Powerstone (19 page)

Taking a deep breath, Irene
returned to the hotel and ordered a huge breakfast. She was still eating when
she saw Patrick stagger into the room, unshaven and obviously having spent the
night outside. Irene felt some satisfaction that he had not seen fit to return
to Mary, but did not smile when he hovered beside her chair. His first words
were predictable.

‘I’m sorry, I really am. I won’t
do it again.’

Irene looked up slowly, aware that
a waitress was watching from a corner of the room. She allowed the tension to
build up. ‘Well now; we’ll have to see, won’t we? Oh for God’s sake, Patrick!
I’m having my breakfast. Go and get washed and shaved, you look like something
the cat refused to drag in.’

‘Can you forgive me?’ Patrick
raised his head slightly.

Irene reached out but dropped her
hand before she made contact. ‘I’m not sure yet. But if I let you back,’ she
narrowed her eyes and half rose from her seat, ‘by God you’d better not let me
down again!’

‘I won’t,’ Patrick promised, ‘I
swear that I won’t.’ He waited a moment as Irene returned to her breakfast, and
then walked away, his shoulders hunched.

Irene looked directly at the
waitress and smiled brightly. ‘Men, eh? You have to keep them under control all
the time, or there’s no knowing what they’ll be up to. They’re just children
with oversized libidos.’

The waitress smiled and shook her
head. ‘That’s true. You wouldn’t believe the things they get up to in here, but
some of the women are just as bad.’

Irene had no desire to swap gossip
with a hireling. ‘I’ll bet they are,’ she said, and looked up as Mary came in,
arm in arm with a smug looking Desmond. ‘And talking of bad women,’ she raised
her voice so it carried around the room, ‘here’s one now.’

Mary sat opposite her and smiled
directly into her face. ‘Don’t look so upset, Irene. He was only a man. There
are plenty more, you know.’ She patted Desmond’s arm, as if to prove her point.

Irene examined her, wondering anew
about the attraction. With her cropped hair and gaunt face, Mary was anything
but pretty, while breasts and hips that appeared not to have developed since
puberty could hardly interest a man.

‘What did Patrick see in me?’ Mary
read her thoughts with an ease that made Irene suspect that it was not the
first time she had faced a cheated woman over the breakfast table. ‘He saw
success, Irene. Men like to have a successful woman, and you only got second
prize.’ She dropped her voice. ‘Remember that we all watched
The
Neophyte
,
Irene, and saw you squirm.’

‘Yet I’m calling the shots now,’
Irene kept her voice calm. Instinctively she realised that shouting would avail
her nothing with this woman.

‘Do you think so?’ Mary kept her voice
low. ‘You need me, but I can return to the States any time, and you can do no
more about that than you can stop me taking Patrick. You can’t even fire me,
Irene, because I know too much.’ Holding out her hand, palm up, she said, ‘I
have you here.’ She slowly closed her fist.

Irene controlled her anger.
Everything Mary said strengthened her resolve for vengeance, but she could
wait. She forced a smile. ‘Well then, I’d better keep our relationship on a
professional basis then, hadn’t I?’

‘That’s the way,’ Mary’s smile was
just as wide, and looked more genuine. She leaned forward and whispered,
‘especially as I can guess who you are working for. It’s no secret that Rhondda
Manning is an art collector. Trying to get back into favour, are we?’

For a moment Irene was shocked.
She had no idea that her life was so transparent. The old maxim came to her,
when in doubt, attack. ‘Whoever I am working for, Mary, I do not have to boost
my ego by seducing a man half my age. I let you borrow Patrick’s body once, but
he’s back in the fold now, and he won’t be straying again.’ She dropped her
smile, hoping that Mary could not hear the rapid hammering of her heart. ‘Now
that the shepherd is aware of the wolf, she’ll be much more ready to defend her
sheep.’

‘What are you saying?’ Desmond
leaned forward to listen, ‘I can’t hear you when you whisper like that. Are you
talking about me?’

‘Always, sweetheart,’ Mary
withdrew and placed her fingers on his arm. ‘I was just telling Irene how
talented you were in bed. Far better than the panting youths I have had
before.’ She smirked into Irene’s face.

Bryan and Stefan came in together,
with
Bryan
’s eyes scanning the entire room
before he sat down, while Stefan stared stolidly ahead. Only when Patrick
joined them did Irene give her orders for the day. She told Mary to continue to
learn the portion of
Edinburgh
that she was to drive, checking
every back street and alternative route in case of roadworks or hold ups.
‘Desmond, you and Bryan have to work on diversions. I want you to devise
methods of taking everybody’s attention away from the Honours. Smoke, bomb
alerts; anything like that. OK?’

Desmond nodded while
Bryan
glanced from Mary to Patrick and
back. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Patrick did not look up from the table.

‘Stefan. You have to work on the
actual hit. That’s your speciality.’

Stefan shrugged. ‘Sure.’ Although
his accent was still more Ukrainian than American, Irene knew that he was the
only member of the team she entirely trusted. Stefan was a professional working
for money; Irene could understand his motives far better than she could the
idealism-driven Irish.

‘And me?’ Patrick looked up
briefly.

‘You and I are working together
today,’ Irene said, ‘lucky me.’ She was very aware of Mary’s mocking eyes.

The Grassmarket looked different
in daylight, with the pubs closed and the shops open. There were more tourists
probing into the historical corners and more students doing anything apart from
study. Two women gossiped at the foot of a flight of steps that led into a
common stair. Irene looked up, seeing the castle impressive on its rock, a
reminder why she was here.

‘You let me down,’ she said to
Patrick, breaking a long silence.

He nodded. He was walking one pace
behind her, as if too ashamed even to be at her side.

Irene swallowed. She needed his
help to steal the Honours, but could not let him off too easily. She had to
play this cleverly. ‘You hurt me badly.’

Patrick nodded again and Irene
quelled her rising irritation. Why did he not argue? Shout back? Try to put
some of the blame on her so that they could have a blazing argument that would
allow each to vent their anger and get things out in the open? She shook her
head; she always picked men who were so much less than her, men who looked
strong, but who proved to be moral weaklings, unable to match her in
temperament or wit. What was wrong with them?

‘Well, say something then!’ She
stopped and faced him, not hiding the anger that forced his eyes to slide from
her face.

His answer was predictably humble.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

‘She forced you, did she?’ Irene
raised her voice, aware that the two women had stopped talking to listen. Men
hated public humiliation so she hoped that Patrick was squirming with
embarrassment. ‘That woman forced you into her bed and raped you? That woman of
nearly twice your age and half your size?’ Irene deliberately raised her voice
with each word, watching Patrick’s face redden.

The women were very quiet, one
shaking her head in disapproval.

Irene waited for a response,
relishing his discomfiture. When he eventually raised his eyes to hers, there
was no fight in them.

‘All right,’ she said, quietly,
knowing that she had won, but perversely disappointed by his lack of spirit. ‘I
agree that she is a man-eater, a predator. You were her victim.’

Patrick nodded, willing to accept
his own weakness.

‘You’re a fool, Patrick. She was
just using you.’ Irene eased some compassion into her voice. What did she ever
see in this spineless creature who was unable even to defend himself? He could
only offer boyish looks and muscles. She stepped back, reminding herself that
his ability to fly a helicopter made him indispensable. A sudden image of
wealth and power of the Manning Corporation thrust into Irene’s mind. Patrick
was crucial to her campaign; she had to relent.

Stepping back, Irene turned and
quickly crossed the road, hoping that she did not trip on these old-fashioned
granite setts. The last thing she wanted to do was land in an undignified
sprawl on an
Edinburgh
street. She heard the echo of her
steps and then, when she was half way across, the clatter of Patrick racing in
pursuit.

‘Irene!’ When he came beside her,
snatching for her hand, she knew that she owned him, body and soul. ‘I am
sorry. I was not thinking and I don’t even like the woman.’ His voice was
urgent, pleading, as he walked at her side. She shook her hand free and stopped
just outside the jewellers that she had seen the previous night.

‘If you don’t like her, then why
did you sleep with her?’

‘It just happened. She was there,
I wanted you, but she came into the room and things just happened.’

He was as immature as a small boy,
Irene thought, reaching for forbidden sweeties just because he could. She knew
that there had been no malice in his actions, only a lack of thought, a triumph
of desire over judgement. God, men were so childish! She turned away and stared
into the window. The shop was tiny, with a dark interior and a collection of
cheap trinkets on display. She focussed on the one tray that seemed even
moderately interesting.

Patrick followed her eyes.
‘They’re nice,’ he seized the opportunity that she offered. ‘Would you like
one?’

The temptation to continue her
cruelty nearly overcame her, but instead Irene nodded. ‘Quite nice,’ she said.

‘Come on inside.’ There was
desperation in his eyes. ‘Please, Irene. I want to buy you something.’

Irene allowed him to take her
inside.

Inadequate light from brass
oil-lamps reflected from a score of locked glass cases, while the sanded floor
sounded hollow under their feet. Two men stood in muted conversation across a
counter of polished wood. The overall effect was so quaintly Victorian that
Irene was not sure whether to walk out or laugh, until she realised that the
display in the window did not express the quality of the jewellery inside. Most
of it was unique, handcrafted pieces that reflected the character of the
designer more than the mass media tastes of modern society.

Ignoring Patrick, she studied the
stock with growing interest, spending time over each case. There was nothing on
display that would sell in
New York
or
Paris
, but the originality intrigued
her.

‘You’ve some nice stuff here,’ she
said at last.

‘Aye. No’ bad.’ The man was slight,
with a thin face and sandy hair. He leaned across the counter. ‘Was there
anything in particular that you were after?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Irene examined a
tray of amethyst rings. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like these
before. Where are they from?’

‘
Scotland
,’ the jeweller said baldly. ‘Everything in here is
Scottish made. I make a lot of it myself.’ He lifted out the tray for Irene to
examine. ‘We used to mine gold in
Scotland
, but not now. Some of the stones are Scottish though. Amethyst,
cairngorm, pearls from the
Tay
.’ He
shrugged. ‘You don’t get many
Tay
pearls
nowadays. Apart from me, there is only one other shop licensed to sell them,
and that's in
Perth
.’ He looked up sharply. ‘The
diamonds aren’t Scottish though. Nor the rubies and such like.’ His gesture
seemed to dismiss the non-Scottish stones into secondary importance.

‘I did not know that
Scotland
made jewellery,’ Irene slipped a
ring over her finger and held it up to the light. The amethyst sparkled as
Patrick hovered, demanding to know if she would like it.

‘Give the woman a chance,’ the
jeweller reproved.

Irene thought that if he improved
his customer care skills the shop owner might be able to afford more impressive
premises. ‘We’ve just had an argument,’ she explained. ‘He’s desperate to buy
me something so we make up.’

The jeweller grunted. ‘Is that
right? Well, my family have been making good in this profession for centuries,
so we’ve got a wee bit experience.’ He looked Patrick up and down. ‘How much
money is the gentleman willing to spend to get back in your favour?’

Irene could not help smiling. ‘A
lot,’ she said at once, ‘but I won’t let him spend above his budget.’ She had
been slowly growing aware of the third man in the shop and looked up. He was
leaning against the counter, watching. ‘Do you always listen to private
conversations?’

‘Every chance I get,’ the man
replied. ‘They’re the most interesting kind.’