There was silence and it was Asta who spoke. "It makes sense now. When Tanner was talking to Tony Jackson at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital he told Jackson that he sent all the Laird's belongings home because he thought he was going to die."

"And Jackson asked him if the Bible had gone back to Loch Dhu," Dillon put in.

"And Tanner said, 'You could say that,' and then according to Jackson he started to laugh." Hannah nodded slowly. "I always did wonder about that."

"Well all is certainly revealed now." Ferguson turned to Lady Katherine. "No attempt at recovery?"

"They didn't have the equipment. Keith Smith came to see me, of course, lovely man. Strange thing about him. He hadn't been in fighters or bombers. He joked about being a transport pilot, but he had a DSO and two DFCs. I often wondered about that. No, as I say, they left the Lysander down there. Checked out its position and so forth, or so he told me." She smiled. "So there you go. Poor old Ian's Bible is down there at the bottom of the loch in one of his suitcases, if there's anything left, of course. Now let's have some more tea."

"We've taken up enough of your time, dear lady," Ferguson told her.

"Nonsense, I insist." She rang the bell for Jeannie.

Ferguson nodded to Dillon and walked to the French windows and Dillon followed him. As they moved out onto the terrace, Ferguson said, "We've got to move fast now. I'll call in the Lear and I want you and the Chief Inspector to get down to London and check this out with RAF records."

Dillon put a hand on his arm, frowning, and Ferguson turned to find Angus close to the wall, ivy on the ground at his feet, pruning shears in his hand.

"Why, Angus, it's you," Ferguson said. "Have you been there long?"

"Just doing some pruning, sir. I'm finished now." He hurriedly bundled the clippings up, dumped them in his barrow, and wheeled it away.

Hannah appeared in the open window, Asta at her shoulder. "Do you think we were overheard?" Hannah asked.

"Of course we were," Dillon told her. "That's what the bastard was doing there. He'll go straight to Morgan."

"Undoubtedly." Ferguson turned to Asta. "When you see Morgan you must cover yourself by telling him everything, it will strengthen your position. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Good." He looked at his watch. "Three o'clock. If I contact the office now they'll have the standby Lear take off at once. Priority with air traffic control, so no delays." He shrugged. "Should be here by five at the latest. Immediate turnaround and back to London."

"And then?" Dillon said.

"Check RAF records and try to establish details of the Lysander's position and procure the right equipment for a search." He smiled. "It looks as if you're going diving again, Dillon."

"So it would seem," Dillon said.

Ferguson turned and went inside and they heard him say, "I was wondering, dear lady, if I might use your telephone?"

TWELVE

It was a good two hours later that Asta saw the Shogun draw up in front of the house and Morgan and Marco got out. One side of the Sicilian's face was covered by a dressing and tape. Angus was lurking near the house and he hurried forward as Morgan and Marco started up the steps. They talked for quite a long time and then Morgan took out his wallet and passed several notes across. He started up the steps again with Marco, and Asta eased back into the study and sat by the fire.

The moment the door opened and Morgan entered, she jumped up and ran to him. "Thank God, you're back. Is Marco all right?"

"They took an X ray. A couple of cracked ribs, but they're only hairline and he's had stitches in his face."

"Dillon needs stitches too," she said.

"You saw him?"

"All of them, Carl. Lady Katherine invited us back for tea and came up with some sensational news."

"Really?" he said and reached for a cigar. "Tell me." • • • When she was finished he paced across to the window and back again. "That's it, it's got to be."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Wait, my love, let them do all the work, Dillon's a master diver, remember. If they can position that plane, he'll go down and bring up what's inside."

"And then?"

"We'll take it from there. I'll have the Citation standing by at Ardmurchan so we can get out of here fast."

"And you think Dillon and Ferguson will just stand by and let you take it?"

"I'll handle it, Asta."

There was the sound of a plane taking off on the other side of the loch and they went to the terrace in time to see the Lear in the distance lifting into the early evening sky.

"There they go." He smiled and put an arm about her shoulders. "I feel good about this, Asta, it's going to work."

"Of course, the document could have rotted away by now," she said, "down there in the water."

"True," he said, "but hidden in that Bible I don't think so." He smiled. "Trust me."

In the Lear, Dillon sat on one side of the aisle facing Hannah, who sat on the other. "Exciting, isn't it?" he said. "Never a moment's peace."

"It's worse than Scotland Yard," she said.

He reached for the bar box and found a miniature of whiskey, which he poured into a plastic cup and added water. "All the comforts of home."

"The water on its own would be better for you, especially at this height in an airplane, Dillon."

"Isn't it terrible," he said. "I never could do the right thing."

She settled back. "So what happens now?"

"We find out what we can about the crash of that Lysander and so on."

"RAF records from those days may be hard to uncover."

"Yes, well it was Air Ministry in those days and now it's Ministry of Defence where you work yourself, so if you can't trace them, who can?" He grinned. "Power, Hannah Bernstein, that's what it's all about. Better get on the phone and start them moving at the Information Centre."

"No, that comes second," she said, and reached for the phone. "First we get your face fixed."

"God help me," Dillon said. "The mother I never had," and he folded his arms and closed his eyes.

They had a tailwind so strong that they made Gatwick in an hour and twenty minutes and it was only an hour after that at approximately seven-thirty that Dillon found himself lying on his back in a small theater at the London Clinic while Professor Henry Bellamy sat beside him and stitched the split in the left cheek.

"Doesn't hurt?" he asked.

"Can't feel a thing," Dillon said.

"Well you damn well ought to." Bellamy dropped the needles into the pan the nurse held out to him. "Major surgery at the highest level, I do some of my best work, even wrote a paper on your case. They published it in the Lancet."

"Marvelous," Dillon said. "I'm immortalized for posterity."

"Don't be silly." Bellamy swabbed the line of stitches, then put a length of plaster along them. "I put you together again and then you go off and try to commit suicide."

Dillon swung his legs to the floor, stood and reached for his jacket. "I'm fine now. You're a bloody medical genius, so you are."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, just pay your bill and if you feel like telling me the secret of your remarkable recovery sometime, I'd love to know."

They went out into the corridor where Hannah Bernstein waited. "Six stitches, Chief Inspector, that'll spoil his beauty."

"You think that would bother this one?" Dillon asked.

Hannah pulled down the collar of his jacket, which was standing up. "He drinks whiskey of the Irish variety and smokes far too many cigarettes, Professor, what am I to do with him?"

"She didn't tell you I also play cards," Dillon said.

Bellamy laughed out loud. "Go on, get out of here, you rogue, I have work to do," and he walked away.