Free On Dangerous Ground by Jack Higgins Page B

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