“He’s Irish, actually,” Lang said.
“As for the girl, I’ve formed the opinion she’s touched in the head,” Dillon told him. “But that’s another story.” He looked up at the portrait of the Earl of Drury over the fireplace. “Ancestor of yours, from the look of his face. A grand arrogant bastard who walked over everybody. He probably laid his riding crop over the shoulders of his servants and made all the maids have sex with him.”
Lang’s face was pale. “Take care, Dillon.”
“You’d rather be him, is that it? Modern life too boring? All the money in the world and all you could find to do was play at politics and then January 30 came along. I don’t know how, but it came along.” There was that wolfish look on Lang’s face now. Dillon said, “I’d like to know one thing. Did Grace Browning make all the hits or did you share?”
“You go to hell,” Lang told him.
Ferguson stood up. “I believe there is enough evidence to take you into custody, Lang. You’ll come back to London with us.” He turned to Hannah. “Read him his rights, and for the moment charge him with treason.”
“Nobody’s taking me anywhere,” Lang said and snapped his fingers. “Stand, boy.” Danger was on his feet instantly, a rumble like distant thunder deep in his throat. “He’ll tear your arm off, Ferguson, if I tell him to.”
“Is that a fact?” Dillon said and whistled, a strange eerie sound that seemed to come from another place. “Now then, Danger boy.” He held out a hand. The wolfhound wriggled close, reached up and licked the hand.
“Good God!” Lang said.
“A man who was once my friend taught me that trick,” Dillon said.
“Ah, well, it just goes to show you can’t rely on anything in this wicked old world,” Rupert Lang said and took a Browning from inside the pocket of his smock. “Except one of these, of course. Sorry, Ferguson, but I’m not going anywhere.”
He backed out of the window and was gone, the dog running after him. Dillon took out his Walther and ran onto the terrace, pausing to get his bearings. There was no sign of Lang and then the roaring of an engine and he rode out of the barn on the Montesa, skidded out through the main gate, and took the track up to the moor.
Dillon ran across to the Range Rover and in the same moment saw the other Montesa on its stand inside the barn.
He turned and called to Ferguson and Hannah, who had emerged onto the terrace. “There’s another bike. I’m going after him. I’ll call you on my Cellnet phone, Hannah.”
A moment later, he roared out of the barn, turned through the gates, and went after Lang, who was high up on the track now, the wolfhound chasing him.
Dillon’s tweed suit was soaked within minutes, water spraying everywhere from the rough track, and the rain dashed in his face, half-blinding him. For some reason he seemed to be gaining, and when he went over a rise after coming up through the trees he saw Lang no more than a hundred yards in front, Danger running alongside, keeping pace with him with apparent ease.
And yet it was the wolfhound in the end that was Lang’s undoing, for as they reached the crest of the track, high above the forest, three sheep came over the drystone wall. Danger, ahead of the motorcycle at that point, crossed in front to snap at the sheep. Lang swerved to avoid him.
At that point there was a wooden five bar gate. He smashed through it, careered down a grass slope, and plunged over a ledge of rock, still astride the Montesa and, amazingly, the dog leapt after him.
Dillon left his bike by the smashed gate, slithered down the slope, and looked over. Lang lay there with the Montesa on top of him and the wolfhound was crawling toward him, dragging its hind legs. Dillon moved to one side where the grass sloped again and went down.
He got both his hands to the Montesa, lifted it up, and tossed it to one side. There was blood on one side of Lang’s face. Dillon leaned down to lift him and Lang cried out in agony.
“My bloody back’s broken, Dillon. Christ, I can feel the bone sticking out.”
“I’ll get help, I have a phone.” Dillon got his Cellnet out and dialed Hannah’s number.
She was with him in seconds. “Are you okay, Dillon?”
“There’s been a bad accident. Lang’s crashed and broken his back. You’d better get onto the police at Okehampton. We’ll need an ambulance or a helicopter if there is one. I’m high on the track above the forest.”
“I’ll get straight onto it.”
Dillon turned to Lang and Danger whimpered in pain, trying to drag himself to his master. Lang turned his head. “There’s a good boy.” He tried to reach the dog with a hand and groaned. “My God, his rear legs, Dillon, the bones are jutting out.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Finish him for me, Dillon, do the decent thing. Can’t bear to see him suffer.”
Dillon took out his silenced Walther. Danger looked up at him, eyes filled with pain. “There’s a boy,” Dillon said, stroking his head, and shot him.
Dillon crouched beside Lang, lit a cigarette, and put it to his lips. Lang coughed and said weakly, “What a way to go. What a stupid bloody way to go.”
“Someone will be here soon,” Dillon said. “One of the advantages of the Cellnet phone system. Instant communication.”
“Not instant enough. I’m dying, Dillon.”
“Maybe not. Just hang in there.”
“What for? A show trial.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve always been so bored, Dillon, had everything and had nothing, if you follow. Ireland disgusted me, so I left the Army for silly political games, and then things happened, all by chance, wonderful, exciting things. Nothing was ever so exciting.”
His breathing was labored. “Take it easy,” Dillon told him.
“No, something I want you to understand, want to tell you because it doesn’t seem to matter now. The first January 30 was a mistake. Tom was a delivery boy for Belov, but the Arab he met was supposed to kill Belov for the KGB. Tom shot him in a struggle for the gun – the Beretta. That’s why we invented January 30. To explain the killing. But Tom was shot and I couldn’t have that, so I knocked off Ashimov, the KGB bastard behind everything. I killed people in Ireland, Dillon, so why couldn’t I kill a piece of slime like that?”
Blood was trickling out of his mouth. “Easy,” Dillon said.
“So it started and after a while came Grace.” His words were distorted now. “Tom and I went to see her at the Lyric. On the way back, those two scum jumped her, heroes of the glorious revolution. Took her up an alley to rape her. Tom and I intervened. I was carrying, you see. I’d made the Beretta my licensed handgun for visits to the Province.”
“And you killed them.”
“They were armed. I shot one, there was a struggle and Grace picked up the Beretta and took out the other bastard.”
“And that was the start of it for her?”
“Got a taste for it. Another kind of performance. I put her through a weapons course here. Very apt pupil!”
He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. Dillon said, “The Beretta, has Grace got it?”
“Oh yes, needs it.”
Dillon frowned. “Why?”
“Poor Ferguson. Another Bloody Sunday. Like to see his face,” Lang said and coughed, turning his head to one side, blood erupting from his mouth. His body shook violently, then went very still.
A moment later Dillon heard his Cellnet phone. He took it out and switched on and Ferguson said, “Dillon, there’s an RAF base only twelve miles away. They’re sending a helicopter.”
“Too late,” Dillon said. “He just died. I’ll see you in a little while, Brigadier.”
He switched off and turned, as stone cascaded down the slope, and Sam Lee arrived. “What happened, then?”
“He crashed through the gate off the track and came down the slope.”
“Dead, is he?” There was a certain satisfaction on Lee’s coarse face. “Ah, well that’s the way of the world. Even the high and mighty come down to this.”