Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘Another symbol. Everything’s symbolic; nothing’s for real. Is it gold though?’

  ‘Gilded silver.’

  Patrick grunted his disappointment. ‘Hey, though, is that a diamond on top?’

  ‘No.’ Irene shook her head. ‘Rock crystal, the same as fortune tellers use in fairgrounds.’

  ‘Jesus. That good eh?’ Patrick stood up. ‘We should have stayed with the real crown jewels. We’ve flown all this way to look at a fairground trinket.’

  ‘That fairground trinket is worth countless millions,’ Irene said quietly, ‘and it carries the soul of a nation. We’d be making Ms Manning a royal gift.’

  ‘And she’d be giving you her queendom.’ Patrick suddenly grinned. ‘Where did all this poetry come from, Irene? Hey there, we’ve seen the damned things, let’s go away and plan.’

  ‘Edinburgh is a city of many layers. Surrounding the castle, the mediaeval Old Town of narrow streets, wynds and closes has a history of riot, secret vice and blood soaked into its weary stones. Beyond the Old Town is the New, a masterpiece of Georgian and Regency planning, a place of Classical architecture, of crescents and terraces, of formal gardens and sophistication. Beyond that again spreads the Victorian city of tenements and tall-spired churches, dominated by students, artisans and clerks, and yet further out is a peripheral ring of trim bungalows and municipal housing schemes interspersed with some of the most expensive dwellings in Scotland.’

  Putting down the guidebook, Irene sighed. She had no intention of venturing beyond the town centre, and had found sanctuary from the chill in a small and busy pub a musket shot from the castle. The interior was dark but cosy and she smiled her way to the bar to order pie and chips and two pints of Scottish beer.

  Patrick screwed up his face at the taste and colour. ‘Don’t they have American beer, here? This stuff is dark.’

  ‘Drink up and don’t draw any more attention to yourself.’ Irene opened up the notes that she had made. ‘We have a lot of work ahead of us. First we have to decide exactly what we want, then how to get it.’

  ‘We want the crown,’ Patrick said at once. ‘The rest is just garbage. Big swords, hunks of rock and gilt sticks with crystal balls.’

  ‘We want the full Honours,’ Irene said, ignoring his outburst, ‘but not the Stone of Destiny.’ Some instinct told her not to touch the Stone; while the Queen claimed the Honours, she guessed that the people placed more value on that undistinguished chunk of sandstone. It would be better not to disturb tranquil waters, for who knew what Caledonian monster lurked beneath. Besides, King James V had worn that crown, and she wanted it badly. ‘We want the full honours,’ she repeated.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A full set is always worth more than the sum of its parts,’ Irene said. ‘Don’t argue.’ Her smile was intended to remove any sting from the rebuke.

  Patrick did not argue. ‘If that’s what you want.’ He took a sip of his beer and screwed up his face.

  Irene looked around her. Dominating the back wall of the pub, a large painting showed a scene from the Battle of Waterloo, where British cavalrymen hacked at a mob of French soldiers. One of the British also held a tricolour standard. ‘They like their history, don’t they?’

  ‘It’s all they’ve got,’ Patrick said. He drank some more of his beer. ‘We have four problems then. We have to break into a castle, remove the stuff, get away again and carry everything into the States.’

  ‘We’ll take them one at a time,’ Irene decided. ‘One: breaking in. We don’t have to. The castle doors are open, so we go in as ordinary tourists, just as we did today. There must be somewhere that we can hide in a place that size. That’s been done before; I’ve seen it in loads of movies.’

  ‘That plan’s so simple it must work,’ Patrick grinned. ‘Imagine allowing unarmed stewards to guard a queen’s treasure in a place full of dark corners. So we’ll do as you say. Breaking the stuff out might be more difficult.’

  ‘I agree.’ Irene looked at him across the littered table. ‘The only way into that room is up a narrow curving staircase and through the steel door. There are no windows in the Crown Room, the walls are at least two feet thick and it’s up three flights of stairs; I saw electronic surveillance equipment too. I hoped you could think of something.’

  Patrick shook his head slowly. ‘Maybe we can’t sneak in and lift the crown then. Listen, the stewards don’t carry guns, so how about we do it the old fashioned way. You’ve got a million dollars to play with. Hire a few hit men from the States and hold the place up. Smash the glass and run. Sure there’ll be alarms ringing, but the limeys won’t know what to do; they live in the past.’

  ‘And you live in Hollywood.’ Irene glanced up. A party of soldiers had entered the pub, led by the sergeant who had winked at her in the castle. Each man armed himself with a pint of beer before filing to a table that miraculously emptied at their advance. The sergeant grinned to Irene.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said, ‘did you enjoy your visit to the castle?’ His accent was very Scottish.

  ‘It was very interesting,’ Irene told him. The sergeant was not tall, perhaps an inch shorter than her five eight, but he was broad shouldered and fit. Multicoloured medal ribbons decorated his breast.

  ‘You spent a lot of time in the Crown Room,’ the sergeant observed. He nodded to Patrick, eyes narrow, sizing him up. ‘American are you?’

  ‘New York City,’ Irene said proudly.

  ‘The Big Apple eh? Nice place.’ The sergeant approved. Light gleamed on the badge on his Glengarry. ‘My wife goes shopping there sometimes. She flies over for the weekend,’ he glanced across to his men, who were talking forcibly about football. ‘Well, enjoy your stay in Scotland.’

  ‘We will,’ Irene said, and then on an impulse, she leaned closer. ‘Tell me, are you based permanently in the castle? Like a sort of guard? Or do you get out to other places?’

  The sergeant crouched down at her side, obviously willing to talk. ‘We get around,’ he said. ‘The redcaps, that’s the Royal Military Police, are always in the castle, but you don’t want to see them.’ He shook his head. ‘But they’ll see you all right. Eyes in their arse, these boys. The headquarters of 52 Infantry brigade is also in the castle, the clerks and staff and so on.’ He shrugged, ‘we’re only there temporarily. We’re just back from a tour of Iraq, so it’s good to get some peace.’ He sank about half his pint in a single draught. ‘Why do you ask? Are you from a military background?’ He glanced at Patrick, eyes still challenging, ‘or do you want to change your boyfriend for a squaddie?’

  Irene gave the crinkle-eyed laugh that men always loved. She leaned closer to Patrick and patted his arm reassuringly. ‘Not at all, I’ll keep him for a bit longer. No, sergeant, I just wondered how much of the castle is for real and how much for tourists like me.’

  Stepping across to his men, the sergeant requisitioned a chair from a disgruntled private soldier and dragged it across. ‘About half and half,’ he said. ‘It’s still a working military base.’

  Releasing Patrick, Irene smiled into the sergeant’s eyes. ‘With all the terrorist threats, should you really be telling me all this military information?’

  ‘If it was a secret,’ the sergeant said, grinning, ‘I would never get to know about it.’ He glanced over to his men before returning his attention to her. ‘Anyway, it’s all on the Internet, if you can be bothered to search. Is it Edinburgh Castle you are interested in, or just castles in general? Scotland’s got plenty to choose from.’

  ‘Only Edinburgh.’ Irene’s smile had charmed scores of men in her career, but the sergeant seemed immune. She got the disturbing impression that he was assessing her even as she asked the questions. ‘We really loved your crown jewels,’ she said breathlessly, ‘does the Queen wear them when she comes to Scotland?’

  ‘Not any more,’ the sergeant said. His smile seemed to have disappeared as he moved his attention from Irene to Patrick. ‘She likes them to stay in the castle so that
everybody can see how rich she is.’

  ‘Come on, Sarge!’ one of the privates shouted across the room. ‘Stop chatting up that woman before I tell your wife.’ There was a series of catcalls and whistles that caught the attention of the barmen. ‘Bring her over here instead!’

  The smile was back on the sergeant’s face. ‘You’re in demand. Come on over and meet the Jocks.’

  ‘The what?’ Patrick looked confused, until Irene nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘The soldiers,’ she explained, fiercely. She nodded to the sergeant. ‘Glad to,’ she said. An opportunity to talk to members of the garrison was potentially invaluable. If she could ply them with drink, they might speak about the security arrangements for the Honours. ‘Come on Patrick. You should feel quite at home.’ She gave her most seductive smile to the sergeant. ‘He was in the Marines.’

  The sergeant nodded, understanding softening his eyes. ‘I thought there was something, but we won’t hold it against him,’ he dragged their chairs across the room, with the patrons of the pub clearing before them.

  The soldiers were younger than Irene had thought; boys barely out of their teens with thin faces and strain in their laughing eyes. They welcomed her like a sister, nodded to Patrick and began an exchange of quick-fire repartee that left her floundering. Leaning back in her seat, Irene waited for a gap in the conversation before she attempted flattery.

  ‘So what are you? Special Forces?’

  The laugh was predictable as the soldiers glanced at each other. The youngest spoke. ‘No, we’re real soldiers. The government calls us the Royal Scots Borderers, first battalion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland, but everyone else knows that we’re the Royal Scots.’

  Irene saw the sergeant hide a smile and guessed that there was some dispute between the British government and the serving soldiers. She put the information aside in case she could use it later.

  ‘Royal Scots? That sounds impressive. I bet you’re all combat veterans.’

  ‘Up the Royals!’ A red haired private shouted, causing a few heads in the pub to turn. Seeing the reaction, the other two privates joined in.

  ‘Up the Royals! Up Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard!’ There was slight bitterness in the laughter.

  ‘Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard?’ The significance was lost on Irene.

  ‘It’s an old joke,’ the sergeant explained. ‘There was an argument once, about 1640, when the Royals were serving with the French. We claimed precedence over one of the senior regiments of the French Army, and they objected.’ He grinned. ‘I’d like to have seen that. Anyway, one of the French officers said that the Royals had been asleep at their posts, and said that if we even predated them, we must be Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard. Our lot just laughed, and said that if we had been, Christ’s body would never have left the sepulchre. So we’ve been Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard ever since.’ His smile was suddenly sour. ‘Until the government decided to destroy centuries of tradition with a pen.’ He disappeared for a minute, returning with a tray on which were six pints of beer. ‘Come on lads, I’ll be leaving soon.’

  ‘Leaving?’

  ‘Back to work.’ The sergeant passed around the drinks. ‘Do you like Scotland, then?’

  ‘Love it,’ Irene enthused as the young Royals gathered around her. She was well aware that they were ogling, but enjoyed the attention. These joking warriors were a change from the corporate suits and sycophants with whom she normally spent time.

  ‘Even in winter?’ The red headed private seemed doubtful.

  ‘We have winter in the States too,’ Irene told him, ‘and it’s about the only time we could both get off work.’

  ‘Your crown jewels were awesome,’ Patrick said, ‘but it’s amazing that they’ve never been stolen.’

  ‘How?’ The redheaded private asked, his eyes shrewd. ‘How’s it amazing?’

  ‘How?’ When Patrick looked blank, Irene realised that the Scots often substituted the word ‘how’ for ‘why’. ‘Well, they’re so valuable. Somebody must have tried to steal them.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Another of the privates, a man with a sombre complexion and a scarred lip said, ‘but how’re they going to get them oot? What with the redcaps and us and all the cameras and that.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyhow, we’d kill the bastards.’

  Irene exchanged a glance with Patrick, who was suddenly very quiet. ‘Kill them? For stealing?’

  The privates nodded. ‘Aye. How no’? That’s what we’re paid for.’ The scarred man stared at Patrick without a trace of humour. ‘You ken that. The American Marines would dae the same.’

  Irene recognised the words as a challenge, although she was not sure how. She laughed to defuse the tension. ‘Quite right too,’ she said. ‘That’s the Queen’s crown after all.’

  ‘Aye so it is,’ the red head said, ‘but she doesnae wear it.’

  The sergeant glanced at his watch. ‘All right lads. Back on duty in ten minutes.’ He downed his pint in a single vast swallow, stood up and adjusted his uniform. ‘Have a good holiday in Scotland, miss, and you too, marine.’ He smiled to Irene, but when he looked at Patrick the humour dropped from his eyes and just for a second Irene saw something of the steel within. The trio of ribbons on his chest took on a new significance.

  ‘She’s wanting it this year though,’ the red head continued as though the sergeant had not spoken.

  ‘Wanting it?’ Irene found it difficult to keep up with the speed of the conversation.

  ‘She’s wanting the croon,’ the redhead explained, shaking his head at her inability to comprehend.

  ‘How’s that?’ Irene slipped into Scottish vernacular. ‘Is she coming to Edinburgh?’

  All the three soldiers began talking at once, obviously eager to impart their information. After a few minutes Irene held up her hands, laughing. ‘One at a time, please, gentlemen.’

  The soldiers grinned and subsided into quiet until the scarred man spoke. ‘The Queen comes up to Scotland every summer for a wee holiday and to remind us that she exists. This year her visit is at the same time as some European political meeting, so she’s doing the whole pageantry thing, with the Crown Jewels carried doon the High Street under a guard of honour. The whole works.’

  Irene nodded. Suddenly everything seemed very simple. ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘Naw.’ The soldier shook his head. ‘We’re away tae Helmand. Some other lot will be the escort.’

  Irene nodded. Lifting her camera, she took a couple of quick photographs, for which the soldiers posed quite happily. She could feel her heart beginning a rapid tattoo as ideas were forming. Not yet complete, they formed a series of unrelated images in her mind, and she knew she must have peace in which to create an ordered tableau. ‘Your sergeant will be waiting for you,’ she said, and was surprised at the speed with which the three soldiers finished their beer before leaving the pub. She looked at Patrick.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  Irene liked to walk. She found that the regular physical motion helped clear her mind of all non essentials and enabled her to view her problems one at a time. Walking also created a personal space into which people were reluctant to intrude. Normally she paced the lawns and bowers of Central Park, but today Edinburgh would have to do.

  She headed downhill, following the line of Edinburgh’s historic Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace, past the Scottish Parliament building and into the green oasis of Holyrood Park.

  ‘This is Edinburgh’s answer to Central Park,’ she said, looking up at the impressively unadorned heights of Arthur’s Seat. Snakes of mist smeared the summit. ‘According to the guide book, this used to be a Royal Hunting park, but now anybody can walk in it.’

  Patrick grunted. He knew her well enough not to break into her thoughts.

  ‘So let’s walk, then,’ Irene commanded.

  She expected the images that came unbidden, each one inspiring the next so they crowded her mind, jostling for attention in an overlapping conglomeration of ideas. Some she accepted and sl
otted into place, others she rejected without remorse. Very gradually, she formed a comprehensive picture, chipping at the anomalies until it was as near perfection as possible.

  With Patrick a silent shadow at her side, Irene followed the line of the Radical Road, panting as she forced herself up the steep path that cut under the Salisbury Crags, the great red cliff that overlooked the Royal Mile, until she stopped at the top and waited for Patrick to catch up. The Edinburgh wind carried a chilling dampness, so she pulled her coat tighter around her and wished that she had brought a scarf.

  ‘This is a city of history and views,’ Patrick said when he had recovered his breath.

  ‘And our springboard to success,’ Irene added. She stood on the edge of the path with the hundred-foot drop beneath her and the spires and turrets of the Auld Town a jagged skyline in front. ‘There’s the castle up there, and Holyrood Palace down there,’ she indicated each building with an expansive gesture from her right arm. ‘And there,’ she pointed to a spreading collection of modern roofs, ‘is the Parliament building.’

  ‘So I see,’ Patrick shivered. He also had not brought sufficient clothing for a Scottish winter.

  ‘So when the Honours of Scotland are brought from the castle, they must pass down the Royal Mile, take a right in front of the palace, and enter the Parliament.’ She turned to face him, controlling the excitement that continued to grow inside her. ‘We’ll take the Honours on the journey, Patrick, not in the Castle. The security there is impossible, but when the Honours are on the road, they are far more vulnerable.’

  ‘Limey bastards,’ Patrick agreed. He shivered as a blast of cold air whistled through the nick in the Crags behind him. ‘Come on; let’s get back to the hotel.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Irene looked over the skyline, surveying the castle and the church spires, the steep rooftops and the crow-stepped gables, the small windows and walls of solid stone. ‘Don’t you find this all romantic? Knowing that kings and queens have passed over here?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No. It was kings and queens that sucked the soul from Ireland.’