Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  MacPherson laughed. ‘I’ve heard all about Longshanks. My mom used to scare us with horror stories of Edward of England.’

  ‘Yes?’ Meigle nodded. ‘Your mom was a sensible woman. He would have given Hitler a run for his money.’

  ‘But why?’ Andrew asked. ‘Why was the Clach-bhuai so important to Edward?’

  Meigle lifted his head, smiling, as the buzz of a vacuum cleaner sounded from below. ‘That’s Anne busy, then. Never stops, that woman. You remember that a later English king, Edward III, I believe, fastened the garter of the Countess of Salisbury around his knee and formed the Order of the Garter? Well, legend states that the Countess was also the reputed high witch of England, and by wearing the garter Edward was safe from witchcraft. Edward Longshanks wanted the Clach-bhuai for the same reason. He knew that he could not conquer Scotland until he possessed the spiritual symbols of the nation as well as the castles.’

  Meigle shrugged. ‘In the event, of course, he failed in both.’ He smiled to Andrew. ‘It’s difficult to defeat Scotland when there are men of the calibre of your father. The next real threat was Cromwell.’

  MacPherson nodded, listening eagerly.

  ‘He defeated us at Dunbar Drove and sent his uglies north, so the Society had to bury the Stone at Kineff in Aberdeenshire. Then there was the Union, and threats to carry the Honours to London.’ Meigle shook his head. ‘That took some bargaining, but we got there. The English were so desperate for a Scottish union that they threatened war and economic blackmail, they used bribes and threw dukedoms at the Scottish commissioners like confetti, but in the end they got what they wanted. Security for England, Scottish soldiers for their wars and political control over Scotland.’

  ‘And what did we gain? I mean Scotland.’ MacPherson was leaning forward in his seat.

  ‘Scotland got access to an extensive trade network that probably prevented mass starvation,’ Meigle said frankly. ‘We had lost some of our main trading partners because of the 1603 Union of the Crowns, and we had just come through a shocking famine. Scotland needed trade to live, and the 1707 Union supplied it. Within fifty years we were beating the English at their own game. We exploited the Union with England, gentlemen, just as they exploited us. Don’t ever get the idea that we were victims. We’re not that weak.’

  ‘It was a marriage then, and not a takeover bid?’ Andrew asked.

  Meigle smiled. ‘Call it a shotgun marriage, where the English groom expected a compliant bride, but instead found that he had married a thistle. The wife had her own ideas.’ He shrugged. ‘However, I have not brought you hear to discuss politics, gentlemen, but to inform you of the current threat to the Clach-bhuai.’ He waited until he had their attention. ‘We know that somebody wants to steal the Honours of Scotland, but we do not know who. We also know that somebody has organised a criminal group who intend to snatch the Honours when they are carried between the castle and the Parliament building on the 12th July.’

  ‘Criminals? Surely the police can handle that, then,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Certainly. We can send the police some information, but we prefer not to. After all, they might ask awkward questions, like who we are and how we know. We are a small and very secret group, remember, and we exist to protect the Clach-bhuai, not to guard the Crown Jewels, however pretty they may be. As far as I am concerned, the thieves can have all the rest of the Honours and good luck to them, but the Clach-bhuai is our concern.’

  ‘ How do we know?’ MacPherson wondered.

  ‘We have a man within their group. Quite by chance, I may add. We do not possess an all-seeing eye or anything, but the Scots are a far travelled people, so we do have members in many parts of the world.’ Meigle smiled to MacPherson, ‘even in Nova Scotia. Now; it’s four o clock by our time, so he should be up and around.’ Meigle spoke to himself, and then woke up his computer. ‘I have a video link with various people,’ he explained, ‘so I can see to whom I am speaking.’

  After a few minutes a face appeared on the screen. ‘Is that you Mr Meigle?’ The voice was distorted by distance, but it was plainly Eastern European.

  ‘It is. I have two new members here. Andrew Drummond, and Lachlan MacPherson.’ Meigle leaned back. ‘Say hello.’

  The face on the screen nodded. ‘Hello.’ He stared at them, expressionless.

  ‘He doesn’t say much.’ Meigle excused him. ‘But he’s as dedicated to the Clach-bhuai as we are.’

  ‘They are pushing ahead with the arrangements,’ the man said, his voice distorted by distance. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Just go along with them,’ Meigle said. ‘I don’t want you to upset anything. Indeed, I want the operation to be a success.’

  ‘Why? I could stop them anytime.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Meigle said. ‘I want to find out who is behind this threat. If it is something official, then there might be big trouble, but if it’s only some thief, there’s no real problem. We’ll let the Clach-bhuai reach its final destination and then get it back.’

  ‘So I help these people?’

  ‘That’s your job,’ Meigle agreed. He stepped back as the screen faded.

  ‘He did not sound Scottish,’ there was a question in MacPherson’s voice.

  ‘We are a world wide Society,’ Meigle explained. ‘One of our past members was a mercenary soldier in Russia, and like many other Scots, he settled there. Stefan Gregovich is his descendant.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  New York City, June

  Irene had examined her plan thoroughly. She had inspected the ground from every angle, on foot and by car. She had spoken with every member of her team until they could recite their part perfectly, and she had held brainstorming meetings where everybody was invited to seek out flaws. As she had expected, Mary was the most critical, but some of her ideas had proved useful and Irene had accepted the minor modifications. Neither of them mentioned Patrick.

  After two weeks in Edinburgh, they had flown back to New York with all the arrangements made and nothing to do but wait. Irene was glad to wash the dye from her hair and dispense with the spectacles, to eat American food again and bask in the atmosphere of the city at the hub of the world.

  ‘This is the hard part,’ Irene said as she walked across Bow Bridge. She liked to pause on the apex of the arch and look backward toward the wooded Ramble with its crazy paths. There were always birds here, candying the air with their calls. Patrick nodded. He looked much more at home in Central Park than he had done in Scotland, a New Yorker in New York, with his black baseball cap tilted back on his head and his tee-shirt boasting the New York Jets logo. He also fitted his American role far better than his Irish, with all the historical baggage that country appeared to pile onto its exiles. ‘You’ve got it all covered,’ Patrick said, and gave that enormous grin that had first captivated her.

  They walked on, skirting the Lake as they headed toward Cherry Hill. Joggers panted past them and a young mother stopped to talk to the baby in her pram. Everything seemed so normal that Irene could not believe the enormity of the task that she was contemplating. She was planning to steal the Crown Jewels of the Queen of Great Britain.

  The thought was suddenly so frightening that she wanted to cancel everything and run away. She had lived so much of her life on a second best basis, never quite reaching the targets that she had set, but always fighting, clawing her way to get somewhere. She had entered The Neophyte determined to win, despite protestations to her work colleagues that she was merely broadening her experience. The more progress she had made, the more positive she had felt, until she had thrown up her job and staked everything on victory.

  Defeat had sickened her. Reaching for the stars, the moon had not satisfied her. If Ms Manning had not offered a second chance, Irene was not sure what she would have done. But now her life had altered. She looked sideways at Patrick, trying to recapture her feelings for this man, but knowing that she could never trust him again.

  Patrick looked back, his a
rm draped around her shoulders and he squeezed reassuringly. ‘It will be astounding,’ he said. ‘In one month you will have pulled off one of the most outrageous undertakings that the world has ever seen. We will have shaken the throne of England and you’ll be one of the richest women in the world.’

  The words sounded good. Irene could not care less about the throne of England, or the throne of Scotland for that matter; it was the richest woman title that she wanted. She knew that she was playing for very high stakes, for if she failed, God only knew what the British would do to her. They could not cut off her head or anything, not in the 21st century, but they would probably throw her in jail forever.

  For a second Irene contemplated herself chained to the wall in one of the dark dungeons of Edinburgh Castle, with a hooded jailer throwing scraps of bread to her. The Honours were centuries old and nobody had ever managed to steal them; what made her think she could succeed? She shivered in sudden fear, but the sights of Central Park helped her shake away the gloom. She was from a country where anything was possible. The United States had won her freedom from the jaws of the British lion; prising trinkets from its paws was surely easier.

  ‘Come on, Patrick,’ she challenged, wriggling free and dancing ahead. ‘I’ll race you up Cherry Hill.’

  It was good to run in Central Park, to hear Patrick’s whoop as he followed and to know that he allowed her to win. When they reached the top of the hill they threw themselves onto a bench to admire the view of the Lake. An elderly man smiled to them and made a comment about enjoying their youth while they could, while a middle aged woman stopped to peer at Irene.

  ‘Were you not on a television show?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ she denied the accusation and deliberately embarrassed the woman by reaching across to kiss Patrick. He responded with so much enthusiasm that they grappled for a few minutes before she broke free. The woman was no longer there.

  ‘This is better,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Just like it used to be,’ Irene agreed, adding quickly, ‘before I entered that foolish competition.’ She had enjoyed that kiss, strangely, and briefly wondered if things could return to normal.

  They were quiet for a few minutes, until Patrick said, ‘do you know, Irene, I don’t think that you did lose. I think that Ms Manning wanted to put somebody on a final trial and that Kendrick guy wouldn’t have the balls to do anything illegal. He’s only holding the fort for you.’

  Irene toyed with the idea for a few minutes. It felt good. She pushed herself closer again, sitting hip to hip and arm linked in arm, until her innate restlessness forced her to stand up. ‘Come on Patrick; let’s walk.’

  They passed the statue of the Falconer, dodged the traffic by 72nd Street and ascended the hill at Strawberry Fields with its memory of John Lennon before heading to Eaglevale Arch and the Naturalists Walk. Irene slid her hand around Patrick’s hips and cupped his buttock. That felt good, too, she decided, and she ran her thumb over her nails. Maybe she should make him get a matching tattoo on the other side. The prospect of scratching out Mary was delicious.

  ‘Edinburgh was ace,’ Irene said, ‘but you can’t beat New York.’

  ‘Let’s grab a burger,’ Patrick suggested, so they reversed their direction until they found a stand near the Tavern in the Green and lay on the grass in the Sheep Meadow, enjoying the Manhattan skyline.

  ‘Is there beer in the fridge?’ Patrick asked. ‘Real beer, not that British stuff.’

  ‘Real beer,’ Irene confirmed. ‘Golden honey in colour and cold as an Arctic winter.’ She looked over to him, tipped forward his baseball cap and smiled, discovering anew why she had fallen for him. Mary had been a bad episode, but it was past.

  ‘Real beer,’ Irene repeated, ‘and a real firm bed.’ Taking him by the hand, she headed for the East 66th Street exit and Fifth Avenue.

  It felt right, walking through the streets of New York, with the purposeful bustle and the sense of achievement, good to be part of a city that looked to the future rather than dwelling on its history. Irene moved faster here, held her head high and swung her arms. Patrick hailed a cab and they clambered in. Exchanging pleasantries with the driver as she gave him directions, Irene revelled in his New Jersey accent.

  ‘I’ll be glad when this is all finished,’ Patrick said, ‘and we can get back to normal.’

  ‘Normal?’ Irene watched the tall buildings that soared up to a nearly hidden sky. ‘Change is normal.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Patrick told her. ‘This is how it should be.’ As the cab stopped at a red light, he gestured toward a construction site, where yellow cranes swayed and a swarm of workers were busily erecting another spectacular building. A green-and-yellow billboard proclaimed ‘In one year, this will be the Manning Manhattan Art Centre.’ In smaller letters beneath was the message, ‘For further information, try our web site or contact Kendrick Dontell, Project Manager.’

  The name drove the breath from Irene even as the cab moved forward. The pleasure of the day left her, being replaced by a sickening sense of failure. She had lost The Neophyte competition, despite all her best efforts. She was a failure, a loser, a plaything of Ms Manning, who offered her promises while Kendrick enjoyed the luxury of success and power.

  ‘We can’t fail, Patrick,’ she heard the grit in her own voice. ‘We must pull this Scottish thing off.’

  ‘We will,’ the pain was reassuring when Patrick squeezed her hand. His eyes were intense. ‘You can do it, Irene, and I’m with you all the way.’

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Irene was suddenly desperate for the physical security of this man’s body. She needed him to hold her, to tell her that everything was all right.

  They nearly ran from the cab, paying the driver with a large denomination bill and leaving without waiting for the change. Nodding to Mark the commissionaire, Irene jumped into the escalator, admired herself briefly in the brass mirror that covered one entire wall and pulled Patrick in beside her. She pushed the number eight button, allowed Patrick a brief fondle and tumbled out at the door of her apartment.

  It seemed to take an age to locate her key and then they fell inside, laughing together as if they were teenagers. They undressed as they crossed from the front door to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. Both were naked when they reached the giant bed, but it was Irene who took the initiative with a passion for Patrick that she had not felt since she first entered The Neophyte.

  He seemed surprised at first, but she knew how to manipulate his body, so he was soon responding, his hands exploring and caressing in all the familiar ways. Her hand sought out that tantalisingly offensive tattoo, curled into a claw and dug in deep. Patrick reacted as she knew he would and Irene forgot all about Ms Manning and The Neophyte and the Scottish Honours for a space and entered a different world.

  ‘That was intense.’ Patrick lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Turning his head, he grinned over to her.

  ‘Just a bit,’ she agreed. She smiled back, allowing her eyes to drift across his body. She liked to watch the bulge of his biceps and the smooth chest of which he was so proud.

  ‘That’s the best it’s been for a long time,’ Patrick sounded serious. ‘Sometimes I thought we would never get back to that again.’

  ‘We experienced a glitch,’ Irene shrugged away bad memories. ‘We were too busy.’

  Patrick nodded. He struggled to sit up, and pulled her head onto his stomach. She lay there, luxuriating in the feel of firm muscle beneath her ear.

  ‘It will be better when all this is over,’ Irene said. ‘We will have everything that we’ve always wanted.’ She lay still for a few minutes, allowing the daydreams to dominate. She could see the penthouse suites, the chauffeur driven limousines and the clothes from Chanel and Christian Dior, Geoffrey Beene and Morgan Le Fay. Irene smiled; yes, Morgan Le Fay; that would suit her height. For a moment she imagined herself entering a board meeting in a chic French dress, with all the men’s
eyes admiring her as she gave cutting insights into the future of the Armstrong Corporation, then she realised that Patrick was stirring beneath her.

  ‘Ready, honey?’

  But Patrick could never be ready for the storm that Irene could create. She left him sleeping on the bed, contemplated his recumbent body with a slightly regretful smile and stepped into the kitchen. She always needed coffee after sex.

  Irene opened the cupboard and checked her supply. She kept a variety, from the Wal-mart brand that she used every day to the more specialised blends that were retained for special occasions. Today she selected her favourite Columbian and measured out two mugs. Even the smell was invigorating, so she was humming as she waited for the machine to complete its work.

  Without realising it, she had been listening to the slow chimes of Patrick’s cell phone. Now she padded through to the hall and raked through his discarded clothes until she located the phone in a pocket of his jacket.

  She switched it on.

  ‘Pat?’ The voice was urgent. ‘Are you free tonight?’

  Irene replaced the phone in Patrick’s jacket and walked back to the kitchen to pour herself a mug of coffee. She slipped slowly, glancing back to the bedroom where Patrick still lay across the bed. She shook her head slowly, for the voice on the telephone had been that of Mary O’Neill.

  The coffee tasted bitter as she returned to the bedroom. Patrick looked up and smiled.

  She smiled back. ‘Coffee? Do you want some?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll have something stronger, I think.’ He got up slowly, rubbing at his latest collection of scratches. ‘And I’ll have a shower, I think.’