On Dangerous Ground by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online

hopeless.”
    “Maybe he’s not here,” Hannah said. “Perhaps you’re wrong, Dillon.”
    It was as if he wasn’t listening to her. “He’d have to have a way out.” He turned to Ferguson. “The stern, let’s look at the stern.”
    He led the way to the rear of the ship quickly, pushing people out of the way, and leaned over the stern rail. After a moment, he turned. “He’s here.”
    “How do you know?” Ferguson demanded.
    Dillon reached over and hauled in a line, and an inflatable with an outboard motor came into view. “That’s his way out,” he said. “Or it was.” He reached over, opened the snap link that held the line, and the inflatable vanished into the darkness.
    “Now what?” Hannah demanded.
    At that moment, a voice over the tannoy system said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Prime Minister.”
    Dillon said, “He isn’t the kind to commit suicide, so he wouldn’t walk up to him in the crowd.” He looked up at the wheelhouse perched on top of the ship, three levels of decks below it. “That’s it. It has to be.”
    He ran for the steps leading up, Hannah at his heels, Ferguson struggling behind. He looked along the first deck which was deserted and started up the steps to the next. As he reached it, the Prime Minister said over the tannoy, “I’m proud to present to you the President of the United States.”
    At the same moment as Dillon reached the deck he saw a waiter open the saloon door at the far end and enter followed by a waitress carrying a tray covered by a white napkin.
     
     
    The saloon was deserted. Ahern moved forward and looked down through the windows to the forward deck where the President stood at the microphone, the British and Israeli Prime Ministers beside him. Ahern eased one of the windows open and took out his gun.
    The door opened gently behind him and Dillon moved in, his Walther ready. “Jesus, Michael, but you never give up, do you.”
    Ahern turned, the gun against his thigh. “Sean Dillon, you old bastard,” and then his hand swung up.
    Dillon shot him twice in the heart, a double thud of the silenced pistol that drove him back against the bulkhead. Norah Bell stood there, frozen, clutching the tray.
    Dillon said, “Now if there was a pistol under that napkin and you were thinking about reaching for it, I’d have to kill you, Norah, and neither of us would like that, you being a decent Irish girl. Just put the tray down.”
    Very slowly, Norah Bell did as she was told and placed the tray on the nearest table. Dillon turned, the Walther swinging from his right hand, and said to Ferguson and Hannah, “There you go, all’s well that ends well.”
    Behind him Norah hitched up her skirt, pulled the flick knife from her stocking and sprang the blade, plunging it into his back. Dillon reared up in agony and dropped his Walther.
    “Bastard!” Norah cried, pulled out the knife, and thrust it into him again.
    Dillon lurched against the table and hung there for a moment. Norah raised the knife to strike a third blow and Hannah Bernstein dropped to one knee, picked up Dillon’s Walther and shot her in the center of the forehead. At the same moment, Dillon slipped from the table and rolled onto his back.
     
     
    It was around midnight at the London Clinic, one of the world’s greatest hospitals, and Hannah Bernstein sat in the first floor reception area close to Dillon’s room. She was tired which, under the circumstances, was hardly surprising, but a diet of black coffee and cigarettes had kept her going. The door at the end of the corridor swung open, and to her astonishment Ferguson entered followed by the President and Colonel Candy.
    “The President was returning to the American Embassy,” Ferguson told her.
    “But under the circumstances I felt I should look in. You’re Chief Inspector Bernstein, I understand.” The President took her hand. “I’m eternally grateful.”
    “You owe more to Dillon, sir. He was the one who thought it through, he