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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ON DANGEROUS GROUND

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1994 by Higgins Associates Limited

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

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  ISBN: 0-7865-0980-5

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Berkley and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  Books by Jack Higgins

  FLIGHT OF EAGLES

  EAST OF DESOLATION

  THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER

  YEAR OF THE TIGER

  DRINK WITH THE DEVIL

  ANGEL OF DEATH

  SHEBA

  ON DANGEROUS GROUND

  THUNDER POINT

  MIDNIGHT MAN (Originally published as

  EYE OF THE STORM)

  THE EAGLE HAS FLOWN

  COLD HARBOUR

  MEMORIES OF A DANCE-HALL ROMEO

  A SEASON IN HELL

  NIGHT OF THE FOX

  CONFESSIONAL

  EXOCET

  TOUCH THE DEVIL

  LUCIANO’S LUCK

  SOLO

  DAY OF JUDGEMENT

  STORM WARNING

  THE LAST PLACE GOD MADE

  A PRAYER FOR THE DYING

  THE EAGLE HAS LANDED

  THE RUN TO MORNING

  DILLINGER

  TO CATCH A KING

  THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE

  For Sally Palmer

  with love

  PROLOGUE

  CHUNGKING

  AUGUST 1944

  THE PILOT, FLIGHT LIEUTENANT JOE CAINE OF RAF Transport Command, was tired, frozen to the bone, his hands clamped to the control column. He eased it forward and took the plane down, emerging from low cloud at three thousand feet into driving rain.

  The aircraft ploughing its way through heavy cloud and thunderstorm was a Douglas DC3, the famous Dakota, as much a workhorse for the American Air Force as the RAF, who together operated them out of the Assam Airfields of North India, flying supplies to Chiang Kai-shek’s Chinese army. On their way, they negotiated the infamous Hump, as it was known to Allied aircrews, the Himalayan mountains, trying to survive in some of the worst flying conditions in the world.

  “There she is, Skipper,” the second pilot said. “Dead ahead. Three miles.”

  “And the usual lousy blackout,” Caine said, which was true enough. The inhabitants of Chungking were notoriously lazy in that respect and there were lights all over the place.

  “Well, here we go,” he said.

  “Message from control tower,” the wireless operator called from behind.

  Caine switched on to VHF and called the tower. “Sugar Nan here. Is there a problem?”

  “Priority traffic coming in. Please go round,” a neutral voice said.

  “For God’s sake,” Caine replied angrily, “I’ve just clocked 1,000 miles over the Hump. We’re tired, cold, and almost out of fuel.”

  “VIP traffic to starboard and below you. Go ’round. Please acknowledge.” The voice was firm.

  The second pilot looked out of the side, then turned. “About five hundred feet below, Skipper. Another Dakota. A Yank from the look of it.”

  “All right,” Caine said wearily and banked to port.

  The man who stood on the porch of the Station Commander’s office staring up into the rain, listening to the sound of the first Dakota coming in, wore the uniform of a Vice-Admiral of the British Navy, a trenchcoat over his shoulders. His name was Lord Louis Mountbatten and he was cousin to the King of England. A highly decorated war hero, he was also Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia.

  The burly American General in steel-rimmed spectacles who emerged behind him, pausing to light a cigarette, was General Vinegar Joe Stillwell, his deputy and also Chief of Staff to Chiang Kai-shek. The greatest expert on China of anyone in the Allied Forces, he was also fluent in Cantonese.

  He perched on the rail. “Well, here he comes, the great Chairman Mao.”

  “What happened to Chiang Kai-shek?” Mountbatten asked.

  “Found an excuse to go up-country. It’s no use, Louis, Mao and Chiang will never get together. They both want the same thing.”

  “China?” Mountbatten said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, well I’d like to remind you this isn’t the Pacific, Joe. Twenty-five Jap divisions in China, and since the start of their April offensive they’ve been winning. No one knows that better than you. We need Mao and his Communist Army. It’s as simple as that.”

  They watched the Dakota land. Stillwell said, “The Washington viewpoint is simple. We’ve given enough lend-lease to Chiang.”

  “And what have we got for it?” Mountbatten asked. “He sits on his backside doing nothing, saving his ammunition and equipment for the civil war with the Communists when the Japs are beaten.”

  “A civil war he’ll probably win,” Stillwell said.

  “Do you really think so?” Mountbatten shook his head. “You know, in the West Mao and his people are looked upon as agrarian revolutionaries, that all they want is land for the peasants.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  “Frankly, I think they’re more Communist than the Russians. I think they could well drive Chiang Kai-shek out of mainland China and take over after the war.”

  “An interesting thought,” Stillwell told him, “but if you’re talking about making friends and influencing people, that’s up to you. Washington won’t play. Fresh supplies of arms and ammunition must come from your people, not American sources. We’ll have a big enough problem handling Japan after the war. China is your baby.”

  The Dakota came toward them and stopped. A couple of waiting-ground crew wheeled steps forward and waited for the door to open.

  “So you don’t think I’m asking dear old Chairman Mao too much?”

  “Hell, no!” Stillwell laughed. “To be honest, Louis, if he agrees, I don’t see how you’ll be getting very much in return for all that aid you intend to give him.”

  “Better than nothing, old sport, especially if he agrees.”

  The door swung open, a young Chinese officer emerged. A moment later Mao Tse-tung appeared. He paused for a moment looking toward them, wearing only a simple uniform and cap with the red star, then he started down the steps.

  Mao Tse-tung, Chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, was at that time fifty-one, a brilliant politician, a master of guerilla warfare, and a soldier of genius. He was also the implacable foe of Chiang Kai-shek, and the two sides had been engaged in open warfare instead of taking on the Japanese together.

  In the office, he sat behind the Station Commander’s desk, the young officer behind him. To one side of Mountbatten and Stillwell stood a British Army Major. His left eye was covered by a black eye patch and the
badge in his cap was that of the Highland Light Infantry. A Corporal wearing the bonnet of the same regiment stood against the wall behind him, a cardboard office file under his left arm.

  Stillwell said in fluent Cantonese, “I’ll be happy to translate for these proceedings, Chairman Mao.”

  Mao sat facing him, face enigmatic, then said in excellent English, an ability he seldom advertised, “General, my time is limited.” Stillwell stared at him in astonishment and Mao said to Mountbatten, “Who is this officer and the man with him?”

  Mountbatten said, “Major Ian Campbell, Chairman, one of my aides. The Corporal is his batman. Their regiment is the Highland Light Infantry.”

  “Batman?” Mao enquired.

  “A soldier servant,” Mountbatten explained.

  “Ah, I see.” Mao nodded enigmatically and turned to Campbell. “The Highlands of Scotland, am I right? A strange people. The English put you to the sword, turned your people off their land, and yet you go to war for them.”

  Ian Campbell said, “I am a Highlander, flesh and bone, a thousand years behind me, Laird of Loch Dhu Castle and all around like my father and his before me, and if the English need a helping hand now and then, why not?”

  Mao actually smiled and turned to Mountbatten. “I like this man. You should lend him to me.”

  “Not possible, Chairman.”

  Mao shrugged. “Then to business. I have little time. I must make the return journey in no more than thirty minutes. What do you offer me?”

  Mountbatten glanced at Stillwell, who shrugged, and the Admiral said to Mao, “Our American friends are not able to offer arms and ammunition to you and your forces.”

  “But everything the Generallisimo needs they will supply?” Mao asked.

  He stayed surprisingly calm and Mountbatten said, “I believe I have a solution. What if the RAF flew in ten thousand tons a month over the Hump to Kunming, assorted weapons, ammunition, and so forth?”

  Mao selected a cigarette from an old silver case and the young officer lit it for him. The Chairman blew out a long plume of smoke. “And what would I have to do for such munificence?”

  “Something,” Mountbatten said. “I mean, we have to have something. That’s only fair.”

  “And what would you have in mind?”

  Mountbatten lit a cigarette himself, walked to the open door, and looked out at the rain. He turned. “The Hong Kong Treaty, the lease to Britain. It expires July first, nineteen ninety-seven.”

  “So?”

  “I’d like you to extend it by one hundred years.”

  There was a long silence. Mao leaned back and blew smoke to the ceiling. “My friend, I think the rains have driven you a little crazy. Generallisimo Chiang Kai-shek rules China, the Japanese permitting, of course.”

  “But the Japanese will go,” Mountbatten said.

  “And then?”

  The room was very quiet. Mountbatten turned and nodded. The Corporal clicked his heels and passed the file to Major Campbell, who opened it and took out a document which he passed across the desk to the Chairman.

  “This is not a treaty but a covenant,” Mountbatten said. “The Chungking Covenant, I call it. If you will read it and approve it with your signature above mine, you will agree to extend, if you ever control China, the Hong Kong treaty by a hundred years. In exchange, His Majesty’s Government will supply you with all your military needs.”

  Mao Tse-tung examined the document, then glanced up. “Have you a pen, Lord Mountbatten?”

  It was the Corporal who supplied one, moving in quickly. Mao signed the document. Major Campbell produced three more copies and laid them on the table. Mao signed each one, Mountbatten countersigned.

  He handed the pen back to the Corporal and stood up. “A good night’s work,” he said to Mountbatten, “but now I must go.”

  He started for the door and Mountbatten said, “A moment, Mr. Chairman, you’re forgetting your copy of the covenant.”

  Mao turned. “Later,” he said. “When it has been countersigned by Churchill.”

  Mountbatten stared at him. “Churchill?”

  “But of course. Naturally this should not delay the flow of arms, but I do look forward to receiving my copy signed by the man himself. Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Mountbatten pulled himself together. “No, of course not.”

  “Good. And now I must go. There is work to do, gentlemen.”

  He went out and down the steps followed by the young officer, crossed to the Dakota, and went in. The door was closed, the steps wheeled away, the plane started to taxi, and Stillwell burst into laughter.

  “God help me, that’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen in years. He certainly is a character. What are you going to do?”

  “Send the damn thing to London for Churchill’s signature, of course.” Mountbatten turned back in the entrance and said to Major Campbell, “Ian, I’m going to give you a chance to have dinner at the Savoy. I want you on your way to London as soon as possible with a dispatch from me for the Prime Minister. Did I hear another plane land?”

  “Yes, sir, a Dakota from Assam.”

  “Good. Give orders for it to be refueled and turned around.” Mountbatten glanced at the Corporal. “You can take Tanner with you.”

  “Fine, sir.”

  Campbell shuffled the papers to put them in the file and Mountbatten said, “Three copies. One for Mao, another for the Prime Minister, and the third for President Roosevelt. Didn’t I sign four?”

  “I took the liberty of making an extra copy, sir, just in case of accidents,” Campbell said.

  “Good man, Ian,” Mountbatten nodded. “On your way then. Only one night out at the Savoy, then straight back.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Campbell saluted and went out followed by Tanner. Stillwell lit a cigarette. “He’s a strange one, Campbell.”

  “Lost his eye at Dunkirk,” Mountbatten said. “Got a well-earned Military Cross. Best aide I ever had.”

  “What’s all this Laird of Loch Dhu crap?” Stillwell said. “You English are really crazy.”

  “Ah, but Campbell isn’t English, he’s Scots, and more than that, he’s a Highlander. As Laird of Loch Dhu he heads a sect of Clan Campbell and that, Joe, is a tradition that existed before the Vikings sailed to America.”

  He walked to the door and stared out at the driving rain. Stillwell joined him. “Are we going to win, Louis?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mountbatten nodded. “It’s what will come after that bothers me.”

  In Campbell’s quarters, Tanner packed the Major’s hold-all with military thoroughness while Campbell shaved. They had been together since boyhood, for Tanner’s father had been a gamekeeper on the Loch Dhu estate, and together they endured the shattering experience of Dunkirk. When Campbell had first worked for Mountbatten at Combined Operations Headquarters in London he had taken the Corporal with him as his batman. The move to South East Asia Command had followed that. But to Jack Tanner, good soldier with a Military Medal for bravery in the field to prove it, Campbell would never be anything else but the Laird.

  The Major came out of the bathroom drying his hands. He adjusted the black eye patch and smoothed his hair, then pulled on his tunic. “Got the briefcase, Jack?”

  Tanner held it up. “The papers are inside, Laird.”

  He always gave Campbell the title when they were alone. Campbell said, “Open it. Take out the fourth copy, the extra copy.”

  Tanner did as he was told and passed it to him. The single sheet of paper was headed “Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command.” Mao had signed it, not only in English but in Chinese, with Mountbatten countersigning.

  “There you are, Jack,” Campbell said as he folded it. “Piece of history here. If Mao wins, Hong Kong will stay British until July first, twenty ninety-seven.”

  “You think it will happen, Laird?”

  “Who knows. We’ve got to win the war first. Pass me my Bible, will you?”

&n
bsp; Tanner went to the dresser where the Major’s toilet articles were laid out. The Bible was about six inches by four with a cover of embossed silver, a Celtic cross standing out clearly. It was very old. A Campbell had carried it to war for many centuries. It had been found in the pocket of the Major’s ancestor who had died fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden. It had been recovered from the body of his uncle, killed on the Somme in 1916. Campbell took it everywhere.

  Tanner opened it. The inside of the Bible’s cover was also silver. He felt carefully with his nail; it sprang open revealing a small hidden compartment. Campbell folded the sheet of paper to the appropriate size and fitted it in, closing the lid.

  “Top secret, Jack, only you and I know it’s there. Your Highland oath on it.”

  “You have it, Laird. Shall I put it in the hold-all, Laird?”

  “No, I’ll carry it in my map pocket.” There was a knock at the door, Tanner went to open it and Flight Lieutenant Caine stepped in. He was carrying heavy flying jackets and sheepskin boots.

  “You’ll need these, sir. We’ll probably have to go as high as twenty thousand over part of the Hump. Bloody freezing up there.”

  The young man looked tired, dark circles under his eyes. Campbell said, “I’m sorry about this. I know you’ve only just got in.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I carry a co-pilot, Pilot Officer Giffard. We can spell each other. We also have a navigator and wireless operator. We’ll make out.” He smiled. “One can hardly say no to Lord Mountbatten. All the way to Delhi on this one, I see.”

  “That’s right. Then onwards to London.”

  “Wish I was doing that leg of the trip.” Caine opened the door and looked out at the rain. “Never stops, does it? What a bloody country. I’ll see you at the plane, sir.”

  He went out. Campbell said, “Right, Jack, let’s get moving.”

  They pulled on the flying boots, the heavy sheepskin jackets. Finally ready, Tanner picked up his hold-all and the Major’s.

  “On your way, Jack.”

  Tanner moved out. Campbell glanced around the room, reached for his cap and put it on, then he picked up the Bible, put it in the map pocket of his flying jacket, and fastened the flap. Strange, but he felt more than tired. It was as if he had reached the end of something. His Highland blood speaking again. He shrugged the feeling off, turned, and went out into the rain, following Tanner to the Dakota.