Legacy of the Highlands (36 page)

Mackinnon would be furious to know that as he keyed
numbers into his phone to set up the conference call, he’d provided
Serge with the names and locations of all of his co-conspirators,
the same men he’d last seen at Elgin Cathedral when he’d informed
them that Will Cameron was dead. Ian Lindsay. Duncan Buchanan. John
Malcolm.

Serge leaned back in his chair with his hands
behind his head, long legs stretched out in front of him. A
self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he replayed the tape
of Mackinnon’s calls to the three men followed by one to Michael
Graham to let him know all was arranged. Now we’ve got all five of
you, he thought. The former spy’s only disappointment was that they
were making it too easy. He thrived on the challenge of a
formidable opponent and this contest would only utilize a fraction
of his skills.

Their arrogance had made them sloppy so they
never considered that their phones might be tapped. Because of
that, they’d revealed the coastal location of the newest safe house
where the youngest Mackinnon — Will’s murderer — was hiding. Serge
had all the information he needed to make sure they never harmed
anyone again.

He gathered all the incriminating evidence
he’d collected and sealed it in a packet to be messengered to a
former colleague who now worked for British intelligence. That
agent’s team would take credit for the investigation and the arrest
of the five men who’d ordered Will Cameron’s execution. One name
was omitted from the packet. Jamie Mackinnon had already been
tried, convicted and sentenced by Serge, Diego and a reluctant
Alex.

Duncan Buchanan was the first person Mackinnon
notified about the upcoming teleconference so that he could be
reassured that his grandson had reached the safe house without
incident.

“How goes it Duncan?” Mackinnon asked after
confirming Buchanan’s availability for that night’s discussion.

“All is well, James. Your young Jamie arrived
early this morning. He’s quiet as a wee mouse and no trouble at
all.”

“I miss the boy, but I dare not visit. Some
troubling developments have made me uneasy about the lad’s safety
as well as our own. We’ll speak of that tonight.”

“I guessed that something was amiss when he
arrived here at dawn. You wouldn’t have sent him away from
Geordie’s unless someone was on to him. Can you tell me what’s
amiss?” asked Buchanan.

“Naught definite, but there’s cause for
concern. Michael will be angry if I say more, so you’ll have to
wait a few more hours to hear the details. Give young Jamie a kiss
from his Grandda,” said Mackinnon.

“When I see him.”

“Isn’t the lad with you?” Mackinnon felt his
chest tighten.

“Not at the moment, no. Your grandson decided
to go tenting by Boddam or thereabouts for a couple of days, said
he wanted to take in the sea air afore it turns cold. He said he
might enjoy a hike or two along the nearby cliffs to the Bullers of
Buchan or even further along to Slains Castle, you know, the one
that inspired that Dracula book.”

“I know the one, aye, it’s a fearsome ruin
right there at the edge of the sea.”

“’Tis, and especially in the fog when the
narrow path along the cliffs turns to mud and becomes as slippery
as a patch of ice. I warned him to take care.”

“Don’t worry about our Jamie. The lad is fond
of the outdoors and has the sure feet of a goat. His Da started him
hill walking when he could barely stand. No need to worry,
Duncan.”

“I won’t then,” he replied. “But you should
also know he’s barely said a word since he arrived. He seems to
crave solitude and if that’s what he needs I’ll not intrude.”

“Thanks for telling me. I’m grateful,” said
Mackinnon, scowling as he returned the phone to its cradle. Jamie
had always been a cheerful, gregarious boy, so this taciturn
behavior weighed on him. If anything happened to the lad it would
be on his head. It was he, and no one else, who’d insisted that his
grandson was mature enough to plunge a knife into Will Cameron. To
his mind it had always been a question of honor, blood for blood.
The deed had to be carried out by a Mackinnon. Maybe Jamie had only
gone along with it to prove his manhood to his grandfather and now
was troubled by regrets. But what was done was done. He’d have a
long talk with the lad as soon as it was safe. Mackinnon sighed
deeply then unwrapped the cheese sandwich he’d had no stomach for
earlier, sniffed it to be sure it hadn’t spoiled, then tore
hungrily into it.

Mackinnon’s anxiety was as contagious as the flu and
Duncan Buchanan became infected seconds after the call ended. It
only took minutes of agitated pacing for him to come up with the
one remedy that would calm his nerves. He headed up a steep flight
of stairs to his bedroom and groaned as he got to his knees to
stretch an arm under the bed. He breathed a sigh of relief when his
fingers grasped the metal box he kept there. He wiped a year’s
worth of dust off its top, released the lock and removed a handgun
and a clip of ammunition. It had been a while since he’d cleaned
and oiled the weapon and he hadn’t fired it in years, but
Mackinnon’s call had panicked him. If trouble was on its way he’d
have to protect himself, wouldn’t he? Perhaps he should warn young
Jamie, but warn him of what?

Serge pored over the road maps he’d spread on the
floor of the suite, scrutinizing the area around Cruden Bay,
Peterhead and Boddam, small towns on the edge of the North Sea
where Scotland’s right shoulder slopes south. He trusted the
accuracy of the large maps more than those on the Internet, but he
went to his laptop to verify that the cliffs Duncan Buchanan had
mentioned to Mackinnon could cause a credible accidental death.

The rugged granite ledges near the Bullers of
Buchan, just south of Duncan Buchanan’s safe house in Boddam,
seemed ideal. The descriptions, photos and videos posted online by
tourists gave him a “you are there” feel for the place. He’d check
it out with his own eyes, but for now he was satisfied that the
area’s geography was similar to Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher — maybe
not as steep, but certainly as deadly. A British operative had once
removed a particularly troublesome member of the IRA by dumping him
off those Irish cliffs into the Atlantic Ocean. That body had never
washed ashore. In online pictures, it looked like the Scottish
coast between Boddam and Cruden Bay had unfenced paths just wide
enough to place one foot in front of the other running along steep,
knife-edge cliffs high above the North Sea as it thundered into
rocky hollows below. Yes, Serge thought, that location seemed
ideal.

He checked out an alternate site as well. The
ruin of Slains Castle, atop its own dramatic precipice, was a few
miles south of the town where the target was supposedly camping,
but the castle seemed to be a long way from the nearest car park.
He would prefer not to carry an unconscious Jamie Mackinnon farther
than he had to, but the literary link to the place appealed to him.
If Slains was eerie enough to have served as the inspiration for
the Transylvania castle of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, then it might do
nicely for young Mackinnon’s end.

Satisfied, Serge logged off and ran the
software that would wipe his hard drive clean so that his research
would be impossible to trace. He glanced at his watch; it was 4:30.
He’d have a light dinner and get a good night’s sleep before
heading for the coast. Buchanan had told Mackinnon that the
grandson planned to camp out as long as the weather held and the
BBC predicted sun for the next few days. This schedule would also
give him time to listen in on that night’s conference call and fine
tune his tactics if need be.

Serge’s network of former agents had helped
him to obtain the weapons and equipment he might need before he’d
left London for Scotland. At that point, he’d had no idea how the
kill would be accomplished, but now that his plan was set, he knew
he was well-equipped. He sat cross-legged on the floor to
methodically check his gear. Then he did it again with his eyes
closed until he was sure he could find each object by touch in the
dark. Knife. Handgun with scope, silencer and extra ammo. A length
of flexible wire long enough to wrap around a neck. Assorted
injectable drugs and syringes. Thin lambskin gloves. Mouth operated
flashlight. Duck tape. He considered adding a wetsuit to the mix,
then decided against it. The sea that battered those cliffs was too
treacherous for him to follow Mackinnon into it. If he were
overpowered or slipped and fell…well…a wetsuit wouldn’t save him.
All was ready, but he’d obsessively go over it again before he went
to bed, another time in the morning, and maybe once more before he
left.

After ordering a chicken sandwich and chips
from room service, he instructed the front desk to hold all calls.
The last thing he wanted to deal with was Mairi Graham, but it
seemed she was savvy enough to understand that their brief fling
was over. He hadn’t heard from the girl since blowing her off when
she’d spotted him with Alex and Diego. The only person who had his
cell phone number was Diego and he’d been instructed not to call
unless he had second thoughts about Serge’s assignment.

Serge stripped off his clothes, stretched out
on the bed and visualized himself on a beach under Miami’s warm
sunshine. He had two hours to rest before the conspirators were
scheduled to discuss how to handle the not-so-veiled threats Diego
had made to Mackinnon and his claim to be John Cameron’s son. He
hoped that Diego would head back to the Florida villa once they
were finished here. Scotland was too fucking cold for a man who’d
spent most of his life in Israel.

Alex wrapped her arms around her knees as she sat
near the suite’s fire and considered what Diego had just told her.
Jamie Mackinnon was Will’s murderer. Serge had irrefutable proof of
his guilt. Diego had spared her the specifics about how the
punishment was to be carried out — at her request — but she knew
that Mackinnon’s grandson would pay for what he’d done with his own
life. Her willing complicity in a premeditated murder — deserved or
not — revealed a side of herself that she didn’t recognize. She
wondered if this trait was a legacy of her sword-wielding Scottish
ancestors or the brave Celtic warrior women in the captivating
tales that her grandmother MacBain loved to spin.

Who was this vengeful woman, she wondered, as
she gazed at the fire’s flames. Would she be haunted by the
execution of Mackinnon’s grandson? She’d never seen the young man
so perhaps he could remain a non-person to her. And it might
actually give her peace to know that the man who’d killed her
husband no longer walked the earth, would never fall in love, have
children, be happy...all the things he’d stolen from Will…and her.
He’d cold-bloodedly executed the man she loved. Jamie Mackinnon
deserved to die. If she were part of a jury, she’d find him guilty
and favor the death penalty over life in prison. There was
something to this biblical eye for an eye business. And if what was
about to take place was truly abhorrent, why was she still so
attracted to the man who’d set it in motion?

“You were thinking so loudly that I could
almost hear you,” Diego said, startling her out of her
deliberations. She met his eyes as he crouched in front of her and
ran his thumbs over her hands. “What is it? What’s troubling
you?”

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes,
unsure if she wanted to hear his answer. “If I asked you to, if I
told you I couldn’t live with this, would you tell Serge to call it
off?”

“No,” Diego replied immediately and let go of
her hands. She recognized the steely expression of a man whose
course is set.

“Why not?” She was wounded by his
indifference to her feelings. She irritably pushed her hair out of
her eyes and rearranged the robe to cover her legs.

“We’ve gone over this before,” he sighed. “If
we hand this monster to the local police, he’d be extradited to
Boston where the crime was committed. That’s where he’d be tried.
You and I both know that it would turn into a media circus and
you’d have paparazzi and tabloid reporters in your face whenever
you went to the courthouse. The people who did this have enough
money from their supporters to hire brilliant lawyers and maybe
even buy a juror or two. And Serge’s tapes would be inadmissible as
evidence since there was no warrant.”

He’d been pacing as he presented his case,
but then he gentled his voice as he knelt in front of her again.
“Please don’t ask this of me. We can’t risk an acquittal that would
free Will’s killer on some technicality. Picture yourself in the
courtroom when the jury foreman announces, ‘We find the defendant
not guilty.’ How would you feel? Jamie Mackinnon has to pay for
Will’s murder. My brother had dreams and hopes and plans and
assumed he had a future.” His voice cracked as he fought back
tears. “Dammit, he was your husband, Alex! Your husband!”

Before she could respond, Diego resumed his
agitated pacing, gesturing wildly as he mumbled in Spanish. She
knew him well enough to realize that the storm raging inside him
would have to pass before he became rational again. She’d use the
time to figure out how to respond.

He finally crouched in front of her and once
more took her hands in his. “Will was my brother. I loved him,” he
whispered. “I won’t be able to live with myself if his death isn’t
avenged. Can you try to understand?”

“Yes,” her voice echoed the softness of his.
“You won’t find peace until this man is dead.”

Diego nodded and Alex watched as he slowly
walked away from her. He sighed wearily, collapsed onto the bed and
closed his eyes. After a few minutes he raised himself onto one
elbow and patted the empty space next to him.

“Come here, Alessandra.” It was a request,
not a demand, and she didn’t hesitate. She’d stopped questioning
how a certain expression in his eyes could draw her to him with the
irresistible pull of gravity.