Powerstone (10 page)

The woman poured herself another
drink and stared pointedly at Patrick. ‘Do we have to listen to this?’

Irene sensed that others in her
audience shared the woman’s impatience and rushed things along a little. ‘In 1707
the parliaments were united into what is now the British parliament in
Westminster
.’

‘Jesus, do we really care?’ The
nearest and smallest of the men was staring at the ceiling.

Controlling her nerves, Irene
patted his arm. ‘If you listen, Desmond, you might learn to care,’ she allowed
her smile to wash over him. ‘One of the conditions of that
Union
was that the Scottish crown
jewels, known as the Honours of Scotland, were never to leave the country. The
Scots stuffed them in a wooden box and forgot them for over a century, but then
a man named Walter Scott brought them out and put them on public display.’

‘Get down to facts. How valuable
are they?’ The burliest of the listeners spoke with a thick Eastern European
accent. He was tall, with a shock of blonde hair but eyes that were so intense
that Irene struggled to hold them.

‘Invaluable,’ Irene said, ‘they
could not be bought. But my client wants them.’

The man slunk back into his chair,
his eyes never straying from Irene’s face. ‘What will he do with them? Wear the
crown when he’s on the can?’

The crude comment raised a grunt
of laughter, as Irene’s feminist side registered the automatic acceptance that
her client was a man.

‘What happens to the Honours after
they are stolen is not our concern,’ said Irene deliberately choosing
gender-neutral terminology. Let these creatures believe what they wanted; she
would use them as required and discard them when necessary.

‘Patrick and I have checked out
the Honours in the castle, but there’s no way they can be taken from there.
They are held in a small room at the top of a flight of steep stairs. The only
entrance is through a steel door with a score of electronic security devices,
and the building itself is in the middle of an army barracks.’ Irene clicked
again, showing various views of the castle and the Crown Room. For good measure
she had added the shots of the Royal Scots that she had taken. ‘These are not
National Guardsmen either, but front line infantry, veterans of
Iraq
.’

‘If the place is so strong, then
why show us?’ The woman was wiry, with short dark hair and stern eyes. She
might have been pretty a few years back, but now it looked as if life had worn
her down. Pushing aside her glass, she poured herself some coffee.

Irene allowed the PowerPoint to
stop at an image of the crown. She had taken especial care in selecting a shot
that combined the maximum amount of gold with the minimum of velvet, and now
applauded her choice as her audience craned forward. She could nearly taste
their avarice. ‘I am showing you the present home of the Honours partly to
explain how much the Brits value them, and partly to show how fortunate we
are.’

The burly man held his glass as if
it were an enemy.

‘Fortunate?’ His eyes were
venomous.

‘Indeed,’ Irene knew that she was
in command of the situation, ‘because we are not going to take the Honours from
the Castle. The Queen is visiting
Scotland
in July, when there’s an international conference at the Scottish
Parliament. The Honours are being driven down the Royal Mile,’ Irene clicked
again, to show a map of central
Edinburgh
. She felt renewed interest among her audience as she
pointed to the street that ran between the castle and the palace.

‘So that’s when we hit them?’ The
second man spoke with a
Boston
accent. Tall and dark headed, he
wore a harp pendant around his neck.

‘Yes,
Bryan
,’ Irene confirmed. ‘That’s when
we hit them.’

Placing both hands on the table,
Desmond looked directly at Irene and spoke in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘We
hit them, but if your client gets the crown, what do we get out of it?’ He
looked around the table. ‘I know
Bryan
, and everybody knows Mary,’ he nodded to the second woman. ‘As
America
’s leading female rally driver, it
would be a sin not to know her.’ Mary smiled at the professional recognition.
‘But I don’t know
him
,’ he stared at the blonde man.

‘Of course. I should have
introduced you all,’ Irene stood up. She had made her point. Now everybody knew
that she was in charge; she had the information and she had brought everybody
together. Now she could begin to mould them into her team. ‘You have all met
me, and you know Patrick McKim, ex-marine and my partner. You should know Mary
O’Neill; rally driver and member of the Irish Daughters of America. Then we
have Stefan Gregovich, one of our leading Ukrainian citizens.’ The blonde man
raised a surly hand as the others nodded to him.

‘And lastly we have Bryan Kelly
and Desmond Nolan, both well known in the Irish American community.’ Irene
finished the introductions with a flourish.

‘All very cosy, but you have not
answered my question,’ Desmond said. ‘If there’s nothing in this for us, I’m
wasting my time.’

Irene took a quick sip of her
coffee to combat the rapid drying of her mouth. The caffeine hit was essential,
for she was unsure how these people would react. They might invite her to an
Irish pub, or blow off her kneecaps, as the whim took them.

‘It’s an opportunity to prove that
Irish patriotism of which you’re so proud,’ she said simply. ‘And a chance to
hit back at
England
.’ Although she injected passion
into her voice, Irene could not understand the intense nationalism of these
people. Why did they constantly relive past events? Their ancestors had chosen
to immigrate to the
USA
; well then, they should adopt the
values of their new nation and forget the ‘old country.’ If
Ireland
had been that good, then nobody
would have left in the first damn place. However, if Desmond was happy to allow
centuries-old injuries to dominate his life, then she would exploit his hatred,
as others had done before her.

Irene gave another of her
captivating smiles, feeling her mouth ache with the strain. ‘Patrick and I will
do all the legwork and make all the arrangements. Apart from your various
specialities, all you have to do is turn up for a couple of days before the
job, perform the actual task and get home afterwards. Three days work, or four
at most.’

‘Various specialities? That’s a
bit open ended, is it not?’ Desmond stood and took a step for the door, until
Bryan
extended a lazy hand to push him
back.

‘Don’t be so hasty, Desmond.
Listen to what the lady has to say. She has not called us all here for nothing,
now.’ He accentuated the Irish in his voice.

‘Save for Stefan, you are all sons
and daughters of
Ireland
,’ Irene played her ace. ‘Patrick
hand-picked you as members of Irish organisations dedicated to uniting the
Irish nation.’

‘As our fathers and grandfathers
were before us,’
Bryan
agreed. He eyed Irene warily.

‘So what better opportunity could
you have of striking a blow against the English than by stealing the crown
jewels? Imagine the reaction as the Irish manage to remove one of the Queen’s
personal treasures from right under her nose?’ Irene saw interest bleed into
the eyes of Mary and Bryan, but Desmond was not so easily convinced.

‘You said this was the Scottish
crown jewels. Not the English.’ Desmond stood up again.

‘Yes, but it’s the same queen.’
Irene leaned forward to emphasise her point. She had spent the last week
intensively researching British history and now ruthlessly applied her
knowledge. ‘This queen calls herself Elizabeth the Second – not Elizabeth the
First, even although there has never been a previous
Elizabeth
on the Scottish throne. She
considers
Scotland
as just another conquered
country, an appendage of
England
.’

‘So?’ Desmond shrugged.

‘So in her eyes
Scotland
as a country does not exist, any
more than
Ireland
did.’ She would like to confront
Mary, but first must destroy Desmond’s scepticism. One doubting member would
compromise the effectiveness of her entire team. Another sip of coffee
strengthened her for a renewed attack.

‘There is an even more compelling
reason. As I have already explained, in
1707 a
Treaty of Union combined the Scottish and English
parliaments. That treaty contained a clause that banned the Honours from being
removed from
Scotland
.’ Irene controlled her nerves as
Desmond’s glare remained uncompromisingly hostile. ‘So if we succeed, or rather
when
we succeed, we will remove the Honours from
Scotland
, and thereby effectively nullify
the treaty. We will be hastening the break up of the union, which means that
Scotland
will not be bound to
England
, and
Northern Ireland
will be in limbo.’

Desmond sat down at last. ‘No
Scottish
Union
? So no
Great Britain
, and no reason for
Northern Ireland
?’

Irene nodded, wondering if Desmond
really believed all this nonsense, or if he was merely trying to save face
before his colleagues. ‘We will be striking a greater blow for a united
Ireland
than has been struck since 1922,
and without using terrorism, so the world will support us.’ She held his gaze
until he nodded again, then she sat down, trembling with the mental effort of
persuasion.

‘And me?’ Stefan asked thickly. ‘I
do not care about
Ireland
or
Scotland
or any other land. Why should I take part in this
robbery?’

‘For the money, of course,’ Irene
was much happier away from ancient politics; she felt secure when dealing with
honest greed. ‘You work for three days and I pay you half a million dollars,
plus whatever other jewellery you can keep. The crown, sword and sceptre are
reserved for my client, but anything else that you can lift is yours.’

Stefan grunted and settled back
down. ‘A million dollars,’ he said. ‘Nothing less.’

Irene barely glanced at Patrick
before shaking her head. ‘Too much. 750,000, and that’s final.’

The nearly reptilian eyes surveyed
Irene before Stefan shrugged. ‘All right.’ He glowered at the others, as if
gloating that he had upped his reward.

‘Then let’s get down to business,’
Irene gave her brilliant smile to signal that the meeting had come to an
agreement. ‘Desmond, you are a document man. You job is to produce false
passports for us.
Bryan
, you’re the munitions expert. I
want explosives. You, Stefan, know more about hits than the rest of us put
together, so you work out details for the actual attack.’ Dropping her smile,
Irene faced Mary last, allowing a full ten seconds of silence before she spoke.
‘We all know Mary’s expertise.’

Mary’s expression did not alter as
she held Irene’s gaze. She said nothing.

‘So if you could brush up on the
British rules of the road, we’ll know that we are in safe hands.’ Irene could
not explain why she felt uneasy in Mary’s presence. Perhaps it was because they
had both smashed the glass ceiling, and any other barrier that got in their
way, to achieve success, but while she had failed at
The
Neophyte
,
Mary had triumphed in a theatre traditionally dominated by men.

Mary stood up, gave a curt nod and
walked out of the room. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

Patrick raised a hand. ‘She’ll
come around. I’ll make sure of that.’

Aware that everyone was watching
her, Irene clapped her hands, ‘Let’s do this, people!’ But even to her, the
words sounded hollow. Recruiting another woman had been a mistake. There could
be only one top bitch in any operation.

St Andrews, April

The Swilkin Burn ran slow and dark
beneath the bridge as Alexander Meigle placed the ball on the tee. When he looked
up, weak sunlight highlighted the insignia of two crossed golf clubs that was
emblazoned on his shirt. ‘Three hundred and seventy-six yards,’ he eyed the
distance to the First Green, ‘and a par four.’

‘I have played the course before,’
Colonel Drummond looked skyward, measuring the wind. He pulled his driver from
the golf cart and took a practice swing. ‘
Hickory
shafted,’ he said, ‘by Auchterlonies.’

‘Your choice,’ Meigle placed the
face of his club against the ball and adjusted his stance. ‘I prefer tungsten
to these old fashioned things. More distance. But there, you’re an old
fashioned sort of fellow, with your old tweed jacket and those shiny brogues,’
he grinned, teasing a friend that he had known for decades. ‘You have to move
with the times, James.’