by Jack Higgins
Varley said, "It looks like that same Albanian flying column's been here, too."
"Could we be in trouble?"
"Probably not, as long as we fly that." Varley nodded to the Union Jack pennant mounted at the side of the engine.
"I noticed you don't fly the U.N. flag or wear their blue berets."
"We go our own way. It works better. They don't think of us as taking sides."
"That makes sense."
He heard the throb of a helicopter overhead, unseen in the mist and rain. It reminded him at once of Vietnam, and it brought back the unmistakable smell that only came from burning flesh, once experienced, never forgotten. It was almost too much for Quinn as a hundred memories, dormant for years, came flooding back.
The driver braked and switched off the engine. It was very silent in the rain, the sound of the helicopter fading.
"Bodies, Corporal."
Varley stood and so did Quinn. There were half a dozen of them: a man and a woman and three children, another body facedown some yards away.
"Looks like a family party, all gunned down together." Varley shook his head. "Bastards. I've seen bad things in my time, but this bloody place beats the lot." He turned to the trooper at the machine gun. "Cover us while we move them. We can't very well drive over them."
"I'll help," Quinn told him.
He and Varley and the driver got out and approached the bodies, and for Quinn it really was Vietnam all over again, as if nothing had happened in between. He picked up one of the children, a boy who looked about eight, and took him to the side of the street, laying him down against a wall. Behind him, Varley and the trooper followed with a child each.
Quinn felt dreadful, the darkness creeping into him from deep inside, as Varley and the trooper picked up the man between them, carried him to the wall, then returned for the woman.
He took a deep breath and went to the other body, which was dressed in boots, baggy pants, an old combat jacket, and a woolen hat. It had obviously been shot in the back. He turned the body over and recoiled in horror as he looked into the mud-spattered face of a young woman. The eyes were open, fixed in death. She was perhaps twenty-one or two. She could have been his own daughter.
Varley called, "You need a hand, Senator?"
"No, I can manage."
Quinn knelt, picked the girl up, and stood. He walked to the wall and sat her down so that she was against it. He took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the mud from the face, then closed the eyelids, stood up, walked away, leaned against the wall, and was violently sick.
The trooper with Varley said, "Bloody politicians. Maybe it does them good to see some real shit for a change."
Varley grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. "Thirty years ago, while serving with the Special Forces in Vietnam, that 'bloody politician' won the Congressional Medal of Honor. So why don't you just button your lip and get us out of here?"
The trooper slid behind the wheel, Varley and Quinn got in the rear, and they moved out. The Corporal of Horse said, "You know what we do in London, don't you, Senator? The Household Cavalry? We ride around in breastplates and helmets with plumes and sabers, and the tourists love us. The British public, too. They think that's all we are: chocolate soldiers. So why did I serve in the Falklands at nineteen, in the Gulf War and Bosnia, and now this shit heap?"
"So the great British public is misinformed."
Varley produced a half bottle from his pocket. "Would you like some brandy, Senator? It's strictly against regimental regulations, but medicinal on occasion. Even though it is rotgut."
It burned all the way down, and Quinn coughed and handed it back. "Sorry about what happened back there. I feel as if I let you down."
"It happens to all of us, sir. Don't worry about it."
"The thing is, I have a daughter. Helen. That young woman was just about her age."
"Then I'd say you could do with an extra swallow." And Varley passed the bottle back to him.
Quinn took another drink and thought about his daughter.
W ho at that moment in time was seated in an Oxford pub called The Lion, which was popular with students and just down the street from an old school hall where Act of Class Warfare had its Oxford headquarters. She was sitting in one corner with a young, longhaired student named Alan Grant, drinking dry white wine and laughing a lot. Grant was doing a trick for her. His brother was a security specialist and had sent Grant a new toy--a pen that doubled as a tape recorder. Grant had been amusing himself by recording snatches of conversation and playing them back with appropriately caustic comments. Helen thought it was a riot.
In a booth on the other side of the bar, Rupert Dauncey sat with a minor Oxford professor named Henry Percy, a woolly minded individual fond of just about any kind of cause.
"Thank you for the check, Mr. Dauncey. We at Act of Class Warfare are incredibly grateful for the continuing support of the Rashid Educational Trust."
Rupert Dauncey had already decided the man was a hypocritical creep and wondered how much of the cash had actually stuck to his fingers, but he decided to play the game.
"We're glad to be of help. Now what's all this on Saturday? Some kind of demonstration in London? I hear you're going."
"Indeed we are. Liberty in Europe Day! The United Anarchist Front has organized it."
"Really? I thought there already was liberty in Europe. Well, never mind. So your rosy-cheeked students are going to take part."
"Of course."
"You know the police don't like demonstrations in Whitehall. They can so easily turn into riots."
"The police can't stop us. The voice of the People will be heard!"
"Yes, of course," Rupert agreed dryly. "Are you leading this thing or just one of the marchers?"
Percy stirred uneasily. "Actually, I, uh, I won't be able to be there on Saturday...I have a prior commitment."
I just bet you have, Rupert Dauncey thought but smiled. "Do me a favor. That nice girl over there, I heard her speaking as I passed. I believe she's American. Is she one of your members?"
"Yes on both counts. Helen Quinn. Rhodes Scholar. Charming girl. Her father was actually a Senator."
Rupert, who knew very well who she was, and even knew the boy's name, said, "Introduce me on the way out, won't you? I love meeting fellow Americans abroad."
"Of course." Percy got up and led the way. "Hello, you two. Helen, I'd like you to meet Rupert Dauncey, a countryman of yours."
She smiled. "Hi there, where are you from?"
"Boston."
"Me too! That's great. This is Alan Grant."
Grant obviously saw the whole thing as an intrusion and had turned sullen. He pointedly ignored Dauncey. Rupert carried on. "You're a student here?" he asked her.
"St. Hugh's."
"Ah, an excellent college, I'm told. Professor Percy tells me you're going to this rally on Saturday."
"Absolutely." She was full of enthusiasm.
"Well, take care, won't you? I'd hate to see anything happen to you there. Good-bye. I hope to see you again."
He walked out with Percy, and Grant said in a Cockney accent, "Posh git, who does he think he is?"
"I thought he was nice."
"Well, that's women for you." He touched a button in his pocket, and Rupert's voice rang out: "I'd hate to see anything happen to you there."
"I know what he'd like to see happen to you," he grumbled. "Felt like punching him in the nose."
"Oh, Alan, stop it!" Honestly, sometimes Alan just went too far, Helen thought.
F or Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, the flight to Moidart crossed the English Lake District, the Solway Firth, the Grampian Mountains, and soon the islands of Eigg and Rum came into view, the Isle of Skye to the north. They descended to an old World War Two airstrip with a couple of decaying hangars and a control tower. A station wagon was parked outside the tower, a man in a tweed suit and cap beside it. Lacey taxied the Lear toward him and switched off. Parry opened the door, dropped the
steps, and Lacey led the way down. The man came forward.
"Squadron Leader Lacey, sir?"
"That's me."
"Sergeant Fogarty. They've sent me from Oban."
"Good man. The lady is Detective Superintendent Bernstein from Scotland Yard. She and Mr. Dillon here have important business at Loch Dhu Castle. Take them there and do exactly what the Superintendent tells you. You'll bring them back here."
"Of course, sir."
Lacey turned to the others. "See you later."
T hey approached the castle in twenty minutes, still as imposing as they remembered it, and set well back from the road. The walls were ten feet high, and smoke curled up from the chimney of the lodge. The gates were shut. Dillon and Hannah got out, but there were no handles, and when he pushed, nothing happened.
"Electronic. That's an improvement from the old days."
The front door opened and a man appeared with a hard, raw-boned face. He wore a hunting jacket and carried a sawed-off shotgun under his left arm.
"Good afternoon," Hannah said.
He had a hard Scots voice. "What do you want?" He sounded decidedly unfriendly.
"Now then," Dillon told him. "This is a lady you're dealing with, so watch your tone. And who might you be, son?"
The man stiffened, as if sensing trouble. "My name's Brown. I'm the factor here, so what do you want?"
"Mr. Dillon and I were here some years ago for the shooting," Hannah told him. "We rented Ardmurchan Lodge."
"We know you're running adventure courses for young people at the castle these days," Dillon said, "but we wondered if Ardmurchan Lodge might not still be available. My boss--General Ferguson?--would love to rent it for the shooting again."
"Well, it isn't, and the shooting season's over."
"Not the kind I'm interested in," Dillon told him amicably.
Brown took the shotgun from under his arm. "I think you'd better leave."
"I'd be careful with that--I'm a police officer," Hannah said.
"Police officer, my arse. Get out of here." He cocked the shotgun.
Dillon raised a hand. "We don't want any problems. Obviously, the lodge isn't available. Come on, Hannah."
They went back to the car. "Drive on just out of sight of the gate," Dillon told Fogarty.
"What happened back there is an intelligence matter, Sergeant, you understand?" Hannah said.
"Of course, ma'am."
"Good, then pull in," Dillon told him. "I'm going over the wall and you can give me a push."
They stopped and got out, Fogarty joined his hands together, and Dillon put his left foot in them. The big Sergeant lifted, and Dillon pulled himself over the wall and dropped into the trees on the other side and moved toward the lodge.
B rown was in the kitchen, the gun on the table, and dialing a number on the wall phone, when he heard a slight creak and felt a draft of air. Brown dropped the phone and reached for the shotgun and then became aware of the Walther in Dillon's right hand.
"Naughty, that," Dillon said. "I might have shot you straight away instead of just thinking about it."
"What do you want?" Brown said hoarsely.
"You were phoning the Countess of Loch Dhu in London, am I right?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Dillon slashed him across the face with the Walther. "Am I right?" he asked again.
Brown staggered back, blood on his face. "Yes, damn you. What do you want?"
"Information. Act of Class Warfare. School parties, right? Kids having a nice week in the country, climbing, canoeing on the loch, trekking. That's what you offer?"
"That's right." Brown got a handkerchief out and mopped blood from his face.
"And what about the other courses for the older ones?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"The guys and girls who like to hide their faces with balaclavas and take part in riots. Let me guess. You teach them interesting things like how to make petrol bombs and handle policemen on horseback."
"You're crazy."
Dillon slashed him again.
"I can't help you," Brown said wildly, his face crumbling. "It's as much as my life's worth."
"Really?" Dillon grabbed him by the throat, pushed him across the table, and rammed the muzzle of the Walther against the side of his right knee. "And what's a knee worth? You've got ten seconds to decide."
"No, no. All right. I'll tell you. It's true. They run training courses, just as you say. They come from all over the country, sometimes even abroad. But I just take care of the house and grounds--that's all I know, I swear it!"
"Oh, I doubt that very much. But that's all right. All I needed was your confirmation. That wasn't too bad, was it? Now if you'll just open the gates, I'll be on my way." He picked up the shotgun and tossed it through the open door into some bushes. "Then I suggest you make that phone call to the good Countess. I'm sure she'll be most interested."
Brown shuffled to the front door, pressed a button in a black box, and opened the door. Outside, the main gates began to part. Dillon stopped and turned.
"Don't forget now. Dillon was here, and give her my love."
He walked out into the road and half-ran to the car. He got in beside Hannah and said to Fogarty, "Back to the plane."
They drove away. Hannah said, "You didn't leave anyone dead back there?"
"Now, would I do a thing like that? It turns out he was a very reasonable man, our factor. I'll tell you about it on the plane."
B rown, between a rock and a hard place, took Dillon's advice, of course, and phoned Kate Rashid at her house in London but found that she was out, which made him feel worse. Desperate, his face hurting like hell now, he tried the mobile number he'd been given for emergencies. Kate and Rupert were eating at The Ivy. She listened as Brown poured it all out.
She said calmly, "How badly are you hurt?"
"I'm going to need stitches. The bastard slashed my face with his Walther."
"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Tell me again what he said."
"Something like, say Dillon was here and give her my love."
"That's my Dillon. Get yourself a doctor, Brown. I'll talk to you later." She put her mobile on the table.
The waiter had stood back respectfully. When Rupert nodded, he poured Cristal champagne in both glasses and withdrew.
"To your bright eyes, cousin," he toasted her. "Why is it I smell trouble from the little I've heard?"
"Actually, what you smell is Sean Dillon." She drank a little champagne and then told him what Brown had said. "What's your opinion, darling?"
"Well, obviously they were there on Charles Ferguson's behalf. They didn't even pretend. Their only reason for visiting Loch Dhu was to let you know that they knew."
"What a clever boy you are. Anything else?"
"Yes. In a way, he's calling you out."
"Of course he is. Oh, General Ferguson's in charge, but it always comes down to Dillon. He spent all those years with the IRA, and the Army and the RUC never touched his collar once, the bastard."
"But a clever bastard. So what now?"
"We'll see him tonight. It's time you two met."
"And how do we do that?"
"Because, as you said, he's calling me out. It's an invitation, and I know just where to find him."
6
L ATER THAT AFTERNOON AT FERGUSON'S FLAT, THE GENeral sat by the fire, listening to Hannah Bernstein's account of the trip. "Excellent," he said. "You seem to have behaved with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sean."
"Ah, well, the man needed it."
"So what happens now?"
"She won't let it go. It's like one of those old Westerns. The villain comes out of the saloon to meet the hero for a gunfight in the street."
"An interesting parallel."
"She won't be able to resist a face-to-face."
"And where will this event take place?"
"Where we've met so often before--the Piano Bar at The Dorchester."<
br />
"When?"
"Tonight. She'll be expecting me."
Ferguson nodded. "You know, you could be right. I'd better come with you."
"What about me, sir?" Hannah asked.
"Not this time, Superintendent. You've had a strenuous day. You could do with a night off."
She bridled. "You know, I did pass a stringent medical exam before Special Branch allowed me to return to duty. I'm fine, really I am."
"Yes, well, I'd still prefer you to take the night off."
"Very well, sir," she said reluctantly. "If you've no further need of me, I'll get back to the office and clear a few things off. Are you coming, Sean?"
"Yes, you can take me to Stable Mews."
Ferguson said, "Seven o'clock about right, Sean?"
"Fine by me."
S he dropped him at his cottage, but Dillon didn't go in. He waited until the Daimler had turned the corner, rolled up the garage door, got into the old Mini Cooper he kept as a run-around, and drove away.
He was thinking about Harry Salter. Salter was a very old-fashioned gangster, now reasonably respectable, but not completely so, and he and his nephew, Billy, had been involved as much as anyone else in the feud that had led to the death of Kate Rashid's brothers.
Traffic was as bad as London traffic usually is, but Dillon finally reached Wapping High Street, turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. He parked outside The Dark Man, Salter's pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.
The main bar was very Victorian, with gilt-edged mirrors behind the mahogany bar, and porcelain beer pumps. Bottles arranged against the mirror seemed to cover every conceivable choice for even the most hardened drinker. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool reading the London Evening Standard.
At that time in the afternoon, before the evening trade got going, the bar was empty except for the four men in the corner booth playing poker. They were Harry Salter; Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall, his minders; and Harry's nephew, Billy.
Harry Salter threw down his cards. "These are no bleeding good to me," and then he looked up and saw Dillon and smiled.
