Part 32 (1/2)

”No, it wasn't like that.”

Dillon yanked open the door and put the muzzle of the Walther against Newton's knee. ”As I said, this is silenced, so no one will hear a thing while I kneecap you. As you may know, I was IRA for years, so putting you on sticks doesn't give me a problem.”

”No, not that. I'll tell you. Dauncey said the Countess wanted us to jump you, sling you in the back of the van, and drive you down to Dauncey Place. He was very specific. She wanted you in one piece.”

”There, that wasn't so hard, was it?” Dillon shut the door and stood back. ”If you two were SAS, then G.o.d help the country. I'd say you need a different line of work.” He fired into the front offside tire, which collapsed at once. ”I'll just make it the one. Changing it will give you something to do. Please give Dauncey my best. Tell him I'll see him soon.”

He picked the shotgun and the revolver off the roof, went to the Mini Cooper, and drove away. Newton got out. ”All right, let's change the b.l.o.o.d.y tire.”

”What about Dauncey?”

”He can go f.u.c.k himself. But I'll call him anyway. I'd like to think he can sort that b.a.s.t.a.r.d out if he visits them.”

”Then what do we do?”

”You heard the man. Find a different line of work.”

Dillon parked the Mini Cooper outside the cottage, went in and straight upstairs. He wasn't angry, but remarkably cool. It was no longer a question of letting it go, as Ferguson and the others had wanted, even Billy. He knew one thing with absolute certainty: Kate Ras.h.i.+d would never let it go, not where he was concerned.

But for the moment, he was bushed, the effects of the last few days rolling up on him, and that would never do. He needed to be at his best. He punched the security system on by the front door, went up to his bedroom, and undressed. He put the silenced Walther on the small table beside the bed, got in, and left the lights on. In spite of that, he immediately plunged into a profound sleep.

A while later, he came awake with a start, checked his watch, and found that it was half past three. He felt fine, clear-headed, his brain sharp. He got up, pulled on his black cords, then put on the t.i.tanium waistcoat, the s.h.i.+rt over it, and finally the flying jacket. He found an old and favorite white scarf to finish things off, then went downstairs and opened the secret door again. He took out the Colt .25 and checked it. A lightweight weapon, but not with the hollow point cartridges with which it was loaded.

He replaced it in the ankle holster, pulled up his trouser leg, and strapped the holster in place just above the top of the left jump boot. He already had the silenced Walther under his left arm, and now he took out the other Walther and slipped it into his belt against the small of his back.

He went and found his silver cigarette case, filled it from a box, slipped it into his inside right pocket, and also found his old Zippo lighter. All this he had done calmly and meticulously. It was like preparing for war.

There was a mirror in the hall by the door. He took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and smiled at himself.

”Well, here we go again, me old son,” he said, and left.

In the library at Dauncey Place, Kate Ras.h.i.+d sat by the great fireplace, a black Doberman called Carl on the floor beside her. A log fire burned on the hearth, and she was ablaze with jewelry and wearing her usual black jumpsuit. She and Rupert hadn't been to bed, had simply sat there waiting. The door opened, and Rupert came in with coffee things on a silver tray, which he placed on a table close to her.

”I don't think he's coming, sweetie.”

”But your man Newton told you he was coming.” She poured coffee into two cups.

”Not quite true. What he actually said was that Dillon had told him to tell me he'd see me soon. Why should that have meant tonight?”

”I know it is, because I know Dillon like no one else,” she said serenely. ”He'll be here.”

”For what? Breakfast?”

He went to the sideboard and found a bottle of Remy Martin. ”Do you want one?”

”I don't need it. Perhaps you do.”

”Nasty, sweetie, nasty.” He poured a large one, returned to the table, and put it in his coffee. ”Your diamonds are amazing tonight. Why are you wearing them?”

”I wouldn't want to disappoint him,” and there was that half-smile again, the glitter in the eyes.

My G.o.d, she really is mad. He swallowed the coffee and cognac down and glanced at his watch. ”Almost six. He's certainly taking his time.” He swallowed the coffee and cognac down and glanced at his watch. ”Almost six. He's certainly taking his time.”

He went to the French windows, opened them, and peered out over the terrace and beyond the bal.u.s.trade to the trees. It was still dark, but dawn was beginning to break and it was raining heavily.

”b.l.o.o.d.y awful weather.” He lit a cigarette and went back to the fireside.

Dillon reached the outskirts of the village after just over a two-hour drive, pa.s.sed the ma.s.sive gates to Dauncey Place, and turned into the parking area at the church a quarter of a mile down the road. There were a dozen or so vehicles there already, probably owned by villagers from the cottages on either side of the narrow road. He took an old Burberry trench coat from the trunk of the Mini and a cloth cap, put them on, and set off through the rain.

He had no fixed plans. Something was in motion and he was just going with the flow. He thought back to the Heidegger quote again. For authentic living, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. For authentic living, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. Was that what it had always been about? A mad game, constantly seeking death? Any half-baked psychiatrist could have told him that. He turned in through the gates and started up the drive through the heavy rain. The darkness was lightening perceptibly, and halfway along the drive he saw something a hundred yards to his right beyond some beech trees that surprised him. He hesitated, then went to explore. It was Kate Ras.h.i.+d's Black Eagle, which he'd seen at the Dauncey Aero Club. Was that what it had always been about? A mad game, constantly seeking death? Any half-baked psychiatrist could have told him that. He turned in through the gates and started up the drive through the heavy rain. The darkness was lightening perceptibly, and halfway along the drive he saw something a hundred yards to his right beyond some beech trees that surprised him. He hesitated, then went to explore. It was Kate Ras.h.i.+d's Black Eagle, which he'd seen at the Dauncey Aero Club.

”Now there's a thing,” he said softly, turned, went back to the drive, and continued toward the house. He saw the light in the library at once and turned off the drive and worked his way through the trees, staying in their cover when he reached the edge of the lawn.

He saw Rupert open the French windows and stand there for a few moments and then turned back into the room. Dillon let him go and then started across.

In the library, Carl whined, then growled deeply. ”Seek, boy, seek him out,” Kate Ras.h.i.+d said, and the dog vanished through the French windows. She turned to Rupert. ”You know what to do.”

He produced a Walther, moved to one side of the fireplace, and pulled back the heavy tapestry, revealing a door. When he opened it, there was a toilet inside. He stepped in, leaving the door slightly open, and dropped the tapestry.

The Doberman ran across the lawn, barking, and Dillon whistled, a strange and eerie sound, and the Doberman stopped dead. Dillon whistled again, all the loneliness in the world in it, and the Doberman whined and sidled up.

”See, you're just a p.u.s.s.ycat at heart. You didn't know I had the gift, did you? Neither did your mistress. Be a good boy and we'll go and see her,” and he started across the lawn, the dog following.

In the library, Rupert called softly, through the tapestry, his voice m.u.f.fled, ”What in the h.e.l.l's happened to Carl?”

”I don't know,” she replied.

Dillon moved in through the French windows, the Doberman at his side. ”G.o.d bless all here. Jesus, it's a wet one.” He took off the Burberry and rain hat. ”What's his name?”

”Carl,” she said calmly.

”Don't blame him, Kate, I have a way with dogs, have had since childhood. Would there be a drink in the place?”

”On the sideboard. I can't guarantee Irish whiskey, though.”

”Sure, and I'll find something.” He helped himself to Scotch, and Carl went with him to the sideboard, sitting.

”Remarkable,” she said. ”Those things are supposed to be the fiercest guard dogs in the world.”

”It must be my winning personality. Where's the good Rupert?”

”Around.”

”Terrible people he employs. Newton and Cook.” He shrugged. ”Total rubbish.”

”I agree.”

”I see you've got the Eagle parked here.”

”You know about that?”