Reeling from the devastating string of sudden disclosures, Ferguson returned his colleague’s stare with as much composure as he could muster.
“I told you,” he said, “I have no idea where she is.”
“I know where she is, all right,” replied the other. “I just can’t afford to make contact.”
“Where then?”
“Ireland. I’ll tell you where. I want you to go there personally.”
“I’m a busy man. I can’t just drop everything and—”
A raised hand silenced him. The look in the man’s eyes told him he had better guard his tongue.
“I’m not giving you a choice in the matter,” the man said. “Tell her you came from me. Bring her to the Grand Hotel in Lerwick.”
“Lerwick! You can’t be serious!”
“Another young woman has become involved,” the man went on, ignoring Ferguson’s outburst. “She could prove a handful, and I may need Fiona to handle the situation. I will contact you with details. Be there and wait.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She will come.”
“What does any of this have to do with the Stone?”
“At this point, nothing. Unfortunately, that aspect of our plans fell through. But there is more than one way to open the doors of power. The Stone was but symbolic anyway.”
“Not according to Dwyer.”
The man chuckled in the yellow darkness. “Dwyer is a fool,” he said. “We had no intention of letting him keep the Stone indefinitely. He was a mere convenience, but the ultimate prize was much greater than his ridiculous little ring of stones.”
“But . . . why you? You have all the power a man could hope for.”
“Not quite all. . . . That’s why long ago I decided to cast my fortunes with the future of the north.”
“Where is Reardon now?”
“You have no need to know that. But you will see him in the Shetlands.”
“And Hamilton?” probed Ferguson.
But already the tall man had turned and was walking away in the opposite direction into the night.
Eight
The telephone rang at nine o’clock in the evening at Andrew’s flat.
“Andrew, it’s Paddy,” said a voice when he answered. “Can you come over?”
“Now?”
“I’ve got something on my screen I think you should see.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Andrew hung up. He had put on his jacket and made for the door when the phone rang again.
“Trentham . . . Allan Shepley,” said the caller. “I just got off the phone with Auckland. Reardon’s skipped. Checked out yesterday without a trace. We’re tracking the airports, but if he’s already left New Zealand, I’m afraid we’ve lost him again.”
Andrew hung up, then left his flat. He arrived at Paddy’s at 9:25.
She led him straight to her computer desk. Two chairs were waiting for them. Andrew sat down.
“Do you remember when we were glancing through World Resources’ main menu?” Paddy began. “On a hunch I tried the History file—remember, we skipped over it before? I want to show you what I found . . . look—the company actually began in Liverpool—”
“Liverpool?” repeated Andrew.
“Right, in 1969,” Paddy went on. “It grew rapidly due to some very favorable parliamentary regulations. But get this—there are two very interesting names on the founding documents.”
Paddy showed Andrew the printout.
A low whistle escaped his lips.
“It seems I was wrong about Burslem. He wasn’t involved. But . . .”
His voice trailed off, and he slowly shook his head.
“What can this mean? Like you said earlier, the politics is backwards.”
“Unless,” reflected Paddy, “they used their political differences as a smokescreen to obscure deeper motives and long-range objectives so that no one would link them.”
“Surely they couldn’t have foreseen all the implications way back then—or the political shifts that have occurred during that time. That was back when there was still a Soviet Union. Back before the EU. Before devolution.”
“I know it’s a stretch, but stranger things have happened.”
“The world has completely changed,” Andrew went on. “Eagon would have only been . . . let me see—he would have been twenty-five at the time.”
“Unless the whole scheme was even more far-reaching than we yet realize,” suggested Paddy. “I’m only thinking aloud—you know how journalists are—but what if the ultimate design wasn’t just control of oil itself, but control at a higher level . . . perhaps even control of a nation? What if the oil cartel was only a means to that ultimate end?”
“Control . . . of a nation?”
“Remember, I’m just brainstorming . . . but I was thinking of a nation not yet in existence—not in 1969, not even today . . . but getting closer all the time.”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“I just might be.”
“But the North Sea oil fields weren’t discovered until—”
“The late sixties,” said Paddy. “I already looked into it. And just a few years later, in the early seventies, when World Resources began growing rapidly and started buying up land and leases in the Shetlands—that’s when Eagon Hamilton’s political career took off.”
Andrew nodded in thoughtful amazement.
“You may be on to something,” he said. “I see what you mean—there are tantalizing coincidences. But how could they have foreseen the rise of nationalism throughout the world way back then? If you’re right, that obviously plays into their hands.”
“But the politics still puzzles me. Eagon Hamilton was on the record as being against greater autonomy for regions such as Scotland.”
“Exactly,” replied Andrew. “He was no friend of the SNP. That he would be involved in a scheme to use the potential clout of an autonomous Scotland as a stepping-stone to power throughout Europe, even in the EU . . . it just strikes me as inconceivable.”
“As I said before, perhaps a smokescreen. Or,” added Paddy in a more serious tone, “maybe that’s what eventually got him killed.”
“And the Stone—if the two things are linked, that continues to puzzle me,” said Andrew. “What could be the connection?”
“But think about it,” said Paddy. “What better way to legitimize their efforts than with one of the most sacred objects in Scotland’s history?”
“Are you talking about an actual coup?”
“I don’t know . . . more like gaining control over Scotland’s economy and hoping the politics would follow. The oil provides control of the economy, and perhaps the Stone was to provide a symbolic foundation for political power.”
“Wild ideas, Paddy!” said Andrew. “You reporters have fantastic imaginations.”
“Investigative journalism—a wild imagination is the name of the game. But you’re the one who started all these wild imaginings—with your speculations about Burslem and Eagon Hamilton!”
“True enough,” he laughed, “but you have to admit this is getting crazier and crazier. At any rate, if you can find me a more solid connection than just being involved with starting a perfectly legal corporation,” he added, “I’ll be more than happy to listen to your conspiracy theory.”
He paused thoughtfully, then went on. “You know what I ought to do,” he said, “is talk to my mother. She’s an old-school Tory. She may remember something from back in the seventies when all this was getting under way. I need to go north again soon anyway.”
“While you do that,” said Paddy, “I’ll talk to my friend Bert Fenton, the computer whiz. I’m sure he’ll be able to help me dig a little deeper into the personal backgrounds of Hamilton and Reardon and the others.”
“Now that some pieces are beginning to fit together,” said Andrew, “I should also try to see if I can find out anything more about the laird’s Shetland pr
operty. We’ll stay in touch. Ring me if you find anything.”
Nine
Even as he was driving home from Paddy’s that evening, Andrew realized that he needed to go farther north than just Derwenthwaite. He had to go back to Scotland for more reasons than to investigate the laird’s Shetland property. He could not let much more time go by without making another attempt to explain and apologize to Ginny and her family. Already two letters of his had been returned unopened. He felt he had no choice but to go in person and try to resolve the issue.
Meanwhile, on the evening of his arrival back in Cumbria, while he and his parents lingered over a late tea, Andrew asked his mother about her former Tory colleagues.
“Yes,” said Lady Trentham, “now that you mention it . . . remember odd rumors from time to time.”
“About what?” asked Andrew.
“Nothing substantiated . . . connections to left-wing organizations.”
“What kind of organizations?”
“You know the kind,” she answered, and in the lift of her chin he caught a glimpse of the old fire that had made her such an effective politician. “—anti-union . . . split up the UK . . . four separate states . . . all a bunch of nonsense, you know.”
Andrew took in the information with interest. His mother’s words reminded him uncannily of Paddy’s brainstorms of a few days earlier.
“No one believed it,” Lady Trentham went on. “Miles and I and all the rest of us . . . we were on the right . . . we were Maggie Thatcher’s Tory base. But rumors . . . were persistent.”
“And Robert Burslem?”
“Never knew him well . . . just arriving on the scene as I was leaving.”
“And Hamilton’s connections with the Tories?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary . . .”
Andrew’s mother paused.
“Now that you mention it,” she went on slowly in a more reflective tone, “recall an occasion . . . Miles disappeared . . . some secretive trip . . . people said Australia or New Zealand. When he came back . . . more rumors . . . he and Hamilton on junket together. Afterward he pushed through a bill . . . seemed odd at the time.”
“Did it have to do with oil?”
“Can’t remember now . . . may have. . . . vaguely familiar. Remember overhearing someone ask Miles about Hamilton. He snapped . . . out of character, I thought.”
Ten
After two days at home, Andrew drove north again to Scotland, retracing his route across the southern uplands and central Highlands toward Spittal o’ Ballochallater.
As he entered the tiny village from the south, it was with a multitude of thoughts and feelings far different than his previous adventurous outlook. He felt a part of this place now, a part of Scotland, no longer a stranger.
Yet sight of the village, and the castle on the hill behind it, brought pangs of uncertainty. Would Ginny and her family see him? Would he even have a chance to explain himself?
He stopped in front of a bed-and-breakfast, one of three in the village. A small sign outside read Craigfoodie. He went inside to make arrangements for a room. He signed the register Andrew Trentham.
The stout proprietress glanced at his name, seemed to recognize it, and started to say something, then evidently thought better of it and led him to his room in what seemed to Andrew a sudden chilly silence.
An hour later Andrew walked back outside. He glanced again toward the castle, then down at his watch. It was three o’clock. He might as well get right to his business.
As he walked through to the outskirts of the village, the once friendly and embracing atmosphere he had felt during his visit of only a short while earlier had evaporated. Only silent stares now greeted him. Not a soul spoke, not a smile came his way, even from the two or three individuals he recognized from his previous visit. The air itself was cold too, he thought with a shiver, with the early darkness of autumn already approaching.
He reached the castle after a walk of ten or twelve minutes and approached the front door. He lifted the brass knocker and let it fall heavily on the huge oak door, then a second time.
A long minute went by. At last the door opened slowly, and there stood Ginny’s mother. Surprise at seeing him registered on her face, but otherwise she gave no sign of recognition.
“Hello, Mrs. Gordon,” said Andrew. “I’ve come back hoping you and your family will give me the chance to apologize and try to explain myself.”
She took in the words, nodding slightly.
“Is, uh . . . your husband at home, and Ginny—could I talk to the three of you for a few minutes?”
“Bide a wee here,” she said matter-of-factly, then turned and disappeared inside. She returned two minutes later.
“The laird’s awa in Braemar wi’ Angus MacLeod,” she said, “so ye winna be seein’ him. An’ Ginny says she doesna want t’ see ye jist noo.”
“But if I could only have a minute to—”
“Good day t’ ye, Mr. Trentham,” said Mrs. Gordon. With the words, Andrew saw the door closing in front of him.
Dejected, he returned to the village. What was the use of his staying any longer? He might as well start for home immediately. He went to his room and lay down on the bed to think.
Forty minutes later, just as he was dozing off, a knock sounded on the door. Andrew rose to answer it, surprised to see the huge hulking form of Alastair Farquharson standing in the corridor. His first reaction was to assume that he was about to be beaten to a pulp by Ginny’s boyfriend. Instead, now it was Andrew’s turn to receive the same question he had posed to Mrs. Gordon.
“Cud I hae a word wi’ ye, Mr. Trentham?” asked Farquharson.
“Of course,” replied Andrew. “Please—come in.”
“How did you know I was here?” he asked after they had shaken hands and taken chairs opposite one another.
“Ev’yone kens, Mr. Trentham. The whole village is talkin’ aboot yer bein’ here.”
“But I’ve hardly been here more than an hour.”
“Ay, but word travels fast in a wee place like Ballochallater.”
“And everyone thinks I am a liar and a traitor?”
“Somethin’ like it,” answered the big man with hint of a smile.
“And you?”
“To be honest wi’ ye, Mr. Trentham,” replied Alastair, “I didna think ye’d come back gien the things they’re sayin’ aboot ye were true.”
“It is kind of you to say so,” said Andrew. “You are right. I came back to try to apologize and explain, though I haven’t had a very successful time of it so far.”
A brief silence fell. The big Scotsman shifted uncomfortably, then looked at Andrew with serious expression.
“The reason I came t’ see ye,” he began, “—an’ dinna think me too much a loon fer sayin’ it, Mr. Trentham, but I canna help thinkin’ that ye’re the only one wha can help.”
“Help . . . help with what?” said Andrew.
“The laird . . . Ginny’s father,” replied Alastair.
“What about him?”
“I’m thinkin’ he’s in some kind o’ trouble.”
“Trouble—how do you mean?”
“There was two men here when we had oor Games—ye may hae seen ’em.”
“I saw one fellow who looked out of place. Do you mean the man in the suit who came in the expensive car?”
“Ay, that’s him. Actually there was twa o’ them, though I didna see the man in the car weel enough. But they were back, Mr. Trentham—jist a few days ago. I heard them an’ the laird togither. They was threatenin’ Ginny’s father gien I heard them aright.”
“Where did you see them?”
“I had come oot of the Heather an’ Stout an’ was walkin’ up the hill. I was gaein’ t’ the castle hopin’ t’ see Ginny, but I came o’er the hill instead o’ by the road. They were standin’ in front o’ the castle, by that fancy car o’ theirs. They didna see me, cause when I heard their loud voices, I stayed ahind the wall. They luiked lik
e the kind o’ men who would do maist anythin’ to git what they wanted. They’re after something o’ the laird’s, I ken it, though I’m no sure what.”
“And you don’t think he will give it to them?”
“They were offerin’ him a heap o’ siller, I ken that,” said Alastair. “They were talkin’ aboot thousands an’ thousands o’ pounds. But the laird can be a stubborn man, an’ gien he gits it int’ his head that they’re up t’ nae guid, he wouldna take their siller gien it were a million pounds—that’s jist the kind o’ man he is. That’s all I heard. But I don’t mind tellin’ ye—I’m afeart fer the laird, an’ fer what they might do t’ him, an’ his family as weel, gien they git too angered at him.”
Andrew thought for a moment.
“I don’t know what I can do, Mr. Farquharson,” he said. “Especially from England—and I’ll probably be heading back south tomorrow. The laird is apparently gone, and Ginny won’t see me.”
“She’s aye a mite stubborn too,” nodded Alastair. “I’m afeart the lass has got more o’ her father’s Highland blood in her than is guid fer her.”
Andrew took out his wallet and handed Farquharson a card.
“This is my private card,” he said. “It has all my telephone numbers, including my mobile phone. If these men return, or if you see anything you think is suspicious, I’d appreciate it if you would ring me.”
Alastair nodded.
“Do not hesitate,” insisted Andrew. “Do you understand? I don’t mind your calling. Day or night.”
Alastair nodded again. “I’ll du it. Ye can count on it.”
He rose and again offered his hand.
“Thank ye, Mr. Trentham,” he said, nearly crushing Andrew’s fingers in his gigantic palm. “I kenned I cud trust ye. Thank ye.”
Eleven
It was too late in the day to start for Cumbria.
Andrew went out again, this time to the Heather and the Stout. Though none of the patrons were particularly friendly, he managed to enjoy a tasty pub meal of beef pie and fried potatoes.
That evening he spent in his room. As much as possible, he tried to put the events of the afternoon out of his mind so that he might engross himself in eleventh-century Scotland, reading about the changes that had come to the isle of Britain with the Norman invasion.
An Ancient Strife Page 31
