"Then why would he be working for Ferguson?"

"I suppose the Brits were the only people he hadn't worked for and you know how unscrupulous they are. They'd use anybody to suit their purposes."

"A thoroughly dangerous man," Asta said. "How exciting."

Morgan handed the fax to Marco. "Oh, we've handled thoroughly dangerous men before, haven't we, Marco."

"Many times, Signore, will there be anything else?"

"Yes, bring me some coffee and tell Murdoch I'll see him now."

Asta got up. "I'm for bed. Can we ride tomorrow?"

"Why not?" He took her hand. "Sleep well."

She kissed him on the forehead and went away up the great staircase. Morgan reached for a cigar, clipped it and lit it, and Murdoch entered, his oilskin coat wet.

"Well?" Morgan asked.

"No luck, I'm afraid, that old bastard Hector Munro was immovable. He said Fergus had gone off on his evening rounds and they hadn't seen him since. He's lying, of course."

"What did you do?"

"Searched their stinking caravans, which he didn't like, but I insisted."

"I want Fergus," Morgan said. "I want him where I can deal with him personally. He put his filthy hands on my daughter and no man does that and gets away with it. Try again tomorrow."

"Yes, Mr. Morgan, good night, sir."

Murdoch went out and Marco came in with the coffee. As he poured it, Morgan said in Italian, "What do you think of him?"

"Murdoch? A piece of dung, Signore, no honor, only money counts there."

"That's what I thought, keep an eye on him. You can go to bed now."

Marco went out and Morgan sat there brooding, drinking his coffee and gazing into the fire.

He was sitting in the study at the desk at eight the following morning working his way through various business papers when there was a knock at the door and Murdoch looked in.

"I have Angus here, sir."

"Bring him in."

Angus entered, took off his tweed cap and rolled it between his hands. "Mr. Morgan, sir."

Morgan looked him over. "You look like a practical man to me, would I be right?"

"I hope so, sir."

Morgan opened a drawer and took out a bundle of notes, which he tossed across. Angus picked it up. "Five hundred pounds. Anything unusual happens at Ardmurchan Lodge you phone Murdoch."

"I will, sir." He was sweating slightly.

"Have you been there this morning?"

"To do the wood supply, sir."

"And what's happening?"

"Mr. Dillon was having an early breakfast before going for the fishing on Loch Dhu. He asked my advice."

Morgan nodded. "Good. On your way."

Angus left and Murdoch said, "If the Munros come across him, he could be in trouble."

"Exactly what I was thinking." Morgan smiled and at that moment Asta came in wearing a hacking jacket and jodhpurs.

"There you are," she told him. "You said we could go riding."

"And why not?" He glanced at Murdoch. "Get the horses ready, you can come with us." He smiled. "We could have a look at the loch."

The waters of Loch Dhu were darker than even the name suggested, still and calm in the gray morning and yet dappled by falling rain. Dillon wore waders, an old rainhat, and an Australian drover's waterproof with caped shoulders, both of which he had found at the lodge.

He lit a cigarette and took his time over putting his rod together. Behind him the heather was waist deep, a line of trees above, and a plover lifted into the morning. A wind stirred the surface of the loch and suddenly a trout came out of the water beyond the sandbar, a good foot in the air, and disappeared again.

Suddenly Dillon forgot everything, remembering only his uncle's sheep farm in County Down and the lessons he'd given his young nephew in the great art. He tied the fly Ferguson had recommended, apparently one of his own manufacture, and went to work.

His first dozen casts were poor and inexpert, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked two quarter-pounders. The rain still fell relentlessly. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip, and cast out beyond the sandbar to where a black fin sliced through the water. His cast was the most accurate he'd ever made, the fly skimming the surface, the rod bent over and his line went taut.

Two pounds if it was an ounce. His reel whined as the hooked trout made for deep water and he moved along the sandbank, playing it carefully. The line went slack and he thought he'd lost it, but the trout was only resting and a moment later the line tightened again. He played it for a good ten minutes before turning to reach for his net. He lifted the floundering fish, removed the hook, and turned back to shore.

A harsh voice said, "Well and good, me bucko, a fine dinner for us."

The man who had spoken was old, at least seventy. He wore a tweed suit that had seen better days and white hair showed beneath his Glengarry bonnet. His face was weatherbeaten and wrinkled and covered with a heavy stubble and he had a shotgun crooked in his right arm.

Behind him, two men stood up in the heather. One was large and rawboned with a perpetual smile, and that would be Rory, Dillon told himself. The other was Fergus, a livid bruise down one side of his face, his mouth swollen.

"That's him, Da, that's the bastard who attacked me," and he raised his shotgun waist high.

Rory knocked it to one side and it discharged into the ground. "Try not to play the fool as usual, little brother," he said in Gaelic.

Dillon, an Irish speaker, had no difficulty in understanding, especially when Hector said, "He doesn't look much to me," and swung a punch.

Dillon ducked, avoiding it, but his foot slipped and he fell into the shallows. He scrambled up and the old man raised his shotgun. "Not now, my brave wee man," he said in English. "You'll get your chance. Slow and easy. Walk on."

As Dillon moved forward, Fergus said, "Wait till I've done with you," and swung the butt of his shotgun. Dillon avoided it easily and Fergus went down on one knee.

Rory lifted him by the scruff of his neck. "Will you listen or must I kick your arse?" he demanded in Gaelic and pushed him ahead.

"God help him but he never will learn that one," Dillon told him in Irish. "Some men stay children all their lives."

Rory's mouth went slack with astonishment. "By God, Da, did you hear that, the strangest Gaelic I ever heard."

"That's because it's Irish, the language of kings," Dillon said. "But close enough that we can understand each other," and he walked on ahead of them.

There was smoke beyond the trees, the sound of children's voices, so they were not taking him to Morgan and he realized he had made something of a miscalculation. They moved down into a hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old with canvas tilts and patched many times, far removed from the romantic idea of a caravan. There was an air of poverty to everything from the shabby clothes worn by the women who squatted by the fire drinking tea to the bare feet of the children who played in the grass beside several bony horses.

Fergus gave Dillon a push that sent him staggering forward and the women scattered. The children paused in their play and came to watch. Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees, and took out a pipe. Fergus and Rory stood slightly behind Dillon.

"An attack on one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Dillon, or whatever your name is. The great pity you weren't knowing that." He stuffed tobacco into his pipe. "Rory." Rory moved fast, pulling Dillon's arms behind him, and the old man said, "Enjoy yourself, Fergus."

Fergus moved in fast and punched Dillon in the stomach right and left handed. Dillon made no move except to tense his muscles, and Fergus drove a fist into his ribs on the right side. "Now for that pretty face of yours," he said. "Hold his head up, Rory."