Powerstone (28 page)

Guessing that there would still be
police at the main entrances to the park, Irene reluctantly turned away from
the orange glow of
Edinburgh
and headed into the darkness.
After ten stumbling minutes, she came to the tarmac road, crossed quickly and
slipped down a slope of grass. She fell, stifling her moans as the sceptre
scraped against her side, and slammed against a stone wall.

Lying still until the waves of pain
subsided, Irene rolled away as headlights gleamed on the road. A police car
grumbled past, its blue lights flashing a warning. Fear forced her to her feet
and she pulled herself over the wall, feeling the rough stone rasp against her
ribs, renewing yesterday’s pain.

There was a short drop on the
opposite side, and a piece of mercifully soft ground on which to land. Irene
shuddered as she saw an array of windows, some dark, some lit. She was in what
appeared to be a communal back yard, with a smooth lawn and a garden shed.
Voices murmured above her, and somebody laughed. She lay still as a figure
appeared at one of the illuminated windows and a man peered outside.

As soon as he ducked back again,
Irene ran forward, tripped and stumbled down an unlit flight of steps. She
landed with a clatter, bit her lip to kill her yell and remained still in case
somebody came to investigate. Somewhere in the night, a cat yowled. After a few
minutes she rose, whimpering.

A doorway gaped before her, and
Irene stumbled forward until she emerged from the dimness of a passageway into
the orange glow of street lamps. She staggered onward, passing dark tenements
and dingy basements, rows of parked cars and small clusters of
graffiti-garnished shops. There was a main road ahead, with traffic lights and
what was obviously a sporting stadium.

Irene hesitated for a second and
turned left, holding the sceptre close to her body and moving as quickly as she
could. Her watch told her that it was four in the morning but already the light
was strengthening, and people were on the move. A red Royal Mail van hummed
past, then a double-decker bus.

‘Where the hell am I?’ Irene
wondered.

It was another hour before Irene
came to a part of the city that she recognised, weaving around the orderly
streets of the New Town with their end-to-end parked cars and identical cliffs
of buildings. Her feet were sore, her ribs ached constantly, but she had to
keep moving. She had to reach Drew. He would help her.

The hill sloped abruptly downward,
its opening nearly hidden in the half-light of morning. The street was narrow,
nearly mediaeval in its crooked descent but Irene paused only briefly, frantic
to reach shelter before full daylight revealed her to the remorseless stares of
Edinburgh
’s godly. Limping, she held onto
the iron rail that ran down one wall, and allowed her feet to follow the uneven
pavement. Drew’s apartment was down here, but so much had happened since last
she saw him last; it was hard to believe that only a few days had passed.

She had to reach Drew. He would
help her.

The fairy-tale towers of the
Dean
Village
seemed to exude mystery. Irene stood outside, staring
upward; she knew that Drew lived on the top floor of one of those buildings,
for he had mentioned the views, but she did not know exactly where. She had to
reach him. He would help her. But not if he found out that she was a thief.
Irene felt the sceptre pressing against her side. She must hide it somewhere,
so that Drew would never know.

She looked around frantically, searching
for a suitable hiding place, swearing in a low monotone that alarmed a passing
teenager. She gave a parody of her most charming smile and the girl hurried on,
looking over her shoulder.

‘She must think that I’m a junkie,’
Irene told herself, and recognised her immediate laughter as hysteria. ‘Oh
shit, how did I get into this mess?’

The sound of leaves rustling in
the wind inspired her to duck to the walkway beside the Water of Leith.
Birdcall and whispering water soothed her nerves, but desperation drove her
over the iron railing that separated the path from the riverbank. She sobbed as
her feet sunk into the hole- pitted earth of the banking, until she realised
that the inconvenience was a muddy blessing. It was the work of a moment to
wrap the sceptre in her coat and thrust it deep into one of the holes, and
another minute to conceal her handiwork with a tangle of bracken. Barely
noticing the sting of nettles, Irene hauled herself back onto the path. She
waited until the pain in her ribs subsided, and then returned to the street.

It was lighter now, full daylight
by
half past five
, and she still had to find Drew.
Each building in the courtyard had its own entrance, and with no names
displayed on the ground floor, and no commissionaire to give friendly guidance,
Irene had to labour up each stone stairway to the top flat. There were four
towers, each five stories high, and two doors on each flat. The first two doors
had no names at all, so she noted their position and hoped that she would not
have to return.

She struggled on, repeating the
same phrase, as if it were mantra of divine protection. ‘Drew. I must find
Drew.’

‘Are you going to the top?’ The
papergirl was blonde haired and young, with sharp eyes and piercings through
each eyebrow.

‘I’m looking for Drew. Drew
Drummond?’ Irene hid in the shadows to try and hide her appearance.

‘Aye, top floor. That’s what I
said.’ The girl sighed, as if she was granting a major favour in speaking to
Irene. She handed her a small pile of newspapers. ‘You can take this with you.
Save me the bother, ken?’

Irene accepted the newspapers,
thankful that she had at last found Drew’s apartment. She climbed slowly, with
every muscle in her body screaming. Working in a penthouse office with a
brass-mirrored elevator and a smart commissionaire to push the buttons had not
prepared her for this type of exertion.

The name was bold and plain across
the door. Andrew Drummond. Irene nearly sobbed with relief as she knocked. When
the door opened she fell inside, sobbing.

‘Drew. Drew, you must help me.’

Edinburgh
, July 13

Meigle held up his hand for
silence. ‘Thank you all for coming to my house at such short notice,’ he said.
‘I won’t keep you long, but I want to keep you abreast of events. As you will
be aware from the news, there was an attempted robbery in
Edinburgh
yesterday. A group attacked the
convoy carrying the Queen and various heads of state to the Scottish
Parliament. They specifically targeted the Honours.’ He waited until the gasps
of shock and murmurs of sympathy died down before he continued. ‘The army
managed to recover the Sword of State, but the crown and sceptre are still
missing. That means that the Clach-bhuai has gone.’

There was a few minutes’ pandemonium
as people shouted their comments. It was Drummond who stood up, looking every
one of his sixty – odd years. ‘We had a man closely monitoring this group,
Sandy. Is he still with them?’

‘Stefan Gregovich was killed.’ Meigle
said the words softly. ‘As yet we have no more details for the police have
imposed a total security blackout on all information.’

Drummond shook his head. ‘That’s a
bugger. He was a good man.’

‘Indeed.’ Meigle allowed the news
to sink in before he continued. ‘So our original plan of following them cannot
be followed. However, we are not entirely without clues. For instance, we know
that Stefan was working within a small group of people, and we have a picture
that we believe shows the woman who masterminded the robbery.’ He raised his
voice. ‘Could you douse the lights, somebody, and show the film?’

The group settled down with only a
little grumbling as Meigle adjusted the television. ‘This piece was on the
television news last night. We copied it and have tried to enhance it as best
we can. Now watch closely.’

The members of the Society leaned
forward as a slightly fuzzed picture of the Royal Mile was displayed, with
crowds of people jostling together. ‘Now. Here is a side view of Stefan. He is
waiting in the mouth of this close.’ Meigle paused the tape to allow the members
time to focus on Stefan. He restarted it, and the camera panned onto the crowd.
‘And here we have Desmond Nolan. That is his real name, although he travelled
here under an alibi. Stefan named him as one of the prime movers in this little
escapade. We can see him quite clearly talking with a blonde woman. See?’

Again Meigle paused the tape,
allowing the society members time to scribble down notes. ‘Does anybody
recognise her?’

Most of the members shook their
head; some looked puzzled, but nobody came forward with a name. Somebody
mentioned that she looked familiar, but was not sure from where.

‘I do not recognize her either,
but Colonel Drummond is on to her. He has resources that most other people
lack.’ Meigle forced a smile. ‘Is that not correct, James?’ He had always
admired Drummond’s efficiency, but now wondered about replacing him. Drummond
had not saved the Clach-bhuai when it mattered.

‘I was seconded to the
Intelligence Corps for a while,’ Drummond sounded just as calm as ever. ‘I have
retained my contacts.’ He stepped out in front of the gathering. ‘If this woman
is known to any of the intelligence services of the Western World, then we will
be able to have her name within a day. After that we will trace her known
movements and her likely whereabouts.’

‘Good. So all is not lost.’ Meigle
tried to prevent any panic from the members.

‘Hardly.’ Drummond languidly
returned to his seat. ‘You see,
Sandy
, it is relatively easy to steal an art treasure, even the Clach-bhuai.
That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s disposing of it that really
causes problems. Think about this; trade in stolen artefacts is at least 4000
years old. Looters were digging up the tombs of the pharaohs days after the
last royal servant marched away. Put it another way, art historians estimate
that around 98% of the antiquities on display in the world’s museums have been
stolen at some time.’

A woman in a smart denim skirt lifted
her hand. ‘Surely that makes it easier then? To dispose of things?’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’
Drummond was using specialist knowledge to regain control of his position.
‘However, every known antiquity and every artistic artefact is now known,
catalogued and easily recognisable. That means that it would be very difficult
to sell the Clach-bhuai, the entire sceptre or the Crown on the open market. As
soon as they appear for sale, we will be aware of them.’

‘So we just have to wait?’ The
woman seemed pleased with the simplicity of the plan.

‘Not quite.’ Producing his pipe,
Drummond looked to Meigle, received a quiet nod of permission and began to
stuff tobacco into the bowl. ‘It is unlikely that the Honours were stolen for a
speculative sale. There are two other possibilities.’ He held up his left hand
and raised a finger. ‘One: they may have been stolen to make some political
point. We know that this fellow Desmond Nolan has a strong Irish Republican
connection, so it is possible that his colleagues are similarly involved.
Unfortunately, Stefan did not send us all their names. Perhaps they intend to
ransom the Honours for some political advantage. In that case we will
eventually hear from them and will act accordingly.’

‘So that’s hopeful,’ the woman
said.

‘As far as we are concerned, that
is extremely hopeful.’ Drummond lit his pipe and puffed aromatic smoke toward
the members. ‘The government may not be so happy.’

‘And the other possibility?’ The
woman was looking quite optimistic.

‘Not so good. The Honours may have
been stolen to order. We suspect that some master criminal has ordered them
stolen, so he can offer them for sale on the underground market. If we are
correct, then they will be far more difficult to trace. There are quite a number
of crooked dealers out there.’

As the denim-skirted woman nodded
cautiously, Drummond shook his head. ‘Even worse, the Honours may have been
stolen for the personal enjoyment of just such a Mr Big. The last few decades
have seen an upsurge in the theft of cultural heritage. The Taliban destroyed
everything they could in
Afghanistan
, but there was still a strong
trickle of artefacts that left the country, and the Iraq War saw massive
looting. You will remember that the
Iraqi
National
Museum
in
Baghdad
was virtually stripped bare? Some
of the oldest and most famous artefacts in the world disappeared, such as the Uruk
Vase, which is the world’s oldest narrative work of art.’ He shook his head.
‘It’s probably older than our Clach-bhuai, if not as important to us. The
stolen art trade is the second largest traffic in the world, after drugs.’

‘So what can we do?’ The woman’s
confidence had evaporated as quickly as it had risen, but Drummond replaced his
pipe in his mouth and smiled around the stem.