On dangerous ground

SEVEN

It was peaceful in the small railway station by the lochside and Dillon peered out of the rear compartment keeping out of sight. Following her had been easy. The Lear had taken him to Glasgow Airport at breakfast time and he had waited until Asta had arrived on the morning shuttle from London, had followed her down to the central railway station. Keeping out of the way from Glasgow to Fort William had been easy, for the train was busy with many tourists here to see Loch Lomond and afterwards the spectacular mountain scenery of the Highlands.

The smaller, local train from Fort William to Arisaig had been more difficult, for there were only a handful of passengers and he'd kept out of sight, only leaping into the rear compartment at the last moment. The station they had stopped at now was named Shiel according to the board at one side of the ticket office. They seemed to be standing there for quite some time. It was very pleasant, a mountain above them rearing three thousand feet into the clear blue sky, sunlight glinting on a waterfall that spilled over granite into birch trees.

Asta Morgan suddenly stepped onto the platform. She wore a leather jacket and linen slacks and leather brogues. She made an attractive sight in the quiet setting. She moved across to the ticket collector who stood at the barrier. There was some conversation, a burst of laughter, and she went through the barrier.

The ticket collector moved to join the guard, who was standing by the open door beside Dillon. "You've lost a passenger, Tom."

"Do you tell me?"

"A bonny lass, a Miss Morgan, hair of corn and a face to thank God for. Her father is yon fella Morgan that's just leased Loch Dhu Castle. She's away over the mountain. You'll put her luggage down at Arisaig and leave a message."

Dillon grabbed his Burberry trenchcoat and brushed past the guard. "Do you mean there's a shortcut over the mountain?"

"Well that would depend where you want to be."

"Ardmurchan Lodge."

The guard nodded. "Over the top of Ben Breac and a twelve-mile walk to the other side. You'll be staying with Brigadier Ferguson, the new tenant?"

"My uncle, he'll be waiting at Arisaig. Perhaps you could tell him where I am and give him my luggage." Dillon slipped a five-pound note into his hand.

"Leave it to me, sir."

The guard blew his whistle and boarded the train. Dillon turned to the ticket collector. "Where do I go?"

"Through the village and over the bridge. There's a path through the birches, hard going, but you can't miss the cairns that mark the way. Once over the top the track is plain to the glen below."

"Will the weather hold?"

The man looked up at the mountain. "A touch of mist and rain in the evening. I'd keep going, don't waste time on top." He smiled. "I'd tell the young lady that, sir, no place for a lassie to be on her own."

Dillon smiled. "I'll do that, a pity to see her get wet."

"A thousand pities, sir."

At the small village store he purchased two packs of cigarettes and two half-pound bars of milk chocolate for sustenance. Twelve miles on the other side of the mountain and that didn't count the miles that stood up on end. Something told him he could be hungry before he reached Ardmurchan.

He marched down the street and crossed the bridge. The track snaked up through the birch trees, lifting steeply, bracken pressing in on either side. It was cool and dark and remote from the world, and Dillon, thanks to his renewed energy, was enjoying every moment of it. There was no sign of Asta, which suited him for now.

The trees grew sparser and he emerged onto a bracken-covered slope. Occasionally grouse or plover lifted out of the heather disturbed by his presence and finally he came to a boulder-strewn plain that stretched to the lower slopes of Ben Breac. He saw Asta then, six or seven hundred feet up on the shoulder of the mountain.

She turned to look down and he dropped into the bracken. When he glanced up a few moments later, she had disappeared round the shoulder of the mountain. She was certainly moving fast, but then she was young and healthy and the track was plainly visible.

There was another way, of course, though only a fool would try that, which was straight up the breast of the mountain and the granite cliffs beyond to the summit. He took out an Ordnance Survey map of Moidart and had a look at the situation. Dillon glanced up. What the hell, strong nerves were all that was needed here, and with luck he might actually get ahead of her. He tied his Burberry around his waist and started up.

The lower slopes were easy going with his new-found strength, but after a half hour he came to a great cascading bank of scree and loose stones that moved beneath his feet alarmingly. He went to his left, found the waterfall he'd noted from the station, and followed its trail upwards, moving from boulder to boulder.

Finally, he reached the plateau and the final cliffs were before him and they were not quite as intimidating as they'd looked from the station, fissured with gullies and channels reaching to the top. He looked, checking his route, ate half a bar of chocolate, then made sure his raincoat was secure and started up, climbing strongly, testing each handhold. He looked down once and saw the railway station in the valley below like a child's toy. The next time he looked it had disappeared, blanked out by mist, and a sudden breeze touched him coldly.

He came over the granite edge to the summit a few minutes later to find himself cocooned in mist and he'd spent enough time in hill country in the past to know that there was only one thing to do in such conditions. Stay put. He did just that, lighting a cigarette, wondering how Asta Morgan was getting on. It was a good hour later when a sudden current of air dissolved the curtain of the mist, and down there the valleys lay dark and quiet in the evening sunlight.

In the distance was a cairn of stones marking the ultimate peak, but there was no Asta. He cut across the track and followed it back until he reached a point where he could look down almost three thousand feet to the railway line, and there was no sign of her. So she had beaten him to the summit, hardly surprising, for with the track to follow the mist would have been no problem.

He turned back, following the track to descend on the other side and paused suddenly as he stared down at the incredible sight before him. The sea in the distance was calm, the islands of Rum and Eigg like cardboard cutouts, and on the dark horizon, the Isle of Skye, the final barrier to the Atlantic. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen and he started down.

Asta was tired and her right ankle was beginning to ache, legacy of an old skiing accident. It had been harder crossing Ben Breac than she had imagined and now she was faced with a twelve-mile hike. What had originally started as an amusing idea was now becoming rather a bore.

The track along the glen was dry and dusty and hard on her feet, and after a while she came to a five-barred gate with a sign that said LOCH DHU ESTATE-KEEP OUT. It was padlocked and she pulled herself over and limped on. And then she rounded a curve and saw a small hunting lodge by the burn. The door was locked, but when she went round to the rear a window stood ajar. She hauled herself through and found herself in a small kitchen area.

It was gloomy now, darkness falling, but there was an oil lamp and kitchen matches. She lit the lamp and went into the other room. It was adequately furnished with whitewashed walls and a wooden floor and a fire was laid in the hearth. She put a match to it and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs, suddenly tired. The warmth from the fire felt good, and her ankle didn't hurt now. She added pine logs to the fire and heard a vehicle drive up outside. A key rattled in the lock and the front door opened.

The man who stood there was of medium height with a weak, sullen face and badly needed a shave. He wore a shabby tweed suit and cap, his yellow hair shoulder-length, and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.

"Would you look at that now?" he said.

Asta said calmly, "What do you want?"

"That's a good one," he said, "and you trespassing. How in the hell did you get in here?"

"Through the kitchen window."

"I don't think my boss would like that. He's new. Just took over the estate yesterday did Mr. Morgan, but I know a hard man when I see one. I mean, if he knew about this he might make it a police matter."

"Don't be stupid. I turned my ankle coming over Ben Breac. I needed a rest, that's all. Now that you're here, you can give me a lift."

He moved closer and his hand was shaking as he put it on her shoulder. "That depends, doesn't it?"

His blotched face, the stink of whiskey on his breath was suddenly repulsive to her. "What's your name?"

"That's more friendly. It's Fergus-Fergus Munro."

She pulled away and sent him staggering with a vigorous push. "Then don't be stupid, Fergus Munro."

He reached angrily, dropping the shotgun. "You bitch, I'll teach you." He grabbed at her, catching the blouse beneath the leather coat, the thin material ripping from her left shoulder to the breast.

She gave a cry of rage, striking out at him, her nails gouging his right cheek, and then beyond him she saw a man materialize from the darkness into the doorway.

Dillon punched him in the kidneys very hard and hauled him back by the scruff of the neck and hurled him across the room. Munro hit the wall and fell to one knee. He reached for the shotgun which Dillon kicked out of the way, grabbing for his right wrist, twisting it up, taut and straight, ramming Munro headfirst into the wall. He scrambled up, blood on his face, and plunged through the open door.

As Dillon went after him Asta cried, "Let him go!"

Dillon paused, a hand on each side of the door frame, then he closed it and turned. "Are you all right?"

Outside an engine burst into life. "Yes, fine, what was that?"

"He had a Shogun."

She eased herself back in the chair. "I was really beginning to despair, Dillon, I thought you were never going to catch up with me. What on earth are you doing here?"

"Confession time," he said. "I've an uncle, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, who rented a place called Ardmurchan Lodge not far from here for the shooting, which it shares with the Loch Dhu Estate."

"Really? My father will be surprised. He never likes to share anything with anyone."

"Yes, well, when I read that item in the gossip column in the Daily Mail, saw your photo, I couldn't resist wangling myself an invitation to the Brazilian Embassy to meet you."

"Just like that?"

"I'm terribly well connected. You'd be surprised."

"Nothing would surprise me about you, and for what it's worth, I don't believe a word of it." She put down her right foot and winced. "Damn!"

"Trouble?"

"An old injury, that's all."

She pulled up the right leg of her slacks and he eased off the shoe and sock. "I'd have thought you would have caught up with me."

"I tried the short route straight up and it proved longer. I had to sit down in the mist."

"I just kept on walking. I noticed you at the station in Glasgow. I was coming out of the toilets and saw you buying a map at the bookstall. I waited till you boarded the train before getting on board myself. Most intriguing, especially when you changed trains as I did at Fort William."

"So, you left the train to draw me on?"

"Of course."

"Damn you, Asta, I should put you over my knee."

"Is that a promise? We Swedes are reputed to be terribly oversexed."

He laughed out loud. "I'd better get on with this foot while Fergus Munro hotfoots it to Loch Dhu Castle with his tale of woe. I should think we can expect company soon."

"I should hope so. I haven't the slightest intention of walking any further."

Dillon raised her foot. There was a faint puffiness at the ankle and a jagged scar.

"How did you get that?"

"Skiing. There was a time when I was an Olympic possibility."

"Too bad. I'll take the lamp for a minute."

He went into the kitchen, checked the drawers, and found some kitchen towels. He soaked one in cold water and returned to the living room.

"A cold compress will help." He bandaged the ankle expertly. "Tired?"

"Not too much. Hungry though."

He got one of the half-pound blocks of chocolate from his Burberry pocket. "Bad for your figure, but sustaining."

"You're a magician, Dillon." She ate the chocolate greedily and he lit a cigarette and sat by the fire. She suddenly paused. "What about you?"

"I had some." He stretched. "The grand place this. Fish in the burn, deer in the forest, a roof over your head, and a fine, strong girl like yourself to help on the land."

"Thanks very much. An arid sort of life, I should have thought."

"Haven't you heard the old Italian saying? One can live well on bread and kisses."

"Or chocolate." She held up what was left of the bar and they both laughed.

Dillon got up, went and opened the door. There was a full moon and the only sound was the burn as its waters ran by.

"We could be the last two people left on earth," she said.

"Not for long, there's a vehicle coming." He moved out of the porch and stood there waiting.

Two Shoguns braked to a halt. Fergus Munro was driving the first one and Murdoch was sitting next to him. As Munro got out, the factor came round from the other side clutching a shotgun. Carl Morgan was at the wheel of the second one and got out, an enormously powerful-looking figure in his sheepskin coat.

Murdoch said something to Munro and clicked back the hammers on the shotgun. Munro opened the door of the Shogun and Murdoch whistled softly. There was a sudden scramble inside and a black shadow materialized from the darkness to stand beside him.

"Flush him out, boy."

As the dog came forward with a rush, Dillon saw that it was a Doberman pinscher, one of the most deadly fighting dogs in the world. He went forward to meet it.

"Good boy," he said and extended a hand.

The dog froze, a growl starting somewhere at the back of the throat, and Munro said, "That's him, Mr. Morgan. That's the bastard who attacked me and his fancy woman still inside, no doubt."

Morgan said, "Private property, my friend, you should have stayed out."

The dog growled again, full of menace, and Dillon whistled softly, an eerie sound that set the teeth on edge. The dog's ears went back and Dillon fondled his muzzle and stroked him.

"Good God!" Murdoch said.

"Easy when you know how," Dillon told him. "I learned that from a man who was once my friend." He smiled. "Later, he regretted teaching me anything, but that's life."

Morgan said calmly, "Who in the hell are you?"

It was then that Asta joined the scene. "Carl, is that you? Thank God you're here."

She stumbled from the doorway and Morgan, astonishment on his face, moved fast to catch her in his arms. "Asta, for God's sake, what is this?"

He helped her inside and Fergus Munro said to Murdoch, "Asta? Who in the hell is Asta?"

"Something tells me you're in for a very unpleasant surprise, my old son," Dillon told him, and he turned and followed them in, the Doberman at his heels.

Asta was back in the chair and Morgan knelt beside her, holding a hand. "It was horrible, Carl. I left the train at Lochailort and came over the mountain, turned my ankle and was feeling absolutely foul when I found the lodge and got in through the kitchen window. And then this man came, the man out there. He was horrible."

Morgan stood up. "The man out there?" he said and his face was very pale.

"Yes, Carl, he threatened me." Her hand went to the torn blouse. "In fact, he was thoroughly unpleasant, and then Mr. Dillon here came and there was a struggle and he threw him out."

Morgan had murder in his eyes. He turned to Murdoch, who stood in the doorway. "Do you realize who this is? My daughter Asta. Where's that bastard who brought us here, Fergus?"

The roar of an engine breaking into life answered him and he pushed Murdoch to one side and ran out to see one of the Shoguns drive away.

"Shall I go after him?" Murdoch said.

"No." Morgan shook his head, hands unclenching. "We'll deal with him later." He turned to Dillon and held out a hand. "I'm Carl Morgan and I would seem to be considerably in your debt."

"Dillon-Sean Dillon."

Morgan turned to Asta. "Are you trying to tell me you walked over that damn mountain this afternoon?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought I'd just walk in on you. Surprise you."

Morgan turned to Dillon, who, lighting a cigarette, forestalled him. "I'm on my way to join my uncle, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, for the shooting. He's leased a place called Ardmurchan Lodge."

There was something in Morgan's eyes straight away, but he simply said, "That makes us neighbors then. I presume you also thought it was a good idea to walk over the mountain?"

"Not at all. I thought it was a lousy idea and so did the ticket collector when she left the train. To be frank, I'd noticed her destination from her luggage labels. I got out to stretch my legs and saw her make off. When I asked the ticket collector what was going on, he told me she was going to walk over the mountain. As I said, he didn't think much of the idea and neither did I, so I decided to follow. Unfortunately I chose another route and was delayed by the mist, so I didn't catch up with her until she reached the lodge."

Asta said weakly, "I'm afraid I've made something of a fool of myself. Could we go now, Carl?"

She was acting up to the hilt and Dillon, an actor himself, saw that, but not Morgan, who put an arm round her, instant concern there. "Of course we will." He glanced at Dillon. "We'll drop you off on the way."

"That would be fine," Dillon said.

Murdoch took the wheel on the way down the glen and Dillon and Morgan sat on the large bench seat, Asta between them, the Doberman on the floor at their feet. Dillon fondled its ears.

"Guard dog, they said." Morgan shook his head. "With you he's more like a big pussy cat."

"An emotional thing between me and him, Mr. Morgan. He likes me."

"Loves you, more like," Asta said. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I still wouldn't like to be the intruder who comes over the wall and finds him there."

"So Brigadier Ferguson is your uncle?" Morgan said. "I haven't had the pleasure yet, but then I only arrived at Loch Dhu Castle myself yesterday."

"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.