by Aaron Elkins
“No, it’s not that. It’s just not something I—”
“Oh, gosh,” Julie said, “they just announced our flight for the second time. We’d better get going, Gideon.”
“Whew. Thanks, kid,” Gideon said once they’d made their quick good-byes and were headed for the gate.
“Maybe I could triple it!” Lester was bellowing exultantly after them, the words muffled by a mouthful of ham and cheese. “I’ll be in touch, buddy!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THEY had been assigned the same seats, 17A and 17B, for the British Airways return flight to Heathrow, so as the plane banked on its ascent, they were once again treated to a panoramic view of the Rock and the clustered settlement at its base.
“There’s the Moorish Castle,” Julie said thoughtfully. “The prison. Is that where Rowley is now?”
“I imagine he’s still in a holding cell at New Mole House,” Gideon said, “but that’s probably where he’ll spend the rest of his life. It’s their one and only prison.”
“How awful. Can you imagine what must be like inside? What the cells must be like? No windows, no daylight, just cold, damp, six-hundred -year-old stone walls . . .” She shuddered and turned away. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it,” she finished.
“Mmm,” Gideon agreed just as he caught a whiff of Irish whiskey and sensed someone leaning forward from the row behind. Oh, boy, he thought.
“Actually,” the plummy familiar voice from Seat 18B intoned, “it’s closer to seven hundred years than six. It was constructed in 1335, on the site of a still older Moorish structure. And the term Moorish Castle, although in common use, has no basis in fact. More properly, it’s the Tower of Homage, which was part of an extensive, intricate complex of walls and courtyards—”
“Oh, dear,” Julie whispered.
“—presumably with some defensive capabilities, but primarily— and this aspect is quite interesting . . .”
Gideon sank back his seat and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long three hours.
