The Hill of the Red Fox

by Allan Campbell McLean

  Suddenly he snapped the lid shut, and lit the cigarette, all with his left hand. The revolver never wavered.

  “So you thought I was at the shore,” he said slowly. “No, my friend, I expected trouble tonight, and I stayed here. My doctors tell me that I have a weak heart. Too much excitement could kill me.” He laughed shortly. “And I am afraid mine is a rather exciting life.”

  Sitting there, a few feet away from him, I could hardly believe that I had once chatted and laughed with this man. The ready smile had vanished and his mouth was compressed in a hard, ruthless line. He no longer spoke in short, clipped sentences, and whilst his English had no trace of an accent, it was not the English of slurred consonants and long vowels so typical of an officer and gentleman.

  He saw my eyes waver from his face to the door, and he said, “I shouldn’t try anything rash if I were you. You are not dealing with a soft English army officer. You are dealing with Colonel Zaborin, the Head of the Soviet espionage system in Western Europe.”

  My obvious astonishment seemed to amuse him, and he continued, “Do you not think I played my part well? Major Cassell, the stupid, good-natured army officer, who was silly enough to sit up all night bird-watching. It was a good joke, was it not? The fools were so busy laughing they never thought Major Cassell might be watching for something other than birds.

  “I have worked well for the Soviet state, Master Cameron. Reuter will be the third atomic scientist I have smuggled out of this country. The third! And there have been others — not scientists — but almost as valuable to us. But of course there is your famous Intelligence Service. What did they do about it?” He laughed harshly. “Nothing. They were baffled.

  “It is the simple schemes that succeed, my friend. Simple and well planned. My scientists walked into Euston Station carrying a briefcase. They were wearing a neat business suit, like dozens of other professional men, and they disappeared into a cloakroom. When they came out they were dressed as sportsmen, wearing heavy tweeds, homespun stockings, and studded shoes. A seat had been booked for them and their baggage was waiting on the rack. The baggage of a sportsman. Rods and guns and the like. A better disguise than a false beard, eh? And they journeyed to Skye. Ransome was the first of the scientists. Then Hunt, and now Reuter. Simple, eh? Just another visitor to Major Cassell for the shooting and fishing. A hospitable man, the Major.

  “Then at midnight on a Saturday — always on a Saturday, Master Cameron, when all good Skyemen are indoors preparing for the ordeal of their Sabbath — my men were taken aboard a submarine bound for Murmansk. A precious cargo, eh, and all done so simply.”

  I saw his fingers tighten around the butt of his revolver, and I stiffened back in the chair.

  “But for you, my friend,” he said softly, “I could have completed my mission here undetected. If Beaton had disposed of you as he was instructed, Reuter would not have needed an armed guard tonight. I heard the shots. They will have had to kill some poor fools of crofters, and not even I can explain that away.”

  “When I last saw Dr Reuter,” I burst out triumphantly, “he was lying flat on his back with two men standing guard over him.”

  A vein in his forehead started to twitch, but he never raised his voice.

  “So your friends have got Reuter, eh?” he said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, and all the rest of your gang,” I said boldly.

  “In that case I must thank you for providing me with a way out, Master Cameron,” he said smoothly. “Your friends would like to shoot me, yes, but they will not shoot you. You and I will take a walk to the shore, and I don’t think any obstacles will be placed in our way.”

  “But …” I started, when there was a clattering of feet in the passage outside and the door was swung back violently on its hinges. Duncan Mòr stood framed in the opening.

  Looking at him with a glad smile of recognition, I was happy that I was on his side. His great figure filled the doorway, and what reassurance I found in his imposing bulk. He must have run all the way from the shore, but his breath came evenly enough despite the quick rise and fall of his chest. He was soaked to the waist, and his trousers clung wetly to his legs. His shirt was stained red with blood, and I saw that he had a long, jagged cut across his cheek. In his right hand he carried a rifle.

  I suppose it took me only a fraction of a second to take in these details, and at the same time the Russian snapped, “Drop that gun, or the boy dies.”

  I looked into the muzzle of his revolver and saw that his finger had tightened around the trigger, and I gazed at that crooked index finger like one hypnotized. There was a dull thud as Duncan Mòr let his rifle slip to the floor, and only then did I manage to tear my eyes away from the unwavering barrel of the revolver in the Russian’s hand.

  “Kick that rifle away,” he ordered, “and then get back against the wall.”

  Duncan Mòr kicked the rifle across the room and backed slowly to the wall. He met my eyes and showed his white teeth in a reassuring smile.

  “Well, Alasdair Beag, we managed it right enough,” he said calmly. “They are finished, the lot of them, but I only wish I could have got my hands on the Red Fellow before the bridge went up.”

  “Not finished,” corrected the Colonel grimly. “Not all of them. You have forgotten me.”

  “Not at all,” retorted Duncan Mòr contemptuously. “You are finished along wi’ the rest of your crowd. You’ll never blast your way out wi’ that wee pea-shooter in your fist.”

  “I think I will,” said the Russian evenly. “I took good care to prepare for all eventualities. I have been in touch with the Commander of the submarine that was to pick up Reuter, and she will lie out in the Sound until two a.m.” He glanced swiftly at his watch. “It is now ten past one. We have plenty of time, my friends.”

  “Time for what?” asked Duncan Mòr grimly.

  “Time for us to get to the shore and for you to row me out to the submarine,” said the Russian calmly.

  Duncan Mòr threw back his head and laughed his great, booming laugh, and I stiffened in my chair, appalled by the incongruity of the scene. The Russian was crouched forward tensely, the revolver clenched tightly in his fist, and I was sitting bolt upright in the straight-backed chair, dazed with fright, whilst Duncan Mòr was shaking with laughter, his head thrown back and his hands on his hips, in a relaxed, almost careless attitude.

  I could not understand the reason for it until I saw a dull flush spreading over the Russian’s face, and the nervous twitching of his mouth. Without a weapon in his hand Duncan Mòr had succeeded in shaking Colonel Zaborin’s confidence.

  “Perhaps you will laugh some more if I squeeze the trigger and put a bullet through the boy,” he rasped. “Enough of this foolery, MacDonald. I have no time to waste. You will lead the way to the bay. Master Cameron will be a few yards behind you and I shall be directly behind him — with this revolver in his back. One false move on your part and the boy dies.”

  “Good enough,” said Duncan Mòr soberly. “But the boy stays on the shore. Myself will row you out to the submarine.”

  The Russian laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh and it revealed his thoughts more eloquently than words.

  “The boy goes with us,” he stated.

  “And what guarantee have I got that he won’t be shot the minute you board the submarine?” demanded Duncan Mòr.

  “You have no guarantee, and you are in no position to ask for one,” said the Russian flatly. “My actions will be in accordance with my duty to the Soviet state.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “If you refuse — and I will give you five minutes to decide if you want to condemn the boy to death — I will pull the trigger. Master Cameron is about seven feet away from me, and this pea-shooter as you call it, is a very effective weapon.”

  “I know your kind, Cassell,” barked Duncan Mòr. “There would be no coming back for either of us, if we stepped into that coble.”

  “The choice is yours,” said the R
ussian shortly. “You have four minutes.”

  “You could shoot the boy, right enough,” went on Duncan Mòr, in a quieter tone, “and maybe you could shoot me, too. But you haven’t a chance of getting away.”

  “I know how to die,” said the Russian curtly. “But at least I would have the satisfaction of disposing of a bungling idiot who has ruined my plans,” and he directed a look at me of such concentrated venom that I felt the goose-pimples rising on my flesh.

  I thought I had been afraid before, but at that moment, for the first time, I knew the meaning of real fear. Colonel Zaborin would shoot me down like a dog, and enjoy doing it. There was no mercy in those cold, unblinking eyes.

  “But what if twenty odd men, all armed, came bursting into the Lodge?” persisted Duncan Mòr. “You couldn’t kill the lot o’ them; you would be dead meat before you could squeeze that trigger a couple o’ times.”

  “Why do you think Communism is on the march all over the world?” said the Russian fiercely. “It is because it is greater than the life of any one of us. We Russians would never let an idiot of a boy stand in our way, but you would. If any attempt is made to take me, the boy goes first. But you would be afraid to sacrifice him. That is why you British and the Americans are doomed. You place too high a value on worthless skins.” He shot a quick glance at his watch. “Two minutes.”

  “Before we go I would like to know one thing,” said Duncan Mòr easily. As he spoke he took several swift paces across the room until the Russian halted him with a menacing jerk of the revolver. “Tell me, was it yourself had that money put in my house for the police to find, or was it that red rogue of a Murdo Beaton?”

  “Beaton placed the money there on my orders,” said the Russian coldly.

  “Do you know,” said Duncan Mòr, inching forward, “it was the first time in all my life I was ever accused o’ lifting as much as a penny piece?”

  “I am not interested in your personal history,” returned the Russian.

  As he glanced again at his watch, I saw Duncan Mòr take another quick step forward.

  “One minute.” The Russian’s voice was flat, completely emotionless.

  “I swore I would break in two the man who did that to me,” went on Duncan Mòr, and I noticed the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. “I am a man of my word, Cassell, whatever.”

  I thought I heard voices in the distance, but neither of them seemed to have heard anything. The muzzle of the Russian’s revolver still pointed unwaveringly at my chest, but his eyes were riveted on Duncan Mòr’s face. As for Duncan Mòr, he was standing poised on the balls of his feet, leaning slightly forward from the hips. He glanced at me and smiled, and raised his right hand to his head and let it fall again to his side. I thought he was brushing back a lock of hair, but it was also the gesture he always made whenever we parted.

  Colonel Zaborin drew a deep breath.

  “You have got exactly thirty seconds,” he said, in the same even, controlled voice.

  I was paralysed with fear. It gripped my stomach so that I was almost physically sick, and my tongue felt like a dry rag in my mouth.

  “Thirty seconds is it?” said Duncan Mòr, smiling still. “Well, well, many a better man than me had less.”

  I don’t quite know how it happened, but Duncan Mòr launched himself forward in one swift leap, and even as he started to spring, his long right arm reached out and grasped the back of my chair, upending it. I was catapulted out of the chair across the room. As I fell, I felt the hot blast of the revolver and was almost deafened by the report.

  I struck my head on the floor, half stunning myself, but I tried to struggle back to my feet. As I raised my head, I saw that Duncan Mòr’s broad back was between me and the Russian. Then the revolver spoke again and the room was full of the acrid smell of cordite. The shot must have caught Duncan Mòr in the chest, for he half spun round and seemed to crumple at the knees. His hands were at his sides and I saw them clench and unclench, then he took a step forward and half sprang, half toppled over the desk. His hands sought Zaborin’s throat and the Russian crashed to the floor beneath his weight.

  I struggled to get to my feet, but my legs seemed to have turned to rubber. An ornate silver inkstand on the desk had been overturned in the struggle and the ink was dripping steadily on to the carpet, forming a little black pool. I watched it inanely, feeling the room swimming about me.

  Once again I thought I heard voices, and somehow or other I raised myself to my feet. The voices seemed to draw nearer and I was sure that I heard footsteps clattering up the stone steps of the Lodge.

  I took an unsteady step forward, wondering why the two figures behind the desk were so still. The floor seemed to come up to meet me, and something like a shooting star exploded before my eyes. I sank into a black pit and knew no more.

  Chapter 24

  When I opened my eyes again I was lying on a sofa in a strange room. The light hurt my eyes and I shut them again quickly. My forehead seemed to be on fire and my head was throbbing madly. I felt weak and sick and dizzy.

  I opened my eyes again, shielding them with my hand against the glare of the light, and looked around the room. Hector MacLeod was standing with his back to the fire. He crossed quickly to the sofa and bent over me.

  I noticed with a shock of surprise that he seemed suddenly to have become a very old man. His face was grey with fatigue, anxious and careworn. For the first time I noticed the sagging pouches of skin under his eyes and the deep wrinkles that lined the corners of his mouth.

  “How are you feeling, Alasdair Beag?” he asked, attempting a wan smile.

  “Fine,” I said, “except for my head. It’s aching a bit.” I shivered. “And it’s awfully cold in here.”

  Hector drew the blankets up to my chin. They had been draped over my legs and I had not even noticed they were there.

  “The doctor from Staffin is here,” said Hector. “He will be in to see you in a wee while.”

  I tried to blink away the white spots that kept dancing in front of my eyes.

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “At the Lodge,” he said slowly.

  The memory of all that had happened in the Major’s study came flooding back, and I cried, “Is Duncan Mòr all right? And the Major? He didn’t get away, did he?”

  Hector MacLeod scrubbed at his bristly chin with his fist. It made a sound like sandpaper on wood.

  “Duncan Mòr saw to the Major,” he said at length. “No, no, he didn’t get away. When we got to him his neck was broken. He was dead, a bhalaich.”

  “And is the doctor seeing to Duncan Mòr?” I wanted to know.

  Hector swallowed, and said in a strangled sort of voice, “Aye, that’s it. The doctor is seeing to Duncan Mòr.” He patted my head awkwardly. “Just you rest now, Alasdair Beag. It is rest you are needing.”

  I watched him as he walked back to the fire, noticing once again how old and tired he looked. He took out his pipe and stared at it absently, then thrust it back into his pocket again. I shut my eyes thankfully and I believe I would have gone straight to sleep if the doctor had not come into the room.

  The doctor was a tiny man with a face like a wrinkled gnome. He sat on the sofa and took my pulse and chatted about my father whom he said he had known well. He had a cheerful, easy manner, and he did not seem a bit like a doctor, not even when he started to ask the sort of questions doctors always ask.

  Hector MacLeod accompanied him to the door and they stood there for a few moments, talking together in low tones, and the doctor handed something to Hector. Then they shook hands and the door closed behind the little man.

  Hector came back to the sofa. “We will get you home now, Alasdair,” he said. “The doctor says you are suffering from shock and nervous exhaustion, but you will be right enough after a good long sleep.”

  He helped me to my feet and wrapped the blankets around my shoulders. Once I was on my feet the sickness rose in my throat, and
I was grateful for the strength of his supporting arm as we made our way to the door.

  Calum Stewart was waiting outside the door, almost as if he had been on guard there, and he smiled at me and took my arm on the other side. As we crossed the hall I glanced down the passage and saw that the study door was closed.

  “I’d like to see Duncan Mòr before I go,” I said.

  “Not now,” they said in unison, and hurried me out of the Lodge.

  There were several cars parked outside the Lodge, but I was too tired to ask what they were doing there. The three of us climbed into the back of a black police car, and I noticed that the constable in the driving seat was the man who had tried to arrest Duncan Mòr. He nodded to me as I got in, and I felt more than ever that I was sleepwalking; ever since I had entered the Lodge there had been an unreal, dream-like quality about the events of the night.

  We drove to Achmore in silence. I was too weary to speak and I suppose the men were tired too.

  When we got to the cottage I was surprised to see that Donald Alec MacDonald was sitting on the bench. Mairi and the cailleach were still up. Mairi’s small face was pale and drawn and there were black shadows under her eyes. Hector asked her to heat a glass of milk and she went off obediently after an anxious glance in my direction. The cailleach was sitting hunched forward in the rough wooden chair, holding out her hands to the peat fire flames. Donald Alec MacDonald spoke to her in Gaelic, but if she heard him she made no reply. She seemed to be withdrawn within herself, lost in brooding thought.

  When I had undressed and got into bed, Hector MacLeod came in with a glass of warm milk. He handed me two white tablets.

  “The doctor says these will make you sleep,” he said, “and there is to be no getting up in the morning until we have seen how you are.”

  I swallowed the tablets and gulped down the warm milk. A dozen questions rose to my lips, but my body was desperate for sleep. I felt my eyelids drooping, but I forced them open again.

  “Does Mairi know about … about her father?” I asked.