Powerstone (9 page)

‘The what?’ Patrick looked confused,
until Irene nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘The soldiers,’ she explained,
fiercely. She nodded to the sergeant. ‘Glad to,’ she said. An opportunity to
talk to members of the garrison was potentially invaluable. If she could ply
them with drink, they might speak about the security arrangements for the
Honours. ‘Come on Patrick. You should feel quite at home.’ She gave her most
seductive smile to the sergeant. ‘He was in the Marines.’

The sergeant nodded, understanding
softening his eyes. ‘I thought there was something, but we won’t hold it
against him,’ he dragged their chairs across the room, with the patrons of the
pub clearing before them.

The soldiers were younger than
Irene had thought; boys barely out of their teens with thin faces and strain in
their laughing eyes. They welcomed her like a sister, nodded to Patrick and
began an exchange of quick-fire repartee that left her floundering. Leaning
back in her seat, Irene waited for a gap in the conversation before she
attempted flattery.

‘So what are you? Special Forces?’

The laugh was predictable as the
soldiers glanced at each other. The youngest spoke. ‘No, we’re real soldiers.
The government calls us the Royal Scots Borderers, first battalion of the Royal
Regiment of Scotland, but everyone else knows that we’re the Royal Scots.’

Irene saw the sergeant hide a
smile and guessed that there was some dispute between the British government
and the serving soldiers. She put the information aside in case she could use
it later.

‘Royal Scots? That sounds
impressive. I bet you’re all combat veterans.’

‘Up the Royals!’ A red haired
private shouted, causing a few heads in the pub to turn. Seeing the reaction,
the other two privates joined in.

‘Up the Royals! Up Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard!’ There was slight bitterness in the laughter.

‘Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard?’ The
significance was lost on Irene.

‘It’s an old joke,’ the sergeant
explained. ‘There was an argument once, about 1640, when the Royals were
serving with the French. We claimed precedence over one of the senior regiments
of the French Army, and they objected.’ He grinned. ‘I’d like to have seen
that. Anyway, one of the French officers said that the Royals had been asleep
at their posts, and said that if we even predated them, we must be Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard. Our lot just laughed, and said that if we had been,
Christ’s body would never have left the sepulchre. So we’ve been Pontius
Pilate’s Bodyguard ever since.’ His smile was suddenly sour. ‘Until the
government decided to destroy centuries of tradition with a pen.’ He
disappeared for a minute, returning with a tray on which were six pints of
beer. ‘Come on lads, I’ll be leaving soon.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Back to work.’ The sergeant
passed around the drinks. ‘Do you like
Scotland
, then?’

‘Love it,’ Irene enthused as the
young Royals gathered around her. She was well aware that they were ogling, but
enjoyed the attention. These joking warriors were a change from the corporate
suits and sycophants with whom she normally spent time.

‘Even in winter?’ The red headed
private seemed doubtful.

‘We have winter in the States
too,’ Irene told him, ‘and it’s about the only time we could both get off
work.’

‘Your crown jewels were awesome,’
Patrick said, ‘but it’s amazing that they’ve never been stolen.’

‘How?’ The redheaded private asked,
his eyes shrewd. ‘How’s it amazing?’

‘How?’ When Patrick looked blank,
Irene realised that the Scots often substituted the word ‘how’ for ‘why’. ‘Well,
they’re so valuable. Somebody must have tried to steal them.’

‘Maybe.’ Another of the privates,
a man with a sombre complexion and a scarred lip said, ‘but how’re they going
to get them oot? What with the redcaps and us and all the cameras and that.’ He
shrugged. ‘Anyhow, we’d kill the bastards.’

Irene exchanged a glance with
Patrick, who was suddenly very quiet. ‘Kill them? For stealing?’

The privates nodded. ‘Aye. How
no’? That’s what we’re paid for.’ The scarred man stared at Patrick without a trace
of humour. ‘You ken that. The American Marines would dae the same.’

Irene recognised the words as a
challenge, although she was not sure how. She laughed to defuse the tension.
‘Quite right too,’ she said. ‘That’s the Queen’s crown after all.’

‘Aye so it is,’ the red head said,
‘but she doesnae wear it.’

The sergeant glanced at his watch.
‘All right lads. Back on duty in ten minutes.’ He downed his pint in a single
vast swallow, stood up and adjusted his uniform. ‘Have a good holiday in
Scotland
, miss, and you too, marine.’ He
smiled to Irene, but when he looked at Patrick the humour dropped from his eyes
and just for a second Irene saw something of the steel within. The trio of
ribbons on his chest took on a new significance.

‘She’s wanting it this year
though,’ the red head continued as though the sergeant had not spoken.

‘Wanting it?’ Irene found it
difficult to keep up with the speed of the conversation.

‘She’s wanting the croon,’ the
redhead explained, shaking his head at her inability to comprehend.

‘How’s that?’ Irene slipped into
Scottish vernacular. ‘Is she coming to
Edinburgh
?’

All the three soldiers began
talking at once, obviously eager to impart their information. After a few
minutes Irene held up her hands, laughing. ‘One at a time, please, gentlemen.’

The soldiers grinned and subsided
into quiet until the scarred man spoke. ‘The Queen comes up to
Scotland
every summer for a wee holiday
and to remind us that she exists. This year her visit is at the same time as
some European political meeting, so she’s doing the whole pageantry thing, with
the Crown Jewels carried doon the High Street under a guard of honour. The
whole works.’

Irene nodded. Suddenly everything
seemed very simple. ‘Will you be there?’

‘Naw.’ The soldier shook his head.
‘We’re away tae
Helmand
. Some other lot will be the
escort.’

Irene nodded. Lifting her camera,
she took a couple of quick photographs, for which the soldiers posed quite
happily. She could feel her heart beginning a rapid tattoo as ideas were
forming. Not yet complete, they formed a series of unrelated images in her
mind, and she knew she must have peace in which to create an ordered tableau.
‘Your sergeant will be waiting for you,’ she said, and was surprised at the speed
with which the three soldiers finished their beer before leaving the pub. She
looked at Patrick.

‘Let’s go for a walk.’

Irene liked to walk. She found
that the regular physical motion helped clear her mind of all non essentials
and enabled her to view her problems one at a time. Walking also created a
personal space into which people were reluctant to intrude. Normally she paced
the lawns and bowers of
Central
Park
, but today
Edinburgh
would have to do.

She headed downhill, following the
line of
Edinburgh
’s historic Royal Mile to
Holyrood
Palace
, past the Scottish Parliament building and into the green
oasis of
Holyrood
Park
.

‘This is
Edinburgh
’s answer to
Central Park
,’ she said, looking up at the
impressively unadorned heights of Arthur’s Seat. Snakes of mist smeared the
summit. ‘According to the guide book, this used to be a Royal Hunting park, but
now anybody can walk in it.’

Patrick grunted. He knew her well
enough not to break into her thoughts.

‘So let’s walk, then,’ Irene
commanded.

She expected the images that came
unbidden, each one inspiring the next so they crowded her mind, jostling for
attention in an overlapping conglomeration of ideas. Some she accepted and
slotted into place, others she rejected without remorse. Very gradually, she formed
a comprehensive picture, chipping at the anomalies until it was as near
perfection as possible.

With Patrick a silent shadow at
her side, Irene followed the line of the
Radical Road
, panting as she forced herself up the steep path that cut
under the Salisbury Crags, the great red cliff that overlooked the Royal Mile,
until she stopped at the top and waited for Patrick to catch up. The
Edinburgh
wind carried a chilling dampness,
so she pulled her coat tighter around her and wished that she had brought a
scarf.

‘This is a city of history and
views,’ Patrick said when he had recovered his breath.

‘And our springboard to success,’
Irene added. She stood on the edge of the path with the hundred-foot drop
beneath her and the spires and turrets of the
Auld
Town
a jagged skyline in front.
‘There’s the castle up there, and
Holyrood
Palace
down there,’ she indicated each
building with an expansive gesture from her right arm. ‘And there,’ she pointed
to a spreading collection of modern roofs, ‘is the Parliament building.’

‘So I see,’ Patrick shivered. He
also had not brought sufficient clothing for a Scottish winter.

‘So when the Honours of Scotland
are brought from the castle, they must pass down the Royal Mile, take a right
in front of the palace, and enter the Parliament.’ She turned to face him,
controlling the excitement that continued to grow inside her. ‘We’ll take the
Honours on the journey, Patrick, not in the Castle. The security there is
impossible, but when the Honours are on the road, they are far more
vulnerable.’

‘Limey bastards,’ Patrick agreed.
He shivered as a blast of cold air whistled through the nick in the Crags
behind him. ‘Come on; let’s get back to the hotel.’

‘Not yet.’ Irene looked over the
skyline, surveying the castle and the church spires, the steep rooftops and the
crow-stepped gables, the small windows and walls of solid stone. ‘Don’t you
find this all romantic? Knowing that kings and queens have passed over here?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘No. It
was kings and queens that sucked the soul from
Ireland
.’

Irene shook her head. ‘Can’t you
let up, for once? Mary Queen of Scots might have stood on this very spot, and
Robert the Bruce could have hunted just here.’ She stamped her foot on the
pebbled path. ‘Come on Patrick, do something romantic. Do something that we can
remember for ever.’

‘We’re not here for romantic,’
Patrick reminded her. ‘We’re here to steal the Crown Jewels. What happened to
that hard-assed
New
York
businesswoman?’

Irene looked at him for a second,
the animation fading from her face. ‘You’re right of course; we don’t have
time.’ She remembered Ms Manning’s words; she had to travel alone if she was to
become a corporate success. Once they had stolen the Honours, she would lose
Patrick. He had just proved his expendability. ‘Now, you tell me about these
useful friends of yours.’

New York
, March

Irene presided over the gathering,
sitting slightly nervously in the centre with Patrick directly opposite and the
five others in a loose circle around them. There was a half empty bottle of
Jack Daniels in the middle of the table with a coffee pot at its side, while
cigar smoke hazed the room.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ Irene
stood to speak, as she had done in a score of board meetings in her previous
job, but then she had been practically certain that the committee members were
not responsible for an unknown number of murders. ‘My colleague, Patrick McKim
has brought you all here, but until now you are not aware why.’

The faces stared at her, some unemotional,
others questioning. Allowing the ash to fall from her cigar, the only other
woman lifted the bourbon bottle and poured herself a drink.

‘I have been contracted by an
influential client to steal the Scottish Crown Jewels. I need help to do this.
That is why you are here.’

‘Steal the what?’ The woman looked
over the rim of her glass. Although only in her mid-thirties, bitter lines were
already forming around her mouth.

‘Let me explain,’ Irene said.
Taking a couple of steps, she closed the dark blinds that covered the windows
and pushed a button. The computer at her back clicked into a PowerPoint
demonstration. ‘Let’s start from the beginning; this is a map of the
United Kingdom
,’ and she waited until their eyes
had adjusted to the bright screen, before pointing to the northern third. She
clicked again. ‘And this is
Scotland
.
Until 1603
Scotland
and
England
had separate kings, with separate
crowns and separate crown jewels. Until 1707 they were separate countries with
different parliaments.’