by D S Kane
“I’m a novice. I prefer we do something we won’t visit.”
Jon nodded. “I’ll order us some Glenmorangie to start off. Then possibly some Talisker.”
When the old woman returned, Jon ordered them both scotch. Ann had studied the menu and ordered herself a lamb cutlet flank with pistachio, grelot onions, lettuce, and beans. Jon ordered slow roast belly of pork, black pudding bon bon, and creamy mash.
When they’d finished eating, Jon pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a scheduling app. “Let’s plan tomorrow, our only day in Edinburgh.”
Ann nodded and they spent the remainder of their evening in the restaurant, drinking scotch and figuring out where they wanted to go and what they wanted to see.
That night, they were much too intoxicated to have sex, but they tried for a time before giving up.
When they had finished having breakfast the next morning, they toured the ancient castle on top of the tallest hill in Edinburgh. After lunch, they visited the Writer’s Museum. While they walked the Royal Mile back to their hotel, Ann asked Jon, “Why are there so many storefronts featuring scotch tasting?”
“Why, dear, that’s one of Scotland’s most famous products. And, tomorrow, for three days, you can taste the evidence. They produce the finest here, in Scotland.”
Ann pointed to one of the stores. “But why are so many of the storefronts featuring scotch tasting? Why so few featuring other products, like kilts?”
Jon shrugged. “Dunno. You’re right. Five out of the seven storefronts across the street are all scotch tastings.”
Ann smiled. “Let’s give it a shot right now.”
An hour later, they were once again pretty drunk as they left the store.
Ann watched Jon as he scanned the messages app of his cell for the third time in fifteen minutes. Something was about to happen. She was sure of it, but couldn’t guess what it would be.
CHAPTER 18
Edinburgh, Scotland
May 23, 4:54 p.m.
The following day, Jon and Ann checked out of the bed and breakfast and loaded their suitcases into a taxi. Jon told the cabbie to take them downtown to Rabbie’s Café, and Jon asked Ann to wait with the luggage while he asked someone at the café’s register where they should wait for the tour van.
When he returned, Jon said, “Our tour leaves in ten minutes and I was told we should wait right here. They’ll call the name of the tour and we can line up then.”
Ann asked, “What’s the name of the tour?”
Jon said, “Islay and the Whisky Coast.” He pronounced “Islay” as “eye-la.” Jon handed Ann a brochure. “They gave me this.”
Ann opened the brochure and turned to the page marked itinerary:
Day 1:
Explore the delightful harbor town of Oban
Venture through the sights and stories of the Loch Lomond National Park
Try to spot dolphins and whales as you travel by ferry to Islay.
Leaving Edinburgh, you head into the Highlands with a short stop in the holiday town of Colander for refreshments. After travelling through the mountainous part of the Loch Lomond National Park, you arrive in the busy harbor town of Oban.
You have a couple of hours here, where you can visit the Oban Distillery and sample some local seafood for lunch. You then depart Oban mid-afternoon for the journey through Kilmartin Glen to the port of Kennacraig where you catch the evening ferry to Islay.
The sail is just over two hours, and you should look out for dolphins, whales, and seabirds. On arrival it’s a short drive to Bowmore for your three night stay.
Days two and three were filled with visits to other distilleries, and “sampling Scotland’s peatiest whiskies.” Ann counted them. There were eight in three days. She wondered if she would enjoy the rest of her honeymoon or if she would be too drunk to remember anything.
She sighed. “Will we have any time alone by ourselves?”
Jon’s face showed a bit of dismay. “Of course. Meals and especially the nights.”
She tried to smile but was sure he could see she’d forced it.
The tour bus seated sixteen passengers plus the driver. Jon and Ann boarded in the middle of the crowd and ended up sitting in the middle right of the bus, with a lone man seated directly in front of them. That man didn’t seem at all happy to be on the tour.
The tour director was a young woman with red hair. She said, “I’m Moira MacTavish, your guide on our whisky tour of Islay. If you have any questions, ask me, and I’m sure I’ll have the answers.”
Jon seemed intent on examining each of the other tourists. Ann assumed it was his tradecraft kicking in.
But as their first day ended and night fell, Ann felt this wasn’t the honeymoon she’d wanted or expected. And, sure, Jon had somehow been made responsible to complete a mission for Avram, but, as the bus pulled into the tiny town of Bowmore and their tour guide dropped each of them at one of the local hotels, she vowed to talk with him and see if there was anything he could do about her feelings.
* * *
Avram had just arrived back at the office when he received a landline call from Chief Inspector Abraham of the Galilee police force.
“Director Shimmel, we’ve found something more of interest in the rubble of the Ashmel compound.”
“Yes? Please tell me.”
“It’s the remains of what used to be a thumb drive. And it was found within the remains of what once was Director Samuel Meyer. The only reason it survived the blast is that Meyer was standing at the rear of the blast radius. We’ve tried to read the contents but we don’t have tech that advanced. You might have better luck. Can I send it to you?”
“Yes. I’ll give it to one of our yaholim.”
By the end of the day, Avram had Michel Drapoff in his office. Michael now worked for the Ness Ziona, but he’d been Mossad most of his career. He had worked with Avram many times in the past when Avram worked as a contractor to the Mossad. Avram knew Michael was a talented hacker and had excellent black ops skills.
Avram called the chief director of the Ness Ziona, a man named David Schern. “Director Schern, I’m Avram Shimmel, director of the Mossad. I’d like you to lend me Michael Drapoff, one of your yaholim.”
“Director Shimmel, I was wondering when we might meet.”
“Soon, perhaps, but this request is urgent.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure, but not very long. Perhaps several days, possibly much less”
“Sure. But you’ll have to provide transport. We haven’t any available today.”
It took less than an hour before Drapoff, now with graying hair and a well-cropped beard, appeared at the security gate in the lobby. Avram had him sent directly to his office. He placed Drapoff in the small room where William and Betsy were stationed. But they weren’t due in the office until after lunchtime.
About an hour later, Drapoff knocked on Avram’s office door.
“Michael, what did you find on the thumb drive?”
Michael held the damaged drive in his right hand. “Two things of interest. First, thumb prints of Meyer and Ries. Since Meyer died with the drive, I’m assuming Ries passed it to him. The drive itself was almost totally unreadable, but we were able to retrieve the following: American National Bank account number… 4280… FLC, from Bank of Trade, Acc… er… 97-… VAJA… Mahmoud Alavi, Ministry executive. So, this confirms that the Iranian intel service bought FLC’s services.”
Avram remained silent while he thought. “Thank you, Michael.”
“Sure, boss. Listen, before I return to the Ness Ziona, can I say hello to William and Betsy?”
“Yes, of course. Thank Director Schern for me, for letting me borrow you.”
Michael rose and handed Avram the printed pages of his results, then left Avram’s office.
* * *
Through the tour bus windows, Jon and Ann viewed the rural scenes of Scotland as the vehicle rattled along the highway from Edinburg
h northwest toward the coast. The hills and the meadows were a pleasant verdant green, the many lakes and streams reflected the blue sky, and the tile roofs of the stucco buildings bore an ancient look.
Jon was silent as he sat in the aisle seat and Ann wondered what he was thinking.
She wondered if there was pertinent information he’d omitted telling her about the mission Avram had sent them on. Will he tell me? When? And what if he doesn’t?
She gazed out the tour bus window and delighted as they approached the kelpie statues, two thirty-meter-tall steel statues of the heads of mythological horses, and a wire-frame bridge off to the left side of the bus.
Moira, their tour director, was a young woman just a few years older than Ann. She spoke with an accent Ann didn’t recognize. It seemed a mix of Italian and Scottish. The tour director said, “Kelpies, such as those you see as statues here, were creatures that seduced sailors to dive into the sea, where the kelpies drowned them.”
Ann took photos of the kelpies and then of the surrounding countryside. She was impressed by the spectacular mountains filled with sheep and small sleepy towns, and then a fishing village on the coast.
She looked at Jon to see his reaction. But Jon was napping. Ann smiled, then closed her own eyes.
She’d been asleep for a while, when Moira said, “Now we’ve arrived at Oban. You can take lunch at one of the restaurants here, and then visit Oban’s distillery, where you can taste their scotch. It’s one of the finest in Scotland.”
Jon led Ann to the shore where there were several restaurants to choose from. He pointed to the two largest. “Choose. Which one for lunch?”
Ann pointed to the one with the best view. They walked inside and waited to be seated. She looked at the menu. “Jon, I don’t know what these dishes are. Can you help?”
He nodded. “I think just choose anything from the seafood section or the sandwich section. That is, with the exception of haggis. I’m pretty sure you won’t like that.”
Ann opted for what turned out to be a sandwich filled with crab meat and mayonnaise.
After they ate, they hiked up the hill to Oban, where they tasted enough whisky to get them both fairly drunk.
Back on the tour bus, Jon snapped photos of their traveling companions. Ann asked, “Why?”
Jon said, “Just being careful.”
The tour bus boarded a huge ferry and Jon guided Ann up the stairs to the top floor. They sat on the port side of the boat and watched the coastal islands stream past. One fairly big one seemed to have only a few lights blinking in the dusk, all clustered together. Jon said, “That’s Jura. The lights are the distillery. It’s the only one on that island.”
Another twenty minutes passed and the boat docked at Islay.
Once more they rode in the bus for nearly an hour. When the bus stopped again, Moira said, “Now we’re in Bowmore for the night. I’ll drop you all off at the hostel and hotels where you’ll all be staying. There are no locks on the doors, but don’t worry. There’s no crime on Islay. The fridge is fully stocked and you can make your own breakfast. I’ll pick you all up in the morning at 9:30 for a tour of the Bowmore distillery.”
Their room was less than basic. There was no television or even radio, and the bathroom was shared by all on their floor, the top floor. There was only one double outlet for them to use for recharging their cellphones. They didn’t unpack their suitcases. Instead they just threw the clothes they’d worn that day into plastic bags they used to collect their dirty laundry and climbed into the small double bed.
Jon opened the photo gallery of his cellphone. “Let’s take a look at the people we’re traveling with.”
Ann had intended to spend the evening making love, but decided it could wait for a little while. “Okay. So, you took photos of all the other passengers?”
“Yes. And our tour guide. There’s a game I’d like to play with you. Let’s look at each of the photos and try to remember their names. Then let’s make up a story about each one.”
Ann smiled. “Good game. Okay.”
Jon pulled up the tour guide’s photo. “Do you remember her name?”
Ann nodded. “That’s our tour guide. I think her name was Moira MacTavish.”
“Yes. Correct. One point for you. Make up a story about her.”
Ann smiled. “She’s been working here for three years and wants to become an anthropologist, but she hasn’t enough saved yet for college.”
Jon grinned back. “How about, before she learned how to save money, she robbed people who came out of Edinburgh bars late at night.”
Ann frowned. “Why attribute criminal intent to our tour guide? I’m sure she’s just struggling along, like so many others.”
“Fair enough. How about the old couple that were continually holding hands in the seat directly across from us?”
“Retired. I can’t remember their names. Let’s call them Salvatore and Diane Crachett.”
Jon nodded. “Their story?”
Ann thought a moment and then said, “They have saved for years to finally return to the place where they lived before they were married.”
Jon nodded. “Okay, that’s a good one. What about the guy seated directly in front of us? He was alone. Got a name for him?”
Ann made a face. “He seemed nervous and unfriendly. I think he was going to take this trip with his girlfriend, but they argued and she failed to show up for the tour. Can’t remember his name, so I’ll rename him George MacSour.”
“I remember his name. He said it was Harry Vole. So, here’s my story about him. He’s always wanted to visit the Islay distilleries and recently won a small amount of money in a lottery.”
They continued for nearly an hour, running through each of the guests. By the end of it, both were laughing.
They made love and went to sleep.
Jon’s watch alarm buzzed just after the sun came up into a foggy sky. They washed, dressed, and took the stairs down to the tiny living room and kitchen where other guests were making and eating breakfast. Jon poured two cups of coffee for them and pointed to the sole vacant couch. He sat there and Ann sat with him.
Ann looked around. She whispered, “No staff. It’s really bare-bones ‘do it yourself.’ Was this what you expected?” She frowned.
Jon shrugged. “No. But we’re here for the scotch. And for Avram.” He pointed to the window near the fireplace. She looked and saw the harbor, small boats, and little waves hitting the coastside beach. “And the majestic scenery.”
She asked, “Did you think about what I told you last night? This isn’t what I’d expected our honeymoon to be.”
He nodded but said nothing more.
* * *
The sky outside the hostel was beginning to brighten when the tourists emerged, most of them with cameras strapped around their necks. It was chilly, and Ann wrapped her arms around her to warm herself.
Moira pointed at each one as they entered the bus. She then counted the occupied seats. One seat was empty. “We’re one short.”
She then called out names and everyone present said “here” in response.
When she finished the roll call, she said, “We’re missing Harold Vole. He was seated in row three on the right as you face the front.”
Jon pointed to the seat directly in front of where he and Ann were sitting. He whispered in Ann’s ear. “You named him George MacSour.”
The tour director exited the bus and walked across the street into the small hostel where everyone had slept the night. She was gone only a short time. When she returned, she said, “Mr. Vole wasn’t in his room, but his luggage was there. If we wait any longer, we’ll start too late to make all of today’s scheduled stops at the distilleries. So, I’ll wait, uh, five more minutes.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and scanned its screen. “Damn. No coverage.” She scanned her wristwatch. When she finally looked up, she said, “Mr. Vole will not accompany us today.”
She sat in the driver’s seat, started the
motor and drove them on the two-lane road through the hilly countryside to the Kilchoman Distillery. Everyone left the tour bus and entered the white stucco building where a large copper chimney poked through the roof.
Jon led Ann through the distillery behind the Kilchoman tour guide, who showed them the steps the distiller used to craft whisky. They saw the large warehouse room where the barley was laid out and raked every hour until it sprouted, the large pots where the grain was brewed into a beer-like liquid, using its own heat, and then the enormous copper kettle where the staff distilled the fluid into whisky.
From there, the guide led them into a warehouse and showed them the wooden barrels where the whisky was aged. The tour guide said, “To be called whisky, the brew must be aged in barrels for three years and a day, but most whisky is aged for at least ten years.”
Then the Kilchoman tour guide took them to the tasting room. Jon and Ann were offered five small glasses of whisky, each one holding about an ounce of the golden liquid.
Jon tasted everything, but Ann opted to taste only three of the whiskeys. “Jon, by the time this day ends, we’ll have had enough of the stuff to make us extremely drunk. I’m going to be selective, and I’d advise you to be, too.”
Jon nodded, but then showed Ann a small zip-lock bag in his pocket. It was nearly half-filled with amber liquid. “I just look like I’m drinking too much.” He handed Ann an empty zip-lock. “Just don’t be obvious about it.”
When the tour director rounded them up and led them back to the tour bus, Jon said, “Let’s move up one row to Mr. Vole’s seat. We’ll get a better view of the scenery.”
Ann nodded back and they took row three on the right. When Ann sat, she rose back quickly. “Ouch.” She reached between the seat cushions and pulled a small flat object from the gap. She whispered into Jon’s ear, “Look what I found. It’s a thumb drive.”
Jon held out his hand and Ann passed it to him. “Yes, that’s what it is. Probably belonged to Mr. Vole. If we find him, we can return it to him. But I think this is what Avram wanted.”
The day passed without further curiosities as they visited three more distilleries. But then, as they prepared to depart from Bruichladdich Distillery, two more tourists were missing. This time the tour director was obviously concerned.
