Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  Stepping ashore as soon as the yacht tied up, Irene waved a fast farewell to Willie and vanished among the harbour side streets before anybody could ask where she was going.

  She felt the brisk beating of her heart as she located an ATM and withdrew the first American money that she had seen in weeks, boarded a bus at random and sat back as it roared into the wooded countryside. It was good to see the familiar road signs and shops, but better to know that she was free in her own land and her future lay before her. Irene fingered the Luckenbooth brooch.

  ‘Good-bye, Drew Drummond,’ she said softly. ‘I liked you a lot, but you helped me of your own free will. I never made any commitment.’ She knew that she spoke only the truth, but still wondered why she had to justify herself. She hugged the canvas bag to her side. With the wriggling fish bait removed, the bag held only the sceptre and her destiny.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  New York and Mannadu, August

  Luxuriating in her own identity, Irene returned to her Manhattan apartment, greeting Mark with a friendly smile and an uncharacteristic kiss.

  ‘Well now Miss Armstrong,’ Mark stepped back slightly, one hand to his cheek. ‘It’s good to have you back. And will Mr McKim be joining you?’

  ‘Never again, Mark,’ Irene told him nothing but the truth. ‘I am afraid he preferred the company of another woman.’

  When Mark murmured something both embarrassed and incoherent, Irene allowed her hand to drift over his arm. ‘I’m sure that I will soon find a suitable replacement,’ she teased, and spent a bittersweet hour removing all traces of Patrick from her apartment. The sceptre looked good sitting on top of her kitchen table, and for one longing moment she wondered about keeping it. However, the rival temptation of power and prestige disposed of that frivolity.

  Although Ms Manning had been at pains to hide the location of her hideaway, Irene knew that it was in the northern United States. It took her only half an hour with an atlas to work out that it was in South Dakota, and a few extra minutes with the Google Earth website helped her find the general area, although Ms Manning’s influence had no doubt ensured that the building had been erased from any images.

  With all the terrorist security constraints in operation, Irene travelled by train across America, lying back in comfort as she enjoyed the unified diversity of Americans and sipped strong coffee. She watched her own country unfolding on either side. ‘Excuse me, but were you not on the television recently?’ The speaker was male, quite presentable and under forty. Irene charmed him with an easy smile.

  ‘I was,’ she admitted. ‘I was defeated in the final of The Neophyte.’

  The return smile was genuine. ‘So you were. Well, well done for reaching that far! I thought that you should have won, after fighting your way to the top.’ Producing a business card, the man hesitated a little before handing it to her. ‘I don’t like to ask, but if you are ever looking for a position, I own a fairly successful chain of companies…’

  Irene accepted the card. ‘That is so kind of you!’ She increased the intensity of her smile. ‘I will certainly keep you in mind, Mr…’ she checked the name on the card, ‘Mr Johansson. I may well be in touch.’

  She waited until Mr Johansson withdrew to his own seat, sat back and basked in the warm glow of recognition. Not long now and Ms Manning would also be offering her congratulations.

  Irene rolled along Highway 29 in her hired Ford 4X4 pickup, enjoying the feeling of power of the massive engine. The Sioux Falls were well behind her, with their quota of excited children and baseball-hatted men from Eastern cities; the air was crisp, dry and clear, the land huge and open with none of the dampness that she had always felt in Scotland.

  Once she past Beresford Irene headed west, into the vast plain that she remembered so well. With the radio tuned into a Country and Western station, she checked the map that she had drawn herself, crossed the Vermillion River and left the road for an unmarked track that hopefully led toward Ms Manning’s property. There was a fence that stretched from horizon to horizon, and she drove alongside, jolting on the rough ground as she listened to the swish of grass beneath her wheels.

  When Irene saw the speck far in the distance, she stopped her vehicle and raised the binoculars she had bought in Sioux Falls. Dull green, low and broad, it could only be a Jeep, and she grinned. No doubt the occupant was a member of Ms Manning’s private army, come to check her out. Well, he was welcome.

  Irene drove on, searching for the gate that she knew was here, somewhere. Everything had appeared so simple on the computer screen in her apartment, but this land was so vast that scale was deceptive. She drove on, very aware that the Jeep was closing fast. Far overhead, clouds gathered, promising a storm.

  The sound of the shot shocked her and she stared at the rear-view mirror. A man was leaning out of the passenger window of the Jeep, pointing a rifle in the air. He shouted something, the words lost in the distance, and fired again. She heard the ripping whistle of a bullet passing close to the Ford.

  ‘Welcome to the Manning Corporation,’ Irene said, ducked down and pressed her foot hard on the gas. She masked the familiar apprehension with flippancy. ‘Pedal to the metal, as they say.’

  The Ford jumped ahead, bouncing on the rough ground, tossing Irene high up in the air and banging her painfully down. She gasped involuntarily and glanced in the mirror. The man had slid back inside the Jeep, which seemed to diminish in size as she accelerated.

  ‘Come on boys!’ Irene yelled. ‘I must be getting close!’ Strangely she was more excited than worried, for she knew that she was not yet trespassing, and could not imagine that any employee of Ms Manning would engage in casual murder. That shot had surely been only a warning.

  Irene saw the gate in the distance. It was high, tubular steel and rigged with cameras. There was no mistaking the mark of Ms Manning. ‘I’m home, boys, Irene Armstrong is coming to claim her life.’

  The bullet sliced across the bonnet of the Ford, raising a thin sliver of metal in its passage.

  Irene could not suppress her scream. She could see the Jeep, much closer now, with the rifle thrust through the side window. She saw the barrel of the rifle jerk, heard the report of another shot, but did not see what happened to the bullet.

  ‘Fuck!’ Irene ducked, trying to make herself as small a target as possible, peering over the steering wheel as she negotiated the rough terrain. Glancing in her mirror, she saw the Jeep power forward, cutting the angle between her and the gate. What was he trying to do? Surely Ms Manning had not demanded that every visitor to her property should be killed?

  Swearing, Irene swung the wheel, hoping to arrive at the gate first, but the other driver was good. Anticipating her move, he sent his vehicle into a hand brake turn that sent the Jeep directly in front of her. She had no option but to pull aside, but screamed again as the Ford slammed sideways, its offside front wheel crashing into a hidden hole. She swore again, pushed the automatic gear into reverse and yelled, shouting every obscene word that she knew as the wheels spun, carving a useless groove in the prairie. Dust rose, but the Ford was immobile, its nose tilted at a frightening angle and one of its back wheels off the ground.

  The sound of the engine mirrored Irene’s own frustrated scream. She had come so far, only to end up in a hole a few short yards from success.

  She swore again and banged her fists on the dashboard, but the Ford did not respond. Sliding free of the Ford, she looked up, seeing the fence a mere ten yards away, with the Manning property stretching beyond, the prize for which she had striven for so long just outside her reach. No! She would not give up. If she could not drive, then she would walk to Mannadu, however far it was.

  ‘I am Irene Armstrong! There is nothing I cannot do!’

  When she looked back, the Jeep had stopped directly in front of the gate. Dust drifted slowly upwards, clearing far above the height of the fence.

  The passenger door opened and a man stepped out. Irene gasped as she recognised the sa
llow face and wiry red hair of Kenny Mossman.

  ‘Kenny! It’s me!’ Irene pointed to the Luckenbooth brooch that she still wore. ‘Irene! You remember me? You made this!’

  Kenny nodded. Kneeling, he aimed the rifle directly at the brooch. ‘You stole the Clach-bhuai,’ he said, quietly. ‘There is neither excuse nor reprieve.’ As he spoke, the driver’s door opened and the squat, bald man emerged. He walked slowly toward Irene, unsmiling. She remembered that his name was Iain.

  ‘You have one choice,’ Iain said. ‘Hand over the sceptre, or we will shoot you and take it.’

  Irene glanced toward Kenny. She remembered him as a quiet man with gentle humour, but when he levelled his rifle there was nothing in his eyes but determination.

  Iain had left the Jeep and was walking toward her, his right hand extended, as if expecting her to tamely hand over the sceptre. She had thought of him as small and fat, but now he looked stocky and powerful, with a chin that thrust forward and forearms that filled the sleeve of his dark suit.

  ‘You won’t take it!’ Irene backed away. She could see the fence arrowing into the distance, a barricade between the Manning Corporation and the outside world, a barrier between the mediocre and the sublime. She knew on which side she belonged, and after so much effort, she would never give up. Swooping into the Ford, Irene snatched up her bag. ‘Here it is! Here’s your damned sceptre!’ She saw Kenny’s attention falter slightly as his eyes switched from the brooch on her breast to the bag. ‘Come and get it boys, but be careful. If you shoot me you might hit the jewels!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Irene!’ Kenny sounded hoarse. ‘We don’t want to hurt you. We just want the Clach-bhuai!’

  ‘Come get it!’ Turning, Irene began to run. She had no doubt that she could outdistance the stocky Iain, but Kenny would pose more of a problem. He was about her age and looked wiry, rather than thin, although his city pallor hinted that he was not much of an athlete.

  She heard the crack of the rifle at the same time as she saw the little fountain of dust leap up five yards in front of her.

  ‘Irene! Stop!’

  Glancing over her shoulder, Irene saw Iain lumbering over the ground, but Kenny was on one knee, with the rifle pulled hard into his shoulder. At that range he could not miss, but she was determined not to surrender. It would be better to die here than to live in relative poverty, haunted always by the knowledge that things could have been so much better.

  ‘Shoot then!’ Thrusting the bag over her shoulder, so it would bounce across her back, Irene ran on. If Kenny’s aim was out, he would damage the damned sceptre, and they would both have lost. If his aim were true, then all her troubles would be over. She ran on, hopelessly, stumbling over the long grass as her breath burned in her throat.

  She heard Kenny curse, and then he was running too, so they both raced for the gate. Irene was the faster, but Kenny caught her as she struggled with the simple lock.

  He was a lightweight, but so determined that his initial rush knocked her back. The bag skiffed across the waving grass and she swore again, frantic with fear. Kenny seemed to be all over her, all effort but no skill. Irene ducked a wild slap, thrust her knee hard into his groin and heard his agonised gasp. Kenny fell back and Irene wriggled free and scrabbled for the bag.

  There was a man reaching it and for a shocking instant she recognised James Drummond, tall and elderly with eyes as hard as anthracite. Instinctively ducking low, Irene pushed the bag away, rolled across the ground and held it close to her body.

  ‘Leave that!’ Drummond’s voice was sharp, but before he could move the gate opened and a small convoy erupted from beyond the barrier. The largest vehicle sped between her and Drummond.

  ‘I’ve won!’ Irene held up her bag, ‘Armstrong’s revenge!’

  She watched as two of the Manning vehicles hustled around the Jeep, which backed away and roared toward the highway. She saw Drummond watching her, his face looking old and defeated through the Jeep’s rear windscreen. Irene recognised the largest vehicle as the Ford Expedition King Ranch, with the Manning logo on its doors and same laconic driver who had brought her here so many months ago. The passenger door opened.

  ‘You’d have been a lot quicker if you had trusted me!’ Drew grinned at her across three yards of prairie. ‘Running off like that, I was so disappointed in you!’ Stepping out of the vehicle, he held the door open for her. ‘Come on then, you little rogue. Ms Manning is waiting for you.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Lord in heaven.’ Irene felt the strength seep from her legs as Drew strode toward her, arms extended. She felt him catch her as she fell.

  * * *

  They sat under a shaded bower looking over the courtyard, with the playful splash of the fountain a backdrop to their conversation.

  ‘So you made it then, Irene.’ Ms Manning was as direct and calm as ever.’ ‘You found an amazingly historic artefact, obtained it and brought it here against many odds.’

  Irene nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t understand. How does Drew Drummond fit into this?’ She leaned back in her seat, allowing the high sun to warm her face.

  ‘I work for Ms Manning,’ Drew told her. ‘She paid me good money to look after you. Which was an enjoyable job in itself, mind you.’

  ‘So you knew all the time? About the Honours, I mean?’

  Drew shrugged. ‘I had a fair idea when I watched you sniffing about Edinburgh Castle, then my father mentioned something about a threat to the Clach-bhuai and I put two and two together. It was not hard, really.’

  ‘What’s the Clach-bhuai? Another name for this?’ Irene lifted the sceptre that she had carried from the Old World to the New. Although she had brought it specifically for Ms Manning, she could not bear to let it go.

  ‘Just the top part, that wee bit of crystal,’ Drew pointed out the orb. ‘There is religious significance. It was used by the Druids it seems, and maybe by Pontius Pilate.’

  ‘Is that so? I met his bodyguard in Edinburgh.’ Irene examined the crystal. ‘It doesn’t look very special.’

  ‘Oh, it’s special enough.’ Drew grinned. ‘And you fought off the Society out there. That was something.’

  ‘So it was,’ Ms Manning agreed. ‘And what was just as important, you did not reveal for whom you stole it, not even to your lover.’

  Irene could not stop the blood from flushing to her face. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I asked Drew to test you. If you had revealed my name, or even hinted who I was, you would have lost the final challenge and Drew would have taken the sceptre back the same day.’

  Irene glanced at Drew, who shrugged and nodded. ‘Nothing personal, Irene. All in a day’s work, you understand.’

  ‘So you were playing with me all along,’ Irene shook her head, ‘you cold blooded bastard.’

  ‘Thank you. I notice you slipped the leash as soon as you thought I could no longer help you. Greyhound bus to New York, railroad to South Dakota, hired car from Sioux Falls; nice itinerary.’

  ‘Were you following me all the way?’ Irene felt anger battling with the smug satisfaction of achievement.

  ‘Look.’ Drew slipped off the battered silver watch that Irene had admired. He flicked back the face and she saw a map of the area, with a constant red light in the centre. ‘That’s you. My watch is connected to the Manning satellites, so I can follow you wherever you go. That’s how I could help you in Edinburgh, when these neds attacked you, remember? And I traced you to the Botanic Garden after?’

  Irene felt small as she stared at the watch. ‘So you’ve known where I was all along? I still don’t understand.’

  Leaning forward, Drew allowed the back of his hand to smooth against her breast as he unclipped the Luckenbooth brooch. ‘There is a tiny transmitter in the back of this jewellery. I like the irony, with a member of the Society providing so much help.’ His grin revealed that he enjoyed the humour of the situation. ‘When I first gave you the brooch, it was just that, one of Kenny’s Luckenbooth brooches. But whe
n you rejected it – and hurt me dreadfully, of course – I added the transmitter.’

  ‘So it was never a love token then,’ Irene said.

  ‘Love token?’ Drew shook his head. ‘Hardly that, Irene; you were part of the job; nothing more.’

  Irene looked up quickly and caught the lie in his eyes. ‘I thought the same about you,’ she said, carelessly. She prised the transmitter from the back of the Luckenbooth and replaced the brooch back on her breast. ‘As Ms Manning told me once, it’s a tough life at the top, and there is no place for a partner.’ She looked at Drew with new respect. ‘I will wear this forever, as a reminder that even the best of men could be a fraudulent bastard. In future I will fly alone, Drew, but better that than a life on the streets.’ In her head she heard the mocking chorus of the crowd.

  ‘On the streets! On the streets!’

  Laughing, Irene touched the crystal of the Clach-bhuai. She could sense the approval of her father and Johnnie Armstrong.

  * * *

  ‘Damned shame really,’ Meigle said.

  ‘What was that?’ Drummond held a hand to his ear. ‘I can’t hear you for the noise in this place.’ He looked around at the crowd who had come in to the bar. ‘It’s always the same when there’s a medal competition. The place fills up with all these youngsters who don’t understand the traditions of the game. Shouting and drinking and getting above themselves.’

  Meigle nodded. ‘It’s a damned disgrace, Jamie. Mind you, I remember a young couple riding a tandem around here for a bet. Stark naked too, the pair of them.’

  Drummond grunted. ‘She was a good-looking girl too, in those days. That’s why I married her.’

  ‘I know. But it’s still a damned shame,’ Meigle flapped a hand toward the television screen that occupied one corner of the room. ‘Look at that fellow. Well set up, good looking in an American sort of way, nice wife, and he loses his job just like that.’