Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  Irene shook her head. ‘Can’t you let up, for once? Mary Queen of Scots might have stood on this very spot, and Robert the Bruce could have hunted just here.’ She stamped her foot on the pebbled path. ‘Come on Patrick, do something romantic. Do something that we can remember for ever.’

  ‘We’re not here for romantic,’ Patrick reminded her. ‘We’re here to steal the Crown Jewels. What happened to that hard-assed New York businesswoman?’

  Irene looked at him for a second, the animation fading from her face. ‘You’re right of course; we don’t have time.’ She remembered Ms Manning’s words; she had to travel alone if she was to become a corporate success. Once they had stolen the Honours, she would lose Patrick. He had just proved his expendability. ‘Now, you tell me about these useful friends of yours.’

  Chapter Five

  New York, March

  Irene presided over the gathering, sitting slightly nervously in the centre with Patrick directly opposite and the five others in a loose circle around them. There was a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in the middle of the table with a coffee pot at its side, while cigar smoke hazed the room.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ Irene stood to speak, as she had done in a score of board meetings in her previous job, but then she had been practically certain that the committee members were not responsible for an unknown number of murders. ‘My colleague, Patrick McKim has brought you all here, but until now you are not aware why.’

  The faces stared at her, some unemotional, others questioning. Allowing the ash to fall from her cigar, the only other woman lifted the bourbon bottle and poured herself a drink.

  ‘I have been contracted by an influential client to steal the Scottish Crown Jewels. I need help to do this. That is why you are here.’

  ‘Steal the what?’ The woman looked over the rim of her glass. Although only in her mid-thirties, bitter lines were already forming around her mouth.

  ‘Let me explain,’ Irene said. Taking a couple of steps, she closed the dark blinds that covered the windows and pushed a button. The computer at her back clicked into a PowerPoint demonstration. ‘Let’s start from the beginning; this is a map of the United Kingdom,’ and she waited until their eyes had adjusted to the bright screen, before pointing to the northern third. She clicked again. ‘And this is Scotland. Until 1603 Scotland and England had separate kings, with separate crowns and separate crown jewels. Until 1707 they were separate countries with different parliaments.’

  The woman poured herself another drink and stared pointedly at Patrick. ‘Do we have to listen to this?’

  Irene sensed that others in her audience shared the woman’s impatience and rushed things along a little. ‘In 1707 the parliaments were united into what is now the British parliament in Westminster.’

  ‘Jesus, do we really care?’ The nearest and smallest of the men was staring at the ceiling.

  Controlling her nerves, Irene patted his arm. ‘If you listen, Desmond, you might learn to care,’ she allowed her smile to wash over him. ‘One of the conditions of that Union was that the Scottish crown jewels, known as the Honours of Scotland, were never to leave the country. The Scots stuffed them in a wooden box and forgot them for over a century, but then a man named Walter Scott brought them out and put them on public display.’

  ‘Get down to facts. How valuable are they?’ The burliest of the listeners spoke with a thick Eastern European accent. He was tall, with a shock of blonde hair but eyes that were so intense that Irene struggled to hold them.

  ‘Invaluable,’ Irene said, ‘they could not be bought. But my client wants them.’

  The man slunk back into his chair, his eyes never straying from Irene’s face. ‘What will he do with them? Wear the crown when he’s on the can?’

  The crude comment raised a grunt of laughter, as Irene’s feminist side registered the automatic acceptance that her client was a man.

  ‘What happens to the Honours after they are stolen is not our concern,’ said Irene deliberately choosing gender-neutral terminology. Let these creatures believe what they wanted; she would use them as required and discard them when necessary.

  ‘Patrick and I have checked out the Honours in the castle, but there’s no way they can be taken from there. They are held in a small room at the top of a flight of steep stairs. The only entrance is through a steel door with a score of electronic security devices, and the building itself is in the middle of an army barracks.’ Irene clicked again, showing various views of the castle and the Crown Room. For good measure she had added the shots of the Royal Scots that she had taken. ‘These are not National Guardsmen either, but front line infantry, veterans of Iraq.’

  ‘If the place is so strong, then why show us?’ The woman was wiry, with short dark hair and stern eyes. She might have been pretty a few years back, but now it looked as if life had worn her down. Pushing aside her glass, she poured herself some coffee.

  Irene allowed the PowerPoint to stop at an image of the crown. She had taken especial care in selecting a shot that combined the maximum amount of gold with the minimum of velvet, and now applauded her choice as her audience craned forward. She could nearly taste their avarice. ‘I am showing you the present home of the Honours partly to explain how much the Brits value them, and partly to show how fortunate we are.’

  The burly man held his glass as if it were an enemy.

  ‘Fortunate?’ His eyes were venomous.

  ‘Indeed,’ Irene knew that she was in command of the situation, ‘because we are not going to take the Honours from the Castle. The Queen is visiting Scotland in July, when there’s an international conference at the Scottish Parliament. The Honours are being driven down the Royal Mile,’ Irene clicked again, to show a map of central Edinburgh. She felt renewed interest among her audience as she pointed to the street that ran between the castle and the palace.

  ‘So that’s when we hit them?’ The second man spoke with a Boston accent. Tall and dark headed, he wore a harp pendant around his neck.

  ‘Yes, Bryan,’ Irene confirmed. ‘That’s when we hit them.’

  Placing both hands on the table, Desmond looked directly at Irene and spoke in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘We hit them, but if your client gets the crown, what do we get out of it?’ He looked around the table. ‘I know Bryan, and everybody knows Mary,’ he nodded to the second woman. ‘As America’s leading female rally driver, it would be a sin not to know her.’ Mary smiled at the professional recognition. ‘But I don’t know him,’ he stared at the blonde man.

  ‘Of course. I should have introduced you all,’ Irene stood up. She had made her point. Now everybody knew that she was in charge; she had the information and she had brought everybody together. Now she could begin to mould them into her team. ‘You have all met me, and you know Patrick McKim, ex-marine and my partner. You should know Mary O’Neill; rally driver and member of the Irish Daughters of America. Then we have Stefan Gregovich, one of our leading Ukrainian citizens.’ The blonde man raised a surly hand as the others nodded to him.

  ‘And lastly we have Bryan Kelly and Desmond Nolan, both well known in the Irish American community.’ Irene finished the introductions with a flourish.

  ‘All very cosy, but you have not answered my question,’ Desmond said. ‘If there’s nothing in this for us, I’m wasting my time.’

  Irene took a quick sip of her coffee to combat the rapid drying of her mouth. The caffeine hit was essential, for she was unsure how these people would react. They might invite her to an Irish pub, or blow off her kneecaps, as the whim took them.

  ‘It’s an opportunity to prove that Irish patriotism of which you’re so proud,’ she said simply. ‘And a chance to hit back at England.’ Although she injected passion into her voice, Irene could not understand the intense nationalism of these people. Why did they constantly relive past events? Their ancestors had chosen to immigrate to the USA; well then, they should adopt the values of their new nation and forget the ‘old country.’ If Ireland
had been that good, then nobody would have left in the first damn place. However, if Desmond was happy to allow centuries-old injuries to dominate his life, then she would exploit his hatred, as others had done before her.

  Irene gave another of her captivating smiles, feeling her mouth ache with the strain. ‘Patrick and I will do all the legwork and make all the arrangements. Apart from your various specialities, all you have to do is turn up for a couple of days before the job, perform the actual task and get home afterwards. Three days work, or four at most.’

  ‘Various specialities? That’s a bit open ended, is it not?’ Desmond stood and took a step for the door, until Bryan extended a lazy hand to push him back.

  ‘Don’t be so hasty, Desmond. Listen to what the lady has to say. She has not called us all here for nothing, now.’ He accentuated the Irish in his voice.

  ‘Save for Stefan, you are all sons and daughters of Ireland,’ Irene played her ace. ‘Patrick hand-picked you as members of Irish organisations dedicated to uniting the Irish nation.’

  ‘As our fathers and grandfathers were before us,’ Bryan agreed. He eyed Irene warily.

  ‘So what better opportunity could you have of striking a blow against the English than by stealing the crown jewels? Imagine the reaction as the Irish manage to remove one of the Queen’s personal treasures from right under her nose?’ Irene saw interest bleed into the eyes of Mary and Bryan, but Desmond was not so easily convinced.

  ‘You said this was the Scottish crown jewels. Not the English.’ Desmond stood up again.

  ‘Yes, but it’s the same queen.’ Irene leaned forward to emphasise her point. She had spent the last week intensively researching British history and now ruthlessly applied her knowledge. ‘This queen calls herself Elizabeth the Second – not Elizabeth the First, even although there has never been a previous Elizabeth on the Scottish throne. She considers Scotland as just another conquered country, an appendage of England.’

  ‘So?’ Desmond shrugged.

  ‘So in her eyes Scotland as a country does not exist, any more than Ireland did.’ She would like to confront Mary, but first must destroy Desmond’s scepticism. One doubting member would compromise the effectiveness of her entire team. Another sip of coffee strengthened her for a renewed attack.

  ‘There is an even more compelling reason. As I have already explained, in 1707 a Treaty of Union combined the Scottish and English parliaments. That treaty contained a clause that banned the Honours from being removed from Scotland.’ Irene controlled her nerves as Desmond’s glare remained uncompromisingly hostile. ‘So if we succeed, or rather when we succeed, we will remove the Honours from Scotland, and thereby effectively nullify the treaty. We will be hastening the break up of the union, which means that Scotland will not be bound to England, and Northern Ireland will be in limbo.’

  Desmond sat down at last. ‘No Scottish Union? So no Great Britain, and no reason for Northern Ireland?’

  Irene nodded, wondering if Desmond really believed all this nonsense, or if he was merely trying to save face before his colleagues. ‘We will be striking a greater blow for a united Ireland than has been struck since 1922, and without using terrorism, so the world will support us.’ She held his gaze until he nodded again, then she sat down, trembling with the mental effort of persuasion.

  ‘And me?’ Stefan asked thickly. ‘I do not care about Ireland or Scotland or any other land. Why should I take part in this robbery?’

  ‘For the money, of course,’ Irene was much happier away from ancient politics; she felt secure when dealing with honest greed. ‘You work for three days and I pay you half a million dollars, plus whatever other jewellery you can keep. The crown, sword and sceptre are reserved for my client, but anything else that you can lift is yours.’

  Stefan grunted and settled back down. ‘A million dollars,’ he said. ‘Nothing less.’

  Irene barely glanced at Patrick before shaking her head. ‘Too much. 750,000, and that’s final.’

  The nearly reptilian eyes surveyed Irene before Stefan shrugged. ‘All right.’ He glowered at the others, as if gloating that he had upped his reward.

  ‘Then let’s get down to business,’ Irene gave her brilliant smile to signal that the meeting had come to an agreement. ‘Desmond, you are a document man. You job is to produce false passports for us. Bryan, you’re the munitions expert. I want explosives. You, Stefan, know more about hits than the rest of us put together, so you work out details for the actual attack.’ Dropping her smile, Irene faced Mary last, allowing a full ten seconds of silence before she spoke. ‘We all know Mary’s expertise.’

  Mary’s expression did not alter as she held Irene’s gaze. She said nothing.

  ‘So if you could brush up on the British rules of the road, we’ll know that we are in safe hands.’ Irene could not explain why she felt uneasy in Mary’s presence. Perhaps it was because they had both smashed the glass ceiling, and any other barrier that got in their way, to achieve success, but while she had failed at The Neophyte, Mary had triumphed in a theatre traditionally dominated by men.

  Mary stood up, gave a curt nod and walked out of the room. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

  Patrick raised a hand. ‘She’ll come around. I’ll make sure of that.’

  Aware that everyone was watching her, Irene clapped her hands, ‘Let’s do this, people!’ But even to her, the words sounded hollow. Recruiting another woman had been a mistake. There could be only one top bitch in any operation.

  Chapter Six

  St Andrews, April

  The Swilkin Burn ran slow and dark beneath the bridge as Alexander Meigle placed the ball on the tee. When he looked up, weak sunlight highlighted the insignia of two crossed golf clubs that was emblazoned on his shirt. ‘Three hundred and seventy-six yards,’ he eyed the distance to the First Green, ‘and a par four.’

  ‘I have played the course before,’ Colonel Drummond looked skyward, measuring the wind. He pulled his driver from the golf cart and took a practice swing. ‘Hickory shafted,’ he said, ‘by Auchterlonies.’

  ‘Your choice,’ Meigle placed the face of his club against the ball and adjusted his stance. ‘I prefer tungsten to these old fashioned things. More distance. But there, you’re an old fashioned sort of fellow, with your old tweed jacket and those shiny brogues,’ he grinned, teasing a friend that he had known for decades. ‘You have to move with the times, James.’

  Meigle swung, grunted slightly as the club made contact, and watched the ball soar up until it was lost against the blue of the sky. He shaded his eyes, nodding when the ball descended quickly and landed thirty yards from the green. ‘Not too bad. You have to hit slightly to the left here.’

  Drummond narrowed his eyes, waiting until Meigle’s ball rolled to a stop. ‘Let’s see now. A slight breeze from the sea and damp grass underfoot.’ He addressed the ball and swung, allowing his body to adapt to the follow-through. ‘How’s that for a man with old fashioned clubs?’

  ‘Fair to middling.’ Meigle watched Drummond’s ball bounce on the fairway and roll to within a foot of his own. Sliding his hand over the handle of his buggy, he stepped forward, with the turn-ups of his trousers just breaking over his shoes. ‘So how’s the family, James?’

  ‘Doing away, Sandy, doing away.’ Drummond preferred to carry his bag as he strode, long legged, beside Meigle. ‘Margaret’s got herself the Architectural Chair at Glasgow University at last, which means that I don’t see so much of her. She’s hardly at home nowadays, what with conferences and researching and so on.’

  ‘Good for her. I always thought that she was too clever for you.’ Meigle stopped to admire the view over the bay, as he always did at this point. ‘St Andrews looks its best at this time of year, don’t you think?’

  Drummond stood at his side. ‘You say that every time you’re here, Sandy,’ he pointed out. ‘Whatever the time of year is.’

  ‘Maybe I do.’ Meigle agreed. ‘But it’s true each time. And the children? How
are they?’

  ‘Fine. Andrew’s just sent in his papers and he’s entering Civvy Street. He found a job with a big American company.’ Drummond scowled for a second. ‘I’d prefer if he remained in the regiment, but there you are. Sarah is doing great things in Europe. She was in Frankfurt last I heard, but she said that she might be transferred to Strasbourg. Some financial matter with the EU.’

  ‘Sarah working in Germany?’ Meigle shook his head, ‘It doesn’t seem that long since you were complaining about her loud music keeping you awake all night!’ He stopped and examined the lie of his ball. ‘And Andrew resigned from the Guards? I thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps.’

  ‘So did I, but he’s old enough to live his own life.’ Drummond glanced backward. At seven in the morning the Old Course was fairly quiet, with only a handful of dedicated players braving the clock to worship at the shrine of golf. ‘But I doubt that you’ve brought me here for an update on my family.’

  Meigle addressed the ball, looking toward the green. ‘You’ll be introducing Andrew to the Society soon, then.’

  ‘On his thirtieth birthday, as is the custom.’ Drummond watched Meigle select a two iron. ‘I’d chip it to the right and let the wind take it toward the hole.’

  ‘It might be better to break the custom just this once,’ Meigle chipped the ball long enough to avoid the Swilkin Burn, but hit it too far, so it rolled past the pin and nearly off the green.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Drummond sympathised. He drew out a club and, hardly pausing, knocked his ball directly onto the green. It landed, bounced once and rolled to within six inches of the hole. ‘Is something happening?’

  ‘Nice shot.’ Removing the flag, Meigle selected a putter, lined up the ball and knocked it neatly into the hole. ‘That’s a birdie for me.’ He stepped back. ‘Yes, Jamie. There seems to be a threat to the Clach-bhuai’