In the distance was a cairn of stones marking the ultimate peak, but there was no Asta. He cut across the track and followed it back until he reached a point where he could look down almost three thousand feet to the railway line, and there was no sign of her. So she had beaten him to the summit, hardly surprising, for with the track to follow the mist would have been no problem.

He turned back, following the track to descend on the other side and paused suddenly as he stared down at the incredible sight before him. The sea in the distance was calm, the islands of Rum and Eigg like cardboard cutouts, and on the dark horizon, the Isle of Skye, the final barrier to the Atlantic. It was one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen and he started down.

Asta was tired and her right ankle was beginning to ache, legacy of an old skiing accident. It had been harder crossing Ben Breac than she had imagined and now she was faced with a twelve-mile hike. What had originally started as an amusing idea was now becoming rather a bore.

The track along the glen was dry and dusty and hard on her feet, and after a while she came to a five-barred gate with a sign that said LOCH DHU ESTATE-KEEP OUT. It was padlocked and she pulled herself over and limped on. And then she rounded a curve and saw a small hunting lodge by the burn. The door was locked, but when she went round to the rear a window stood ajar. She hauled herself through and found herself in a small kitchen area.

It was gloomy now, darkness falling, but there was an oil lamp and kitchen matches. She lit the lamp and went into the other room. It was adequately furnished with whitewashed walls and a wooden floor and a fire was laid in the hearth. She put a match to it and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs, suddenly tired. The warmth from the fire felt good, and her ankle didn't hurt now. She added pine logs to the fire and heard a vehicle drive up outside. A key rattled in the lock and the front door opened.

The man who stood there was of medium height with a weak, sullen face and badly needed a shave. He wore a shabby tweed suit and cap, his yellow hair shoulder-length, and he carried a double-barreled shotgun.

"Would you look at that now?" he said.

Asta said calmly, "What do you want?"

"That's a good one," he said, "and you trespassing. How in the hell did you get in here?"

"Through the kitchen window."

"I don't think my boss would like that. He's new. Just took over the estate yesterday did Mr. Morgan, but I know a hard man when I see one. I mean, if he knew about this he might make it a police matter."

"Don't be stupid. I turned my ankle coming over Ben Breac. I needed a rest, that's all. Now that you're here, you can give me a lift."

He moved closer and his hand was shaking as he put it on her shoulder. "That depends, doesn't it?"

His blotched face, the stink of whiskey on his breath was suddenly repulsive to her. "What's your name?"

"That's more friendly. It's Fergus-Fergus Munro."

She pulled away and sent him staggering with a vigorous push. "Then don't be stupid, Fergus Munro."

He reached angrily, dropping the shotgun. "You bitch, I'll teach you." He grabbed at her, catching the blouse beneath the leather coat, the thin material ripping from her left shoulder to the breast.

She gave a cry of rage, striking out at him, her nails gouging his right cheek, and then beyond him she saw a man materialize from the darkness into the doorway.

Dillon punched him in the kidneys very hard and hauled him back by the scruff of the neck and hurled him across the room. Munro hit the wall and fell to one knee. He reached for the shotgun which Dillon kicked out of the way, grabbing for his right wrist, twisting it up, taut and straight, ramming Munro headfirst into the wall. He scrambled up, blood on his face, and plunged through the open door.

As Dillon went after him Asta cried, "Let him go!"

Dillon paused, a hand on each side of the door frame, then he closed it and turned. "Are you all right?"

Outside an engine burst into life. "Yes, fine, what was that?"

"He had a Shogun."

She eased herself back in the chair. "I was really beginning to despair, Dillon, I thought you were never going to catch up with me. What on earth are you doing here?"

"Confession time," he said. "I've an uncle, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, who rented a place called Ardmurchan Lodge not far from here for the shooting, which it shares with the Loch Dhu Estate."

"Really? My father will be surprised. He never likes to share anything with anyone."

"Yes, well, when I read that item in the gossip column in the Daily Mail, saw your photo, I couldn't resist wangling myself an invitation to the Brazilian Embassy to meet you."

"Just like that?"

"I'm terribly well connected. You'd be surprised."

"Nothing would surprise me about you, and for what it's worth, I don't believe a word of it." She put down her right foot and winced. "Damn!"

"Trouble?"

"An old injury, that's all."

She pulled up the right leg of her slacks and he eased off the shoe and sock. "I'd have thought you would have caught up with me."

"I tried the short route straight up and it proved longer. I had to sit down in the mist."

"I just kept on walking. I noticed you at the station in Glasgow. I was coming out of the toilets and saw you buying a map at the bookstall. I waited till you boarded the train before getting on board myself. Most intriguing, especially when you changed trains as I did at Fort William."

"So, you left the train to draw me on?"

"Of course."

"Damn you, Asta, I should put you over my knee."

"Is that a promise? We Swedes are reputed to be terribly oversexed."

He laughed out loud. "I'd better get on with this foot while Fergus Munro hotfoots it to Loch Dhu Castle with his tale of woe. I should think we can expect company soon."

"I should hope so. I haven't the slightest intention of walking any further."

Dillon raised her foot. There was a faint puffiness at the ankle and a jagged scar.

"How did you get that?"

"Skiing. There was a time when I was an Olympic possibility."

"Too bad. I'll take the lamp for a minute."

He went into the kitchen, checked the drawers, and found some kitchen towels. He soaked one in cold water and returned to the living room.

"A cold compress will help." He bandaged the ankle expertly. "Tired?"

"Not too much. Hungry though."

He got one of the half-pound blocks of chocolate from his Burberry pocket. "Bad for your figure, but sustaining."

"You're a magician, Dillon." She ate the chocolate greedily and he lit a cigarette and sat by the fire. She suddenly paused. "What about you?"

"I had some." He stretched. "The grand place this. Fish in the burn, deer in the forest, a roof over your head, and a fine, strong girl like yourself to help on the land."

"Thanks very much. An arid sort of life, I should have thought."

"Haven't you heard the old Italian saying? One can live well on bread and kisses."

"Or chocolate." She held up what was left of the bar and they both laughed.

Dillon got up, went and opened the door. There was a full moon and the only sound was the burn as its waters ran by.

"We could be the last two people left on earth," she said.

"Not for long, there's a vehicle coming." He moved out of the porch and stood there waiting.

Two Shoguns braked to a halt. Fergus Munro was driving the first one and Murdoch was sitting next to him. As Munro got out, the factor came round from the other side clutching a shotgun. Carl Morgan was at the wheel of the second one and got out, an enormously powerful-looking figure in his sheepskin coat.

Murdoch said something to Munro and clicked back the hammers on the shotgun. Munro opened the door of the Shogun and Murdoch whistled softly. There was a sudden scramble inside and a black shadow materialized from the darkness to stand beside him.