Legacy of the Highlands

by Harriet Schultz

  When Diego was sure he couldn’t be overheard, he ducked behind a tree and quickly called Serge. There was no answer so he left a message: “Much as I hunger to join you for this little adventure, amigo, you’re right that my place is with Alex. There’s a bible verse that I can’t get out of my head, something like: ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ I’ll leave this in His hands and yours. Plan number three is my choice too. Do it. Call me when it’s finished. Vaya con Díos.”

  He glanced up and down the road before starting back to the car. No one there. He would keep his eye on the rear view mirror to watch for a tail the way Serge had taught him.

  “Better?” Alex asked as he snapped his seatbelt closed.

  “Much.”

  “Good. I’ve found the perfect destination. There’s a town called Tain that’s not too far from here and it’s along Scotland’s Whiskey Trail. Would you like to tour the Glenmorangie distillery so you can see how single malts are made?”

  “Whatever you want,” he replied distractedly. “You navigate.”

  What an odd reaction from a whiskey aficionado, she thought. If he’d suggested a visit to a chocolate factory, she’d have been bouncing in her seat. Something, probably Serge’s message, was making him brood and they rode in silence until she spotted the exit for Tain.

  “This is beautiful!” Alex exclaimed as they drove down the town’s narrow main street. “It’s positively medieval. Can we wander around and maybe find someplace to eat? I really need a ladies’ room and I’m starving.”

  “Food first and then we should find a place to stay. Would you mind if we save the exploring for tomorrow?” he asked as he linked his fingers with hers.

  “Sure,” she answered and dropped her gaze. Diego’s hand looked and felt so right in hers. It shouldn’t, but it did. Her heart ached to realize that it was becoming more and more difficult to remember the feel of Will’s, a hand she’d held thousands of times.

  As they shared a platter of fish and chips, their waiter recommended an inn a half-mile from town. He told them to book a room quickly because the area was a favorite destination for golfers, anglers and hill walkers. When Diego called the hotel, the only vacancy was the honeymoon suite. The landlady told him she’d hold it for an hour.

  Rain often appears suddenly in the Highlands and the two of them were dripping wet after a dash from the restaurant to the car and then from the car to the Victorian mansion, cum hotel, which would be their home for the next couple of days.

  Alex gave Diego a quizzical look when he registered as John and Laura Matthews. As they climbed the wide staircase to their room, she clutched his arm and forced him to stop. “What’s with the names? What haven’t you told me?”

  “It’s just a precaution. Serge doesn’t want us to use credit cards or anything that can be traced. He probably thinks everyone’s as good at this spy business as he is.”

  She nodded and began to shiver. “I’m freezing.”

  “Me too. We’ll be warm in a minute,” Diego promised as he unlocked the door to their suite.

  Alex ran to the bathroom, grabbed a couple of thick towels and tossed one to Diego. “You look like you went for a swim with your clothes on,” she said as she watched rainwater drip off him and onto the rug.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time, but never sober and never in weather like this,” he said as he ran the towel over his hair. The fireplace’s crackling logs created some heat, but not enough to keep Alex’s teeth from chattering.

  “We should get out of these clothes and into a hot shower before we both get sick,” he said as he headed toward the bathroom.

  Alex didn’t follow. His words immediately triggered a vivid memory of the rainy day when she and Will had visited Mackinnon’s shop. They’d been cold and wet when they’d returned to their B & B and sought the heat of a hot shower and steamy sex. She acknowledged the memory, then tucked it away as she forced herself back to the present. Déjà vu be damned. That was then, this is now. Will was gone and she had to go on with her life. But that didn’t include getting into a shower with Diego Navarro.

  “Well?” he asked and sneezed.

  “I’ll shower after you...by myself. Toss me a robe and I’ll get out of my clothes and sit by the fire.”

  “Would you like some help?”

  She saw the expectant look on his face and blurted, “Don’t even think it, smart guy.” She caught the snowy white robe he tossed to her and couldn’t help noticing that he’d left the bathroom door open as he stripped off his clothes. “Show off,” she mumbled. When it was her turn she locked the door securely behind her.

  Dry and reasonably warm, they sat cross-legged, facing each other in front of the blazing fire. While she’d showered and dried her hair, Diego had made tea from the supplies Scottish hotels routinely provide their guests. Alex wrapped her hands around the steaming cup and sipped the warm liquid slowly, content until he idly began to stroke her bare calf.

  She swatted his hand away, aware that they both wore nothing under their robes and that he could have her naked in a nanosecond if she allowed it. She summoned her flagging will power. “I’m sure that there was more to Serge’s message than you’ve told me. Don’t try to deny that the two of you have set something in motion. The sooner you tell me about it, Navarro, the sooner we can do whatever we’re going to do in that big canopied bed. Now what did Serge really say and what’s he doing while we’re here?”

  “Ah, Alessandra,” he said as he leaned away from her, “you do know how to spoil a mood, but with the incentive you just offered, a man would be a fool not to tell you whatever you want to know.” He paused before adding, “and I’m no fool.” The smile he gave her carried the warmth of sunshine, although the glow never reached his eyes.

  Chapter 33

  Mackinnon would be furious to know that as he keyed numbers into his phone to set up the conference call, he’d provided Serge with the names and locations of all of his co-conspirators, the same men he’d last seen at Elgin Cathedral when he’d informed them that Will Cameron was dead. Ian Lindsay. Duncan Buchanan. John Malcolm.

  Serge leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, long legs stretched out in front of him. A self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he replayed the tape of Mackinnon’s calls to the three men followed by one to Michael Graham to let him know all was arranged. Now we’ve got all five of you, he thought. The former spy’s only disappointment was that they were making it too easy. He thrived on the challenge of a formidable opponent and this contest would only utilize a fraction of his skills.

  Their arrogance had made them sloppy so they never considered that their phones might be tapped. Because of that, they’d revealed the coastal location of the newest safe house where the youngest Mackinnon — Will’s murderer — was hiding. Serge had all the information he needed to make sure they never harmed anyone again.

  He gathered all the incriminating evidence he’d collected and sealed it in a packet to be messengered to a former colleague who now worked for British intelligence. That agent’s team would take credit for the investigation and the arrest of the five men who’d ordered Will Cameron’s execution. One name was omitted from the packet. Jamie Mackinnon had already been tried, convicted and sentenced by Serge, Diego and a reluctant Alex.

  Duncan Buchanan was the first person Mackinnon notified about the upcoming teleconference so that he could be reassured that his grandson had reached the safe house without incident.

  “How goes it Duncan?” Mackinnon asked after confirming Buchanan’s availability for that night’s discussion.

  “All is well, James. Your young Jamie arrived early this morning. He’s quiet as a wee mouse and no trouble at all.”

  “I miss the boy, but I dare not visit. Some troubling developments have made me uneasy about the lad’s safety as well as our own. We’ll speak of that tonight.”

  “I guessed that something was amiss when he arrived here at dawn. You wouldn’t have sen
t him away from Geordie’s unless someone was on to him. Can you tell me what’s amiss?” asked Buchanan.

  “Naught definite, but there’s cause for concern. Michael will be angry if I say more, so you’ll have to wait a few more hours to hear the details. Give young Jamie a kiss from his Grandda,” said Mackinnon.

  “When I see him.”

  “Isn’t the lad with you?” Mackinnon felt his chest tighten.

  “Not at the moment, no. Your grandson decided to go tenting by Boddam or thereabouts for a couple of days, said he wanted to take in the sea air afore it turns cold. He said he might enjoy a hike or two along the nearby cliffs to the Bullers of Buchan or even further along to Slains Castle, you know, the one that inspired that Dracula book.”

  “I know the one, aye, it’s a fearsome ruin right there at the edge of the sea.”

  “’Tis, and especially in the fog when the narrow path along the cliffs turns to mud and becomes as slippery as a patch of ice. I warned him to take care.”

  “Don’t worry about our Jamie. The lad is fond of the outdoors and has the sure feet of a goat. His Da started him hill walking when he could barely stand. No need to worry, Duncan.”

  “I won’t then,” he replied. “But you should also know he’s barely said a word since he arrived. He seems to crave solitude and if that’s what he needs I’ll not intrude.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I’m grateful,” said Mackinnon, scowling as he returned the phone to its cradle. Jamie had always been a cheerful, gregarious boy, so this taciturn behavior weighed on him. If anything happened to the lad it would be on his head. It was he, and no one else, who’d insisted that his grandson was mature enough to plunge a knife into Will Cameron. To his mind it had always been a question of honor, blood for blood. The deed had to be carried out by a Mackinnon. Maybe Jamie had only gone along with it to prove his manhood to his grandfather and now was troubled by regrets. But what was done was done. He’d have a long talk with the lad as soon as it was safe. Mackinnon sighed deeply then unwrapped the cheese sandwich he’d had no stomach for earlier, sniffed it to be sure it hadn’t spoiled, then tore hungrily into it.

  Mackinnon’s anxiety was as contagious as the flu and Duncan Buchanan became infected seconds after the call ended. It only took minutes of agitated pacing for him to come up with the one remedy that would calm his nerves. He headed up a steep flight of stairs to his bedroom and groaned as he got to his knees to stretch an arm under the bed. He breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers grasped the metal box he kept there. He wiped a year’s worth of dust off its top, released the lock and removed a handgun and a clip of ammunition. It had been a while since he’d cleaned and oiled the weapon and he hadn’t fired it in years, but Mackinnon’s call had panicked him. If trouble was on its way he’d have to protect himself, wouldn’t he? Perhaps he should warn young Jamie, but warn him of what?

  Serge pored over the road maps he’d spread on the floor of the suite, scrutinizing the area around Cruden Bay, Peterhead and Boddam, small towns on the edge of the North Sea where Scotland’s right shoulder slopes south. He trusted the accuracy of the large maps more than those on the Internet, but he went to his laptop to verify that the cliffs Duncan Buchanan had mentioned to Mackinnon could cause a credible accidental death.

  The rugged granite ledges near the Bullers of Buchan, just south of Duncan Buchanan’s safe house in Boddam, seemed ideal. The descriptions, photos and videos posted online by tourists gave him a “you are there” feel for the place. He’d check it out with his own eyes, but for now he was satisfied that the area’s geography was similar to Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher — maybe not as steep, but certainly as deadly. A British operative had once removed a particularly troublesome member of the IRA by dumping him off those Irish cliffs into the Atlantic Ocean. That body had never washed ashore. In online pictures, it looked like the Scottish coast between Boddam and Cruden Bay had unfenced paths just wide enough to place one foot in front of the other running along steep, knife-edge cliffs high above the North Sea as it thundered into rocky hollows below. Yes, Serge thought, that location seemed ideal.

  He checked out an alternate site as well. The ruin of Slains Castle, atop its own dramatic precipice, was a few miles south of the town where the target was supposedly camping, but the castle seemed to be a long way from the nearest car park. He would prefer not to carry an unconscious Jamie Mackinnon farther than he had to, but the literary link to the place appealed to him. If Slains was eerie enough to have served as the inspiration for the Transylvania castle of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, then it might do nicely for young Mackinnon’s end.

  Satisfied, Serge logged off and ran the software that would wipe his hard drive clean so that his research would be impossible to trace. He glanced at his watch; it was 4:30. He’d have a light dinner and get a good night’s sleep before heading for the coast. Buchanan had told Mackinnon that the grandson planned to camp out as long as the weather held and the BBC predicted sun for the next few days. This schedule would also give him time to listen in on that night’s conference call and fine tune his tactics if need be.

  Serge’s network of former agents had helped him to obtain the weapons and equipment he might need before he’d left London for Scotland. At that point, he’d had no idea how the kill would be accomplished, but now that his plan was set, he knew he was well-equipped. He sat cross-legged on the floor to methodically check his gear. Then he did it again with his eyes closed until he was sure he could find each object by touch in the dark. Knife. Handgun with scope, silencer and extra ammo. A length of flexible wire long enough to wrap around a neck. Assorted injectable drugs and syringes. Thin lambskin gloves. Mouth operated flashlight. Duck tape. He considered adding a wetsuit to the mix, then decided against it. The sea that battered those cliffs was too treacherous for him to follow Mackinnon into it. If he were overpowered or slipped and fell…well…a wetsuit wouldn’t save him. All was ready, but he’d obsessively go over it again before he went to bed, another time in the morning, and maybe once more before he left.

  After ordering a chicken sandwich and chips from room service, he instructed the front desk to hold all calls. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Mairi Graham, but it seemed she was savvy enough to understand that their brief fling was over. He hadn’t heard from the girl since blowing her off when she’d spotted him with Alex and Diego. The only person who had his cell phone number was Diego and he’d been instructed not to call unless he had second thoughts about Serge’s assignment.

  Serge stripped off his clothes, stretched out on the bed and visualized himself on a beach under Miami’s warm sunshine. He had two hours to rest before the conspirators were scheduled to discuss how to handle the not-so-veiled threats Diego had made to Mackinnon and his claim to be John Cameron’s son. He hoped that Diego would head back to the Florida villa once they were finished here. Scotland was too fucking cold for a man who’d spent most of his life in Israel.

  Alex wrapped her arms around her knees as she sat near the suite’s fire and considered what Diego had just told her. Jamie Mackinnon was Will’s murderer. Serge had irrefutable proof of his guilt. Diego had spared her the specifics about how the punishment was to be carried out — at her request — but she knew that Mackinnon’s grandson would pay for what he’d done with his own life. Her willing complicity in a premeditated murder — deserved or not — revealed a side of herself that she didn’t recognize. She wondered if this trait was a legacy of her sword-wielding Scottish ancestors or the brave Celtic warrior women in the captivating tales that her grandmother MacBain loved to spin.

  Who was this vengeful woman, she wondered, as she gazed at the fire’s flames. Would she be haunted by the execution of Mackinnon’s grandson? She’d never seen the young man so perhaps he could remain a non-person to her. And it might actually give her peace to know that the man who’d killed her husband no longer walked the earth, would never fall in love, have children, be happy...all the things he’d stolen from Wi
ll…and her. He’d cold-bloodedly executed the man she loved. Jamie Mackinnon deserved to die. If she were part of a jury, she’d find him guilty and favor the death penalty over life in prison. There was something to this biblical eye for an eye business. And if what was about to take place was truly abhorrent, why was she still so attracted to the man who’d set it in motion?

  “You were thinking so loudly that I could almost hear you,” Diego said, startling her out of her deliberations. She met his eyes as he crouched in front of her and ran his thumbs over her hands. “What is it? What’s troubling you?”

  She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, unsure if she wanted to hear his answer. “If I asked you to, if I told you I couldn’t live with this, would you tell Serge to call it off?”

  “No,” Diego replied immediately and let go of her hands. She recognized the steely expression of a man whose course is set.

  “Why not?” She was wounded by his indifference to her feelings. She irritably pushed her hair out of her eyes and rearranged the robe to cover her legs.

  “We’ve gone over this before,” he sighed. “If we hand this monster to the local police, he’d be extradited to Boston where the crime was committed. That’s where he’d be tried. You and I both know that it would turn into a media circus and you’d have paparazzi and tabloid reporters in your face whenever you went to the courthouse. The people who did this have enough money from their supporters to hire brilliant lawyers and maybe even buy a juror or two. And Serge’s tapes would be inadmissible as evidence since there was no warrant.”

  He’d been pacing as he presented his case, but then he gentled his voice as he knelt in front of her again. “Please don’t ask this of me. We can’t risk an acquittal that would free Will’s killer on some technicality. Picture yourself in the courtroom when the jury foreman announces, ‘We find the defendant not guilty.’ How would you feel? Jamie Mackinnon has to pay for Will’s murder. My brother had dreams and hopes and plans and assumed he had a future.” His voice cracked as he fought back tears. “Dammit, he was your husband, Alex! Your husband!”