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enough for a bite to eat? They always overcater these affairs, and we ve got several
pheasants going begging.
Ah, I wish we could, Adam said with genuine regret, as much for Peregrine as for
himself and McLeod. Unfortunately, we ve still got a three-to-four-hour run back to
Edinburgh, and I don t know how much the rain will slow us down. Thanks very much
for your offer, though.
Peregrine said nothing as they made their dash back to the car and piled in, but as Adam
shrugged out of a now sodden blazer and handed it back to the artist to lay out across the
back, he gave him a sympathetic smile. Sorry about the missed meal, but we really
shouldn t eat now, even if we could spare the time.
I know that, Peregrine said glumly, as Adam started the engine. It s just that, after
breathing the aroma of roast pheasant off and on for several hours, my stomach did a
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momentary leap of joy when we were actually offered some. Give yourself half an
hour, and you may be glad there s nothing in it, McLeod retorted, consulting their road
atlas. Hand up that cellular phone, would you? I m going to try to get us a chopper out
of Aberdeen; and if I do, it s bound to be a rough ride, in this weather. I can t think of a
faster way to Rosslyn, though. Head us toward the airport, Adam.
The general availability of helicopters in the Aberdeen area was a given, since
helicopters were widely used to service the offshore oil rigs, but whether or not they
could find one this late, and willing to fly them down to Rosslyn in this weather, was
another question. As they headed back through the village of Fyvie, McLeod spoke with
directory inquiries, jotting down the numbers of several helicopter charter services
operating out of Aberdeen Airport. Unfortunately, the airport proved to be a dead end, for
the companies servicing the oil rigs only ran commercial flights. But by the time they
were passing back through Oldmeldrum, McLeod had been able to obtain the number of
a small private charter service based farther north on the main road back to
Aberdeen. Now we re getting somewhere, McLeod said, as he began dialling the new
number. This one s just beyond Pitcaple. You ll want to go north on the A96 at
Inverurie - if I can raise them at this hour.
Grampian Helicopter Service apparently was hungry for business, because within the
space of five minutes, McLeod had secured the promise of a chopper and pilot standing
by for takeoff as soon as they arrived.
Right, we should be there in ten or fifteen minutes, he said. Thanks very much.
As he disconnected and began to dial again, he glanced at Adam and grinned. We ve
got one. They ll even take a credit card. Now let s see if all that training I ve been putting
into young Donald Cochrane will pay off. Hello, Donald? he said, when the call was
answered. Yes, sorry to ring you up at home, but I need a personal favor. Yes. I ve been
Hunting up by Aberdeen with Sir Adam and Mr. Lovat. We re on our way to pick up a
helicopter. We ve had a tip that our Henri Gerard chap may be making for Roslin. Yes,
down by Loanhead. No, I don t want you to go there. The charter service tells us that the
nearest helipad is at Dalhousie Castle. We should be there in about two hours. Can you be
there with a car to meet us when we land? That s right, Dalhousie Castle, at about
midnight. No, no backup, he added with a glance at Adam, who shook his head. If our
man is going to turn up, we ll have a better chance of apprehending him if the police keep
a low profile. In other words, said Peregrine, when the inspector had rung off, you
think Gerard may be too dangerous for a conventional police force to handle. Too
right, McLeod grumbled. If we blow this thing, and Gerard does set Gog and Magog on
the loose, numbers aren t going to matter except as potential casualties.
Shaken by the revelation that he was being sought by adversaries other than the police,
Henri Gerard had lost no time getting to the rendezvous point where he had arranged to
meet his hired henchman. No one seemed to be there yet, but when Gerard flashed his
lights and pulled into the agreed lay-by, just off the A7 road to Galashiels, Ritchie Logan
made a lithe run for the car. Seen by the glare of the headlights, he was wearing an
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artistically begrimed set of workman s coveralls under a scruffy rain slicker, and carrying
a heavy canvas tool-bag.
Evening, Mr. Gerard, he said, as he slung the bag into the backseat. You re right on
time.
I could say the same for you, Gerard replied coolly. When Logan had piled into the
front seat and slammed the door against the rain, he took a closer look at Gerard s taut
face, close-set eyes narrowing at what he read there.
What s the matter? he demanded.
Gerard gave a testy shrug of his shoulders and rammed the car into gear. Nothing that I
care to discuss with you, he said shortly, whipping their vehicle out onto the road again.
Logan gave him a sidelong look, obviously not impressed. Look, Mr. Gerard. If your
trouble s something personal, fair enough. But if it s got anything to do with this job
tonight, I want to know about it.
Gerard considered the demand, then gave a nod of brittle indulgence. Very well. If you
really must know, I have just learned that we are being followed.
Logan started up in his seat and darted an instinctive look over his shoulder.
Who is it? he inquired sharply. The police?
No, a - competitor of mine.
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