Dillon went into the pilot's section headfirst. It was all still intact in a kind of skeleton form, the instrument panel, the control column. He turned and pressed into the passenger section. There were two seats, only the tubular construction remaining, leather and cloth long since rotted away.

The suitcases were there, as for some strange reason he had always known they would be. One was metal, the other two leather, and when he touched one of those, it started to crumble. He ran his hand across the metal one and the faint etching of a name appeared. There were three words. The first two were hopelessly faded, but when he rubbed with his gloved hand, the lamp held close, the name Campbell was plain.

He backed out, pulling the metal case out first, depositing it on the sand beside the Lysander, then he went back for the other two. The first one stayed reasonably intact, but the second seemed to come apart in his hand. When it burst open, he caught a brief glimpse of decaying clothes, some corroded toilet articles, what was left of an RAF sidecap, and the remnants of a tunic with RAF pilot's wings above medal ribbons. Keith Smith's case obviously. Dillon scrabbled in the detritus and came up with a blackened silver cigarette case. Something to take back to the old boy at least. He stuffed it into one of the pockets in his inflatable, then swam back to where the two down lines from the whaler dangled to the bottom. He fastened the case to one of the line's snap links, then returned to the metal case, brought it back with him, and fastened it to the end of the other line.

He paused, making sure that everything was in order, then started up, one foot a second.

Ferguson and Kim, waiting in the heavy rain, suddenly became aware of the sound of an engine. Quickly Ferguson picked up one of the Sterlings, handed it to Kim, and reached for the other himself. He cocked it quickly.

"Don't hesitate," he said to Kim. "If it's Morgan and the man, Marco, they'll kill us without the slightest hesitation."

"Have no fear, Sahib, I have killed many times as the Sahib well knows."

A voice called high and clear, "Is that you, Brigadier? It's Asta."

Ferguson hesitated and said to Kim, "Stay ready."

The Loch Dhu Castle boat, the Katrina, drifted out of the mist, Asta at the wheel in the deck house. She wore rubber boots, a white sweater, and jeans.

"It's only me, Brigadier, can I come alongside?"

"What on earth's going on?" Ferguson said. "Kim saw you leaving in the Citation."

"Oh, no," she said. "That was Carl and Marco. He told me to go back to the castle in the Shogun and wait for him. Did you see me go into the hangar, Kim?"

"Oh, yes, Memsahib."

"It was Morgan and Marco who boarded the plane. I drove back in the Shogun afterwards."

Kim turned to Ferguson and said awkwardly, "I am sorry, Brigadier Sahib, I left as the plane took off. I did not see the Memsahib drive away."

"Never mind that now." Ferguson put down the Sterling. "Take the line from the Memsahib and tie her boat alongside."

She switched off the engine and came to the rail. "Is Dillon down there now?"

"Yes, dropped in about fifteen minutes ago."

"How very convenient." The door to the saloon opened and Carl Morgan emerged, a Browning Hi-Power in his hand and Marco behind him holding an Israeli Uzi submachine gun.

FOURTEEN

At that precise moment Dillon broke through to the surface and floated there, looking up at them all. He raised his mask.

"Asta, what is this?"

"It means we've been had, I'm afraid," Ferguson said.

Dillon looked straight up at her. "You're on his side in spite of what he did to your mother?"

Morgan's face turned dark with anger. "I'll take pleasure in making you pay for that filthy lie. Asta told me all about it. I loved my wife, Dillon, more than anything in this life. She gave me the daughter I'd never had and you think I could have killed her?"

There was silence, only the sound of the rain hissing into the loch. Dillon said, "I'd say you're well suited to each other."

Morgan put an arm around her. "She did her work well telling you about my plan to fly to Arisaig, omitting the fact that we didn't actually intend to get on the plane. I knew one of you would be waiting, probably that man of yours, Ferguson, so we just stayed in the hangar until he'd gone. I saw him running off through the trees through my field glasses. Then all that was needed was Asta to pilot the boat while Marco and I stayed below and the poor old Brigadier fell for it, Dillon. Strange how I always get my way, isn't it?"

"Yes," Ferguson said, "I must say you have excellent connections. Probably with the Devil."

"But of course," Morgan raised his voice. "Are you there, Munro?"

"On our way in," Munro called and the rowboat appeared, Rory at the oars.

"What about the woman?"

"Locked her in the cellar."

They bumped against the hull of the motor cruiser and climbed on board.

Morgan looked down at Dillon. "So here we are at the final end of things. Did you find the plane?"

Dillon just floated there, staring up at him, and Morgan said, "Don't fuck with me, Dillon, if you do I'll blow the Brigadier's head off and that would be a pity because I've got plans for him."

"Really?" Ferguson said.

"Yes, you're going to love this. I'll take you back to Palermo with me and then we'll sell you to one of the more extreme Arab fundamentalist groups in Iran. You should fetch a rather high price. They'd love to get their hands on a British Intelligence officer as senior as you, and you know what those people are like, Ferguson, they'll take the skin off you inch by inch. Before they've finished you'll be singing like a bird."

"What a vivid imagination you have," Ferguson said.

Morgan nodded to Marco, who fired a burst from the Uzi into the water close to Dillon. "Now don't mess with me, Dillon, or I swear the next burst takes your boss apart."

"All right, I get the picture." Dillon put in his mouthpiece, pulled down his mask, and let himself sink.

He didn't bother with the anchor line, simply jackknifed halfway down and continued headfirst, reaching the bottom to the left of the Lysander above a forest of waving fronds. When he turned on his lamp, the first thing he saw was Fergus Munro on his back, a length of chain wrapped around his body. His face was swollen and bloated, the eyes staring, but he was completely recognizable. Dillon hovered, looking down at him, then pulled out his knife and cut the rope that held the chain. The body bounced from the bottom and he got a grip on Fergus's jacket and towed the corpse back to the downlines.

He left it on the sandy bottom, untied the flimsier case and went and clipped it beside the metal case on the other line. Then he went back to the body, towed it across to the second downline and tied it on, winding the rope round the waist and fastening it with the snap link. Then he pulled on the line that secured the cases and started up.

Kim and Ferguson were still hauling the line in when Dillon surfaced. He floated beside the cases, untied the leather one, and passed it up to Kim. It was already falling apart and broke in the Ghurka's hands, spilling a mass of rotting clothes onto the deck.

"That's no bloody good," Morgan said, leaning over the rail and looking down into the whaler. "The other one, Dillon, the other."

Dillon pushed the metal suitcase against the hull and Ferguson and Kim reached over to get it. Dillon murmured, "If you get a chance to jump, I can give you air under the surface, but only one of you. In a minute I'll be going down again and I want you to haul in the other line, Kim, it's vital."

"Thanks for the offer," Ferguson whispered. "But I've never even liked swimming. What you suggest is a quite appalling prospect. Kim might feel differently."