be all of ten miles.'
'What are you getting at?'
'Wouldn't it be quicker to go over the top on foot?'
Excitement and hope surged through him and he grabbed her hand. 'I'm not sure, but we can have a damned good try.'
When he opened the door to the passage which led to the kitchens, it was still and quiet, but somewhere there was a sudden scratching and the dog whined. Chavasse pushed Asta along the passage quickly and they went out into the courtyard.
It was beginning to rain again and the top of the great ridge which divided the two glens was covered in mist. They went round the side of the house to the lawn at the rear and crossed the bridge over the stream.
On the other side, the path lifted steeply through a small wood, emerging into a heather-covered clearing perhaps fifty yards across, the slopes beyond covered with pine and alder trees. Below them was the panorama of the valley, Glenmore House beside the stream and beyond it the meadow Donner used as an airstrip, the red and silver Beaver parked at one end.
As Chavasse and Asta came out of the wood into the clearing, Hector and Rory Munro moved out of the trees some twenty or thirty yards to the right. The old man carried a brace of pheasant and his shotgun was tucked under his arm. Chavasse caught Asta's arm to pull her back, but he was too late.
The Munros stood quite still, looking down the slope towards them and Chavasse said in a low voice, 'Ignore them-just keep going. No reason why they should interfere.'
And then a cry lifted high in the morning air and when they turned and looked down to the house, Stavrou was standing in the courtyard looking up towards them, the Doberman straining at its leash.
'Stop them!' he called. 'Bring them back!'
At the same moment, one of the Land Rovers turned into the courtyard, braked to a halt and Donner jumped out.
Hector Munro dropped the pheasants and both he and his son reached into their pockets for cartridges. Chavasse pulled out the Smith amp; Wesson and fired once, high above their heads, sending them back into cover.
He urged Asta across the clearing and as they reached the shelter of the trees, lead shot whispered through the branches and below, in the courtyard, the Doberman gave an unearthly howl as Stavrou slipped its leash.
They started to run, following the slope, pushing upwards through dripping ferns until they emerged on to a wide, boulder-strewn plateau. A few yards away, a track swung east, climbing the slope of the great hog's-back in a gradual curve.
Asta started forward and Chavasse grabbed her arm. 'We wouldn't get a quarter of a mile before that damned dog caught up with us. How's your climbing?'
'Only fair.'
'That'll have to do. Come on.'
On the far side of the plateau, the slope was volcanic in origin, split and fissured into great blocks of stone forming a giant's staircase. Chavasse ran towards it, Asta at his heels and as they reached the first tilt of stone, the Doberman came over the edge of the plateau behind them.
It barely paused before rushing on, snaking between the boulders and Chavasse pushed Asta ahead of him. 'Get going,' he said. 'You've got about two minutes to climb beyond his reach.'
That first slope was gentle enough and he knew with heart-stopping certainty that the dog would have no trouble in scaling it either. They scrambled over great blocks of stone and behind, the dog snarled, springing upwards on that first tilt of rock. Above them, the stone face was smooth for nine or ten feet, no holds anywhere, the entrance to a corrie beyond.
There was no choice and Chavasse linked hands into a stirrup. 'Go on, up you go!'
She had sense enough not to argue, but stepped into his hands and was pushed up in one smooth movement that took her over the edge.
The Doberman came after them, scaling the cataract of stone in a series of fantastic bounds, landing no more than a foot below Chavasse, jaws gaping. He kicked out savagely sending it scrambling down. It landed, surefooted as a cat, on a great block of stone below and bounded up again.
Chavasse turned, his back to the rock, and pulled out the Smith amp; Wesson. The Doberman landed at his side, its paws secured a grip on the ledge and it hung there, its body brushing his leg. It snarled, opened the great jaws to strike and he pushed the Smith amp; Wesson inside and fired twice.
The back of the animal's head simply dissolved as the heavy magnum bullets smashed through bone and flesh and it spun backwards into space, bouncing from the rocks below, falling clear to the plateau.
Stavrou was half way across and he paused with a cry of anger, raised his arm and fired a wild shot that ricocheted amongst the rocks to the left. Chavasse fired in reply, sending him running for cover. He stuffed the Smith amp; Wesson into his pocket and looked up.
Asta peered over the edge, lying on her stomach and extended a hand. He reached up, their fingers locked and he jumped, his right toe finding purchase in a tiny crack. A moment later, he was over the edge and lying beside her.
It was impossible to see the base of the slope, but a rattle of stones told them that Stavrou was climbing. There was no sign of the others.
'We seem to have lost the Munros,' Asta said.
Chavasse shook his head. 'I wouldn't be too sure. They've been born and bred in this country, remember, and they know the mountains. I should say they're already on their way to the top by some other route.'
'And Max?'
'Gone after the ambush party in the Land Rover if he has any sense. We'd better get moving.'
The corrie slanted back up the slope, a great jagged funnel, choked with boulders and scree and they scrambled up, never stopping until they emerged on to a wide ledge.
Above them, the crest of the ridge lifted in a gentle slope and they scrambled over the edge ten minutes later and found themselves on the rim of the main plateau, a grey, silent world of mist and rain.
There was a faint cry carried by the wind from somewhere on the right. Chavasse turned as Hector Munro emerged over the far rim. He paused, raising his shotgun, and then lowered it, realising he was hopelessly out of range and Chavasse urged Asta forward.
They ran across the plateau, picking their way between great jagged boulders, slipping and sliding over the rough ground and as they neared the far side, Rory Munro emerged from broken ground to the right.
Chavasse swung towards him and Munro had no time to take aim, and then they met, breast to breast, the shotgun between them.
Chavasse didn't hesitate. His knee swung up into the unprotected groin. Rory's mouth opened wide in a gasp of agony and he keeled over. Chavasse hurled the shotgun away over the rocks and as he turned, there was an angry cry and Hector Munro ran towards him. Stavrou twenty or thirty yards behind.
Asta waited on the rim of the plateau. Chavasse took her hand and they went over and down into the mist and rain, riding a great apron of shale and loose earth that moved beneath them.
They landed on a bare, steep slope, rough tussocks of grass growing from crevasses, making the descent difficult, slowing them considerably so that it was a good fifteen minutes before they emerged on a hillside above the glen and moved down through the heather.
But their pursuers were not far behind. At one point Chavasse was aware of a faint cry and, turning, saw Stavrou through a gap in the mist, a couple of hundred feet above them.
They plunged down through a plantation of young firs, arms raised to protect their faces from the branches. When they emerged on the other side, Asta staggered and would have fallen if he hadn't caught her.
She leaned against him, struggling for breath. 'Sorry, Paul, but I can't keep this up for much longer.' And then her eyes widened and she pointed down into the valley. 'Is that them?'
A Land Rover was pulled in at the roadside. Not one of Donner's, but unmistakably Army with the unit and divisional crests painted on its bonnet and sides in bright colours. An officer in jeep coat and peaked cap stood beside it, a map in his hands.
Chavasse called out, waving wildly and, miraculously, the officer turned and looked up. Chavasse grabbed Asta's hand and they plunged down the final slope through the heather, sliding into the ditch at the side of the road.
