“A ‘holy book,’ according to Sara Hesser. You swore an oath never to copy it.”
“I never did.”
“Excellent.” Ferguson went up the two steps to the eternal flame and dropped the diary inside. It started to burn at once.
Rossi cried out, “You bloody fool, Father, they’ll kill us anyway.”
Dillon shoved him away and raised his Walther, but Ferguson said, “No, it’s over, and I did give my word. We leave now,” and he walked out.
“You’re a lucky man,” Dillon said. “I gave up on honor a long time ago. Come on, Billy.” They went out, following Ferguson back along the tunnel, hurrying past the carnage in the Great Hall and out to the front door, turning down the steps to the courtyard. Several vehicles were parked there, including a Land Rover with the keys in it.
“This will do,” Dillon said, and got behind the wheel. The other two scrambled in and he drove away and out across the drawbridge.
Rossi emerged from the front of the chapel, his father on his heels, and looked far down into the meadow. “My God, it’s a Storch; they’re leaving in an old crate like that. Well, I’ll show them.”
He stormed down the path to the courtyard, and his father stumbled along behind him. “But what are you going to do?”
“My Gulfstream is three times faster than that thing. I’ll run the bastards into the ground.”
He was beside himself with rage.
“You’re crazy,” the Baron said, as he plucked at Rossi’s sleeve. Rossi pulled away, started to run, and the old man went after him.
In the courtyard, Rossi scrambled into a station wagon, switched it on, drove for the gate and found the Baron standing there, arms outstretched, the familiar cane in one hand. Rossi had no option but to stop, and the Baron had the passenger door open in a second and hauled himself in.
“Whatever we do, we do together. Now get on with it.”
Ferguson, Dillon and Billy packed into the Storch, and Max Kubel grinned and shouted over the roaring of the engine, “All’s well that ends well. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“A sound idea. We’ve left four dead men up there,” Ferguson told him.
“Then we really had better get moving.” He boosted power, roared down the meadow and lifted into the air.
Dillon looked out and down in time to see the station wagon drawing up to the Gulfstream, and gestured. Kubel glanced back.
“If you didn’t leave Rossi dead back there, then that will be him. There’s no one else it could be. Let’s move it.”
He didn’t stand a hope, of course; there was no way of getting away, not with the Gulfstream’s speed. There was no chance of being shot down, because the Gulfstream wasn’t a fighting aircraft, which meant only one thing. He was going to get bounced. Rossi would force him to crash in the forest, and Rossi was a damn good pilot.
He was at one thousand feet when he felt a great shock wave. The Storch rocked in the turbulence; the Gulfstream passed over them, then banked, came around and took up a station to port as Rossi reduced speed. He had the cockpit lights on and, looking across, Dillon could see von Berger siting in the right-hand pilot’s seat, staring out.
“My God, he’s got the Baron with him,” he shouted. The Gulfstream roared away, banked and came back toward them head-on, lifting at the last moment and passing over, the Storch rocking again in the turbulence.
“No,” Kubel said. “He’s trying to force me down so low I’ll hit the trees. Let’s play a different game.”
He hauled back the column and climbed to two and a half thousand feet, and, in the cockpit of the Gulfstream, Rossi snarled, “What in the hell is he doing, that pilot?”
“This is ridiculous,” the Baron said. “Madness. Let’s go back.”
“I’m damned if I will.”
And at that moment, Kubel took the Storch nose-down into the steepest dive of his career, and Rossi went roaring after him. The Storch held true and Kubel didn’t haul back the column until the last suicidal moment, leveling at five hundred feet.
The Baron placed his hand over Rossi’s. “It’s enough,” he said, and pushed the control column forward. The Gulfstream, chasing at four hundred miles an hour, ploughed straight into the forest in a ball of fire.
Dillon shouted to Kubel, “You’re a genius.”
“He wasn’t in his right mind,” Kubel replied. “Nobody flying a plane that way could be.”
“It was his choice,” Ferguson said. “I can’t say I’m sorry. He had a terrible fate in mind for me, and the Baron was going to stand by and let him get on with it.”
“They can roast in hell, as far as I’m concerned,” Dillon said. “Let’s go home.”
They came into Arnheim shortly afterward and landed by the hangar, where Hannah, Harry, Lacey and Parry waited.
“My God, it’s great to see you, General,” Harry said.
Hannah impulsively kissed Ferguson on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it, sir.”
“Well, all that can wait. All aboard. I want us out of here fast. Dillon, you and Billy had better change. What about you?” Ferguson asked Kubel.
“Oh, I’ll fly off after you’re gone. Time for an extended holiday, I think.”
“You were wonderful back there.”
“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?”
Lacey and Parry were in the cockpit of the Citation, Hannah and Harry boarded, Ferguson followed and Dillon and Billy came running out of the hangar a moment later.
Dillon said to Kubel, “I thought I was a good pilot, but you’re a great pilot. Isn’t he a great pilot, Billy?”
“Bleeding marvelous. Let’s go.”
They went up the Airstairs door and Parry closed it behind them. A few moments later, they were rolling down the runway, taking off and climbing fast.
“Okay, what happened?” Harry demanded.
“It can wait, Harry,” Ferguson said. “As usual, they covered themselves with glory.” He turned to Hannah. “Be kind enough to call Roper. Mission accomplished, Hitler diary destroyed. Baron Max von Berger, Marco Rossi and Derry Gibson departed this life for who knows what? Ask him to relay that information to Blake Johnson, too.”
“Of course, sir, and the Prime Minister?”
“I’ll deal with him myself.”
She went to the back of the cabin and moved into the kitchen for privacy. Harry got the bar cupboard open. “I reckon a drink’s in order, except for Billy here.”
“I’m going to have a kip anyway,” Billy said, putting his seat back and closing his eyes.
“Bushmills.” Harry held the bottle up. “You’ve got friends at court, you little Irish sod.”
He found three glasses and paused. There was a kind of companionable silence. They drank it down and Harry poured again.
Ferguson toasted Dillon. “A hard one, Sean, but you did well.”
“They get harder,” Dillon said. “I sometimes think I should find a better class of work.”
Ferguson shook his head and said softly, “Don’t be silly. Where on earth would you go?”
