Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"Now then, you piece of dirt," Morgan said.

Fergus was terrified. He got up, the bottle of whiskey in one hand. "Now look, there's no need for this, it was a mistake, I didn't know who she was."

"Mistake?" Morgan said. "Oh, yes, your mistake, you little swine." He turned. "Marco."

Marco was pulling on a pair of leather gloves. Fergus suddenly smashed the whiskey bottle, spraying the bed with its contents, and held up the jagged glass threateningly. "I'll do for you, I swear I will."

As Marco advanced, Fergus swung the bottle. The Sicilian blocked his arm to one side and punched him with sickening force under the ribs. Fergus dropped the bottle and staggered back on the bed.

Morgan said, "Leave him."

Marco stood back and Morgan went forward. "You put your filthy hands on my daughter."

He slashed Fergus across the face with his riding crop again and again, and Fergus, screaming, tried to protect himself with his raised arms. Morgan rained blow after blow, then stood back and Marco moved in again, punching Fergus in the face, sending him to the floor, kicking him with brutal efficiency.

"Enough." Marco stepped back and Fergus lay moaning on the floor. Morgan turned and found Murdoch in the doorway looking as frightened as Fergus had done. "Do you have a problem?" Morgan asked.

"No, Mr. Morgan."

"Good. Let's get going then."

He led the way outside and they got in the station wagon, Marco behind the wheel, and drove away.

It was some time later, evening falling, when Fergus appeared in the doorway. He looked dreadful, blood on his face. He stood there swaying a little and then staggered down the slope to the loch. He waded into the shallows and dropped to his knees, scooping water over his face and head. The pain in his head was terrible, the worst thing he'd ever known. It was really a merciful release when everything went dark and he fell forward into the water. • • • It was eleven o'clock and raining hard as Hannah Bernstein turned the Range Rover in beside the wall of Loch Dhu Castle. "My God," she said, "it's a miracle when it does stop raining here."

"That's bonny Scotland for you," Dillon said. He was all in black, sweater, jeans, running shoes, and now he pulled a black ski mask over his head, only his eyes and mouth showing.

"You certainly look the part," she said.

"That's the idea." He pulled on thin black leather gloves and took a Walther from the glove compartment and fitted the new short Harley silencer to it.

"For God's sake, Dillon, you aren't going to war."

"That's what you think, my lovely." He slipped the gun into his waistband and his teeth flashed in the opening of the ski mask as he smiled. "Here we go then, give me an hour," and he opened the door and was away.

The wall was only twelve feet high and simple enough to negotiate. A crumbling edge or two for footholds and he was over and dropping into damp grass. He moved through trees, came out into an area of open grass, and jogged toward the castle, finally halting in another clump of trees, looking across smooth lawn toward the lighted windows of the castle.

The rain fell relentlessly. He stood there sheltered slightly by a tree and the great oaken front door opened and Marco Russo appeared there, the Doberman at his side. Marco gave the dog a shove with his foot, obviously putting it out for the purposes of nature, then went inside. The dog stood there, sniffing the rain, then lifted a leg. Dillon gave the low, curious whistle he had used at the hunting lodge, the Doberman's ears went up, then it came bounding toward him.

He crouched, stroking its ears, allowing it to lick his hands. "Good boy," he said softly. "Now do as you're told and keep quiet."

He moved across the lawn and peered in through French windows and found Asta in the study reading a book by the fire. She made an appealing figure in a pair of black silk lounging pajamas. He moved away, the dog at his heels, looked in through a long narrow window and saw the empty hall.

He moved round to the far side and heard voices and noticed a French window standing ajar. Curtains were partly drawn, and when he peered cautiously inside, he saw Morgan and Murdoch in a large drawing room. There were several bookcases against the wall and Morgan was replacing books in one of them.

"I've been through every inch in this room, taken down every book, searched every drawer, every cupboard, and the same in the study. Not a bloody sign. What about the staff?"

"They've all got their instructions, sir, every one of them is eager to win the thousand-pound reward you promised, but nothing as yet."

"It's got to be here somewhere, tell them to renew their efforts."

The Doberman whined, slipped in through the window, and rushed up to Morgan, who rather surprisingly greeted it with some pleasure. "You big lump, where have you been?" He leaned down to pat the animal. "My God, he's soaking, he could catch pneumonia. Take him to the kitchen, Murdoch, and towel him off, I'm going to bed."

Murdoch went out, his hand on the Doberman's collar, and Morgan turned and walked to the window. He stood there, looking at the night for a moment, then crossed to the door and went out, switching off the light.

Dillon slipped in through the window, went to the door, and stood listening for a moment, then he opened the door a crack, aware of voices, Asta's and Morgan's. The study door was open and he heard Morgan say, "I'm for bed. What about you?"

"I suppose so," Asta said. "If I'm out on the moors tomorrow stalking deer I'll need all my energy."

"And wits," he said. "Listen to everything Ferguson and Dillon say, store it up and remember it."

"Yes, oh master."

She laughed and when they came out, Morgan had an arm about her waist. "You're a great girl, Asta, one of a kind."

Strange, but watching them go up the great staircase together was something of a surprise to Dillon, no suggestion of the wrong kind of intimacy at all, and at the top of the stairs, Morgan only kissed her on the forehead. "Good night, my love," he said and he went one way and she the other.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dillon said softly.

He stayed there for a while, thinking. There was little point in going any further. He'd picked up one useful piece of intelligence, that they hadn't got anywhere as regards finding the Bible. That was a good enough night's work and the truth was what he'd done had been more for the hell of it than anything else.

On the other hand, again just for the hell of it, he could do with a drink and he'd noticed through the French windows the drinks cabinet in the study. He opened the door and hurried across the great hall to the study door. As he got it open, the Doberman arrived, skidding on the tiles as it tried to brake, sliding past him into the study.

Dillon closed the door and switched on a lamp on one of the tables. "You great eejit," he said to the dog and fondled its ears.

He went to the drinks cabinet and found no Irish whiskey so made do with Scotch. He went and stood looking down into the fire, taking his time, and behind him the door opened. As he turned, drawing the Walther, Asta came in. She didn't notice him at first, closed the door and turned.

And she didn't show any sign of fear, stood there looking at him calmly, and then said, "That couldn't be you, could it, Dillon?"

Dillon laughed softly. "Jesus, girl, you really are on Morgan's side, aren't you?"

He slipped the Walther back in his waistband at the rear and pulled off his ski mask.

"Why shouldn't I be? He's my father, isn't he?"

"Stepfather." Dillon helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box on a coffee table and lit it with his ever-present Zippo. "Mafia stepfather."

"Father as far as I'm concerned, the only decent one I've ever known, the first version was a rat, the kind of man who sniffed around everything in a skirt. He made my mother's life hell. It was a blessing when his car ran off the road one day and he was burned to death in the crash."