Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"Still out. Is that all right, Doc?" It was Smith speaking, Dillon recognized his voice.

Someone else said, "Let me see." A finger checked his pulse on the right wrist and then his track suit top was unzipped and a stethoscope applied. "Pulse fine, heart fine," the doctor said and rolled back Dillon's eyelids one after the other and probed with a light. He was a tall, cadaverous Indian in a white coat, and Dillon, by an act of supreme will, stayed rigid, staring. "No, he'll be awake soon. One cannot be certain of the time element with these drug dosages. There are individual variations in response. We'll come back in an hour."

The door closed, the key turned. Two bolts were also rammed home. Dillon was on his feet now, moved to the door and stood there listening. There was little point in wasting time on the door, that was obvious. He moved to the window and drew the curtain and was immediately presented with solid bars. He peered out. Rain fell steadily, dripping through a leak from the gutter which was just above his head. There was a garden outside, a high wall about fifty yards away.

If the gutter was where it was that meant there was only roof space above him. It could be an attic, but there was only one way to find out.

There was a small wooden table and a chair against the wall. He dragged the table into the corner by the window and climbed into it. The plaster of the ceiling was so old and soft that when he put his elbow into it, it broke at once, shards of plaster crumbling, dropping into the room. He enlarged the hole quickly, tearing wooden lathing away with his bare hands. When it was large enough, he got down, placed the chair on the table, then clambered up on it, pulling himself up to find a dark, echoing roof space, a chink of light drifting through a crack here and there.

He moved cautiously, walking on beams. The roof space was extensive and obviously covered the whole house, a rabbit warren of half-walls and eaves. He finally came to a trapdoor which he opened cautiously. Below was a small landing in darkness, stairs leading down to where there was diffused light.

Dillon dropped to the landing, paused to listen, and then went down the stairs. He found himself at one end of a long corridor which was fully lit. He hesitated, and at that moment, a door opened on his left and Smith and the Indian doctor walked out. And Smith was fast, Dillon had to give him that, pulling a Walther from his pocket even as Dillon moved in, smashing a fist into his stomach and raising a knee into the man's face as he keeled over. Smith dropped the Walther as he fell and Dillon picked it up.

"All right, old son," he said to the doctor. "Answers. Where am I?"

The Indian was hugely alarmed. "St. Mark's Nursing Home, Holland Park, Mr. Dillon. Please." His hands fluttered. "I loathe guns."

"You'll loathe them even more when I've finished with you. What's going on here? Who am I up against?"

"Please, Mr. Dillon." The man was pleading now. "I just work here."

There was a sudden shout and Dillon turned to see the second of his kidnappers standing at the end of the corridor. He drew his Beretta, Dillon took a quick snap-shot with the Walther, the man went over backwards. Dillon shoved the Indian into the room, turned, and went headlong down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom a shrill alarm bell sounded monotonously over and over again. Dillon didn't hesitate, reaching the corridor on the ground floor in seconds, running straight for the door at the far end. He unlocked it hurriedly and plunged out into the garden.

It was raining hard. He seemed to be at the rear of the house and somewhere on the other side he heard voices calling and the bark of a dog. He ran across a piece of lawn and carried on through bushes, a hand raised to protect his face from flailing branches, until he reached the wall. It was about fifteen feet high, festooned with barbed wire. Possible to climb a nearby tree, perhaps, and leap across, but the black wire strung at that level looked ominous. He picked up a large branch lying on the ground and reached up. When he touched the wire there was an immediate flash.

He turned and ran on, parallel to the wall. There was more than one dog barking now, but the rain would help kill his scent, and then he came to the edge of trees and the drive to the gates leading to the outside world. They were closed and two men stood there wearing berets and camouflage uniforms and holding assault rifles.

A Land-Rover drew up and someone got out to speak to them, a man in civilian clothes. Dillon turned and hurried back toward the house. The alarm stopped abruptly. He paused by the rear entrance he had exited from earlier, then opened it. The corridor was silent and he moved along it cautiously and stood at the bottom of the stairs.

There were voices in the distance. He listened for a moment, then went cautiously back up the stairs. The last place they'd look for him, or so he hoped. He reached the corridor on the top floor. Smith and the other man had gone, but as Dillon paused there, considering his next move, the door opened on his right, and for the second time that night the Indian doctor emerged.

His distress was almost comical. "Oh, my God, Mr. Dillon, I thought you well away by now."

"I've returned to haunt you," Dillon told him. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Chowdray-Dr. Emas Chowdray."

"Good. I'll tell you what we're going to do. Somewhere in this place is the person in charge. You're going to take me to where he is. If you don't"-he tucked Chowdray under the chin with the Walther-"you'll loathe guns even more."

"No need for this violence, I assure you, Mr. Dillon, I will comply."

He led the way down the stairs, turning along a corridor on the first floor, reaching a carpeted landing. A curving Regency staircase led to a magnificent hall. The dogs were still barking in the garden outside, but it was so quiet in the hall they could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Where are we going?" Dillon whispered.

"Down there, the mahogany door," Chowdray told him.

"Down we go then."

They descended the carpeted stairs, moved across the hall to the door. "The library, Mr. Dillon."

"Nice and easy," Dillon said. "Open it."

Chowdray did so and Dillon pushed him inside. The walls were lined with books, a fire burned brightly in an Adam fireplace. Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein stood by the fire talking to the two fake telephone engineers.

She turned and smiled. "Come in, Mr. Dillon, do. You've just won me five pounds. I told these two this is exactly where you would end up."

The car which dropped Dillon at his cottage in Stable Mews waited while he went in. He changed into gray slacks, a silk navy blue polo neck sweater, and a Donegal tweed jacket. He got his wallet, cigarette case, and lighter and was outside and into the car again in a matter of minutes. It was not long afterwards that they reached Cavendish Square and he rang the bell of Ferguson's flat. It was Hannah Bernstein who answered.

"Do you handle the domestic chores as well now?" he asked. "Where's Kim?"

"In Scotland," she told him. "You'll find out why. He's waiting."

She led the way along the corridor into the sitting room where they found Ferguson sitting beside the fire reading the evening paper. He looked up calmly. "There you are, Dillon. I must say you look remarkably fit."

"More bloody games," Dillon said.

"A practical test which I thought would save me a great deal of time and indicate just how true the reports I've been getting on you were." He looked at Hannah. "You've got it all on video?"

"Yes, sir."

He returned to Dillon. "You certainly gave poor old Smith a working over, and as for his colleague, it's a good job you only had blanks in that Walther." He shook his head. "My God, Dillon, you really are a bastard when you get going."