Midnight Runner Part 32

"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 Rashid 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 shirt 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 Rashid 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 Rashid'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 Rashid'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 Rashid 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?"

"You usually keep it at the Dauncey Aero Club six miles away, but you use your own airstrip here when it suits."

"Yes, I had one of the staff at the club fly it down for me yesterday."

"Where would it be this time? Isle of Wight again?"

"Is there anything you don't know? Where Rupert is, for example?"

"I'm sure he'll tell me at the right moment."

The tapestry parted and Rupert emerged, gun in hand. "Which is now."

Carl slipped beside Dillon and the rumble in his throat was infinitely menacing. Dauncey turned his Walther on him and Dillon raised a hand. "Shoot the dog and I'll kill you myself."

"Leave it, Rupert," Kate said.

Dillon fondled Carl's head. "There's a good boy," and the dog rubbed against him. "Go on to your mistress now." He pointed, and Carl went and sat by her.

"Now what?" Dillon asked.

"Oh, something special, I think. Shooting's too good. That's for people like Billy Salter." She smiled.

"If I can interject," Dillon said. "Billy's still alive. Sorry about that, Kate. Everything's going wrong, isn't it?"

There was a kind of rage in her eyes, but only for a moment. "So I'll have to shoot him again."

She slipped her hand between the cushion on which she was sitting and the arm of the sofa and took out an old German Luger.

"This has been in the family since the First World War. Paul taught me how to shoot with it in the woods when I was quite little."

Dillon had his hands on his hips. He could have reached for the Walther in his belt and shot Rupert Dauncey that instant, and her, too, for he saw she had the safety catch on, and yet he held back. In a way, it was mesmerizing, being face-to-face with the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, a woman he now realized was totally unbalanced. And yet, like a bad dream, he had a part to play, had to see it through.

"You owe me, Dillon, you owe me for the three brothers you killed."

"Ah, well, I always pay my debts." He was a little mad himself now. "By the way, the safety catch is on." She examined the Luger and remedied it. "Will that do?" he asked.

"Not really. Rupert?"

She turned the Luger on Dillon and Rupert laid his gun on the library table, opened a dresser, and took out a roll of masking tape. "Turn around."

Dillon did as he was told and Rupert bound his wrists behind him.

"Get his gun," Kate Rashid told him.

Rupert took it from the pocket under Dillon's left arm and laid it down. "That's better," she said.

"Not if he carries another one. I bet I know where it is." He felt under the back of Dillon's flying jacket and found the second Walther. "There you go, sweetie."

"So now what?" Dillon asked.

"I think I'll take you for a flight," she said. "Show you what a good pilot I am."

"That should be interesting." Dillon nodded. "I'm a great pilot myself, but I'm always willing to learn. Are we going to France for lunch?"

"For Rupert and me, perhaps, but it'll be a somewhat shorter flight for you."

"Ah, like that, is it?"

"Absolutely. Let's get moving."

She left the Luger on the coffee table and Rupert prodded Dillon in the back. "Just do as you're told and I promise we'll make it painless."

They went out and Kate Rashid draped Dillon's Burberry around her shoulders, put on the rain hat, closed the French windows on Carl, and followed.

It was light now, the sky somber with heavy gray clouds, and visibility was poor. The rain was relentless as they followed a path through the beech trees and came out to the meadow and approached the Black Eagle.

"Lousy flying weather," Dillon said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Oh, yes." She took the keys from her pocket and unlocked the Airstair door and opened it. The steps came down and she went up. Rupert gave Dillon a push.

"Up you go."

Dillon moved awkwardly because of his bound hands. Rupert pushed him down the aisle and sat him in one of the rear seats by the window. There was a toilet and luggage s.p.a.ce behind him and an inflatable life raft.

"Now be good."

He moved to the Airstair door and closed it one-handed, facing Dillon and still menacing him with his gun. At the same moment, the port engine burst into life, followed a little later by the starboard. The plane started to roll forward, Kate Rashid increased speed, then lifted up into the rain no more than fifty feet above the row of beech trees at the end of the runway.

She climbed very quickly to three thousand feet. Way below, there was gray cloud, in some places black and heavy with more rain and mist, as they crossed an area of marshes and coastal beaches and headed out to sea.

All this Dillon could see from the window at the same time that he was extracting the knife from the inside of his right jump boot. He got his hands round the handle, positioned the knife, and the razor-sharp edge sliced through the masking tape immediately. He replaced the knife in his boot, pulled away the tape, and sat waiting.

She turned and said over her shoulder, "Now, Rupert," went down to about two thousand and reduced speed.

Rupert lifted the locking bar and opened the Airstair door. There was a rush of air. He leaned over, the Walther in his left hand, and pulled Dillon up and forward.

Kate Rashid glanced over her shoulder again and she was laughing. "You can rot in h.e.l.l, Dillon."

Dillon said, "For G.o.d's sake, no," and half-slipped to the floor.

"Now don't be silly, old friend, make it easy on yourself. Just get up." Which Dillon did, at the same time he was drawing the Colt from the ankle holster, ramming the muzzle into the side of Rupert Dauncey's head, and pulling the trigger.

There was an explosion of bone fragments and blood, the hollow point cartridge doing its work, and Dauncey dropped the Walther and fell back against the side of the door. Dillon pushed and sent him out into s.p.a.ce. He grabbed at the Airstair door and closed it.

He turned and found that Kate Rashid had put the Eagle on automatic and was reaching for her purse. She took out a small pistol, but he lunged, wrestled it from her, and tossed it to the back of the plane. She was hysterical with rage and clawed at him. Dillon slapped her face.

"Stop it! Pull yourself together! It's over." She was in the left-hand seat of the dual-controlled plane and he clambered into the right. "Take us back."