Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘Plenty people here,’ Bryan said, looking around at the crowds that were gathering all along the Royal Mile. Most were tourists, enjoying this additional spectacle to add to their holiday memories. A few hundred were elderly citizens of Edinburgh, come to watch their queen. One small group carried placards protesting about the royal presence and demanding a Scottish Republic. The republicans pushed through the crowd, and for a moment they surrounded Desmond. A blonde woman thrust a red leaflet in his hand and kissed him briefly, before they moved slightly uphill.

  ‘Freedom for Scotland,’ they chanted. ‘End the rule of privilege!’

  A man opened a can of Irn-Bru and took a long swallow, while a family argued about where they should best stand. There was none of the intense patriotism that Irene had witnessed when the President drove in his motorcade, no forest of national flags or outpouring of sentiment that the press loved to capture.

  ‘What a place for a bomb,’ Desmond muttered, licking his lips.

  Irene glanced at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. Look: dense crowds, dozens of shop fronts to provide glass splinters, a public event to ensure media coverage. This is the sort of event that I would hit.’

  ‘Nice thought,’ Irene looked away. She could not afford any distractions from the task in hand. ‘Concentrate on your timing.’

  More people came, jostling forward to the simple metal barriers that the yellow-coated police patrolled. There seemed a forest of cameras, a constant barrage of noise as fingers pointed up the length of the Royal Mile in the direction from which the cavalcade would come. Irene put her hand to her face, adjusting the sunglasses that covered her eyes and nose. Together with the blonde wig over her black-dyed hair, they helped disguise her face. The theory was simple: anybody spotting the wig would not expect the hair beneath also to be dyed. The long white coat with its thick padding was intended to conceal her body shape, but it drew curious stares on such a warm day.

  ‘There are the TV cameras.’ Desmond lowered his head and turned away, as if sheltering to light a cigarette. ‘Jesus, I forgot about them!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Irene reminded. ‘That’s why we’re disguised. They will be concentrating on the Queen, anyway.’

  ‘Listen,’ Desmond held up a hand. ‘Can you hear it?’

  Irene had been mildly disappointed not to hear bagpipes played every day in Scotland, but there was something so distinctive about the sound that she could not help raising her head. Drifting between the tenements, the sound seemed not to belong; it was as if an entity from a wilder world had intruded on the safety of civilisation. Now more heads were turning, more voices exclaiming.

  ‘It’s the pipes,’ an elderly Edinburgh man stretched across the grey metal barrier for a better view. A young policewoman ushered him back, smiling.

  ‘The Queen must be coming,’ a Yorkshire voice said. ‘She’s got her own pipe band, you know. They play for her every morning.’

  ‘Do they? Poor woman. That’s a horrible noise.’

  Irene watched as the Scottish Republican group moved closer to the barrier, watched closely by the young policewoman.

  The music was increasing, accompanied by the rattle of drums and a rhythmic thunder that Irene decided could only be the marching of hundreds of men. Suddenly she felt sick. Why was she here? Was it too late to call the entire thing off? She was a businesswoman, not a master criminal.

  ‘Jesus,’ Desmond breathed harder. He looked upward at the overhanging clock of the Tolbooth and crossed himself. ‘They’re four minutes early!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Irene reached for his arm, her management skills forcing her into calmness. ‘We’ve allowed for some time deviation. Relax and focus.’ She looked into his eyes, seeing only the unashamed fear that mirrored her own.

  ‘Here they come!’ The crowd pushed to the barriers, staring up the long corridor of the Canongate as the high lilt of the pipes increased in volume. There was a rattle of drums, and then a body of tartan-clad men appeared, marching solidly down the street. The pipes fell silent.

  ‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ Desmond fingered his transmitter. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  ‘Lovely. Watch what you’re doing.’

  The band was level now, a mixture of young men and more mature NCOs, all made tall by their feather bonnets. Tartan kilts swung around bare knees, light reflected on bright buttons and buckles. Irene watched, wondering if Mary, Queen of Scots had stood in this very spot watching a similar spectacle hundreds of years ago. It all seemed very archaic in this world of computers and advanced electronics, but there was still something fascinating about these sights and sounds. She touched the glittering Luckenbooth brooch that Patrick had pinned on her coat.

  ‘For luck,’ he had said.

  ‘If you wish,’ she had replied, but her smile had been hollow and she had to turn away to hide her hurt anger. As soon as the Honours were secure, she would tell him exactly where to go. The thought gave her a thrill of pleasure amidst her anxiety.

  ‘Now?’ Desmond poised his finger.

  ‘Not yet!’ Irene snatched at his hand. ‘I’ll say when.’

  The band marched past, drums tapping, and the crowd buzzed. Cameras clicked busily. The policewoman guided an elderly man across the street, his feet shuffling slowly. Irene smiled as the urgent sound of police sirens sounded in the distance. That was the first part of her plan in operation. Bryan had withdrawn to the depths of the close, from where he was making a number of telephone calls to divert the police to different sites around the city. A child began to cry.

  ‘Here’s the next lot!’

  There was the sound of horses, hooves ringing on granite setts that had been re-laid to enhance the appeal of the street. With their breastplates gleaming and horsehair plumes jigging, a score of cavalry walked slowly between the tenements. The crowd were cheering, but Irene noticed that at least one rider had difficulty controlling his mount, and a sergeant eased beside him with less-than-gentle words of advice.

  Irene’s cell phone rang. She jumped, berating herself for not turning the damned thing off. She tried to ignore the sound, concentrating on the time, but the ringing was insistent and an elderly woman in front turned round.

  ‘I think that’s your mobile, dear,’ she said helpfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ Irene bit back her temper. She put the phone to her ear.

  ‘Amanda?’ Drew sounded concerned. ‘I’ve just heard that there might be trouble at the procession today. Best avoid it.’

  ‘What?’ Irene nearly bit her tongue with agitation. She was very aware of Desmond beside her, his hands twitching. She pushed the phone closer to her mouth and bowed away from the crowd. ‘What sort of trouble? What have you heard?’ She looked around, expecting to see armed police descending upon her, or black-hooded SAS men abseiling down from the rooftops. Sweet Lord, was there some way out of this?

  ‘I can’t say. Just be careful. All right?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Irene could feel the increased beating of her heart. ‘I’m waiting for the parade now. What sort of trouble? What should I watch for?’

  ‘Now! It must be time.’ Desmond was glaring at her.

  ‘Not yet!’ Irene reached over just too late to prevent him from pressing the red button on his transmitter.

  ‘Not yet? What do you mean?’

  But Irene had no time to answer Drew’s question as the loud bang of an explosion echoed down the Royal Mile.

  ‘You’re too early! It’s not here yet!’ She reached for the transmitter, but Desmond stepped back as the crowd surged toward the barrier, eager to see what this new spectacle could be. Desmond jabbed his thumb on the button a second time and another explosion sounded. The noise seemed to cascade upon them, deeper than the sudden roar of the crowd, so loud that it vibrated from the ancient buildings and rattled the windows of the shop fronts.

  Somebody screamed ‘It’s a bomb!’ and began to push down the street, toward Holyroo
d Palace. A large woman led a surge to the crash barriers, where the police were attempting to keep the crowd calm while simultaneously staring toward the sound. Thick, choking smoke rose from higher up the street.

  ‘There!’ Desmond grinned at Irene.

  ‘You’re too early! Where’s the parade? You’re too fucking early!’ Irene slipped forward, heading upward, toward the smoke and against the downward thrust of the crowd. Scores of people were screaming in panic, a baseball-hatted youth was helping an old woman who had fallen while a man in a smart business suit tried to push them aside in his hurry to flee.

  ‘Here! Here it comes now.’ Desmond pointed upward.

  A unit of Scottish infantry, all tartan trews and jaunty glengarries, jogged toward them. Among their ranks was the glass-topped Rolls Royce that Irene knew held the Honours. The vehicle looked too large for the confines of the Canongate, too shiny for the tall grey gulley through which it passed. Even through the jostle of the crowd, she could see the gleam of gold, the glitter of precious stones. Her destiny was rolling down an Edinburgh street and she was determined that Desmond’s stupidity would not rip it from her.

  ‘Amanda! Are you all right?’ Irene had forgotten all about Drew in the madness, but now she lifted her cell phone. ‘I’m fine Drew, but I have to go. All hell’s breaking out here.’ She killed the phone, returning it to the pocket of her bulky coat. At least if anybody had heard, they would be looking for somebody called Amanda, and she had her real passport carefully hidden away.

  Desmond laughed softly, ‘and another one!’ This explosion was quieter, possibly through distance. The soldiers did not even look round.

  ‘Give me that!’ Irene snatched the transmitter and shoved Desmond aside. He staggered backward, swearing as she held on to the device. It fitted snugly into her hand.

  It had been Irene’s idea to create major distractions with false bomb alerts that would take the attention of the security forces away from the Honours, but Desmond who decided just where to plant the ex-British Army thunder flashes, the smoke bombs and the canisters of CS gas that he had obtained from Irish Republicans in Scotland. Only Desmond had the technical expertise to wire the devices so they could be detonated by remote control.

  Now Irene studied the transmitter. There were two buttons and a small dial. She knew that the red button detonated the thunder flashes and smoke bombs, and the green the CS gas, so the dial must control the order in which the devices exploded.

  ‘This way, please, ma’am. There seems to be some sort of disturbance.’ Close to, the policewoman looked even younger, with a fresh face that belied the calm assurance with which she gave orders. ‘Keep back from the road now, until all the vehicles have passed.’

  ‘Don’t touch that!’ Struggling through the crowd, Desmond reached for the transmitter. For a moment he wrestled with Irene as the crowd surged around, then he pressed his finger on two buttons simultaneously and there was a series of explosions. Somebody began to scream incoherently.

  ‘You ass hole!’ Irene screamed at him as the mass of people scattered, knocking down the protective barriers and brushing aside the thin line of police. Her plan had been for a number of diversions followed by a controlled sequence of harmless explosions that would divert most of the security from the Honours to guard the Queen. Instead there was pandemonium, with people panicking while smoke and tear gas rolled down the Royal Mile. Irene began to cough as the fumes caught at her throat and stung her eyes. Streams of mucus ran horribly from her nostrils.

  ‘Move! Now!’

  Irene gasped as the words grated hoarsely in her ear. At first she could not recognise the tall figure with the obscene gas mask, but Bryan pulled her into the shelter of the Tolbooth Wynd, beneath the great square clock. He pointed to her over-the-shoulder bag. ‘Your mask!’

  Nodding, Irene opened the bag and hauled out the mask. Wiping her nose first, she slipped off her sunglasses and hauled the clammy rubber over her head. It fitted snugly, so she could both see and breathe with more clarity. Beside her, Desmond was doing the same.

  ‘Look!’ Bryan had taken command. Hefting an innocuous Tesco’s carrier bag, he pointed to the Rolls Royce, which was isolated in the centre of a mob of terrified, gasping people. ‘Everything’s fucked up but we can still do it. Keep your heads and follow me. Stefan is keeping our escape route clear.’

  Irene nodded. The officer in charge of the soldiers was using them to help the police, concentrating more on humanitarian aid than on his duty in guarding the Honours. Coughing and swearing, the soldiers were scattered, with only two men posted beside the vehicle.

  Keeping low, Bryan crossed rapidly to the Rolls Royce. The first soldier was bowed double, coughing and vomiting as the CS gas thrust into his lungs, but the second moved forward.

  ‘Back! Stand clear of the vehicle!’ His voice was hoarse from the gas, his eyes were swollen and mucus streamed from his nose, but still he pointed the squat SA 80 rifle directly at Bryan, who slouched on. Without hesitating, Bryan pulled a silenced pistol from inside his leather jacket and fired a single shot. The sound was muted, hardly heard amidst the clamour of the crowd.

  ‘No killing! I ordered no killing!’ The gas mask muffled Irene’s scream as the soldier immediately dropped. The rifle clattered to the ground. Bryan fired a single shot into each offside tyre of the Rolls Royce and replaced his pistol.

  Stepping over the soldier’s body, Bryan poured fast acting superglue into the lock of the Rolls Royce door, trapping the driver and escort inside. Ignoring their frantic efforts to escape, he removed a small square of what looked like yellow putty from his bag and placed it at one corner of the glass box that held the Honours. Producing a small detonator, he stepped casually over the prone body of the shot soldier. He pushed Irene out of the way.

  ‘Keep back. Don’t get involved.’

  Despite her shock at the murder, Irene watched in fascination as the men inside the Rolls Royce hammered at the sealed door. She knew that Desmond had obtained the C5 from his Irish connections, but had never seen it in operation before.

  The sound was less loud than she had expected, but the force of the explosion was shocking. Rather than shattering, the reinforced glass roof lifted clean off the frame, before sliding down the body of the vehicle, trapping the driver inside his cab. The escort at last wrenched open the door and staggered out, holding a pistol in his right hand. Blood seeped from his ears.

  With his gas mask making him appear like something from the First World War, Stefan pushed his way through the crowd from the opposite side of the road. Lifting a massive hand, he chopped straight-fingered at the escort’s throat.

  ‘Don’t kill him!’ Irene heard the panic in her voice, but knew the mask would muffle her voice. She could only watch as Desmond produced a brace of yellow-bodied smoke bombs and rolled them down the road. They rattled away, emitting choking white smoke that further confused the situation.

  ‘Oh Jesus Lord help me,’ Irene prayed. She had expected something clean, with the professionals executing a clinical robbery, but here she was in a scene reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. Viewed through her eyepieces, the Canongate was a shambles of retching, gasping people lumbering from patches of yellow smoke, or wiping helplessly at their eyes.

  She saw a child lying on its face, spewing helplessly as its mother held it; she saw the policewoman guiding an elderly woman toward a close, both doubled up with the pain of constant coughing; she saw the baseball-capped youths supporting each other against the Tolbooth steps while a group of tartan-bedecked tourists huddled against the harsh stone wall of the Tolbooth.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I did not know, I truly did not know.’ Irene shook her head, sobbing her shame into the mouth of the gasmask.

  Even before Stefan had disposed of the escort, Bryan had dived onto the Honours. Producing a folded bag, he reached for the crown.

  Irene choked back her tears. She had not expected horror like this; she hesitated, torn between her
ambition to complete the procedure and her desire to help these stricken people. ‘Oh suck an elf!’ Having come so far, she could not stop now.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Bryan was gesticulating, his eyes angry behind the smeared eye pieces of his mask.

  Stepping over a middle- aged man who was attempting to crawl under the smoke, Irene scrambled to Bryan’s side. Reaching for the sceptre, she curled her hand around the stem and pulled, but it would not move.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit! It’s stuck!’ Irene pulled again, swearing, but the sceptre did not move. ‘It’s bolted down!’ She looked at Bryan. He glared back through magnified, alien eyes. She leaned closer, hissing urgently. ‘Use your gun! Shoot them free.’ She raised her voice above the continuing racket of the crowd. ‘Use your gun!’

  They had to be quick, before Edinburgh’s notorious wind cleared away the smoke and gas. Irene had to consciously control her bladder as a hard hand tapped her shoulder.

  Desmond pushed between them, scrabbling at the massive Sword of State, his thin body wriggling with effort. Pushing him roughly aside, Bryan produced his pistol, pressed the muzzle against the first of the two steel clamps that held the crown and fired. The clamp parted and he repeated the procedure. The crown jumped slightly as it was free.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t damage it!’ Irene heard her voice rising. She could hear Bryan’s breath rasping through the muzzle of his mask as he pressed his pistol against the clamps that held the Sword of State.

  Irene winced at each shot. Each impact felt like somebody was striking her, but Desmond snatched the sword the instant the clamps split, yelling his triumph. ‘Up you, you Brit bastards!’

  Ignoring the gilded scabbard, he swore as he lifted the four and a half feet of steel and silver gilt. ‘Damn but it’s heavy! Erin gu Brath!’ Lifting it high, he dodged into the crowd, jinking around a soldier who pawed feebly at him while guiding a wheezing woman away from the worst of the gas.

  Stefan appeared at the opening to the un-named close. He lifted his gas mask, shouted ‘this way’ and replaced the mask, looking tall and immensely capable.