An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  Suddenly the young woman who had awkwardly put her foot in her mouth at this same spot for mistaking the English political term division was, for a few days at least, the most famous journalist in London. Her detective work in the matter of the Stone, the solving of a murder, and the breakup of an international conspiracy had made of her, if not exactly a hero, certainly a newswoman who would have plenty of offers on the table by next week if her BBC producer did not give her the airtime she wanted.

  All at once Rawlings’ American accent had become a trump card rather than a liability.

  So here Paddy was—while her rival Luddington cooled his heels in the crowd—her heart pounding in fear lest some other Yankee blooper pop out of her mouth, and doing her best to look calm and collected as she conveyed details to a listening world.

  “After secret machinations and hidden relationships behind these walls on the very eve of Parliament’s opening for its new year,” Paddy continued, “involving Liberal Democratic leader Andrew Trentham and colleagues from several parties in the House of Commons—”

  As she spoke, Paddy could not prevent another momentary glance toward Andrew, where he stood among the crowd of notables present.

  “—late yesterday afternoon investigators at last broke wide open the case involving last year’s murder of the Honorable Eagon Hamilton. As suspected, the murder was connected with the theft of the fabled Stone of Destiny, which was recovered several months ago from the Celtic Druidic Center in County Carlow, Ireland, and is now once again safely in the Crown Room of Edinburgh Castle.”

  Two

  William Rawlings sat with a cup of black coffee—a habit he had picked up in the States and had enjoyed ever since—in front of the television set in his small rented apartment in Auckland, New Zealand. He was watching the time-delayed unfolding of events back in his homeland with both disbelief and pride.

  “Well, Paddy,” he said with a rueful smile, “you did it . . . you actually did it.”

  There was his wife in front of the BBC’s cameras, conducting herself with as much poise as if she’d been an anchorwoman for years. He knew otherwise, and as much as he was pulling for her, he had not honestly expected to see such a thing so soon in her career.

  He glanced down at his watch. He was already late for his assignment. But what did it matter? He would be leaving this place in a week or two anyway, and no darkroom work was going to make him miss this. He didn’t have another photo shoot scheduled for two days.

  He sat back and smiled, recognizing the blue suit Paddy was wearing. He’d helped her pick it out at a shop near Harrods. She had said at the time that she would save it for her first on-camera assignment. Now that moment had come.

  She was a determined one, that American wife of his. He had been drawn to her the moment they met on the other side of the pond, as the saying went, while he did a stint as a visiting newspaper photographer working out of the Atlanta office. He could still see Paddy hurrying after her boss, insisting she listen to some hot lead. Paddy hadn’t even seen him at the time, but he had certainly taken notice of her.

  How did you manage this, Paddy? Bill said to himself. How did you get yourself in front of the camera on such a huge story?

  Three

  In what appears to be a far-reaching scheme,” Paddy was now saying, “originating more than thirty years ago, connections were recently uncovered between the late leader of the Liberal Democratic Party and Conservative Party leader Miles Ramsey.

  “The two business associates, whose opposite political orientations were apparently designed to disguise their long-range objectives, had a falling out earlier this year that may have led to the death of the Liberal Democratic leader. Mr. Ramsey was arrested by agents of Scotland Yard just days ago in the Shetland Islands and has been charged with Mr. Hamilton’s murder, which has remained unsolved since early this year.

  “Also indicted at the time were Larne Reardon, former Liberal-Democratic deputy leader, and Baen Ferguson, SNP deputy leader. Both men denied knowledge of the murder, but were allegedly working together with unnamed others in the theft of the Stone of Scone. Their willingness, even eagerness, to cooperate with Scotland Yard in exchange for leniency in the matter of the murder enabled investigators to fill in details of an intricate plot to take over Scotland’s oil industry. Without such cooperation, these details would doubtless have remained cloudy or altogether unknown. Exactly what charges will be filed has not yet been determined.

  “Still at large in connection with the theft is noted Irish druidic leader, Amairgen Cooney Dwyer.

  “Motives in the complex double crime are still fuzzy, but apparently the theft of the Stone was part of the larger plan to gain control of the North Sea oil reserves of an independent Scottish state through development of certain vital sites in the Shetland Islands. The international cartel, World Resources, Ltd., is under investigation at this time, their assets frozen until the inquiry is complete.

  “How these developments will affect the Scottish situation remains to be seen. Prime Minister Richard Barraclough, meanwhile,” Paddy went on, “issued a brief statement from Number Ten Downing Street, expressing shock at the developments. . . .”

  As Paddy spoke, she glanced in Andrew’s direction, but neither she nor the Cumbrian MP gave any sign of their direct involvement in the case.

  Four

  How well he remembered, thought Bill Rawlings as he watched, the inner anxieties Paddy tried so hard to hide when she found herself in new or uncomfortable circumstances. She had certainly matured as a newswoman. If she was nervous now, she didn’t show it.

  After she’d come to London to visit, three months after his own return from Atlanta, he had set her up with her first job in England. There were a lot of memories . . . those early days in London . . . their first evening together. He had called her Paddy for the first time that evening too, because of that silly little Irish song she used to sing.

  Even then she had said her one goal was to do a major story on the BBC evening news, American accent and all.

  Now she’d done it. He had to hand it to her. She had a job to do, and she had done it. Whereas he’d really been drifting, unsure what he wanted out of life, content to follow any possibility that occurred to him.

  In the end, he realized now, that was why she hadn’t come with him. Not because she didn’t love him, but because she couldn’t just drift along in the wake of a man who didn’t know what he wanted.

  But I do now, he reflected, with another sip of the American coffee that reminded him of his wife. I know exactly what I want.

  And what he wanted more than anything else was Paddy.

  Meanwhile, Paddy drew in a steadying breath, gradually feeling more comfortable as the cameras rolled.

  “All the United Kingdom,” she went on, “indeed, the entire world, is now waiting to see how these events will affect the growing debate over the future of Scotland. No statement from Liberal Democratic leader, the Honorable Andrew Trentham, who has become a de facto spokesman regarding the cause, has yet been released. Sources close to the Cumbrian MP suggest that an announcement may be forthcoming within a few weeks.”

  Another look followed in Andrew’s direction. This time Paddy could not help curling the edges of her lips in the hint of a smile at the veiled reference to herself in her own report. Andrew smiled, then chuckled lightly at her words, as most of the cameras broke from the reporter’s face to his.

  After a pause, again Paddy continued.

  “We will update you with more details as they become available,” she said. “According to Scotland Yard spokesman Jack Hensley, more arrests are expected. Scotland Yard will issue a full report within forty-eight hours, Hensley said. Shaken as it is by the implication of its own in these events, the House of Commons must now prepare for what may prove to be one of its most extraordinary sessions in decades. No statement has yet been issued by Buckingham Palace. It is not known whether or not the King’s speech will address this seriou
s shake-up within Parliament.

  “I will be back tomorrow with a live interview with the Honorable Andrew Trentham,” Paddy concluded.

  The coverage broke away to follow Scotland Yard Inspector Allan Shepley as he explained the series of events that had led to the arrests after he and his men had landed in the Shetlands.

  Rawlings continued to sit in front of his television, still amazed at what he had just seen. He didn’t care if he got no work done today. He wanted to see the remainder of the broadcast.

  And he would call her!

  He glanced at his watch again . . . seven-thirty. She might be home by now, depending on how her interview had gone.

  He would try. Paddy’s triumph deserved a hearty congratulations.

  Five

  Patricia Rawlings awoke with the most profound sense of contentment. Though she had only had five hours sleep, she was too keyed up to remain in bed another second.

  She leapt up as if the previous day’s adrenaline were still pumping through her veins at full strength. She had just poured herself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. She heard her husband’s voice on the line when she answered.

  “Paddy!” exclaimed Rawlings. “I caught your performance on the telly—you were terrific.”

  “Thank you, Bill.”

  “I tried to call you several times this morning—er, last evening for you, that is.”

  “I was out late.”

  “But I mean it—I was really proud of you, Yankee accent and all.”

  “You know, for once,” laughed Paddy, “I wasn’t self-conscious about it.”

  “I only heard that tremble in your voice one time,” kidded Rawlings.

  “Okay, so I was nervous,” rejoined Paddy lightly. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “And an interview with Andrew Trentham—how did you pull that off?”

  “A long story. But I haven’t pulled it off yet. It’s slated for this afternoon.”

  “Well, best of luck. I thought I saw a little silent eye contact between the two of you during your statement.”

  “It showed?”

  “Only to someone who knows you.”

  “Well, let’s just say that he and I became very well acquainted during this whole investigation.—But I have you to thank for getting us going in the first place,” added Paddy, “with that connection between Reardon and World Resources, Ltd. Without that, all the rest of the pieces may never have come together.”

  “No extra charge,” laughed Rawlings. “And from the way they tell it, you’re an Internet genius now.”

  “Not exactly,” laughed Paddy. “Remember Bert Fenton—you introduced us several years ago? He helped out on that end too.”

  “Good old Bert! I haven’t thought of him in ages. He was always something of a hacker.”

  “Well, it paid off.—By the way, when are you due back? Still the same schedule as the last time we talked?”

  “Yeah . . . a week, maybe two.”

  There was a pause. The reminder of Rawlings’ return to London from his New Zealand assignment sobered both their thoughts toward the hazily defined status of their separation.

  “You know, Paddy,” said Bill after a moment in a more serious tone, “I know how it was when I left . . . but on my end, well, now that I’ve had some time to think things over, I wouldn’t mind trying it again. If you want to, that is.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted you to leave.”

  “I thought—”

  “I don’t know, it just seemed . . .”

  Paddy did not complete the sentence. Another silence intervened, this time more lengthy.

  “I still love you, Paddy,” said Rawlings after ten or fifteen seconds. “I’ve missed you. And well, I’d like to see if we can make it work. I know it was a rough go, and we both thought maybe we’d made a mistake. But being here, you know . . .”

  “I know, Bill. I’ve thought about it too. Things look different when you’re apart for a while.”

  “Well then, what do you think?”

  “Let’s talk when you get back.”

  “I’ll call as soon as I’m in.”

  “Need a ride from Heathrow?”

  “I can take the tube.”

  “But you’ll have luggage. Listen, I’ll pick you up. Let me know when.”

  “All right, then. Thanks.”

  Another silence followed.

  “Bill,” said Paddy, “thanks for calling—your words mean a lot.”

  “I meant them—you were sensational.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Right, then . . . see you in a couple weeks.”

  Paddy hung up the phone, then sat back down on her couch, and smiled. It was not a smile of triumph or victory . . . but of happy contentment.

  What could account for the sudden change in how she felt? Was it because of what had happened yesterday, or that her heart had gradually grown more open to Bill again?

  She wouldn’t analyze it right now. There’d be time for that later. She would see how she felt when she saw Bill face-to-face.

  Now she had to get organized and make final notes for her live interview with the Honorable Andrew Trentham!

  Six

  Andrew awoke the morning after the announcement outside Westminster Palace with a feeling of relief. At last it was over. Now he could focus his attention on the business of his party, the House of Commons, and the future of the country. With the King’s speech to open Parliament only a week away, he really had to get busy.

  Actually, though, it wasn’t quite over. He still had the interview with Paddy.

  He almost regretted having agreed to it. But a deal was a deal. And Paddy had certainly earned her wings on this one. Without her digging, none of this plot may ever have come to light. The Stone might still be missing, the murder of an MP unsolved. The country owed Paddy Rawlings a debt of gratitude, and an interview was the least he could do to help repay it.

  He thought back with a smile to their first journalistic encounter a year before. Paddy had come a long way since then, and now here she was in the spotlight.

  Andrew’s thoughts returned to the opening of Parliament. It would be like no opening in memory, with three party leaders and deputy leaders behind bars and a major scandal swirling at the highest levels of government.

  And, Andrew realized, it could well be historic for other reasons. He had caught wind of serious talks between the prime minister and Dugald MacKinnon of the SNP. Some rumors suggested that Barraclough might be close to a concession on some of the SNP’s long-standing demands.

  He’d have to leave all that to Barraclough for the minute. Right now he had an interview to prepare for.

  Seven

  As the cameras rolled, Paddy and Andrew did their best to put the personal elements of the story aside and speak to one another as the professionals they were. This was not easy in that the two of them together, and Paddy’s Internet sleuthing, as Andrew called it, had been so pivotal in what had transpired.

  But that aspect of the story would have to wait. Paddy had, in fact, already been contacted by several major magazines with offers for an exclusive from her point of view. But today she had to do her job, which was to interview Andrew Trentham about his role in the story as the dramatic events had broken wide open.

  “So, Mr. Trentham,” said Paddy after the introductory phase of the on-camera discussion, “we heard yesterday a brief chronology of events from Inspector Shepley. But I think everyone wants to hear what it was like for you, a politician and a layman, as it were, to find yourself in the middle of a harrowing Scotland Yard arrest.”

  “It was more than a little frightening,” replied Andrew with a laugh. “I mean, I would consider myself as brave as the next man, but I have to tell you—when the guns came out, I wanted to run for cover!”

  “And did you run?” asked Paddy.

  “Not exactly. I believe I held my ground. But not from bravery . . . I think I was too afraid to move!”

  �
�I doubt that!” The interviewer smiled as the camera moved back and forth between them. “The way I hear it, you remained anything but glued to the spot.”

  “It’s the truth,” agreed Andrew with another light laugh. “After we landed in the Shetlands and were making arrangements and loading into the cars, with all of Inspector Shepley’s men checking their guns and talking about where to sneak up and when to fire if it came to that . . . I seriously began to wonder if I was in over my head. I mean, suddenly I realized bullets might start flying, and I could be right in the middle of it.”

  “And did bullets fly?” asked Paddy.

  “Only one . . . and thankfully not toward anyone.”

  Alastair Farquharson’s call had come while they were still in the air, through a satellite phone transfer arranged by Scotland Yard for Andrew’s mobile number. As soon as Andrew had the big Scotsman on the line, he handed the phone to Shepley, who took down the information while he perused a detailed map of the Shetlands in his lap. A minute or two later, he handed the phone back to Andrew.

  “We’ve got the site located,” he said. “Near the Moul of Eswick, east coast on South Nesting Bay. That still doesn’t tell us if anyone will be there. But it’s where we’ll start.”

  “Have they heard anything from the laird or his daughter?” asked Andrew.

  “No,” replied Shepley. “Farquharson said the lady, Mrs.—What’s her name?”

  “Gordon, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Right. He said Mrs. Gordon knew nothing more than he told you before. She thought they were to meet their solicitor somewhere in Lerwick today, then drive up to the property.”

  “When were they supposed to meet?”

  “Don’t know,” answered Shepley.

  They were on the ground thirty minutes later and crammed into the waiting police vehicles, speeding north out of Lerwick fifteen minutes after that.

  The laird’s property of approximately eighty-seven acres comprised a stretch of isolated coastline about a third of a mile long, which narrowed as it came inland some half a mile. The result was an irregular sort of rectangle of no visible value, yet of apparent importance to World Resources, Ltd.