On Dangerous Ground (9 page)

“No need for that. The Brigadier has a manservant who also cooks.”

“How very convenient. And you’d come too?”

“Some of the time at least.”

“The Brigadier must be as wealthy as this American, what with private airplanes and so forth. What does he do?”

“Various things on the international scene.” Hannah hurried on. “I was telling your gardener what a thrill it was for me to be here. I first heard of Loch Dhu when I was a young girl from my mother’s father. He was an army officer during the Second World War and served on Lord Louis Mountbatten’s staff in the Far East.” She was making it up as she went along. “Gort was his name, Colonel Edward Gort. Perhaps your brother spoke of him?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear. You see, Ian was involved in a dreadful air crash in India in forty-four. He was only saved by the courage of his batman, Jack Tanner, a man who’d grown up with him on the estate here. My brother was hospitalized on and off for years. Brain damage, you see. He was never the same. He never talked about the war. To be frank, the poor dear never talked much about anything. He wasn’t capable.”

“How tragic,” Hannah said. “My grandfather never mentioned that. I believe the last time he saw him was in China.”

“That must have been before the crash.”

Hannah got up and poured more tea into her cup. “Can I get you anything?”

“Another cigarette, my dear, my only vice and at my age, what does it matter?”

Hannah did as she was told, then walked to the French window and looked out from the terrace at the great house in the distance. “It looks wonderful. Battlements and turrets, just as I imagined it would be.” She turned. “I’m a hopeless romantic. It was the idea of the Laird of the Clan, as my grandfather described it, that intrigued me. Bagpipes and kilts and all that sort of thing.” She came back. “Oh, and there was another rather romantic side to it. He told me that Major Campbell always carried a silver Bible with him that was a family heirloom. He’d had it at Dunkirk, but the story was that all the Campbells had carried it into battle for centuries.”

“You’re right,” she said. “It was certainly in Rory Campbell’s pocket when he died at the Battle of Culloden fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie. It’s interesting that you should mention it. I haven’t thought about that Bible in years. I suppose it must have been lost in the plane crash.”

“I see,” Hannah said carefully.

“Certainly nothing survived except poor Ian and Jack Tanner, of course.” She sighed. “I just heard the other day that Jack died in New York on a visit to see his daughter. A good man. He ran things on the estate for me for years. The new man, Murdoch, is a pain. You know the kind. College degree in estate management so he thinks he knows everything.”

Hannah nodded and got up. “So, we can have Ardmurchan Lodge?”

“Whenever you like. Leave me the details and I’ll have Murdoch send you a contract.”

Hannah was already prepared for that and took an envelope from her handbag, which she placed on the table. “There you are. The Brigadier’s office is in Cavendish Square. I’ll find Angus, shall I, and get him to run me back to the plane?”

“You’ll find him in the garden.”

Hannah went and took her hand, which was cool and weightless. “Goodbye, Lady Katherine.”

“Goodbye, my dear, you’re a very lovely young woman.”

“Thank you.”

She turned to the French window and Lady Katherine said, “A strange coincidence. When that lawyer was here he asked about the Bible, too. Said Mr. Morgan had mentioned reading about it in an article on Highland legends in some American magazine. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

“It certainly is,” Hannah said. “He must have been disappointed it wasn’t on show.”

“That was the impression I received.” The old woman smiled. “Goodbye, my dear.”

Hannah found Angus digging in the garden. “Ready to go, Miss?”

“That’s right,” she said.

As they walked round to the front, a Range Rover drew up and a tall, saturnine young man in a hunting jacket and a deerstalker cap got out. He looked at her inquiringly.

“This is Miss Bernstein,” Angus told him. “She’s been seeing the Mistress.”

“On behalf of my employer, Brigadier Charles Ferguson,” she said. “Lady Katherine has agreed to rent the Ardmurchan Lodge to us.”

He frowned. “She didn’t mention anything to me about it.” He hesitated, then put out his hand. “Stewart Murdoch. I’m the estate factor.”

“I only spoke to her this morning.”

“Then that explains it. I’ve been at Fort William for two days.”

“I’ve left her full details and look forward to receiving the contract.” She smiled and got into the station wagon. “I must rush, there’s a Lear waiting for me at Ardmurchan. We’ll meet again, I’m sure.”

Angus got behind the wheel and drove away. Murdoch watched them go, frowning, then went inside.

The Lear took off, climbing steeply, rising to thirty thousand feet rapidly. Hannah checked her watch. It was only just after two. With luck she’d be at Gatwick by three-thirty, sooner with a tailwind. Another hour to reach the Ministry of Defence. She picked up the phone and told the co-pilot to patch her in to Ferguson.

His voice was clear and sharp. “Had a good trip?”

“Excellent, sir, and the lease on Ardmurchan Lodge is in the bag. No luck with the Bible. The lady hasn’t seen it in years. Always presumed it was lost in the plane crash.”

“Yes, well we know it wasn’t, don’t we?”

“Looks like we’re in for a sort of country house weekend treasure hunt, sir.”

“You mean Morgan is, Chief Inspector.”

“So how do we handle it?”

“I don’t know, I’ll think of something. Come home, Chief Inspector, I’ll look for you at the office.”

She put down the phone, made herself a cup of instant coffee, and settled back to read a magazine.

When she reached the Ministry she found Ferguson pacing up and down in his office. “Ah, there you are, I was beginning to despair,” he said unreasonably. “And don’t bother to take your coat off, we can’t keep the Prime Minister waiting.”

He took down his coat from the stand, picked up his Malacca cane, and went out and she hurried after him, slightly bewildered.

“But what’s going on, sir?”

“I spoke to the Prime Minister earlier and he told me he wished to see us the moment you got back, so let’s get cracking.”

The Daimler was admitted at the security gates at the end of Downing Street with no delay. In fact, the most famous door in the world opened the second they got out of the car, and an aide took their coats and ushered them up the stairs past all the portraits of previous Prime Ministers and along the corridor, knocking gently on the door of the great man’s study.

They went in, the door closed behind them, the Prime Minister looked up from his desk. “Brigadier.”

“May I introduce Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, Prime Minister, my assistant?”

“Chief Inspector.” The Prime Minister nodded. “I was naturally more than intrigued by your telephone call this morning. Now tell me everything you’ve discovered about this affair so far.”

So Ferguson told him, leaving nothing out.

When he was finished, the Prime Minister turned to Hannah. “Tell me about your visit to this place.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

As she ended, he said, “No question that Lady Katherine could be wrong?”

“Absolutely not, Prime Minister, she was adamant that she hadn’t seen it, the Bible I mean, in years.”

There was silence while the Prime Minister brooded. Ferguson said, “What would you like us to do?”

“Find the damn thing before they do, Brigadier, we’ve had enough trouble with Hong Kong. It’s over, we’re coming out, and that’s it, so if this thing exists, you find it and burn it. And I don’t want the Chinese involved. There would be hell to pay, and keep our American cousins out of it too.”

It was Hannah who had the temerity to cut in. “You really think all this is true, Prime Minister, that it exists?”

“I’m afraid I do. After the Brigadier phoned me this morning I spoke with a certain very distinguished gentleman, now in his nineties, who was once a power at the Colonial Office during the war. He tells me that many years ago, he recalls rumours about this Chungking Covenant. Apparently it was always dismissed as a myth.”

“So what do you wish us to do, Prime Minister?”

“We can hardly ask Prince Ali ben Yusef for permission to ransack the house and we can hardly send the burglars in.”

“He leaves in four weeks and Morgan moves straight in,” Hannah said.

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Once he’s in he can take his time and do anything he wants.” The Prime Minister looked up at Ferguson. “But you’ll be there at this Ardmurchan Lodge to keep an eye on things. What do you intend to do?”

“Improvise, sir.” Ferguson smiled.

The Prime Minister smiled back. “You’re usually rather good at that. See to it, Brigadier, don’t let me down. Now you must excuse me.”

As they settled in the back of the Daimler, Hannah said, “What now?”

“We’ll go up to Ardmurchan Lodge just before Morgan in three to four weeks. In the meantime, I want a check on him. Use all international police contacts. I want to know where he goes and what he does.”

“Fine.”

“Good, now let me give you dinner. Blooms, I think, in Whitechapel. You can’t say no to that, Chief Inspector, the finest Jewish restaurant in London.”

After leaving the Ministry of Defence, Dillon had simply caught a taxi to Stable Mews not far from Ferguson’s flat in Cavendish Square. He had a two-bedroom cottage there at the end of the cobbled yard. By the time he reached it the pain had come again quite badly, so he took one of the morphine capsules Bellamy had prescribed and went and lay down on the bed.

It obviously knocked him out and when he came awake quite suddenly it was dark. He got up, visited the toilet, and splashed water over his face. In the mirror he looked truly awful and he shuddered and went downstairs. He checked his watch. It was seven-thirty. He really needed something to eat, he knew that, and yet the prospect of food was repugnant to him.

Perhaps a walk would clear his head and then he could find a cafe. He opened the front door. Rain fell gently in a fine mist through the light of the street lamp on the corner. He pulled on his jacket, aware of the weight of the Walther, and paused, wondering whether to leave it, but the damn thing had been a part of him for so long. He found an old Burberry trenchcoat and a black umbrella and ventured out.

He walked from street to street, pausing only once to go into a corner pub where he had a large brandy and a pork pie, which was so disgusting that just one bite made him want to throw up.

He continued to walk aimlessly. There was a certain amount of fog now, crouching at the end of the street, and it gave a closed-in feeling to things as if he was in his own private world. He felt a vague sense of alarm, probably drug paranoia, and somewhere in the distance Big Ben struck eleven, the sound curiously muffled by the fog. There was silence now, and then the unmistakable sound of a ship’s foghorn as it moved down river, and he realized the Thames was close at hand.

He turned into another street and found himself beside the river. There was a corner shop still open. He went in and bought a packet of cigarettes and was served by a young Pakistani youth.

“Would there be a cafe anywhere near at hand?” Dillon asked.

“Plenty up on High Street, but if you like Chinese, there’s the Red Dragon round the corner on China Wharf.”

“An interesting name,” Dillon said, lighting a cigarette, hand shaking.

“The tea clippers used to dock there in the old days of the China run.” The youth hesitated. “Are you all right?”

“Nothing to worry about, just out of hospital,” Dillon said, “but it’s kind of you to ask.”

He walked along the street past towering warehouses. It was raining heavily now, and then he turned the corner and saw a ten-foot dragon in red neon shining through the rain. He put down his umbrella, opened the door, and went in.

It was a long, narrow room with dark paneled walls, a bar of polished mahogany, and a couple of dozen tables each covered with a neat white linen cloth. There were a number of artifacts on display and Chinese watercolors on the wall.

There was only one customer, a Chinese of at least sixty with a bald head and round, enigmatic face. He was no more than five feet tall and very fat, and in spite of his tan gabardine suit bore a striking resemblance to a bronze statue of Buddha, which stood in one corner. He was eating a dish of cuttlefish and chopped vegetables with a very Western fork and ignored Dillon completely.

There was a Chinese girl behind the bar. She had a flower in her hair and wore a
cheongsam
in black silk, embroidered with a red dragon which was twin to the one outside.

“I’m sorry,” she said in perfect English. “We’ve just closed.”

“Any chance of a quick drink?” Dillon asked.

“I’m afraid we only have a table license.”

She was very beautiful with her black hair and pale skin, dark, watchful eyes and high cheekbones, and Dillon felt like reaching out to touch her and then the red dragon on her dark dress seemed to come alive, undulating, and he closed his eyes and clutched at the bar.

Once in the Mediterranean on a diving job for the Israelis that had involved taking out two PLO high-speed boats that had been involved in landing terrorists by night in Israel, he had run out of air at fifty feet. Surfacing half-dead he’d had the same sensation as now of drifting up from the dark places into light.

The fat man had him in a grip of surprising strength and put him into a chair. Dillon took several deep breaths and smiled. “Sorry about this. I’ve been ill for some time and I probably walked too far tonight.”

The expression on the fat man’s face did not alter, and the girl said in Cantonese, “I’ll handle this, Uncle, finish your meal.”

Dillon, who spoke Cantonese rather well, listened with interest as the man replied, “Do you think they will still come, niece?”