"He'll be the one I had the run-in with."
"Then there's the other brother, Rory, big, rough-looking lout, hair tied in a pony tail. I mean, why do they do that, Dillon? Earrings as well. After all, it's not the seventeenth century."
Hannah burst out laughing and Dillon said, "They broke the mould with you, Brigadier. And you say they ran Kim off the place?"
"Yes, I sent him round to the castle with a stiff letter of complaint to this Murdoch chap, the factor, told him I was considering laying a complaint with the Chief Constable of the county."
"What happened?"
"Murdoch was round like a shot, full of apologies. Said he'd keep them in line. Gave me some cock-and-bull story about arctic tern nesting near Loch Dhu and not wanting to disturb them. Apologized for the Munros. Said he'd kick their backsides and so on."
Dillon went and helped himself to another brandy. He came back to the fire. "We're entitled to be here, to shoot deer in the forest, to fish in the loch?"
"Of course we are," Ferguson said. "Mind you, Morgan doesn't like it, I mean, he made that clear on the doorstep, didn't he?"
"Let's draw his teeth then. I'll put my head in the jaws of the tiger tomorrow. You've got all we need for the fishing?"
"And the shooting."
"Good, I'll try Loch Dhu in the morning, plenty of trout, I suppose?"
"Masses, dear boy. Quarter-pounders-or occasional pounders."
"Good, I'll take a rod down there after breakfast."
Hannah said, "The Munros could prove unpleasant if they catch you, especially after your bout with Fergus. I was with the Brigadier when we saw them in Ardmurchan Village. They really are a fearsome-looking clan. I'd say they are the sort who don't take kindly to being beaten."
"And neither do I." Dillon finished his drink. "I'll see you at breakfast," and he went up to bed.
At the same moment, Asta was sitting opposite Morgan by the fire in the great hall at the castle when Marco came in, a piece of paper in his hand.
"Fax from London, Signore."
Morgan read it quickly, then laughed out loud. "Dear God, listen to this. The Bernstein woman is a Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch, at Scotland Yard, but it's Dillon who takes the biscuit. Sean Dillon, once an actor, RADA and the National Theatre, superb linguist, speaks many languages. First-class pilot, expert diver. Good God, he worked for the Israelis in Beirut."
"But what was he doing there?"
"Sinking PLO boats, apparently. Not choosy, our Mr. Dillon. He's worked for just about everyone you've ever heard of and that includes the KGB in the old days."
"You mean he's some kind of mercenary?" Asta asked.
"That's one way of putting it, but before that he was for some years with the Provisional IRA, one of their most feared enforcers. There's even a suggestion he was behind the attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War."
"Then why would he be working for Ferguson?"
"I suppose the Brits were the only people he hadn't worked for and you know how unscrupulous they are. They'd use anybody to suit their purposes."
"A thoroughly dangerous man," Asta said. "How exciting."
Morgan handed the fax to Marco. "Oh, we've handled thoroughly dangerous men before, haven't we, Marco."
"Many times, Signore, will there be anything else?"
"Yes, bring me some coffee and tell Murdoch I'll see him now."
Asta got up. "I'm for bed. Can we ride tomorrow?"
"Why not?" He took her hand. "Sleep well."
She kissed him on the forehead and went away up the great staircase. Morgan reached for a cigar, clipped it and lit it, and Murdoch entered, his oilskin coat wet.
"Well?" Morgan asked.
"No luck, I'm afraid, that old bastard Hector Munro was immovable. He said Fergus had gone off on his evening rounds and they hadn't seen him since. He's lying, of course."
"What did you do?"
"Searched their stinking caravans, which he didn't like, but I insisted."
"I want Fergus," Morgan said. "I want him where I can deal with him personally. He put his filthy hands on my daughter and no man does that and gets away with it. Try again tomorrow."
"Yes, Mr. Morgan, good night, sir."
Murdoch went out and Marco came in with the coffee. As he poured it, Morgan said in Italian, "What do you think of him?"
"Murdoch? A piece of dung, Signore, no honor, only money counts there."
"That's what I thought, keep an eye on him. You can go to bed now."
Marco went out and Morgan sat there brooding, drinking his coffee and gazing into the fire.
He was sitting in the study at the desk at eight the following morning working his way through various business papers when there was a knock at the door and Murdoch looked in.
"I have Angus here, sir."
"Bring him in."
Angus entered, took off his tweed cap and rolled it between his hands. "Mr. Morgan, sir."
Morgan looked him over. "You look like a practical man to me, would I be right?"
"I hope so, sir."
Morgan opened a drawer and took out a bundle of notes, which he tossed across. Angus picked it up. "Five hundred pounds. Anything unusual happens at Ardmurchan Lodge you phone Murdoch."
"I will, sir." He was sweating slightly.
"Have you been there this morning?"
"To do the wood supply, sir."
"And what's happening?"
"Mr. Dillon was having an early breakfast before going for the fishing on Loch Dhu. He asked my advice."
Morgan nodded. "Good. On your way."
Angus left and Murdoch said, "If the Munros come across him, he could be in trouble."
"Exactly what I was thinking." Morgan smiled and at that moment Asta came in wearing a hacking jacket and jodhpurs.
"There you are," she told him. "You said we could go riding."
"And why not?" He glanced at Murdoch. "Get the horses ready, you can come with us." He smiled. "We could have a look at the loch."
The waters of Loch Dhu were darker than even the name suggested, still and calm in the gray morning and yet dappled by falling rain. Dillon wore waders, an old rainhat, and an Australian drover's waterproof with caped shoulders, both of which he had found at the lodge.
He lit a cigarette and took his time over putting his rod together. Behind him the heather was waist deep, a line of trees above, and a plover lifted into the morning. A wind stirred the surface of the loch and suddenly a trout came out of the water beyond the sandbar, a good foot in the air, and disappeared again.
Suddenly Dillon forgot everything, remembering only his uncle's sheep farm in County Down and the lessons he'd given his young nephew in the great art. He tied the fly Ferguson had recommended, apparently one of his own manufacture, and went to work.
His first dozen casts were poor and inexpert, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked two quarter-pounders. The rain still fell relentlessly. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip, and cast out beyond the sandbar to where a black fin sliced through the water. His cast was the most accurate he'd ever made, the fly skimming the surface, the rod bent over and his line went taut.
Two pounds if it was an ounce. His reel whined as the hooked trout made for deep water and he moved along the sandbank, playing it carefully. The line went slack and he thought he'd lost it, but the trout was only resting and a moment later the line tightened again. He played it for a good ten minutes before turning to reach for his net. He lifted the floundering fish, removed the hook, and turned back to shore.
A harsh voice said, "Well and good, me bucko, a fine dinner for us."
The man who had spoken was old, at least seventy. He wore a tweed suit that had seen better days and white hair showed beneath his Glengarry bonnet. His face was weatherbeaten and wrinkled and covered with a heavy stubble and he had a shotgun crooked in his right arm.
Behind him, two men stood up in the heather. One was large and rawboned with a perpetual smile, and that would be Rory, Dillon told himself. The other was Fergus, a livid bruise down one side of his face, his mouth swollen.