Powerstone (14 page)

‘Super Cobras and Hueys,’ Patrick
spoke quietly, as if he were ashamed of this undisclosed skill. He looked at
Irene. ‘Where shall I fly
to
?’

‘You’ll fly us to the
Hebrides
; that’s the islands to the west
of
Scotland
. I will have a chartered yacht
ready to take us over the
Atlantic
.’
Irene stepped back. ‘So that’s the plan, people. Mary has the hardest part in
driving through
Edinburgh
.’ She gave an encouraging nod.
‘So it’s good to know that we’re in safe hands.’

Mary looked back over the road
they had just walked. ‘Not quite the wide open spaces of the Mid West, but
certainly doable.’

‘OK, then.’ Irene rattled out
orders. ‘Stefan. I want you to get back to the Canongate and learn the ground
thoroughly. You are our expert for the actual hit, so I want a detailed
proposal.’

Stefan nodded and walked off
without a word.

‘Desmond. You and Bryan work out
how to create diversions. I want smoke bombs at the actual site and alarms
elsewhere. I want false telephone calls, warnings to the media, but the timing
is crucial. I only want things to begin
after
the convoy has started; I
don’t want it cancelled. And I want enough diversity of warnings to thin out
the security at the Honours and bunch them around the Queen.’

Desmond looked doubtful for a
minute, but
Bryan
produced a smile. ‘That will be a
pleasure. We’ll make the Brits hop.’

‘Good. Mary, go and hire a car big
enough to carry all of us plus the Honours. Drive over the route until you know
it perfectly.’

Mary shrugged. ‘It’s a long
journey for a short drive.’

‘Learn it until you can drive the
route in your sleep,’ Irene ordered, and, with a brief nod, Mary left.

Irene smiled to Patrick. ‘I feel
better now that everybody knows their part. I presume that you can hire a
helicopter somewhere in
Scotland
?’

‘I would like an American craft,
preferably the
Bell
412.’
On his home ground, Patrick spoke with authority. ‘But if
I can’t get one, I’ll try for the Aerospatiale Gazelle. It’s French but built
in
Britain
, so might be easier to obtain.’

‘Why that one?’

‘It holds five people including
the pilot, which is not common for civilian helis. It also has a 220-pound
payload, which will be handy as I’m not sure what other equipment we might
need. Try and find out what the Honours weigh, so I can do the math.’

Irene enjoyed listening. Patrick
had the capacity to irritate her, or raise her to heights of passion, but
sometimes she just liked his company. Occasionally she even thought that it
would be hard to let him go.

Patrick grinned to her. ‘You’ll
like the Gazelle, Irene; it’s pretty nippy too. Once we get airborne, we can
cruise at
120 miles
per hour, so we can cross
Scotland
in no time.’

Irene stepped back. ‘I’m
impressed,’ she said. ‘Did you work all that out just now?’

Patrick shook his head, still
smiling. ‘Not quite. You’re too much the businesswoman to bring me along just
for my incredible looks, so I must have had some function in your plans. Apart
from sex, piloting is the only skill that I have.’ He shrugged. ‘I looked up
the specs for helicopters as soon as you told me your ideas for the hit.’

Irene whistled, ‘you’ve sure got
me sussed, haven’t you? July the 12th,’ she told him. ‘Go now and book.’
Suddenly she was desperate to be alone. Taking responsibility for a corporate
business was easy compared to giving personal orders to a small group of
egoists and idealists. ‘I must go for a walk.’ She felt his puppy-dog eyes on
her as she retreated, and reminded herself that he was expendable.

Edinburgh
, May

There seemed something essentially
British about lying in bed listening to the song of a blackbird while early
morning sun filtered through the curtains. Irene struggled to sit up, adjusting
the pillows to create a comfortable nest for her head. Reaching to her right,
she opened the top drawer of the bedside table, pulled out a joint and lit it.
She drew sweet-tasting smoke into her lungs.

It was very rarely that Irene used
even the mildest of drugs, but the pressure of this project demanded something
more powerful than alcohol. She exhaled slowly, smiling as Patrick stirred into
wakefulness. He lay on his side, muttering in his half sleep.

‘Morning has broken,’ Irene said.

Patrick pulled the covers further
over his head.

Irene smiled, inhaling again, and
gently eased the covers back to his knees. She ran her thumbnail down the
entire length of his naked spine ‘It’s time for coffee.’

‘Coffee and marijuana? The perfect
combination to start the morning.’ He eased onto his back, sat up beside her
and reached out his hand.

Irene allowed him a few minutes to
wake up. ‘Off you go then. The machine is in the corner.’

He inhaled deeply, passed back the
joint, gave that appealingly boyish grin and slid out of bed. Irene leaned
back, enjoying the view as he walked to the coffee maker, replaced the filter
and measured in the coffee. Her eyes followed the ripple of muscle down his
back to the pert swell of his buttocks, and centred on the deep scratches on
the offensive tattoo.

She grinned, admiring her
handiwork as much as she appreciated Patrick’s backside. She hoped that it
really smarted. If she kept him for much longer, she must surely tear away
Linda’s name. Of course, she could take him to a professional and have the
tattoo permanently erased; an Nd-YAG laser would be the most efficient, and
probably fun to watch, but Irene knew that she would never do that. She liked
having something on which to focus her aggression, and Patrick’s tattoo could
not be in a better position.

‘Thanks, honey,’ she sipped her
coffee, patting the bed to invite him back to her side. He slid beside her,
smiling, but she restrained his eager hand. ‘Not just now.’ She tempered her
refusal with a smile. ‘You’ll wear me out.’

Irene let him press close. It
would be hard to part with Patrick; he was an energetic lover, and easily
controlled. Indeed, it would be difficult to find another man so suitable for
her needs. Perhaps she could place him in a small apartment somewhere that Ms
Manning could not discover, and visit him when she felt the inclination. She
looked at him with growing affection; maybe later, when she was in full charge
of the Manning Corporation, or the Armstrong Corporation, as it would then be,
she could ease Patrick back into the centre of her life. Irene smiled as the
marijuana relaxed her.

‘You were really good last night,’
she whispered into his ear. ‘You really turned me on.’ She waited for his small
wriggle of pleasure. ‘But I made a real mess of your butt. Let’s have a look.
Come on.’ She gestured for him to stretch across her. ‘I’d better put something
on that,’ she smiled and reached for the iodine cleansing wipes that she always
carried in her handbag. ‘Brace yourself; this might sting.’

Walking in
Edinburgh
was a new pleasure. Irene found
that she appreciated the atmosphere of history that the city provided, as well
as the crisp air of the Queen’s Park. She wondered if James V had walked here,
and smiled that she would be stealing his crown. ‘Johnnie Armstrong’s revenge,’
she said to herself, and hoped that her father would be pleased.

The
Palace
of
Holyroodhouse
was not as large as she had expected, indeed smaller than the mansion of many
American actors, but the history and the situation, hard by the Scottish
Parliament building, enhanced its appeal. For a moment Irene imagined if the
Queen would retire here to mourn the loss of her Scottish Honours, then
dismissed the thought. She was here to research, not to daydream.

There was a guided tour of the
palace, and stories of the murder of Rizzio, the secretary of Mary, Queen of
Scots, and that queen’s unfortunate marriages. ‘Poor Mary,’ Irene murmured as
she learned about plots and counter plots, imprisonments and battles. In common
with many thousands of others, Irene found herself captivated by the tragedy of
Mary Stuart, and left the palace with a sense of sadness. If even a queen could
suffer so many misfortunes, what chance was there for her?

A brisk walk up the Canongate helped
clear her mind; she was far more astute than a Renaissance queen, and far
better equipped to control her men. The memory of Patrick reassured her and she
examined her nails with satisfaction. If the story of Mary Stuart taught
anything, it was to maintain control of her own life.

After eating at a surprisingly
good, but dangerously expensive restaurant in the High Street, Irene spent the
rest of the afternoon exploring the closes of the
Old
Town
, wandering from one narrow lane to another, glancing into
dark doorways where murders and abductions had once occurred and stepped into a
public house half way along Fleshmarket Close. The place was busy with tourists
and locals, but nobody gave her a second look as she squeezed into a corner
seat and sipped at her Glen Moray malt whisky and ice. Whisky was not her usual
drink, but when in
Rome
…

Leaning back in her seat, Irene
allowed the hum of conversation to wash over her as she contemplated her
future. She had always sought power and wealth, but now all she had to do was
perform one task successfully and she would have both in abundance, and would
have helped right an ancient wrong. One task, and that required only careful
planning and a few hours of direct, forceful action.

The whisky seemed stronger in
Scotland
, but she bought another and
thought about Patrick. She would definitely find him an apartment, and once she
was installed as head of the Manning Corporation she could openly bring him
back into her life. That was a nice thought, although he might have to share
her with others. Irene smiled at the prospect of having a host of men at her
command, then remembered Ms Manning’s swimming pool with its bevy of
sculptures. Perhaps the head of such a vast empire would not have time for men.
In which case, Irene decided, easing back her whisky, she had better make the
most of it now.

She checked the time. Patrick had
told her that there was American football on Sky Sports at three, so that would
confine him to the hotel room; well, she had other plans for him this
afternoon. Reaching in her bag for her cell phone, Irene was about to dial his
number when she stopped. Better to surprise him. She grinned, bought a bottle
of champagne from behind the bar and stepped outside, suddenly desperate for
Patrick’s company. Smiling, she examined her nails, clawing the air in
anticipation.

With her footsteps quiet on the
thick carpet, Irene hurried along the hotel corridor, threw open the door of
her room and walked in, champagne held high. She stopped, momentarily unable to
comprehend what she saw. Patrick lay face up on the bed, eyes closed and mouth
open. Mary was on top of him, completely naked and making little noises of
pleasure as she moved rhythmically back and forward. She looked over her
shoulder as Irene walked in, and grinned.

‘Fine man you have here,’ she
said, unashamed. ‘I told you that we had more in common than you realised.’

Irene placed the bottle of
champagne beside the bed. ‘When you’re done,’ she said, ‘you can celebrate with
this.’ She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

Pitlochry
Scotland
, May

‘Can you hear that?’ Alexander Meigle
stopped and lifted his head. Hacked from the living granite, the steps rose
before him until they merged with the white mist that drifted across the summit
of Ben Vrackie.

‘I heard it.’ Drummond paused in
mid stride and allowed his boot to gently touch ground. He leaned on his cromach
and met Meigle’s eyes. ‘I’ve been listening to it for the past ten minutes,
ever since we left Loch Choice.’

Meigle blew softly, unwilling to
admit that this ascent was tiring him. He wished that he could regain the
athleticism of his youth, smiled and reassessed his years; man alive, he would
even be grateful for the desperate energy of his middle age. ‘Bagpipes, do you
think?’

‘No,’ Drummond shook his head.
‘Not powerful enough. Some sort of wind instrument, though. It’s hard to tell
in this mist.’ He took another step upward. ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘No doubt.’ Meigle looked upward.
The steps seemed to go on forever. He was sure that this hill grew higher every
time he climbed it. He followed Drummond, aware of the sucking drop on his
right.

‘Wait!’ Drummond’s hiss was urgent
and Meigle instinctively froze. He saw the shape emerge in front, tendrils of
mist clinging to the proud head as it pranced across the steps and stopped to
test the scent. It was a young
red deer
,
with immature antlers and huge eyes. For a second, deer and humans stared at
each other, then the animal eased off the steps and disappeared. The mist
closed behind it.