Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"I didn't know that."

"Did you tell Morgan about my visit last night?"

"Of course I did. In fact, you almost came face-to-face. The noise you heard in the hall was Carl."

"And what did he have to say?"

"My goodness, Dillon, you do expect a lot for your cigarette." She laughed. "All right, I told him everything you told me, the Chungking Covenant and so on, but that was because you wanted me to, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"Carl said he didn't mind. He checked on Ferguson the moment he discovered he was at the lodge, knew who he was in a matter of hours and you. He knew you must have been aware of what was going on, otherwise why would you be here. He's no fool, Dillon, he would hardly be where he is today if he was that."

"You really think a great deal of him, don't you?"

"As I said last night, I know all about you, Dillon, so don't waste time telling me what a bad man Carl is. It would be the pot calling the kettle black, don't you agree?"

"A nice turn of phrase you have."

"I had an excellent education," she said. "A good Church of England boarding school for young ladies. St. Michael's and St. Hugh's College, Oxford, afterwards."

"Is that so? I bet you didn't get calluses on your knees from praying."

"You are a bastard," she said amiably, and at that moment Ferguson came over the rise, Kim following with the gun case, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars around his neck.

"There you are." Ferguson slumped down. "Getting old. Coffee, Kim."

The Ghurka put down the gun case, opened the haversack that hung at his side, took out a thermos flask and several paper cups which he filled and passed round.

"This is nice," Asta said. "I haven't been on a picnic in years."

"You can forget that notion, young lady," Ferguson told her. "This is a serious expedition, the object of which is to expose you to the finer points of deer stalking. Now drink up and we'll get on."

And so, tramping through the heather in the sunshine, he kept up a running commentary stressing first a deer's incredible sense of smell so that any successful approach could only be made downwind.

"You can shoot, I suppose?" he asked her.

"Of course, Carl trained me, clay pigeon shooting mostly. I've been out with him after grouse during the season many times."

"Well that's something."

They had been on the go for a good hour when Kim suddenly pointed. "There, Sahib."

"Down, everybody," Ferguson told them, and Kim passed him the binoculars.

"Excellent." Ferguson handed them to Dillon. "Three hundred yards. Two hinds and a Royal Stag. Quite magnificent antlers."

Dillon had a look. "My God, yes," he said and passed the binoculars to Asta.

When she focused them, the stag and the hinds jumped clearly into view. "How marvelous," she breathed and turned to Ferguson. "We couldn't possibly shoot such wonderful creatures, could we?"

"Just like a bloody woman," Ferguson said. "I might have known."

Dillon said, "The fun is in the stalking, Asta, it's like a game. They're well able to look after themselves, believe me. We'll be lucky to get within a hundred yards."

Kim wet a finger and raised it. "Downwind, Sahib, okay now." He looked up at the sky where clouds were forming. "I think wind change direction soon."

"Then we move fast," Ferguson said. "Pass me the rifle."

It was an old Jackson and Whitney bolt action. He loaded it carefully and said, "They're downhill from us, remember."

"I know," Dillon said. "Shoot low. Let's get going."

Asta found the next hour one of the most exhilarating she'd ever known. They moved through gulleys, crouching low, Kim leading the way.

"He certainly knows his stuff," she said to Dillon at one point.

"He should do," Ferguson told her. "The best tracker on a tiger shoot I ever knew in India in the old days."

Finally, they took to the heather and crawled in single file until Kim called a halt and paused in a small hollow. He peered over the top cautiously. The deer browsed contentedly no more than seventy-five yards away.

"No closer, Sahib." He glanced up. "Wind changing already."

"Right." Ferguson moved the bolt and rammed a round into the breech. "Your honor, my dear."

"Really?" Asta was flushed with excitement, took the rifle from him gingerly, then settled herself on her elbows, the stock firmly into her shoulder.

"Don't pull, just squeeze gently," Dillon told her.

"I know that."

"And aim low," Ferguson added.

"All right." What seemed like rather a long time passed and suddenly she rolled over and thrust the rifle at him. "I can't do it, Brigadier, that stag is too beautiful to die."

"Well we all bloody-well die sometime," Ferguson said, and at that moment, the stag raised its head.

"Wind change, Sahib, he has our scent," Kim said, and in an instant the stag and the two hinds were leaping away through the bracken at an incredible speed.

Dillon rolled over, laughing, and Ferguson said, "Damn!" And then he scowled. "Not funny, Dillon, not funny at all." He handed the rifle to Kim. "All right, put it away and break out the sandwiches."

On the way back some time later they paused for a rest on a crest that gave an excellent view of the glen below the castle above Loch Dhu and Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side. Dillon noticed something he hadn't appreciated before. There was a landing stage below the castle, a boat moored beside it.

"Give me the binoculars," he said to Kim and focused them, closing in on a twenty-five-foot motor launch with a deckhouse. "I didn't know that was there," he said, passing the binoculars to Ferguson.

"The boat, you mean?" Asta said. "It goes with the castle. It's called the Katrina."

"Have you been out in it yet?" Dillon asked.

"No reason. Carl isn't interested in fishing."

"Better than ours." Ferguson swung the binoculars to the rickety pier below Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side of the loch and the boat tied up there, an old whaler with an outboard motor, and a rowboat beside it. He handed the binoculars to Kim. "All right, let's move on."

"Frankly I'm getting bored with this track," Asta said. "Can't we just go straight down, Dillon?"

He turned to Ferguson, who shrugged. "Rather you than me, but if that's what you want. Come on, Kim," and he continued along the track.

Dillon took Asta by the hand. "Here we go and watch yourself, we don't want you turning that ankle again," and they started down the slope.

It was reasonably strenuous going for most of the way, the whole side of the mountain flowing down to the loch below. He led the way, picking his way carefully for something like a thousand feet and then, as things became easier, he took her hand and they scrambled on down together until suddenly she lost her balance, laughing out loud and fell, dragging Dillon with her. They rolled over a couple of times and came to rest in a soft cushion of heather in a hollow. She lay on her back, breathless, and Dillon pushed himself up on one elbow to look at her.

Her laughter faded, she reached up and touched his face, and for a moment he forgot everything except the color of her hair, the scent of her perfume. When they kissed, her body was soft and yielding, everything a man could hope for in this world.

He rolled onto his back and she sat up. "I wondered when you would, Dillon. Very satisfactory."

He got a couple of cigarettes from his case, lit them, and passed one to her. "Put it down to the altitude. I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

"You should be. I've got twenty years on you."

"That must be some Irish thing," she said. "All that rain. Is it supposed to have a dampening effect on love?"

"What's love got to do with it?"

She blew out cigarette smoke and lay back, a hand behind her head. "Now there's romantic for you."