Crocodile Tears (4 page)

“At least that’s what he thought,” he went on. “Unfortunately for him, the insurance company smelled a rat. They started asking questions. Like, for example, why had the alarms been switched off? Why had the security staff been given the night off? There was a lot of gossip in the press—and then, suddenly, a witness turned up. It turned out there’d been a homeless person sleeping in the underground garage. He’d actually been there when McCain drove in with six gallons of gasoline and a cigarette lighter. He’d been lucky to get away alive. Anyway, McCain was arrested. There was a fairly sensational trial. He was sent to prison for nine years.”

Alex had listened to all this in silence. “You called him Reverend McCain,” he said.

“Well, that’s the strange thing. In a way, McCain’s whole life had been bizarre—but while he was in jail, he converted to Christianity. He did a correspondence course and became a priest in some church no one’s ever heard of. And when he got out—that was five years ago—he didn’t go back into business or politics. He said he’d spent his whole life being selfish and that he wanted to put all that behind him. Instead, he set up a charity. First Aid. That’s what it’s called. It provides a rapid response to emergencies all over the world.”

“How much farther?” Sabina’s voice came from the backseat. She was still plugged into her earphones.

Edward Pleasure held up a hand and opened it twice, signaling ten minutes.

“You interviewed him,” Alex said.

“Yes. I’ve done a big piece for
Vanity Fair
. They’ll be publishing it next month.”

“And?”

“You’ll meet him tonight, Alex, and you can see for yourself. He’s got an enormous amount of energy and he’s channeled it into helping people less fortunate than himself. He’s raised millions for famine relief in Africa, bush fires in Australia, floods in Malaysia . . . even that accident in southern India. Jowada . . .”

Alex nodded. He’d read about it when he’d been working as a ball boy at Wimbledon. It had made the front pages. “The nuclear reactor . . . ,” he said.

Edward nodded. “For a time it looked as if the whole city of Chennai could have been affected. Fortunately, it wasn’t as bad as that, but a lot of people were killed in the panic. First Aid was up and running the very next day, getting antiradiation stuff to the women and kids, helping with supplies . . . that sort of thing. Nobody was quite sure how they got off the mark so quickly, but that’s how they work. Instant response. Their aim is to be the first charity in.”

“And you really think this man, McCain, is genuine? That he’s turned a new leaf?”

“You mean . . . do I think he’s another Damian Cray?” Edward smiled briefly. It had been his article exposing Cray as a maniac that had almost got him killed. “Well, I did have my doubts when I first met him. I mean, even if he wasn’t a crook, he was a politician, which didn’t exactly recommend him. But you don’t need to worry, Alex. I did plenty of research into his charity. I interviewed him and a lot of people who know him. I spoke to the police and I opened many old files. The truth is, other than his past, I couldn’t find anything bad to write about him. He really does seem to be a rich man who made a bad mistake and who’s trying to make up for it.”

“How has he managed to buy a castle? If he went bankrupt . . .”

“That’s a good question. After he went to prison, he lost all his money . . . everything. But he had powerful friends—both in business and in politics—and they did what they could to help him out. Thanks to them, he managed to hang on to Kilmore Castle. He also has a London apartment, and he’s the part owner of a safari camp somewhere in Kenya.” A car suddenly appeared in the road beside them, overtaking. Edward slowed down to let it pass. He watched as it was swallowed up by the whirling snow. “I’ll be interested to hear what you think of McCain,” he muttered.

“Is that why you’re going?”

“When I met him, I mentioned I was planning to be in Scotland for the New Year, and he invited me. He gave me the tickets, which is just as well, since they cost one thousand dollars each.”

Alex let out a low whistle.

“Well, it’s for charity. All the profits will go to First Aid. There’ll be a lot of rich people there tonight. They’ll raise a fortune.”

There was another brief silence. The road had begun to climb steeply uphill, and Edward shifted down a gear.

“We never really talked about Damian Cray,” Edward muttered.

Alex twisted in his seat. “There’s nothing to say.”

“My book about him sold a million copies. But I never mentioned you, or your part in what happened.”

“I prefer it that way.”

“You saved Sabina’s life.”

“She saved mine.”

“Can I give you some advice, Alex?” Edward Pleasure had to keep his eyes on the road, yet just for a moment he turned them on Alex. “Stay away from all that. MI6, intelligence, all the rest of it. I’ve got a good idea what’s been going on over the past year. Sabina’s told me some of it, but I have contacts in the CIA and I hear things. I don’t want to know what you’ve been through, but believe me, you’re better off out of it.”

“Don’t worry.” Alex remembered what he’d been thinking back at Hawk’s Lodge. “I don’t think MI6 are interested in me anymore. They didn’t even send me a Christmas card. That part of my life is over. And I’m glad.”

The road was even steeper now, and the trees had fallen away on one side to reveal an expanse of black water, Loch Arkaig, stretching out below. It was still snowing, but the flakes didn’t seem to be making contact with the half-frozen surface, as if the two were somehow canceling each other out. The loch was said to have its own monster—a giant water horse—and looking down, Alex could well believe it. Loch Arkaig had been left behind by the glaciers. Twelve miles long and in places three hundred feet deep, who could say what secrets it had managed to keep to itself for the past five million years?

And there was Kilmore Castle looming up above him, almost invisible behind the sweeping snow. It had been built on a rocky outcrop, above the loch, completely dominating the surrounding landscape, a massive pile of gray stone with towers and battlements, narrow, slit-like windows, soaring archways, and solid, unwelcoming doors. There was nothing about the place that could have been built for comfort. It existed only to rule and to keep those inside it in power. It was hard to imagine how it had ever fallen or, for that matter, how it had been built. Even the Nissan X-Trail, with its 2.5-liter four-cylinder turbo diesel engine, seemed to be struggling as it negotiated the series of tight hairpin bends that were the only way up. Had soldiers once come here on horseback? What medieval weapons could possibly have penetrated these massive walls?

They were in a line of traffic now with other partygo ers, just visible behind the frosted windows of their cars. The last bend brought them to a wide-open space that had been converted into a parking lot with attendants in Day-Glo jackets frantically signaling where to go. Two fiery torches had been placed on either side of the main entrance, the flames fighting the snow. Men and women in heavy coats, their faces lost behind scarves, were hurrying across the gravel and bundling themselves in. There was something almost nightmarish about the scene. It didn’t look like a party. These people could have been refugees running for their lives from some freak act of nature. All the while dressed to kill.

Edward Pleasure parked the car and Sabina took off her iPod.

“We don’t have to stay until midnight,” Edward told her. “If you want to leave earlier, just let me know.”

“I wish Mum had come,” Sabina muttered.

“Me too. But let’s try and enjoy ourselves.”

They got out of the car, and after the warmth of the interior, Alex was immediately hit by the deep chill of the night, the snow dancing in his eyes, the wind rushing through his hair. He had no coat and ran forward, hugging himself, using his shoulders to battle through the elements. It was as if the very worst of the winter had somehow been concentrated on this rocky platform, high above the loch. The flames of the fiery torches writhed and twisted. Somebody shouted something, but the words were snatched away.

And then they had reached the archway and passed through into an inner courtyard, where at least the wind couldn’t penetrate. Alex found himself in an irregularly shaped space with high walls, cannons, a lawn under two inches of snow, and a huge bonfire. About a dozen guests were crowding around, feeling the warmth, and laughing as they brushed snow off their sleeves. A second archway stood ahead of him, this one with carved eagles and an inscription in Gaelic, the letters glowing red and shimmering in the light of the fire.

 

“What’s that?” Sabina asked.

Edward shrugged, but next to him one of the other guests had overheard. “It’s the motto of the Kilmore clan,” he explained. “This was their ancestral home. They were here for three hundred years.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Yes. ‘You cannot defeat your enemies until you know who they are.’ ” The guest pushed forward and disappeared into the castle.

Alex looked at the inscription for a moment. He wondered if in some way it wasn’t speaking to him. Then he dismissed the thought. A New Year was about to begin and with it a new set of rules. There were no more enemies. That was what he had decided.

“Come on, Alex . . .”

Sabina grabbed his arm and together they went in.

3

CARDS BEFORE MIDNIGHT

ALEX HAD NEVER BEEN to a party like it.

The banqueting hall at Kilmore Castle was huge, but even so, it was jammed with people: five or six hundred of them had been invited and this wasn’t an invitation anyone was going to turn down, even if it came with a thousand-dollar price tag. Within minutes, Alex had recognized half a dozen TV celebrities and soap stars, a clutch of politicians, two celebrity chefs, and a pop star. The men were in black tie or kilts. The women had fought to outdo each other with yards of silk and velvet, plunging necklines, and a dazzling assortment of diamonds and jewels.

A whole army of waiters in full Scottish dress were fighting their way through the crowd carrying trays of vintage champagne while a trio of bagpipe players performed on a gallery above. There were no electric lights. More than a hundred candles flickered in two massive chandeliers. Torches blazed from iron braziers mounted in the walls. The center of the room was dominated by a massive stone fireplace with flames leaping up the chimney and throwing red shadows across the flagstone floor.

The Kilmores hadn’t lived at the castle for centuries, but they were certainly there tonight. Life-size portraits hung on the walls . . . grim-looking men with swords and shields, proud-eyed women in tartan and bonnets. Suits of armor had been placed in many of the alcoves, and crossed swords stood guard over every archway and door. The animals they had killed—stags, foxes, wild boar—looked down on the scene with their disembodied heads and glass eyes. Coats of arms dotted the walls, the fireplace, even the windows.

Desmond McCain must have spent a fortune on the party, ensuring that at the very least his guests would get value for their money. A buffet table reached from one end of the hall to the other, piled high with great slabs of beef and salads, whole salmon, venison, and—on a giant silver platter—a roast suckling pig complete with angry eyes and an apple in its mouth. There were dozens of different wines and spirits, punch bowls, and as many as fifty brands of malt whisky in bottles of various shapes. One archway led to a dance floor, another to a fully equipped casino with roulette, blackjack, and poker. Somehow, McCain had managed to park a brand-new Mini Convertible in the hallway. It was the first prize in a raffle that also included a Kawasaki 260X Jet Ski and a two-week Caribbean cruise—all of them had been given free to First Aid by wealthy sponsors.

Outside, the snow was still falling. The wind was cutting through the night like a scalpel. But all that was forgotten as, inside, the guests enjoyed the warmth of each other’s company and the spirit of the celebration as the minutes ticked down to the New Year.

And yet, despite all this, Alex and Sabina felt out of place. Not many other teenagers had been invited, and the ones they met all lived locally, seemed to be at least six feet tall, and clearly regarded them as outsiders. Alex and Sabina ate together, had a couple of sodas, and made their way to the dance floor—but even here they didn’t feel comfortable, surrounded by adults twisting and swaying to music that hadn’t been popular in decades.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Sabina announced as the band lurched into an ABBA classic.

Alex knew what she meant. The center of the dance floor was dominated by three bald men in kilts, jabbing their fingers into the air to the tune of “Money, Money, Money.” He glanced at his watch. It was only ten past eleven. “I don’t think we can leave yet, Sabina,” he said.