Bad Company (23 page)

He swallowed more schnapps while Dillon explained to Billy, and they moved on, their weapons at the ready.

SEATED BY THE fire again, Ferguson said, “So let’s hear the worst.”

“It’s simple,” Rossi told him. “Your record in the field of international intelligence makes you a very valuable commodity. Of course, I could simply shoot you, but that would be a waste. What I get for you will in some way make up for the financial loss over the
Mona Lisa
debacle.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” Ferguson said cheerfully. “My value would depend on what I had to say, and I’m not a very talkative individual.”

“Oh, we can take care of that. A little drug called succinylcholine. It’s used as a muscle relaxant in certain operations, but only if the patient is unconscious. If he isn’t, it leaves him totally paralyzed, unable to breathe and in exquisite pain. The effect lasts two minutes, but the idea of a repeat performance would be too terrible to contemplate. No, you’d sing for your supper.”

And Ferguson knew fear as he never had before, but managed a smile. “Sounds pretty ghastly,” and he turned to the Baron. “And you would approve of this business?”

“I’m sure I won’t have to. You will, of course, be sensible.”

Halfway up the great stone stairs was a small viewing room to one side, a very medieval item with an open front through which one could see everything in the Great Hall. Dillon, Billy and Klein, staying cautiously back, had a clear enough sight.

The magnificent chandelier hanging from the boarded ceiling illuminated the scene below: the oaken table; the silver candlesticks, candles flaring; Newton and Cook on the landing at the top of the marble stairs; Gibson by the log fire; the Baron and Ferguson seated opposite each other; Rossi to one side.

Dillon took it all in and pulled them back. “Does this staircase link up to the other landing?” he asked Klein in German.

“Yes.”

“And the door down below is the only way into the Great Hall?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. I’ll send my friend up to the landing and I’ll go through the door.”

“And what about me?”

“You stay here and keep watch.”

“Now look…”

Dillon said, “Do as you’re told.” He jammed his machine pistol against Klein’s chest. “I mean it.”

Klein put up a hand. “Okay – fine.”

Billy said, “Is he being awkward?”

“More like a pain in the arse. Go up those stairs, turn at the top and you’ll be on the landing overlooking the hall. Think you can handle Newton and Cook?”

“Any day, including my day off. What about you?”

“I’ll go downstairs and go in hard through the hall door. Fifty, Billy, counting from now.” They parted, Billy up and Dillon down. Klein, furious, took out the bottle of schnapps and drank from it, then went back into the viewing room, taking out his sawn-off shotgun.

Below, Rossi was saying, “I thought an auction might be fun.”

“You do like to twist the knife, old son,” Ferguson said. “Like the ivory Madonna. Oh, I know all about that. When you were on the run behind Serb lines, you killed four people, only two of whom were women. You make a habit of that. Witness Sara Hesser.”

“Damn you, Ferguson,” Rossi cried, his right hand coming out of his pocket holding the Madonna.

At the same moment, Klein, up above and thoroughly drunk, leaned out and shouted, “I’ve got you now, Baron,” hurled the empty schnapps bottle and fired both barrels of his sawn-off.

Strangely enough, it was Ferguson who saved the Baron, hurling himself forward and knocking him from his chair, but it was Derry Gibson, the old Irish hand, who got Klein, firing a Browning three times, catching Klein in the forehead, sending him back into the wall to bounce back over the edge and fall into the hall below.

All of their timing was blown. Billy, advancing on Newton and Cook, had no choice but to shoot Newton while Dillon, below, kicked in the door, stood to one side and sprayed across.

Ferguson and the Baron were behind the sofa, Rossi and Gibson upended the table and fired toward the door.

Dillon called, “You okay, Billy?”

“Got Newton. Cook to go.”

There was a burst of firing. Dillon called, “See what you can do with the chandelier. I’ll help. One, two, three, go.”

They gave it sustained fire, it splintered, shards flying everywhere, sagged, then ripped out of the ceiling, plunging the hall into darkness, and crashed to the floor, parts of it showering the table.

On the landing, Cook panicked totally, stood up firing his AK47, and Billy drove him back with a short burst, then started down the stairs. Dillon ran in, firing high, and confronted Rossi and Derry Gibson as they emerged from behind the wreck of the chandelier and table. Billy came up behind them.

“Hold it.” He ran his hands over them and relieved them of two pistols and Rossi of the ivory Madonna. He sprang the blade. “That’s handy.” He snapped the blade shut and put it in his pocket.

Ferguson and the Baron were standing now. Ferguson said, “What kept you?”

Billy said, “From what I could see from up there, you saved this old sod. What on earth for?”

“It seemed like the civilized thing to do, and he was very civilized to me, Dillon. He took me to the chapel and produced a tantalizing glimpse of the diary. Hidden in the mausoleum.”

“Really? Well, we came for you, Charles, but the diary is definitely a bonus.”

Rossi hadn’t said a word, merely stood there glowering, and Gibson was poised to take any chance to run for it, Dillon knew that.

“All right,” he said to Rossi. “Lead the way.”

Coming in at six hundred feet, Kubel had a perfect view of the Schloss, wonderfully floodlit, the meadow below. At one hundred and sixty miles per hour, he’d made a hugely quick run in spite of the heavy rain, but at the end, it had faded into a drizzle. There was a quarter-moon, pale, rain-washed, and then the floodlit Schloss, the great meadow, and he went down and made a perfect landing, taxied to the far end, turned and taxied back. His Codex Four sounded and he replied.

“Kubel.”

“Dillon here. Heard you coming in. We’ve got him.”

“Fine. Ready to leave when you are.”

They grouped close to the mausoleum in the chapel, Billy covering Rossi, Gibson and the Baron with his Schmeisser. Ferguson fiddled about at the back.

“It’s in here somewhere, a secret cavity of some sort.”

“You’ll never find it,” the Baron said tranquilly.

“I haven’t got time to waste.” Dillon grabbed Rossi by the hair, took a Walther from the pocket of his raincoat and rammed the muzzle against the side of his skull. “Produce it or I’ll kill him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you don’t know me.” Dillon turned to Gibson. “I told you never to run back to me.” He shot him between the eyes, hurling him back against the steps of the mausoleum, blood flying.

There was general shock, and then he rammed the muzzle of the Walther against Rossi’s skull again.

“It’s up to you.”

“No,” the Baron cried in anguish. “I’ll give it to you, but only if you swear on your honor to spare him.”

It was Ferguson who intervened. “You have my word.”

The old man went to the back of the mausoleum, and there was one slight creaking as he opened the cavity. He came back with the diary and held it out to Ferguson, who took it.

“A ‘holy book,’ according to Sara Hesser. You swore an oath never to copy it.”

“I never did.”

“Excellent.” Ferguson went up the two steps to the eternal flame and dropped the diary inside. It started to burn at once.

Rossi cried out, “You bloody fool, Father, they’ll kill us anyway.”

Dillon shoved him away and raised his Walther, but Ferguson said, “No, it’s over, and I did give my word. We leave now,” and he walked out.

“You’re a lucky man,” Dillon said. “I gave up on honor a long time ago. Come on, Billy.” They went out, following Ferguson back along the tunnel, hurrying past the carnage in the Great Hall and out to the front door, turning down the steps to the courtyard. Several vehicles were parked there, including a Land Rover with the keys in it.

“This will do,” Dillon said, and got behind the wheel. The other two scrambled in and he drove away and out across the drawbridge.

Rossi emerged from the front of the chapel, his father on his heels, and looked far down into the meadow. “My God, it’s a Storch; they’re leaving in an old crate like that. Well, I’ll show them.”

He stormed down the path to the courtyard, and his father stumbled along behind him. “But what are you going to do?”

“My Gulfstream is three times faster than that thing. I’ll run the bastards into the ground.”

He was beside himself with rage.

“You’re crazy,” the Baron said, as he plucked at Rossi’s sleeve. Rossi pulled away, started to run, and the old man went after him.

In the courtyard, Rossi scrambled into a station wagon, switched it on, drove for the gate and found the Baron standing there, arms outstretched, the familiar cane in one hand. Rossi had no option but to stop, and the Baron had the passenger door open in a second and hauled himself in.

“Whatever we do, we do together. Now get on with it.”

Ferguson, Dillon and Billy packed into the Storch, and Max Kubel grinned and shouted over the roaring of the engine, “All’s well that ends well. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“A sound idea. We’ve left four dead men up there,” Ferguson told him.

“Then we really had better get moving.” He boosted power, roared down the meadow and lifted into the air.

Dillon looked out and down in time to see the station wagon drawing up to the Gulfstream, and gestured. Kubel glanced back.

“If you didn’t leave Rossi dead back there, then that will be him. There’s no one else it could be. Let’s move it.”

He didn’t stand a hope, of course; there was no way of getting away, not with the Gulfstream’s speed. There was no chance of being shot down, because the Gulfstream wasn’t a fighting aircraft, which meant only one thing. He was going to get bounced. Rossi would force him to crash in the forest, and Rossi was a damn good pilot.

He was at one thousand feet when he felt a great shock wave. The Storch rocked in the turbulence; the Gulfstream passed over them, then banked, came around and took up a station to port as Rossi reduced speed. He had the cockpit lights on and, looking across, Dillon could see von Berger siting in the right-hand pilot’s seat, staring out.

“My God, he’s got the Baron with him,” he shouted. The Gulfstream roared away, banked and came back toward them head-on, lifting at the last moment and passing over, the Storch rocking again in the turbulence.

“No,” Kubel said. “He’s trying to force me down so low I’ll hit the trees. Let’s play a different game.”

He hauled back the column and climbed to two and a half thousand feet, and, in the cockpit of the Gulfstream, Rossi snarled, “What in the hell is he doing, that pilot?”

“This is ridiculous,” the Baron said. “Madness. Let’s go back.”

“I’m damned if I will.”

And at that moment, Kubel took the Storch nose-down into the steepest dive of his career, and Rossi went roaring after him. The Storch held true and Kubel didn’t haul back the column until the last suicidal moment, leveling at five hundred feet.

The Baron placed his hand over Rossi’s. “It’s enough,” he said, and pushed the control column forward. The Gulfstream, chasing at four hundred miles an hour, ploughed straight into the forest in a ball of fire.

Dillon shouted to Kubel, “You’re a genius.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind,” Kubel replied. “Nobody flying a plane that way could be.”

“It was his choice,” Ferguson said. “I can’t say I’m sorry. He had a terrible fate in mind for me, and the Baron was going to stand by and let him get on with it.”

“They can roast in hell, as far as I’m concerned,” Dillon said. “Let’s go home.”

They came into Arnheim shortly afterward and landed by the hangar, where Hannah, Harry, Lacey and Parry waited.

“My God, it’s great to see you, General,” Harry said.

Hannah impulsively kissed Ferguson on the cheek. “I’m so glad you made it, sir.”

“Well, all that can wait. All aboard. I want us out of here fast. Dillon, you and Billy had better change. What about you?” Ferguson asked Kubel.

“Oh, I’ll fly off after you’re gone. Time for an extended holiday, I think.”

“You were wonderful back there.”

“Yes, I was, wasn’t I?”

Lacey and Parry were in the cockpit of the Citation, Hannah and Harry boarded, Ferguson followed and Dillon and Billy came running out of the hangar a moment later.

Dillon said to Kubel, “I thought I was a good pilot, but you’re a great pilot. Isn’t he a great pilot, Billy?”

“Bleeding marvelous. Let’s go.”

They went up the Airstairs door and Parry closed it behind them. A few moments later, they were rolling down the runway, taking off and climbing fast.

“Okay, what happened?” Harry demanded.

“It can wait, Harry,” Ferguson said. “As usual, they covered themselves with glory.” He turned to Hannah. “Be kind enough to call Roper. Mission accomplished, Hitler diary destroyed. Baron Max von Berger, Marco Rossi and Derry Gibson departed this life for who knows what? Ask him to relay that information to Blake Johnson, too.”

“Of course, sir, and the Prime Minister?”

“I’ll deal with him myself.”

She went to the back of the cabin and moved into the kitchen for privacy. Harry got the bar cupboard open. “I reckon a drink’s in order, except for Billy here.”

“I’m going to have a kip anyway,” Billy said, putting his seat back and closing his eyes.