Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘We?’ Irene’s conscience quailed slightly. ‘You don’t have to get involved. If I fail, they’ll throw me in jail and bury the key.’

  ‘And if we succeed, I’ll be with the richest woman in America.’ Patrick’s blue eyes creased as he grinned to her. ‘So what will we go for? The Mona Lisa?’

  Irene killed her scruples; she had to make her own rules. ‘That’s been done before.’

  ‘ The Scream?’

  ‘Stolen a few years ago. The Norwegians will be more careful next time.’

  ‘Michelangelo’s David?’

  ‘Too difficult to transport. No, no,’ Irene shook her head. ‘I’ll have to think of something even more spectacular. I’ll have to think of something that has never been thought of before; something that nobody would ever dream of stealing because it’s too valuable. Something that makes the whole world sit up and take notice, so that even Ms Manning is impressed.’

  Patrick put aside the remote control. ‘Like robbing Fort Knox?’

  ‘Yes, except the Fort Knox of art treasures.’

  ‘Let’s check the internet,’ Patrick said, rising on the last word. He had hardly glanced at the book.

  Irene looked over his shoulder as he typed in World Art Treasures. ‘Seven million and sixty sites,’ she said. ‘Plenty choice then. Where do I start?’

  ‘At the beginning,’ Patrick said, quietly. ‘Get a pen and paper, Irene, and start to take notes of site addresses. We’ll pick the most valuable.’

  ‘And the most portable,’ Irene added. ‘There’s no point trying to wrestle a forty foot slab of Aztec gold over the Rio Grande; the Border Guards might just notice.’

  Patrick nodded and began to scroll down the first page. ‘The Pyramid of Cheops, I don’t think so. Temple of Anada? That’s bigger than Central Park. How about a nice Chinese head?’

  ‘No,’ Irene said, ‘it’s held in the New York Metropolitan. Ms Manning was very specific that it had to be from abroad.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Patrick checked the next ten entries. ‘About half of these are held in the States. She makes things difficult, doesn’t she?’ He spent a few more minutes scrolling down the list. ‘Here’s a nice site. The Melbourne Museum. That’s in Australia, so it’s all right if we rob it. How about some Aboriginal Art? Or here are the Ashes: that’s some sort of sporting remains that the Australians and Limeys play for.’

  ‘I agree that they are valuable,’ Irene said as diplomatically as she could, ‘and very portable, but I don’t think it’s what Ms Manning wants. I don’t think that the ashes of a cricket stump can be called art.’

  ‘Man, you’re hard to please!’ Patrick stood up. ‘You find something then. I’ll see if there’s any football on. The Jets are playing Buffalo.’

  ‘Go the Buffalo Bills!’ Irritated that Patrick had lost interest so quickly, Irene cheered for the team that opposed his Jets. ‘I could try Venice,’ she said, ‘and bring back some priceless glass.’

  ‘You’d probably drop it,’ Patrick retaliated for the Bills quip, but Irene ignored him.

  ‘Here’s a cool one: Titian’s Danae in the Capidimonte Museum in Naples. It’s got an interesting history too, because Hermann Goering stole it during World War Two and it was recovered from a salt mine in Austria.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Patrick half rose from his seat as the Jets powered forward, and then swore as somebody called a time-out and a commercial for Budweiser took control of the television screen. ‘A salt mine, eh? Now that is cool; did the salt not damage it?’ With the football temporarily suspended he could spare some attention for Irene.

  She treated him to one of the frowns that regularly subdued her underlings. ‘And here’s more. During the war the British carried all London’s art treasures to underground quarries to protect them from German bombers.’

  ‘Hitler should have nuked them. The Brits drove my ancestors out of Ireland.’ Patrick returned to the television, switching channels as the commercial break seemed to last longer than the game. He swore again, ‘talking of the Brits, here they are now, Queen Elizabeth in all her pomp and glitter.’

  Irene studied the screen, consciously comparing the British queen with Ms Manning and wondering who was the wealthier. ‘That’s the queen eh? She thinks she’s real special, with all these horsemen around her.’

  ‘Toy soldiers,’ Patrick gave his opinion. ‘A squad of US Marines would wipe out the lot of them.’

  ‘Nice jewellery she’s wearing,’ Irene commented. ‘I could see me wearing that tiara when I next go shopping in Macy’s.’

  ‘That would be worth stealing for Ms Manning.’ Patrick held Irene’s eyes. The smile began slowly but spread until his whole face altered. He reminded Irene of a mischievous small boy in an adult’s body. ‘Think of that as a blow for old Ireland. Steal the crown jewels of England and bring them to America.’

  ‘They’re certainly valuable,’ Irene agreed.

  ‘And portable,’ Patrick continued.

  ‘And spectacularly impressive.’ Irene was also smiling.

  ‘What a coup that would be!’ She returned to the computer and typed in ‘Crown Jewels of England.’ Paraphrasing the words, she read out the various entries.

  ‘The Crown jewels are more than just a crown; the collection also contains sceptres, orbs, swords, gold and silver plate and other regalia. The plate was refashioned in 1661 after Cromwell had ordered the originals melted down.’

  ‘Well done, Cromwell,’ Patrick approved. ‘I’ll bet he was an Irishman.’

  Ignoring him, Irene continued, ‘The Imperial State Crown was worn at the coronation. Its jewels are so ancient that Edward the Confessor is believed to have worn the sapphire as a ring.’

  ‘Edward the who?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Confessor. Listen. The Imperial State Crown holds over 3000 diamonds and pearls, including the incomparable Cullinan diamond. The Queen Mother’s Crown has the Koh-I-Noor diamond, the Mountain of Light which carries a curse for male owners, but any woman who owns it will rule the world.’

  ‘Sounds just Ms Manning’s sort,’ Patrick moved closer. Let’s get them.’

  ‘There’s just one problem,’ Irene read on. ‘The English crown jewels are housed in an underground Jewel House beneath the Waterloo Barracks.’ She looked up. ‘Barracks. Get it? That means soldiers.’

  ‘Toy soldiers, though. Brits.’

  ‘Soldiers with guns.’ Irene stepped back from the screen. ‘Museum guards I can cope with, soldiers with guns are scary. Even a Brit can shoot somebody; all he has to do is point and click.’

  Patrick had replaced her at the computer. ‘You give up too easily.’ He continued the search and laughed out loud. ‘We can still get at the Brits though, and without burrowing under a barracks. Look: they’ve got more than one set of crown jewels. The Queen has a spare set in Scotland. The Scottish crown jewels.’

  Irene leaned over his shoulder as childhood memories stimulated her interest. ‘The Scottish crown jewels? I did not know that they had any.’

  ‘Well, they have, and I bet that a tin-pot little country won’t guard them as well as the English,’ Patrick cracked his fingers in a gesture that Irene always found intensely irritating. ‘That’s our target, so let’s get to work.’ He grinned across to her. ‘They might have soldiers with guns in London, but in Scotland even the soldiers wear skirts. This should be easy.’

  Irene looked at him, aware that the decision had been made. She was going to steal the crown jewels from the Queen of Britain. She was going to steal the crown of James Stuart. In her mind she could nearly hear the approval of Johnnie Armstrong.

  Chapter Four

  Edinburgh, December

  The view from the hotel window was spectacular. Directly opposite her window, Edinburgh Castle glowered from its volcanic rock onto a swathe of gardens and the bustling artery that was Princes Street. A long row of double-decked buses chuntered along the street, while pedestrians ignored every traffic signal as they dashed over the
road as the fancy took them.

  ‘Don’t they have rules of the road here?’ Patrick slid a hand around Irene’s waist.

  ‘Apparently not. That’s the castle over there.’ She indicated the massive stone structure with its towers and walls. ‘I’ve never seen a real castle before. It’s different to what I imagined.’

  ‘Bigger.’ Patrick gave his opinion. ‘But just as old fashioned.’ He lifted the binoculars from the highly polished table and scanned the castle. ‘It looks quite solid, though, but there are lots of windows to break into.’

  ‘Are there any guards?’ Irene lifted her own binoculars and stood beside him at the window.

  ‘According to the guidebook, there are uniformed stewards in the castle for the benefit of the tourists. They speak different languages.’ Patrick grinned to her. ‘It doesn’t say that they carry guns.’

  ‘Nobody carries guns over here,’ Irene retorted. ‘The walls look thick though, and that rock is steep.’ She allowed her binoculars to sweep over the volcanic plug, slowly searching for an easy way up.

  ‘That doesn’t matter. We won’t be climbing any cliffs and I don’t think that we’ll be tunnelling through the castle walls.’ Placing his binoculars on the window ledge, Patrick leafed through the booklet that he had bought at the airport. ‘They call the jewels the Honours of Scotland,’ he said, ‘and they are on exhibition inside the castle.’

  ‘We’ll go there right after breakfast,’ Irene smiled brightly, ‘how good of them to show us everything.’ Raising her binoculars again, she examined the battlements of the castle. A score of heads bobbed above the walls as, despite the winter chill, tourists gaped over the view of Scotland’s capital. There were stone walls and colourful winter clothing, grilled windows and laughing children: a composition of opposites. ‘Imagine if the States allowed tourists to wander around Fort Knox,’ Irene said. ‘I mean; it’s as if they’re asking to be robbed.’ She slapped his leg smartly, ‘how do we get in, Patrick?’

  ‘Through the front door,’ he replied. ‘It tells us here: the Castle of Edinburgh rears from its volcanic rock right in the centre of the city. With public gardens to the north, and busy streets on the other three sides, the only public entrance is on the east, where a gateway glowers down the length of the Royal Mile, once Edinburgh’s main thoroughfare.’

  Irene dragged Patrick up the steeply curving Mound, before passing the ancient tenements that led to the Esplanade in front of the castle. Two young soldiers stood sentinel, modern reflections of the statues of Robert Bruce and William Wallace, the mediaeval guardians of the realm who stared sightlessly over an international collection of visitors.

  ‘Military. That’s not good,’ Patrick commented. He eyed the nearest soldier with distaste. The sentry stared ahead, his pressed uniform and bayoneted SA80 rifle somehow out of place against the dark stone of the castle.

  ‘He’s not wearing a kilt,’ Irene said. ‘I wanted to see a soldier wearing a kilt.’ She stopped to take a photograph before crossing the bridged moat and passing through the main doorway. The castle closed in on them, wearing its history like a sombre shroud. A squad of soldiers marched down the precipitous road from the castle’s interior, their boots echoing on the granite setts as they exchanged jokes. A sergeant winked to Irene, his back straight, eyes mobile.

  ‘Lots of military.’ Patrick sounded gloomy.

  ‘Let’s get an idea of the place first,’ Irene suggested, photographing the portcullis whose spikes threatened from above. The walls rose before them, formidable as ancient cliffs, while each doorway led into cavern-like rooms, shadowy, strong and enigmatic. Irene thrilled at the dark blood of history as tourists exclaimed at the eighteenth century cannon and stared over the battlements, eating hamburgers where once besieged men despaired of their lives.

  ‘This is a place of stone,’ Irene said, tapping her toe on a basaltic outcrop of rock. ‘Stone ground, stone walls, stone floors and stone roofs.’ She shivered in the keen wind. ‘Maybe we should find something else?’

  ‘Enough of this,’ Patrick shoved past a crowd of people who listened to the tales woven by a green-uniformed steward. ‘Come on Irene; let’s find the Crown Jewels.’

  There was a courtyard in the heart of the castle, with Scotland’s National War Memorial on one side and the much older Royal Apartments on the other. A slender central tower thrust toward a sky of grey.

  ‘Here we go,’ Irene could not contain her rising excitement as she squeezed through the entrance, immediately aware of the aura of age.

  Irene was unsure what she had expected, but, refusing the sombre allure of the great hall, she moved straight to the rooms in which the story of the Crown Jewels was told. Unobtrusive wardens stood quietly in the rear, watching everybody and smiling as they answered the occasional enquiry. Irene took copious notes from the cards. ‘These Honours are old,’ she said quietly. ‘Older than the English crown.’ She pointed to the words. ‘It says here that these are one of the oldest sets of crown jewellery in Christendom.’

  ‘That’s cool.’ Patrick nodded ‘Where’s Christendom?’

  ‘The Christian west, you ass hole! Europe!’ Irene landed a playful punch on his arm.

  Patrick rubbed his arm. ‘Does it say how valuable they are?’

  ‘No. But Pope Julius II gave the sword to King James in 1507, and Pope Alexander gave him the sceptre in 1494. That’s just two years after Columbus discovered America.’ Irene shook her head. ‘It says that the crown was refashioned for King James V in 1540. That means it was made from an even older crown.’ The mention of that king brought an image of her ancestor hanging from a tree and she frowned. She must keep this impersonal, but she wanted James Stuart’s crown.

  ‘Yes, but is it valuable?’

  ‘It’s made of Scottish gold and Scottish pearls, with other precious stones and as much history as you can get.’ Irene nodded. ‘Yes Patrick, these Honours are valuable, or rather invaluable. Irreplaceable. You could not buy them or make them.’

  ‘Will they do for Ms Manning?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Irene looked forward, into the brightly lit room that held the Honours of Scotland. She shivered with apprehension, for these jewels were not just a means to her end of becoming Ms Manning’s neophyte; they held an extra significance in her life. ‘The oldest crown jewels in Britain, one of the oldest in Europe, worn by James IV, James V and Mary Queen of Scots. They are a unique set of royal jewellery unmatched anywhere in America.’ She nodded, ‘oh yes, Patrick, they’ll do for Ms Manning.’

  ‘Let’s see them then.’ With uncharacteristic chivalry, Patrick stepped back to allow Irene first access to the Crown Room. She bobbed in a whimsical curtsey and negotiated the curving stair.

  Tapping the massive entrance door, Irene pulled a face. Raised on Hollywood movies where muscular heroes kicked their way into apartments, she could not imagine even Arnold Schwarzenegger bursting through four-inch thick steel. She stepped into the darkened Crown Room and stopped.

  Ms Manning’s personal collection had been magnificent, beautiful but clinical; a collection without a soul, but the sheer splendour of the Scottish Honours twisted something deep inside her. Irene drew in her breath, aware of the rapid increase in her heartbeat.

  The crown was central to the display, its circlet of gold mined from Crawford Moor in the heart of the Scottish Lowlands. The metal glowed with a soft sheen, made more valuable by the knowledge that it had adorned the heads of royalty. Augmenting the gold, twenty precious stones and twenty-two gemstones glinted under the subdued lighting.

  Irene pressed her nose against the glass, striving to see everything that she could, as if she could hold the object with her mind and mentally transport it to New York.

  ‘What do you think?’ Patrick squeezed against her, whispering in the restrained atmosphere of the room.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Irene tried to hide the awe from her voice. She closed her eyes momentarily, seeking some objectivity. She was not here to admire t
hese objects, only to use them. ‘Ms Manning will approve.’

  Patrick nodded to the crown. ‘I’ve been counting the stones. I make it eight diamonds and over seventy pearls, plus a bunch of semi-precious stones, and a whole lot of gold.’

  Irene could nearly see the dollar signs in his eyes. ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘But it’s not the intrinsic value of the thing that’s important; it’s the historical association and the symbolism. Imagine, kings and queens have worn that crown.’

  ‘Have they used that too?’ Patrick gestured to the sword. ‘It must be five feet long! How many heads has that cut off, eh? I can see old Braveheart carrying that into battle. No wonder he won.’

  Irene’s eyes caressed the long blade of the sword. ‘What more would Ms Manning want that a present from a pope to a king? Look at the workmanship; it’s magnificent. And the Scots hid it from Cromwell, and again from Hitler.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Patrick turned his attention from the sword to the rectangular lump of sandstone that was also displayed. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  Irene squinted to read the description. ‘The Stone of Destiny,’ she intoned, making the words sound very solemn. ‘It says that the kings and queens of Scotland sat on it to be crowned. It’s an ancient seat of power.’

  ‘Well imagine that. The kings sat on an old rock.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘It’s time that somebody dragged this country into the twenty-first century. ‘Do you think they’ve heard of television yet?’

  ‘They invented it,’ Irene said absently. She stared at the Stone, wondering at its story, at the generations of kings that had perched on its rugged surface, and what had happened to them. ‘It’s amazing really.’

  ‘Yeah, really amazing that people who keep a stone all locked up could invent a television. But what’s that?’ Patrick nodded to the sceptre that lay at the side of the Stone. ‘That looks better. Did the Pope give the king that too? What was it – a royal truncheon to crack skulls?’

  ‘It’s a symbol of power,’ Irene corrected. ‘Did you not read any of the stuff back there?’