by Paul Kenyon
Skytop's quick eye had seen the smear. Someone had scraped a sample of the bacterial culture into a container. Dr. Abrams didn't notice. She was too trusting.
"This is the real virulent one, huh?"
"Yes, but there's nothing nearby it can spread to. I'll take care of it."
"You lose many cultures this way?"
"Once in a while. Carelessness, accident. We lost a rack of the TAR-4 strain during the early stages, too. But we had enough to work with."
"That German pharmaceutical guy around that day, too?"
She gave him an amused look. "As a matter of fact he was, Mr. Skytop. What's the matter? Do you think he reached through a locked door and knocked it over?"
"No, I don't think that."
He didn't think it. He could make out the faint scratches around the lock. The BUG man must have gotten away with a sample of TAR-4 months ago, or even earlier. Time enough for a big research team to work with it. Now he had a sample of TAR-5.
"Thanks, Dr. Abrams. What are you doing for dinner tonight?"
"I'm cooking a lamb roast and falafel for my husband and daughter. Would you like to join us?"
"Uh… I just thought of something I'd better do tonight. No offense?"
"No offense."
"Shalom."
"Shalom, Mr. Skytop."
* * *
Skytop looked both ways down the corridor. There was no one in sight. He took his international driver's license out of his wallet. It was laminated in plastic. He slipped it into the door frame below the knob and pushed. The door opened inward.
The chain was on. Skytop peered through the crack. There was no one in sight. He could just about squeeze two frankfurter-sized fingers into the opening. He hooked them around the chain and pulled downward. The chain snapped. He went on in and closed the door silently behind him.
There was the sound of running water in the bathroom. Someone was singing Es Muss ein Wunerbares Sein. There was an opened suitcase on the bed, half-packed. Shorts and shirts were neatly folded next to it. Drawers were pulled open.
Skytop moved noiselessly to the bed and rummaged through the suitcase. There was nothing that resembled what he'd been looking for. He tried the toiletries lined up on the dresser. Again, no soap.
Where would you hide something that smelled like oil? Skytop Sniffed. His wide nostrils flared. He'd always been able to track a deer or rabbit by scent alone. Now he was trying to track a bug.
He caught it. It was very faint: a whiff of oil with something rancid mixed in for good measure. He followed his nose.
It led him to a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the night table. He unscrewed the bottom of the lighter. Most of the wick was gone. There was a sort of black paste inside. He put the lighter in his pocket and started to go.
And that was when he got shot in the back.
He whirled around. The German was standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was a potbellied man with thin white legs. He looked astonished. He was holding the Beretta Minx M2 that he'd shot Skytop with.
Skytop didn't waste time worrying about it. It didn't even hurt very much. That's what the damn fool German got for trying to bring down somebody Skytop's size with a little .22-caliber ladies' boudoir gun.
He got all the way across the room before the German could fire another shot. The gun went off like a popped cork, but by then he'd grabbed the German's wrist and forced the arm sideways. He sighed and chopped the man on the side of the neck. The German sank to the floor, his neck having snapped.
Skytop inspected the damage. The bullet had gone into the fleshy part of the trapezius muscle where it joined the deltoid. He reached back over his shoulder and pressed gingerly. He wasn't bleeding too much, and he thought he could feel the hard button of the slug just below the surface of his flesh. He'd be able to work it out himself with a mirror and a pair of tweezers. He wouldn't have to bother anybody.
He picked up the damp body and carried it back to the shower. The shower was still on. That had been clever of the German. He dumped the body into the shower and tossed a cake of soap to the tile floor to supply a reason for the broken neck. It was going to be tough on the hotel chambermaid in the morning, finding a dead guest in the shower stall.
He made a final search. The dead man's identification said he was Ernst Wenzl, Mideast representative for Biotikum UberGesellschaft of West Germany. His passport had been stamped by most of the surrounding Arab countries, but the Israelis had been thoughtful enough to waive the visa requirement so as not to get him into trouble with his Arab customers. There was his hotel bill, all made out and stamped "paid." He'd already checked out so that he could catch a flight later that night.
Only his airline ticket wasn't for Germany. It was for a London stopover, then Scotland.
Chapter 6
There was a shot as they approached the castle.
"Bloody fool!" Tony growled. "Shooting in this light! Must be one of those blasted Germans!"
The light was almost gone from the moors. The sun, only a sliver showing above the waters of the loch to the left, cast eerie fingers of shadow across a rolling expanse of purple heather. The castle loomed ahead of them through the mists, a fairy vision of sawtooth battlements and crenellated turrets and a tall central tower of gray stone with some sort of banner fluttering from its peak.
"Pull over," the Baroness said.
"What?"
"I said pull over. I want to have a look before we drive in."
Tony eased the little Triumph over to the side of the road and shut off the motor. In the back, the borzois whimpered; there wasn't much room for them, and they were unhappy. Penelope listened. She hadn't imagined it — there was a ghostly skirl of bagpipes coming from the castle walls.
"That'll be MacCaig," Tony said. "He's always practicing for the Braemar piping championships. Carries a practice chanter with him everywhere he goes."
"Who's MacCaig?" Penelope said.
"The gamekeeper. You'll meet him tomorrow."
He started the engine. As they got closer, Penelope could see that Castle Bane was actually perched on a rocky islet in a finger extending from the loch. It made a formidable moat. The forbidding gray stone merged with the lower reaches of the castle walls. The original Banes must have had a lot of enemies. One reached the castle by way of a long, arched stone bridge over the water.
First one had to pass between two square stone gatehouses with a stout ironbound oaken door between them. Tony pulled up and honked the horn. Someone cautiously opened the gate a crack.
"Is that you, Fergus?" Tony shouted. "Open up, man!" A square, burly man in singlet and kilt squeezed himself out of the opening and stood blinking at them suspiciously. Penelope noticed that he had left a shotgun leaning against the doorjamb where he could reach it easily.
"Ye canna' ha'e the dogs wi' you," Fergus said.
"Nonsense, man. Let us in."
"The laird will na' like it," Fergus said stubbornly.
"The laird won't like it if two paying guests turn around and drive back to London. Now, open up."
Grumbling, the guard swung the door wide open. Tony drove on through. The gate closed behind them. Tony drove the car in first gear down the length of the narrow stone bridge. There was only an inch or two of space on either side. At the far end a twenty-foot iron portcullis barred their way.
"Rather hard to get in," Penelope said.
"You should try to get out without paying," Tony laughed.
There was a tortured creaking sound, and the portcullis began to rise. Penelope could sense eyes watching them from an arrow slit. Tony drove through while the gate was still rising, with barely an inch of clearance under the foot-long iron spikes. Penelope shivered, trying not to imagine what would happen if the ropes slipped a few inches.
She found herself in a huge cobblestoned blind courtyard filled with parked vehicles. There were a number of gleaming black Mercedes sedans with international permits on the w
indshields among the battered old estate wagons. Tony eased the sports car into an empty space.
Penelope climbed out. The dogs were whining impatiently. She patted them on their long, slender heads and unclipped their chains from the door handle. They leaped out gracefully and stood waiting, their tails wagging. The borzois looked as spectacular as she did, with their tall, narrow bodies and stiltlike legs and silky white fur. They looked up at her expectantly, tongues lolling over sharp white teeth.
"Shouldn't have brought them, you know," Tony said. "They're no good for hunting birds, and they're rather a dangerous breed to have around Sir Angus' gun dogs."
"What, leave my babies behind?" She hugged Stasya around the neck. Igor growled, so she hugged him, too.
"See. They don't even get along with one another. They're only good for hunting wolves and posing for vodka ads."
There was a man hurrying across the courtyard toward them, waving his hands. He was small and wiry, wearing woolen trousers and a rough work shirt with a vest.
"The hounds!" he was shouting. "They'll be letting the hounds out now that it's dark! Quick, this way!"
He was so agitated that Penelope followed him to a small door set in the stone inner wall. She was almost there when there was a great baying sound, and the two wolfhounds were tugging and leaping on the chains, snarling like demented creatures. She wrestled with more than two hundred pounds of dog, dragging them inch by inch toward the doorway.
The dogs that were bounding toward her from the other side of the enclosure were huge — every bit as big as the borzois. There were five of them — shaggy, long-legged creatures with bluish-gray coats and hairy terrierlike faces. She had time to recognize them as Scottish deerhounds, and then Tony was at her side, helping her and the man in the vest to drag the borzois inside.
They got the door closed just in time. The deerhounds hurled themselves against it, making it shake. The borzois were beside themselves, too, snarling and straining at their leads.
The man wiped his forehead. "That were a close one," he said. "The laird would na' be pleased to see a dog hurt."
Someone was coming toward them down the corridor between the walls. He was a dark, bulky figure lit in dim flickers by the light that was still coming in the narrow slits in the stone. When he drew close, Penelope could see a long, sallow face with a dour expression.
"What are you aboot, Muir?" he said in a voice as harsh as his face.
"The laird's hounds," Muir stammered. "They near went mad at the sight of these great beasties."
Tony faced the newcomer. "This is the Baroness Penelope St. John-Orsini, Tom," he said. "I wired you that she was coming."
"You did na' wire me that she would ha'e dogs wi' her."
The borzois were still making a racket, matched by the racket the deerhounds were making outside. The sallow man had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
"I'm sure the kennels can accommodate them," Tony said, scowling.
Muir stepped forward to take the leashes. "I'll take them down, Tom," he said eagerly. "I'll put them in the pen at the end, away from the other dogs."
Penelope kept her hold on the chains. Muir looked at her, surprised.
"I'll keep them in my room," she said.
For a moment the sallow man didn't speak. Then he said, "It is na' possible."
She looked at him steadily. "Then we'll have to make it possible, won't we?" she said.
His eyes flared like coals, and his sallow complexion darkened. There was a clash of wills as tangible as smoke. Penelope stared at him, unblinking.
"Dinna walk them after dark and keep them frae the other dogs," he said finally. He turned abruptly on his heel and walked away.
Tony looked after the departing figure. "That's the first time I ever saw Black Tom back down," he said.
"What does he do around here?" Penelope said.
"Black Tom?" Tony said in surprise. "He's the laird's factor. He's in charge of everything."
"Not quite everything, darling."
Muir was looking at her with something like awe. "I'll take the dogs up to your room, Miss," he said. "I'll see that they're walked first, and then fed."
"See to the luggage, too, Muir. That's a good chap," Tony said. "Can we still get a bite?"
"They're just clearing away, Mr. Cavendish, but Cookie will find you something."
Tony led her down the passageway to the great hall. First they had to pass the ground level of the main tower. It was a circular space, vast and bare, with stone steps winding around and around the walls until they disappeared into gloom.
"The steps," Penelope said. "Don't they twist the wrong way around?"
"Right you are. Astute of you to notice. One of the nasty tricks devised by Sir Angus' ancestors."
"Oh?"
"Left-handedness runs in the Bane clan."
A warning tingle ran down Penelope's spine. "Do go on, darling," she said.
He shrugged. "A left-handed swordsman has a tremendous advantage. You ought to know that from your fencing lessons. The stairs were a booby trap for anyone who got into the castle. They'd let him get this far. The laird would be waiting at the top of the stairs. He'd have free play for his sword. But the poor chap who'd invaded the place, well, he'd find himself bumping his elbow against the wall at every thrust. The Bane could play with his victim as long as he liked, then run him through."
She gave a convincing shudder. "Clever. Is Sir Angus left-handed?"
"Never noticed. I suppose so. It tends to be hereditary. Lot of left-handed Kerrs and Sterlings, too. You'll find these wrong-way staircases all over Scotland."
She looked up into the stone corkscrew. The swordsman who had killed poor Fenshaw had been left-handed. But he hadn't worn a Kerr or a Sterling kilt.
"Come along, darling," she said. "I'm famished."
The great hall was an enormous cavern of a place, hung with threadbare tapestries and tarnished shields. It had been converted into a dining room with benches and trestle tables. The tables were still littered with the remains of a gargantuan meal. Two brisk, unsmiling women in aprons were clearing away.
A trio of late diners was still finishing up. They got up, picking their teeth, as Tony and the Baroness entered. Penelope glanced curiously at them as they passed. They were fat, complacent men with comfortable bellies and a ponderous manner. They looked as if they'd been dressed up by an expensive costumer for a musical comedy about a shooting holiday in Scotland, with their leather-buttoned, many-pocketed tweed jackets in shades of green and heather and rust-orange. The one on the left was actually wearing plaid knickers.
"Dans kann ich nicht essen, das schottisch Nahrung," plaid knickers was complaining to his friends. He belched.
Tony steered her to a corner table under an overhanging balcony. A bent little fellow with a brick-red complexion and thinning sandy hair, wearing kilt, shirtsleeves, and a barbecue apron, came bustling over.
"Och, now, if it is na' Sir Tony himself!" he said with genuine pleasure. "What can I be gettin' you?"
"Hello, Jaimie. Oh, just whip us up anything that isn't too much trouble."
"Trouble? Don't speak o' trouble! I will na' hear o' it! 'Tis nae trouble to serve you and your lady." He tilted a chin at the empty tables to indicate contempt for the departed Germans. "Na' like that birkie lot!" He shook his head ruefully. "I dinna know what the laird can be thinkin' o', having them tramp over the moors and playin' at bein' gentlemen."
"They seem to have enough money," Penelope said, smiling.
"Money, I ken," Jaimie said. "But what's that without breedin'?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Would you believe it but one o' those German fellows tried to bribe MacCaig to chain a live duck for a decoy for him. And foreshore, at that! And out o' season to boot!"
"Shocking!" the Baroness said.
"Aye, it is that." The little man cocked his head. "Weel, now, how wad you be likin' a wee bowl of hotchpotch, an a stoved howtowdie wi' drappit eggs? And maybe
some stovies on the side?"
"Fine," Tony said.
"And how about a wee drappie first?" Penelope said.
The little man beamed happily. "I'll fetch it meself."
"Can you whip up a martini?"
His lip curled in distaste. "Och, noo, you dinna want to drink that muck when you can be havin' Sir Angus' gude malt whiskey!"
She laughed. "Whiskey it is, then."
He brought three tumblers of smoky Scotch, neat, and joined them for a drink.
"Slainte," she said, raising her glass.
"Slainte mhor," the little man said, and drained his drink in one gulp. He went back to his kitchen and brought them a miracle of stewed fowl with poached eggs, done with the perfection of simplicity. She'd never had anything better. They were sitting over cigarettes and more of the Crombie Scotch when there was the stamp of heavy footsteps and another one of the Germans entered. He must have been the one they heard shooting on the moor.
He didn't see them immediately, tucked as they were in the corner under an overhang. He was cast in the same mold as the three who had left earlier: a stout man with a shiny red face and a basketball belly under a hunting vest and green tweed jacket. He was wearing a natty tweed cap. He was carrying a shotgun, carelessly held at the horizontal and unbroken.
"Jaimie!" he called good-humoredly, "please to come out here immediately!"
In one hand he was holding the tattered remains of a pheasant. It looked as if it had been shot at point-blank range. When the little cook appeared, he thrust it toward him.
"I wish to have it for my supper, please, my good man. Roasted, with potatoes and sauerkraut in tokay."
Jaimie looked at the tattered thing with distaste. He made no move to take it.
"Och, ye've shot a pheasant, ha' you? The season nae starts till October."
"I'm sure the milord Bane will not tell," the fat man chuckled. "Why should he mind?"
"And you dinna shoot it on the rise, I'll wager."
The fat man looked puzzled. "But then I might have missed it."
