Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"Isn't that strange?" Hannah said.

Tina Gaunt tried again. She sat back a moment later. "Even stranger, there's a security block. Just his rank and his decoration, but no service record."

Hannah glanced at Dillon. "What do you think?"

"You're the copper, do something about it."

She sighed. "All right, I'll telephone the Brigadier," and she went out. • • • Tina Gaunt stood with the phone to her ear and nodded. "All right, Brigadier, I'll do it, but you see my back's covered." She put the phone down. "The Brigadier's assured me that he'll have a grade-one warrant on my desk signed by the Secretary of State for Defence tomorrow. Under the circumstances, I've agreed to cut corners."

"Fine," Dillon said, "let's get moving then."

She started on the keyboard again and once again sat back frowning. "I'm now cross-referenced to SOE."

"SOE? What's that?" Hannah demanded.

"Special Operations Executive," Dillon told her. "Set up by British Intelligence on Churchill's orders to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe."

"Set Europe ablaze, that's what he said," Tina Gaunt told them and tapped the keys again. "Ah, it's all explained."

"Tell us," Dillon said.

"There was a squadron at Tempsford, one-three-eight Special Duties. It was known as the Moonlight Squadron, all highly secret. Even the pilots' wives thought their husbands just flew transports."

"And what did they do?" Hannah asked.

"Well they used to fly Halifax bombers painted black to France and drop agents by parachute. They also flew them in in Lysanders."

"You mean landed and took off again in occupied territory?" Hannah said.

"Oh, yes, real heroes."

"So now we know how Wing Commander Keith Smith won all those medals," Dillon said. "When did he die?"

She checked her screen again. "There's no date for that here. He was born in nineteen-twenty. Entered the RAF in nineteen thirty-eight aged eighteen. Retired as an Air Marshal in nineteen seventy-two. Knighted."

"Jesus," Dillon said. "Have you an address for him?"

She tried again and sat back. "No home address and, as I said, the information on the fiche is limited. If you wanted more, you'd have to try the Hurlingham Cellars tomorrow."

"Damn," Dillon said. "More time to waste." He smiled. "Never mind, you've done well, my love, God bless you."

He turned to the door and Hannah said, "I've had a thought, Tina, do you know about this place they had in East Grinstead during the war for burns patients?"

"But they still do, Chief Inspector, the Queen Victoria Hospital. Some of their wartime patients go back every year for checkups and further treatment. Why?"

"Smith was a patient there. Burned hands."

"Well I can certainly give you the number." Tina checked the computer, then wrote a number on her notepad, tore it off, and passed it across.

"Bless you," Hannah said and followed Dillon out.

In Ferguson's office, it was quiet and she sat on the edge of his desk, the phone to her ear, and waited. Finally she got her answer.

"I see. Air Marshal Sir Keith Smith," an anonymous voice said. "Yes, the Air Marshal was here for his annual check in June."

"Good, and you have his home address?" Hannah started to write. "Many thanks." She turned to Dillon.

"Hampstead Village, would you believe that?"

"Everything comes full circle." Dillon glanced at his watch. "Nearly half-ten. We can't bother the ould lad tonight. We'll catch him in the morning. Let's go and get a snack."

They sat in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester drinking champagne and a waitress brought scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

"This is your idea of a snack?" Hannah said.

"What's wrong with having the best if you can afford it? That thought used to sustain me when I was being chased through side streets and the sewers of the Bogside in Belfast by British Paratroopers."

"Don't start all that again, Dillon, I don't want to know." She ate some of her smoked salmon. "How do you think we'll fare with the good Air Marshal?"

"I would imagine rather well. Anyone who could win all those medals and rise to the rank he did has got to be hot stuff. My bet is he's never forgotten a thing."

"Well, we'll find out in the morning." The waitress brought coffee and Hannah took out her notebook. "You'd better give me a list of the diving equipment you're going to need and I'll get them started on it at the office first thing."

"All right, here goes. The suppliers will know what everything is. A mask, nylon diving suit, medium, with a hood because it'll be cold. Gloves, fins, four weight belts with twelve pounds in the pockets, a regulator, buoyancy control device, and half a dozen empty air tanks."

"Empty?" she said.

"Yes, we're flying rather high. You'll also get a portable Jackson Compressor, the electric type. I'll fill the tanks using that and an Orca dive computer."

"Anything else?"

"Three hundred feet of nylon rope, snap links, a couple of underwater lamps, and a big knife. That should take care of it. Oh, and a couple of Sterling submachine guns, the silenced variety." He smiled. "To repel boarders."

She put the notebook in her handbag. "Good, can I go now? We've got a big day tomorrow."

"Of course." They moved to the door and he paused to pay the bill. As they went out into the foyer, he said, "You wouldn't consider stopping at Stable Mews on the way?"

"No, Dillon, what I'd really like to do is surprise my mother."

Ferguson's driver eased the Daimler into the curb, the Head Porter opening the door for her. "I think that's marvelous," Dillon said. "It shows such an affectionate nature."

"Stuff you, Dillon," she said and the Daimler drew away.

"Taxi, sir?" the porter asked.

"No, thanks, I'll walk," Dillon said and he lit a cigarette and strode away. • • • The house was in a quiet backwater not far from Hampstead Heath. It was just nine-thirty the following morning when Dillon and Hannah arrived in Ferguson's Daimler. The chauffeur parked it in the street and they went in through a small gate in a high wall and walked through a small garden to the front door of a Victorian cottage. It was raining slightly.

"This is nice," Hannah said as she rang the bell.

After a while it was opened by a middle-aged black woman. "Yes, what can I do for you?" she asked in a West Indian accent.

"We're from the Ministry of Defence," Hannah told her. "I know it's early, but we'd very much like to see Sir Keith if that's possible."

"Not too early for him." She smiled. "He's been in the garden an hour already."

"In this rain?" Dillon asked.

"Nothing keeps him out of that garden. Here, I'll show you." She took them along a flagged path and round the corner to the back garden. "Sir Keith, you've got visitors."

She left them there and Hannah and Dillon walked to a small terrace with open French windows to the house. On the other side of the lawn they saw a small man in a rainproof anorak and an old Panama hat. He was pruning roses. He turned to look at them, his eyes sharp and blue in a tanned face that was still handsome.

He came forward. "Good morning, what can I do for you?"

Hannah got her ID out and showed it to him. "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, assistant to Brigadier Charles Ferguson of the Ministry of Defence."

"And my name is Dillon, Sean Dillon." The Irishman held out his hand. "I work for the same department."

"I see." The Air Marshal nodded. "I'm familiar with Brigadier Ferguson's work. I served on the three services joint security committee for five years after I retired. Am I to assume this is a security matter?"

"It is indeed, Sir Keith," she said.

"But it goes back a long way," Dillon told him. "To when you crashed a Lysander into Loch Dhu in the Scottish Highlands back in nineteen forty-six."