Irene watched Desmond cross to Stefan, even as Bryan shot the sceptre free.
The dense mass of people had combined with the summer heat to confine the tear gas within the Canongate, but now the wind gusted through the closes. The gas and smoke were thinning, just as the officer in charge of the escort realised that the Honours had gone.
‘That man! Stop!’ The officer thrust an arm out, finger pointing directly to Desmond.
‘Move! Move! Jesus, move it!’ Thrusting the sceptre into her hand, Bryan pushed Irene away from the Rolls Royce. ‘Come on!’ He had the crown in his left hand and waved the pistol in his right as he barged down a slender teenager and ran across to Stefan.
Irene followed, gasping to breathe inside the gas mask. The sceptre was heavier than she had imagined, and clumsy to carry. It felt more like a burden than a national treasure half a millennium old. She saw a mob of people crowd around a policeman, a soldier wiping mucus and tears from his face, a tourist in a tartan shirt leaning against a barrier, and then Stefan was holding her arm and pulling her into the close.
‘Down here!’
The passage was short and dark, with uneven cobbles beneath her feet and faded graffiti on one wall. Bryan kicked an empty beer can and swore, glancing over his shoulder. He began to struggle with his gas mask, but Desmond put a hand on his arm and shook his head. Although Irene could hear heavy footsteps in the close, she dared not look back. In her hands she held a prize that would make her one of the most powerful women in the world, if only she could keep her nerve for the next few hours. There was no time for faltering, no time for regrets; she must keep going.
Sweet Lord, she had succeeded in stealing the Crown Jewels of Scotland. It was a theft that would make headlines throughout the world, an accomplishment that would be discussed for centuries to come.
Desmond was well in front, holding the sword as if it were a lance, with Bryan not far behind. Ignoring Desmond’s previous instructions, he tore off the gas mask, revealing a face bright red with exertion.
‘Where’s the car? Where’s Mary?’
Irene pulled off her own mask. Either the gas had not seeped so far down or the wind had dissipated it, for the air was as clear as in any other Old Town close. ‘Down here. Not far.’ She ran on, keeping her face down in case the CCTV cameras penetrated this far into the close. If not, she hoped that her wig was sufficient disguise.
Stefan was at her side when she reached Holyrood Road, but instead of Mary and the car, hundreds of people packed the street. He muttered as his foot caught an empty bottle, sending it spinning into the street. Irene tried to hide the sceptre inside her bulky coat, but everybody was too concerned with their own problems to pay them attention. She started at the wailing of sirens, but whether of police, fire brigade or ambulance she did not know.
‘Shit,’ Bryan said, ‘and shit again. These are refugees from the High Street. Where the fuck’s Mary with the car?’
‘Not here yet,’ Surprisingly, Desmond was the calmest of them all. He leaned on the Sword of State with a nonchalance that Irene could only admire. ‘We are ahead of time, after all.’
Irene glared at him, but he shrugged. ‘It only took three minutes from the first explosion,’ he explained, ‘and it takes Mary four minutes to drive here.’
‘Three minutes?’ Irene glanced at her watch, astonished to see that Desmond was correct. She thought that they taken much longer.
‘That’s all,’ Desmond said. ‘The whole thing went like clockwork. There!’ He pointed as a red Cherokee thrust through the crowd, sounding its horn. It pulled up beside them and Mary blinked through heavy goggles at them.
Irene closed her eyes. Maybe this would work, after all. They had achieved the impossible, now all they had to do was escape. She fought the bout of relieved hysteria that nearly reduced her to giggling uselessness and stepped toward the vehicle.
‘Hey! Youse!’ The voice was pure Edinburgh as two tartan-trousered infantrymen erupted from the foot of the close. The man in front was hatless and his hair was distinctively red. He levelled his SA 80 so the silver blade of the bayonet glittered evilly. Bryan had been confident that the army would not carry loaded rifles through the city. He had not mentioned that Scottish infantrymen were quite adept with the bayonet. ‘Gie’s them back!’
Irene heard herself shriek as she saw her dreams dissolve in front of her.
‘Get in!’ Mary’s scream sounded above the noise. She gunned the engine. Jerking open the passenger door, Bryan threw in the crown and launched himself inside before reaching for Irene.
‘Come on, for God’s sake.’
Stefan slipped into the passenger seat beside Mary. ‘Desmond! Get in’
‘You shot my brother, you British bastards!’ Desmond glared at the two advancing soldiers. ‘You killed him in Armagh!’
As the second soldier knelt and aimed his rifle, Irene saw the scar on his lip and remembered him laughing in the Ensign Ewart only a few months ago. He was not laughing now. ‘Bryan! You told us that the army would have empty rifles!’
‘So they have; he’s bluffing!’ Bryan raised his voice, ‘Desmond! We’re doing more for the cause this way! Erin gu Brath!’
‘Erin gu Brath!’ Desmond echoed, but rather than climbing into the Cherokee, he lifted the great sword around his head and ran at the kneeling Royal Scot.
Irene did not know if she was prompted by a desire to retain all the Honours, or if she had some loyalty to Desmond, but she dropped the sceptre and slid out of her seat. ‘Desmond! Don’t be a fool!’
Desmond ignored her. As he swung his sword, the red-haired Royal lunged forward. He ducked the great blade with a quick jerk of his head, grunted and plunged in the bayonet. Desmond squealed as it entered his chest, and screamed again as the Royal Scot twisted the blade before withdrawing. Desmond seemed to stiffen; he looked down at the torrent of blood that had already soaked through his jacket, swore softly and crumpled to the ground. The sword clattered at his side.
Before that day, Irene had never seen a man shot or stabbed. She opened her mouth in horror, as Stefan’s huge hand closed around her arm. ‘It’s over. Get in. Hurry.’
‘Up the Royals!’ The red haired private lifted his bloodied blade and advanced toward them, with his companion at his side. ‘Come on you bastards! Come oot and fight!’
‘The sword!’
‘Forget the sword, the soldier boys can have it!’ Stefan bundled Irene back inside as Mary threw the Cherokee into a crazy three point turn that nearly knocked two pedestrians off their feet and had the Royal Scots swearing in anger. The red haired soldier lashed out as the Cherokee passed, his boot thumping from the bodywork.
‘Come oot you cowardly bastards!’ Stooping, he lifted the empty bottle that Stefan had kicked and threw it after the retreating car. It spun in the air, crashed against the rear windscreen and clattered away.
Mary thrust down the accelerator and the vehicle powered along Holyrood Road.
Irene looked back. The second soldier had lifted the Sword of State and gestured obscenely at them. Desmond lay where he had fallen with his blood a spreading puddle. Leaning forward, Irene vomited onto the floor of the car.
Chapter Sixteen
Edinburgh, July
‘Go! Move!’ Bryan leaned over the back seat. ‘Just motor through.’ The crowds in Holyrood Road were increasing as people pushed down the closes to escape the gas and smoke in the High Street. Police in yellow jackets struggled to establish order as a long line of ambulances helped the coughing casualties.
Irene leaned back, gasping for breath as she relived the horror of Desmond’s bayoneting, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
‘Are you happy?’ Mary shouted over her shoulder. ‘You’ve got your trinkets now.’
Irene shook her head, wordless. Hollywood had not prepared her for this sordid reality. Was Ms Manning’s lifestyle worth it?
‘Move it!’ Bryan had removed his gas mask but pulled a green baseball
cap low over his face. ‘Keep rolling, Mary.’
With her hand firm on the horn, Mary weaved from side to side to negotiate the crowds. Twice they passed people lying retching on the ground, and once a man tried to flag them down. He carried a child and looked desperately at them, mouthing the word ‘hospital.’
‘The diversions worked then,’ Bryan had already recovered. ‘We should be home free in a few moments.’
Irene shook her head. ‘Oh, God, I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
‘No? What did you expect, Irene? Disneyland? A film set with lots of tough heroes and only the villains being hurt?’ Mary’s laugh cut deeply. ‘Better hope that’s not right, because in this film, we’re the villains!’
‘Watch your driving.’ Stefan said quietly. ‘Police.’
The Edinburgh police had acted swiftly to place a line of orange and white cones across Holyrood Road, and manned it with four uniformed officers. Two were busy giving first aid to the injured, but the policewoman who stepped forward had sergeant’s stripes on her arm. She held up her hand.
Mary slowed until she was within five yards of the barrier, then rammed down the accelerator and swerved around the sergeant, who jumped aside, her mouth working rapidly. The Cherokee hit the cones at speed, flicking one high in the air. A second jammed beneath the front axle and scraped along the road for the next fifty yards until Mary stopped, threw the vehicle in reverse and curved around the cone.
‘Lost it,’ Mary said briefly. ‘Who needs Hollywood when we can have Edinburgh, eh? Here’s our junction.’ She turned into the Pleasance, dropped down a gear and threw the Cherokee onward.
Irene looked behind her she heard the approaching wail of sirens. ‘Police. No, it’s a Landrover.’
‘Redcaps,’ Bryan told her. ‘Military Police. Bastards with snouts.’
‘We can outrun them,’ Mary said calmly. ‘Watch this.’ Dropping her gear again, she moved to the right side of the road, forcing an oncoming car to swerve across the road, and then quickly returned to the left side. Faced with the suddenly approaching vehicle, the Military Police Landrover abruptly braked, skidded, and slammed sideways into a lamppost.
‘Amateurs!’ Mary raised her gears again and powered on. ‘There might be more ahead though. It depends how many were diverted to the High Street.’ She overtook a BMW, flicked on her lights to make the driver think she was braking and laughed when he dropped behind. ‘That’s another obstacle for the police.’
‘Well done, Mary,’ Bryan approved.
Stefan glanced at his watch. ‘How are we for time?’
Irene glanced upward, hoping that Patrick was there with the helicopter. She thought of the man Bryan had shot, and of Desmond lying in his own blood, and of the casualties the CS gas had caused. She had not intended such hurt. She had not realised the pain and suffering that her idea would cause. Shaking her head, she looked down at the gaudy crown that squeezed in the space between the back and front seats, and the sceptre that she unconsciously gripped in her hand. These trinkets were her tickets to power but she no longer knew if the price justified the prize.
Ignoring red traffic signals, Mary eased around slower moving traffic, weaving around a toiling cyclist. ‘Nearly there.’ She laughed again as a solitary police car emerged from a side street just behind them. Irene shuddered at the wail of sirens and sunk lower in her seat.
Mary shook her head. ‘Don’t they realize that sitting behind me is useless? I won’t go any slower and people in front just clear out of the road quicker.’
There was a build up of traffic ahead, but Mary jinked around the congestion like the superb driver that she was. Turning left at the Commonwealth Pool, she circled both roundabouts and slammed through the entrance to the Queen’s Park.
‘He’s not here! Jesus and Mary, he’s not here!’ Bryan stared beyond the red crags of Salisbury, scanning the sky. ‘The police will be with us in a minute.’
‘Calm down.’ Mary’s voice was sharp. ‘Paddy won’t let us down.’ Heading left, she veered off the road onto the wide stretch of grass. ‘He’ll be here.’
Putting a hand over her face, Irene glanced backward. The police car had negotiated the roundabout but had had been halted by a slow moving bus.
‘There he is.’ Stefan gestured upward just as Irene became aware of the slightly sinister beat of a helicopter rotor.
Mary pushed the Cherokee into a wide curve, waited until the helicopter hovered above them, and then braked. ‘All out, and don’t forget the crown jewels.’
‘Never travel without them,’ Bryan assured her.
Irene felt her legs trembling as she nearly fell from the seat and staggered outside. The helicopter hovered above them, the downdraught from its rotors flattening the short grass and causing their coats to flap madly around their legs.
‘Oh look,’ Mary sounded terribly calm. ‘It’s not very large.’ She shrugged toward Irene, ‘I hope that we can all fit in.’
‘Of course we can,’ Irene snapped back. ‘Patrick worked out the passenger capacity months ago.’
The helicopter touched down smoothly, its blades rotating. The passenger door slid open and Patrick looked out. ‘Hurry! The bastards have put an air exclusion zone in place, there’s a police car coming into the park and army Landrovers driving from Holyrood!’
‘Oh Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Keeping low to avoid the rotor blades, Irene ran toward the helicopter. Mary was there first, laughing as Patrick pulled her on board. She eased into the seat at his side. Stefan waited by the door, shouting above the noise of the engine.
‘Come on Irene. I’ll hold that while you get on board.’
Nodding, Irene handed over the sceptre. She paused at the door. ‘This is not the same chopper!’
‘No!’ Patrick shook his head. ‘This is a much faster craft. Much smaller too. It only has space for two passengers.’
‘What? Irene stared as Bryan tossed the crown to Mary and eased on board.
‘Sorry, Irene, but there’s no room at the inn.’ Reaching into his pocket, Bryan pulled out a pistol and shot Stefan through the head. The Ukrainian fell without a sound.
‘No!’ Irene screamed the word.
‘I’ll get the sceptre,’ Bryan volunteered, but Patrick shook his head.
‘No time! The crown will do! It’s the best of the bunch anyway.’ When he looked round Patrick wore the familiar boyish grin that Irene knew so well. ‘Bye, Irene. I’ll think of you clawing ass in jail, you perverted bitch.’
‘Patrick!’ Irene reached forward, grabbing at the door of the helicopter, but Mary was quicker. She placed her foot against Irene’s chest and pushed hard. Irene screamed as she fell back, her fingers scrabbling uselessly.
Mary leaned out of the open door, grinning. ‘Paddy prefers a real woman to an arrogant child!’ Extending her fingers, she blew on her nails, mocking. ‘But don’t you fret, girl, I’ll treat him real good, better than you ever did!’
As the helicopter began to rise, Irene jumped up. Her fingers closed on the rounded steel lip of the doorframe. ‘You can’t leave me! Patrick! Please!’
‘Bye, Irene. Thanks for the crown.’ Mary placed her foot on Irene’s hand and exerted a little pressure. She leaned closer, ‘we’ll talk lots about you.’
‘No!’ Irene looked up, but Patrick was concentrating on the controls. Mary lifted her foot and stamped down hard.
As the pain lanced through her fingers, Irene jerked back her hand and felt a sickening second of nothingness as she fell the fifteen feet that the helicopter had risen since she had taken told of the doorframe. She yelled again at the immediate agony down her left side as she thumped on to the ground.
The churning throb of the helicopter receded into the distance, carrying off the Scottish crown and her dreams of success.
She lay on the short grass for a long moment, hearing her breath gasping in her lungs and waiting for the first thrust of pain to diminish. The temptation to remain down was very strong, but she
knew that she had to rise, for she could hear oncoming police sirens. Pushing herself to her feet, Irene gasped at the sickening pain in her right hand and down her left side. She began to hobble backward until she kicked something soft and solid.
Stefan lay face up with a tiny hole between his eyes. There was an ugly patch of blood and a puddle of brains behind his head, and the sceptre lay just outside his outstretched fingers. For a second, Irene could only stare at the glittering item with the clear bauble on top, and then she stooped, scooped it up and stuffed it inside her coat. If she was going to prison, at least she could hold the damned thing that sent her there.
The sound of sirens increased and a car slithered onto the grass. A policewoman emerged, gesticulating at the crowd of onlookers that was gathering.
‘God,’ Irene glanced behind her. There was a stretch of smooth grass, and then a scattering of trees; while to her right were the scree slopes that led to the red crags of Salisbury.
‘You there! That woman!’
Irene heard the police moving toward her. She had no choice. She had to run. With the pain begging her to stop, she began to move through the crowd and toward the Crags.
‘There it is!’ A man pointed upward, where Patrick’s helicopter was a rapidly diminishing speck. ‘They shot that man and escaped! A woman tried to stop them but they pushed her out!’
‘Bastard! Bastards, bastards!’ Irene drew strength from her anger as she increased her speed. Intent on the helicopter, the crowd parted to allow her passage, and then closed again as a hundred faces concentrated on the free drama that she had provided. A small convoy of police cars rolled along the road that encircled the park, and a score of uniformed officers descended on Stefan’s body.
‘She was one of them!’ A small girl jabbed a finger toward Irene, but nobody listened to the accusations of a child.
Irene moved on, heading right, away from the mob. She contemplated the Radical Road that led around the Crags, but the slope was too steep and she limped on, with the noise gradually diminishing behind her. Holding the sceptre tight beneath her coat, she reached the smooth black tarmac of the road that encircled the Queen’s Park. Her dreams were shattered, Patrick had betrayed her and she was a stranded fugitive in a foreign country. When Irene closed her eyes she could only see the panicking crowd, children gasping for breath and an old woman with tears weeping from her swollen red eyes.
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