"You screwed up the braking system and yet you came with us?" he said.

"Oh, I had every confidence in you, Dillon, it seemed likely we'd survive with you at the wheel, but I knew you'd blame Carl and that would strengthen my position with you." She turned to Morgan. "It was all for you, Carl, so I could find out every move they were likely to make."

"And your mother?" Ferguson said. "Was that also for Morgan?"

"My mother?" She stared at them, a strangely blank look on her face, and she turned to Morgan again. "That was different. She was in the way, trying to take you away from me, and she shouldn't have done that. I saved her, saved her from my father." She smiled. "He interfered with our lives once too often." She smiled again. "He liked fast women and he liked fast cars, so I made sure he ran off the road in one."

Morgan looked at her, horror on his face. "Asta, what are you saying?"

"Please, Carl, you must understand. I love you, I always have. No one else has ever loved you as I have, just like you love me."

The look on her face was that of the truly mad and Morgan seemed to come apart. "Love you? There was only one woman I loved and you killed her."

The Browning swung up, but already Dillon's hand was on the butt of the Walther in his waistband at the rear. He shot Morgan twice in the heart. Morgan went down and Luca reached for the Celeste. Dillon turned, his arm extended, and shot him between the eyes and the Capo went back over the chair.

In the same moment Asta screamed, "No!" She shot Dillon twice in the back, driving him facedown across the table, then she turned and ran out through the French windows.

Dillon, having difficulty breathing, almost unconscious, was aware of Ferguson calling his name, distress in his voice. His hands found the edge of the table, he levered himself up and lurched to the nearest chair. He sat there, gasping for breath, then reached for the Velcro tabs on the bullet-proof waistcoat, opened them, and took it off. When he examined it, the two bullets she had fired were embedded in the material.

"Would you look at that now?" he said to Ferguson. "Thank God for modern technology."

"Dillon, I thought I'd lost you. Here, have a drink." Ferguson poured red wine into one of the glasses on the table. "I could do with one myself."

Dillon took it down. "Jesus, that's better. Are you all right, you old sod?"

"Never better. How in the hell did you get here?"

"Gagini flew me in and I parachuted."

Ferguson looked shocked. "I didn't know you could do that."

"There's always a first time." Dillon reached for the bottle and poured another glass.

Ferguson toasted him. "You're a remarkable man."

"To be honest with you, Brigadier, there's those who might think me a bit of a bloody genius, but that could be a subject for debate. What happened to the Covenant?"

Ferguson went to Luca, dropped to one knee, and felt in his inside pocket. He stood up, turned and unfolded the document. "The Chungking Covenant, that's what it was all about."

"And this is how it ends," Dillon said. "Do you have a match and we'll burn the damn thing?"

"No, I don't think so." Ferguson folded it carefully, took out his wallet, and put it inside. "I think we'll leave that to the Prime Minister."

"You old bastard," Dillon said. "It's a Knighthood you're after so it is."

He got up, lit a cigarette, and went out to the terrace and Ferguson joined him. "I wonder where she is? I heard some sort of car leave when I was trying to revive you."

"Long gone, Brigadier," Dillon said.

There was a roar of engines overhead, a dark shadow swooping down to the meadow. "Good God, what's that?" Ferguson said.

"Hannah Bernstein coming to pick up the pieces plus the good Major Gagini. He's been more than helpful on this. You owe him one."

"I shan't forget," Ferguson said.

Hannah Bernstein stood just inside the dining room, Gagini at her side, and surveyed the scene. "Oh, my God," she said, "a butcher's shop."

"Do you have a problem with this, Chief Inspector?" Ferguson asked. "Let me tell you what happened here." Which he did.

She took a deep breath when he was finished, and on impulse went and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad to see you in one piece."

"Thanks to Dillon."

"Yes." She looked again at Morgan and Luca. "He doesn't take prisoners, does he?"

"Four more in the grounds, my dear."

She shuddered and Dillon came in through the French windows with Gagini. The Italian stood looking down at Luca and shook his head. "I never thought to see the day. They won't believe he's gone in Palermo."

"You should put him in an open coffin in a shop window like they used to do with outlaws in the Wild West," Dillon told him.

"Dillon, for God's sake," Hannah said.

"You think I was bad, Hannah?" Dillon shrugged. "An animal, this one, who grew fat not only off gambling but on drugs and prostitution. He was responsible for the corruption of thousands. To hell with him," and he turned and walked out.

At Punta Raisi it was raining as they waited in the office. Lacey looked in the door. "Ready when you are."

Gagini came through the hangar with them and walked across the apron. "Strange how it all worked out, Brigadier, I thought I was doing you a favor when I got in touch with you about the Chungking Covenant, and in the end you do me the biggest favor of all. You got rid of Luca for me."

"Ah, but that was Dillon's doing, not mine."

Dillon said sourly, "Don't get too worked up, Major, there'll be someone to take his place by tomorrow morning."

"True," Gagini said. "But some sort of victory." He held out his hand. "Thank you, my friend. Anything I can ever do you only have to ask."

"I'll remember that."

Dillon shook hands, went up the steps into the Lear, and settled in one of the rear seats. Ferguson sat opposite him on the other side and Hannah took the seat behind him. They strapped themselves in and the engines turned over. A few moments later they were moving along the runway and lifting into the air. They climbed steadily until they reached thirty thousand and started to cruise.

Hannah sat there, face grave, and Dillon said belligerently, "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm tired, it's been a long day and I can still smell the cordite and the blood, Dillon, is that so strange? I don't like it." She exploded suddenly, "My God, you just killed six people, six, Dillon. Doesn't that bother you?"

"What am I hearing?" he said. "Some sort of fine interpretation on this? The kind of morality that says let your enemy do it unto you, but don't do it unto him?"

"All right, so I don't know what I mean." There was no doubt that she was genuinely upset.

Dillon said, "Then maybe you're in the wrong job. I'd think about that if I were you."

"And how do you see yourself, as some sort of public executioner?"

"Enough, both of you." Ferguson opened the bar box, took out a half bottle of Scotch, poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to her. "Drink that, it's an order."

She took a deep breath and reached for it. "Thank you, sir."

Ferguson poured a generous measure into another cup and passed it to Dillon. "Try that." Dillon nodded and drank deep and the Brigadier poured himself one.

"It's the business we're in, Chief Inspector, try to remember that. Of course, if you're unhappy and wish to return to normal duty?"

"No, sir," she said. "That won't be necessary."

Dillon reached for the bottle and poured another and Ferguson said, "I wonder what happened to that wretched young woman?"

"God knows," Dillon said.

"Mad as a hatter," Ferguson said, "so much is obvious, but that isn't our problem," and he closed his eyes and lay back in the seat.

It was at about the same time that Asta arrived at the gate of Luca's Villa. She kept her hand on the horn and the guard appeared on the other side. He took one look and hurriedly opened the gate and she drove through and up to the house. When she got out of the station wagon, the door opened at the top of the steps and Luca's houseboy, Giorgio, appeared.

"Signorina. You are alone? The Capo and Signore Morgan come later?"

She could have told him the truth, yet for some reason hesitated and at the same time realized why. If Luca was still alive she could still use his power and she wanted that power.

"Yes," she said, "the Capo and Signore Morgan are staying at Valdini on business. You will get in touch with the chief pilot of the Lear. What is his name?"

"Ruffolo, Signorina."

"Yes, that's right. Find where he is and tell him to get out here as fast as possible and get in touch with our contact at the airport. There is a Lear from England there. It may have already left, but get all the information you can."

"Of course, Signorina." He bowed, ushering her into the house, closed the door, and went to the phone.

She went and poured herself a drink and stood sipping it, staring out across the terrace, and was surprised at how quickly Giorgio returned. "I've found Ruffolo, he is on his way and you were right, Signorina. The English Lear has departed. There were two pilots and three passengers."

She stared at him. "Three, are you sure?"

"Yes, a woman, a stout ageing man, and a small man with very fair hair. Our contact didn't get the names, but saw them boarding."

"I see. Good work, Giorgio. Call me when Ruffolo gets here."

Asta stripped and stood under a hot shower. It was like a bad dream, so difficult to believe that Dillon was still alive. Carl, her beloved Carl, and Luca and it was all Dillon's fault. How could she have ever liked him? Dillon and Ferguson, but especially Dillon. They'd ruined everything and for that they had to pay.

She got out of the shower, toweled herself down, then oiled her body, thinking about it. Finally, she pulled on a robe and started to comb her hair. The phone rang. When she lifted it up it was Giorgio.

"Signorina. Captain Ruffolo is here."

"Good, I'll be right down."

Ruffolo was in an open-necked shirt, blazer, and slacks when she went in the sitting room. He came to greet her, kissing her hand.

"Forgive me, Signorina, I'd gone out for a meal, but Giorgio managed to trace me. How can I serve you?"

"Please, sit down." She waved him to a chair, went and started to open a bottle of Bollinger champagne Giorgio had left in an ice bucket. "You'll take a glass, Captain."

"My pleasure, Signorina." His eyes fastened on the ripe curves of her young body and he sat up straight.

Asta poured champagne into two crystal glasses and handed one to him. "This is a delicate matter, Captain. The Capo has given me a special task. I am to go to England tomorrow, but not officially, if you understand me."

Ruffolo sampled a little of the champagne. "Excellent, Signorina. What you mean is you would like to land in England illegally, no trace that you are there, am I right?"

"Exactly, Captain."

"There is no problem on this. There is a private airfield in Sussex we can use. I've done this before. There is so much traffic in the London approaches that if I go in from the sea at six hundred feet there is no trace. Is it London you wish to go to?"

"Yes," she said.

"Only thirty miles away by road. No problem."

"Wonderful," she said, got up and went back to the champagne bucket. "The Capo will be pleased. Now let me give you another glass of champagne."