On Dangerous Ground (8 page)

Paolo Gagini, who was a Major in the Italian Secret Intelligence Service from Rome posing as a business man in Palermo, said, “That’s a new one. Let me put the tape recorder on. Thank God for that photographic memory of yours. Right, start talking. Tell me everything.”

Which Alfredo did in some detail. When he had finished, Gagini said, “Good work, though I can’t see it helping us much. I’ll be in touch. Take care.”

Alfredo replaced the receiver and went to bed.

Gagini, in his apartment in Palermo, sat thinking. He could let them know in Rome, not that anyone would be very interested. Everyone knew what Carl Morgan was, but he was also very legitimate. In any case, anything he did in Scotland was the responsibility of the British authorities, which made him think of his oldest friend in British intelligence. Gagini smiled. He loved this one. He got out his code book and found the number of the Ministry of Defence in London.

When the operator answered he said, “Give me Brigadier Charles Ferguson, Priority One, please.”

It was perhaps two hours later when Morgan and Asta had retired that Alfredo was shaken awake to find Marco bending over him.

“The Capo wants you.”

“What is it?”

Marco shrugged. “Search me. He’s on the terrace.”

He went out and Alfredo dressed quickly and went after him. He was aware of no particular apprehension. Things had gone so well for three months now and he’d always been so careful, but as a precaution, he placed a small automatic in his waistband.

He found Luca sitting in a cane chair, Marco leaning against a pillar. The old man said, “You made a phone call earlier.”

Alfredo’s mouth went dry. “Yes, my cousin in Palermo.”

“You’re lying,” Marco said. “We have an electronic tracking machine. It registered the no return bar code so the number can’t be traced.”

“And that only applies to the security services,” Luca said.

Alfredo turned and ran through the garden for the fence and Marco drew a silenced pistol.

“Don’t kill him,” Luca cried.

Marco shot him in the leg and the young man went down but turned on the ground, pulling the automatic from his waistband. Marco, with little choice in the matter, shot him between the eyes.

Luca went forward, leaning on his cane. “Poor boy, so young. They will keep trying. Get rid of him, Marco.”

He turned and walked away.

FOUR

FERGUSON WAS AT HIS DESK WHEN HANNAH Bernstein came in and put a file on his desk. “Everything there is on Carl Morgan.”

Ferguson sat back. “Tell me.”

“His father is a retired Brigadier General, but his mother is the niece of Giovanni Luca which means that, in spite of Yale and all the war hero stuff in Vietnam and his hotels and construction business, he’s fronting for the Mafia.”

“Some people would say he was the new, legitimate face of the Mafia.”

“With the greatest respect, Brigadier, that’s a load of crap.”

“Why, Chief Inspector, you said a rude word. How encouraging.”

“A thug is a thug even if he does wear suits by Brioni and plays polo with Prince Charles.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Have you checked on Loch Dhu Castle and the situation there?”

“Yes, sir, it’s at present leased to Prince Ali ben Yusef from the Oman. He’ll be there for another month.”

“Not much joy there. Arab royal families are always the very devil to deal with.”

“Something else, sir. Carl Morgan has already taken a lease on the place for three months when the Prince leaves.”

“Now why would he do that?” Ferguson frowned and then nodded. “The Bible. It’s got to be.”

“You mean he needs to search for it, sir?”

“Something like that. What else can you tell me about the estate?”

“It’s owned by a Lady Rose, Campbell’s sister. He was never married. She lives in the gate lodge. She’s eighty years of age and in poor health.” Hannah looked in the file. “I see there’s also a small hunting lodge to rent. Ardmurchan Lodge it’s called. About ten miles from the main house in the deer forest.”

Ferguson nodded. “Look, let’s try the simple approach. Book the Lear out of Gatwick as soon as you like and fly up there and descend on Lady Katherine. Express an interest in this shooting lodge on my behalf. Tell her you’ve always had an interest in the area because your grandfather served with Campbell in the war. Then raise the question of the Bible. For all we know it could be lying on a coffee table.”

“All right, sir, I’ll do as you say.” The phone went on his desk and she picked it up, listened, and put it down again. “Dillon is having his final check at the hospital.”

“I know,” Ferguson said.

“About the Bible, sir? Do you really think it could be just lying around?”

“Somehow I don’t think so. Luca and Morgan would have thought of that. The fact that they are going ahead with a lease on the place would seem to indicate that they know damn well it isn’t.”

“That’s logical.” She put another file on his desk. “Dillon’s medical report. Not good.”

“Yes. Professor Bellamy spoke to me about it. That’s why he’s giving him a final examination this morning, then Dillon is coming round to see me.”

“Is he finished, sir?”

“Looks like it, but that’s not your worry, it’s mine, so off you go to Scotland and see what you can find. In the meantime, I’ll speak to the Prime Minister. A phone call at this stage will be enough, but I do think he should know what’s going on sooner rather than later.”

“You can dress now, Sean,” Bellamy told him. “I’ll see you in my office.”

Dillon got off the operating table on which the professor had examined him. The flesh seemed to have shrunk on his bones, there were what appeared to be bruises under his eyes. When he glanced over his shoulder he could see, in the mirror, the angry raised weal of the scars left by the two operations that had saved his life after Norah Bell had gutted him.

He dressed slowly, feeling unaccountably weak, and when he put on his jacket the Walther in the special left pocket seemed to weigh a ton. He went out to the office where Bellamy sat behind his desk.

“How do you feel generally?”

Dillon slumped down. “Bloody awful. Weak, no energy, and then there’s the pain.” He shook his head. “How long does this go on?”

“It takes time,” Bellamy said. “She chipped your spine, damaged the stomach, kidneys, bladder. Have you any idea how close to death you were?”

“I know, I know,” Dillon said. “But what do I do?”

“A holiday, a long one, preferably in the sun. Ferguson will take care of it. As for the pain” — he pushed a pill bottle forward — “I’ve increased your morphine dose to a quarter grain.”

“Thanks very much, I’ll be a junkie before you know it.” Dillon got up slowly. “I’ll be on my way. Better see Ferguson and get it over with.”

As he got to the door Bellamy said, “I’m always here, Sean.”

Hannah, due at Gatwick in an hour, was checking the final details of her trip in the outer office. Loch Dhu was situated in a place called Moidart on the northwest coast of Scotland and not far from the sea, about a hundred and twenty square miles of mountain and moorland with few inhabitants. One good thing. Only five miles from Loch Dhu was an old abandoned airstrip called Ardmurchan used by the RAF as an air-sea rescue base during the war. It could comfortably accommodate the Lear. Four hundred and fifty miles, so the trip would take, say, an hour and a half. Then she would need transport to the Castle. She found the telephone number of the gate lodge and called Lady Katherine Rose.

The first person to answer was a woman with a robust Scottish voice, but after a while her mistress replaced her. Her voice was different, tired somehow and a slight quaver in it. “Katherine Rose here.”

“Lady Rose? I wonder if I could come and see you on behalf of a client of mine?” and she went on to explain.

“Certainly, my dear, I’ll send my gardener, Angus, to pick you up. I look forward to seeing you. By the way, just call me Lady Katherine. It’s customary here.”

Hannah put down the receiver and pulled on her coat. The door opened and Dillon entered. He looked dreadful and her heart sank.

“Why, Dillon, it’s good to see you.”

“I doubt that, girl dear. On the other hand, I must say you look good enough to eat. Is the great man in?”

“He’s expecting you. Listen, I’ll have to dash, the Lear’s waiting for me at Gatwick and I’ve a fast trip to make to Scotland.”

“Then I won’t detain you. Happy landings,” and he knocked on Ferguson’s door and went in.

“God save all here,” Dillon said.

Ferguson glanced up. “You look bloody awful.”

“ ‘God save you kindly’ was the reply to that one,” Dillon told him. “And as I see the brandy over there I’ll help myself.”

He did, taking it down in one swallow, then lit a cigarette. Ferguson said, “Remarkably bad habits for a sick man.”

“Don’t let’s waste time. Are you putting me out to grass?”

“I’m afraid so. Your appointment was never exactly official, you see. That makes things awkward.”

“Ah, well, all good things come to an end.”

He helped himself to more brandy and Ferguson said, “Normally there would have been a pension, but in your circumstances I’m afraid not.”

Dillon smiled. “Remember Michael Aroun, the bastard I did away with in Brittany in ninety-one after the Downing Street affair? He was supposed to put two million into my bank account and screwed me.”

“I remember,” Ferguson said.

“I cleaned out his safe before I left. Assorted currencies, but it came to around six hundred thousand pounds. I’ll be all right.” He finished the brandy. “Well, working with you has been a sincere sensation, I’ll say that, but I’d better be on my way.”

As he put his hand to the door, Ferguson said formally, “One more thing, Dillon, I presume you’re carrying the usual Walther. I’d be obliged if you’d leave it on my desk.”

“Screw you, Brigadier,” Sean Dillon said and went out.

The flight to Moidart was spectacular, straight over the English Lake District at thirty thousand feet, then Scotland and the Firth of Forth, the Grampian Mountains on the right, and soon the islands, Eigg and Rhum, and the Isle of Skye to the north. The Lear turned east toward the great shining expanse of Loch Shiel, but before it was the deer forest, Loch Dhu Castle and the loch itself, black and forbidding. The co-pilot was navigating and he pointed as they descended and there was the airfield, decaying Nissan huts, two hangars, and an old control tower.

“Ardmurchan field. Air-sea rescue during the big war.”

It was on the far side of the loch from the Castle, and as they turned to land Hannah saw an old station wagon approaching. The Lear rolled to a halt. Both the pilots, who were RAF on secondment, got out with her to stretch their legs. The skipper, a Flight Lieutenant Lacey, said, “Back of beyond this, Chief Inspector, and no mistake.”

“Better get used to it, Flight Lieutenant. I suspect we’ll be up here again,” she said and walked toward the station wagon.

The driver was a man in tweed cap and jacket with a red face, blotched from too much whiskey drinking. “Angus, Miss, her ladyship sent me to find you.”

“My name’s Bernstein,” she said and got into the passenger seat. As they drove away she said, “You’ve no idea how excited I am to be here.”

“Why would that be, Miss?” he inquired.

“Oh, my grandfather knew the old Laird during the war, Major Campbell. They served in the Far East together with Lord Mountbatten.”

“Ah, well I wouldn’t know about that, Miss. I’m only sixty-four, so all I did was National Service and that was in nineteen forty-eight.”

“I see. I remember my grandfather saying the Laird had a batman from the estate, a Corporal Tanner. Did you know him?”

“Indeed I did, Miss, he was estate manager here for years. Went on a visit to his daughter in New York and died there. Only the other day that happened.”

“What a shame.”

“Death comes to us all,” he intoned.

It was like a line from a bad play, especially when delivered in that Highland Scots accent, and she lapsed into silence as he turned the station wagon into huge, old-fashioned iron gates and stopped beside the lodge.

Lady Katherine Rose was old and tired and it showed on her wizened face as she sat there in the wing-backed chair, a rug over her knees. The drawing room in which she greeted Hannah was pleasantly furnished, most of the stuff obviously antique. There was a fire in the hearth, but she had a French window open.

“I hope you don’t mind, my dear,” she said to Hannah, “I need the air, you see. My chest isn’t what it used to be.”

A pleasant, rather overweight woman in her fifties bustled in with tea and scones on a tray, which she placed on a mahogany table. “Shall I pour?” she said, and like Angus her accent was Highland.

“Don’t fuss, Jean, I’m sure Miss Bernstein is quite capable. Off you go.”

Jean smiled, picked up a shawl which had slipped to the floor, and put it around the old woman’s shoulders. Hannah went and poured the tea.

“So,” Lady Katherine said, “your employer is Brigadier Charles Ferguson, is that what you said?”

“Yes. He was wondering whether there might be a chance of renting Ardmurchan Lodge for the shooting. I did contact your agents in London but was given to understand that the big house was leased.”

“Indeed it is, an Arab Prince no less, a dear man with several children who keep descending on me. Far too generous. He sends me food I can’t eat and bottles of Dom Perignon I can’t drink.”

Hannah put her cup of tea on a side table. “Yes. I heard he was in residence for another month and after that an American gentleman.”

“Yes, a Mr. Morgan. Scandalously wealthy. I’ve seen his picture in the
Tatler
magazine playing polo with Prince Charles. His lawyer flew up to see me just like you in a jet plane. He’s taken the place for three months.” She didn’t bother with the tea. “There are some cigarettes in the silver box. Get one for me, there’s a dear, and help yourself, if you indulge.” She held it in a hand that shook slightly. “That’s better,” she said as she inhaled. “Clears my chest. Anyway, to business. Ardmurchan Lodge is free and has full sporting rights. Deer, grouse next month, then fishing. There are two bathrooms, five bedrooms. I could arrange servants.”