Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  There were more sirens ahead, but a low iron railing to her right suggested sanctuary. She glanced over hopefully, but she could not have negotiated the steep cliff even when she was fully fit. She had no chance with her present injuries and the sirens were coming at speed. Sobbing with pain, Irene crossed the road, and angled back, up a short incline that led to the edge of the Crags. Keeping her head low, she forced herself to keep moving, fighting the weakness and the agony but grasping the sceptre as if it would repair all her ills.

  This part of the park was unfamiliar and virtually empty of people. Sinking onto a shattered red rock, Irene looked for somewhere to hide. She sat in the rear of Salisbury Crags, where the ground declined in uneven undulations to a straight path and then rose again in the rougher slopes of Arthur’s Seat, the eight-hundred-foot high hill that dominated the eastern section of Edinburgh. There were a dozen people walking here, but none gave her more than a passing glance. Incongruous in the midst of a city, a rabbit jinked from cover and scurried upward among tangled undergrowth.

  Moving uphill toward the rearmost lip of the Crags, Irene found an area of broken ground, screened by yellow gorse. She slumped down, swearing, dashed away tears of frustration and scanned her surroundings. The crags provided cover from any searching police, but she knew that any asylum was temporary. As soon as they learned that she had been thrown from Patrick’s helicopter, the police would scour the park. However, the confusion in the Royal Mile would keep them occupied for some time yet. Lying on her back, Irene closed her eyes.

  She should be cruising over the Hebrides now, approaching the tiny pier at Bunnahabhain in Islay, where her chartered yacht was waiting. Within the hour she would have been out in the Atlantic, heading west. Instead she was cowering in a gouge in the ground, grasping only one third of the treasures that she planned to take to Ms Manning. Irene glanced at her watch. It had been just after two when Desmond triggered the first of the smoke bombs. Now it was nearly four. What had happened to the time? She lay back, fighting the nausea of tension, CS gas and fear. The memory of Desmond’s death was so vivid that she had to think about something else, she had to use her analytical brain to get out of this mess.

  There were three questions. How could she get away from Edinburgh, how could she reach safety and should she still hand the sceptre to Ms Manning?

  The first question was more immediate. The city was already crammed with police and security. They could hardly fit any more in, but most would concentrate on the safety of the heads of state. What remained would pursue the trail of the thieves. Once the police heard what had happened, they would expect her to run out of the city as quickly as she could. The best answer then, was to remain in Edinburgh, perhaps even as herself. Dispose of Amanda and recreate Irene Armstrong.

  That answer helped the second question. If she kept her nerve, she could use her own passport to return to the USA. With her original plans in disarray, she could not yet think how to carry the sceptre.

  The third question was more awkward. With the worldwide publicity that this day would create, Ms Manning might be reluctant to accept the stolen sceptre, however valuable it was. At present she could do nothing to alter that, so she must concentrate on the first two points. She was an intelligent, logical woman; she could think her way clear of this situation.

  Taking a deep breath, Irene viewed her situation rationally. Despite the smoke, CCTV cameras would have caught her image, but the wig and dark glasses should have provided a disguise. Now she had to lose them, together with her outer clothing, so she was not immediately recognisable. After that she could plan her next move.

  Removing the wig, Irene stuffed it inside the pocket of her coat, which she took off, reversed and draped over her shoulder. The sceptre was a larger problem. It was longer than she had thought, and bulged awkwardly around the crystal ball. Lacking any choice, Irene stuffed the lowest part into the waistband of her jeans and thrust the upper half under her loose tee shirt. It felt extremely uncomfortable, but there was little else she could do. Standing up, she hobbled downward, toward the rough track.

  With every step, the shaft of the sceptre scraped against her leg and ribs, but Edinburgh in summer was used to eccentrics. She was just another tourist among thousands. When the track merged with the road that encircled the park, Irene turned right, away from the Royal Mile. She could hear the continual scream of sirens, while the air still held the sting of CS gas.

  Irene checked her watch again. Nearly five in the evening and it was still full daylight. This far north, darkness would not come until well after ten, so she had no natural shield under which to shelter. Her choice now was stark; either she walked out of the park in full view of the police, or waited for night. She glanced ahead, seeing a small loch to the right, beside which a group of mothers-and-children fed a horde of ducks, uncaring of the drama that had happened only a few hours ago. Beyond the loch was a road junction, with two police cars, lights flashing, and a group of dark uniformed officers.

  Irene turned to the loch, lifted a piece of discarded bread and pretended to join the happy feeders. She could feel the frantic hammer of her heart and hoped that she did not look conspicuous.

  ‘It’s a lovely day,’ she said to the nearest of the young mothers.

  ‘Certainly is,’ the woman replied. ‘Big trouble in town though.’ She looked about seventeen; far too young to be responsible for the child that stood at her knee, and the second that wriggled in the pram she rocked back and forth.

  ‘Oh? I wondered why there were so many police. What happened?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Somebody attacked the Queen, I think. Something like that. They’re closing off all the park exits anyway.’

  Irene looked up. The police were speaking with a small group of men. ‘So I see. Was anybody hurt?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off. I’m on night shift.’ She gave Irene a small, frightened, smile. ‘Are you all right? You’re bleeding.’

  Irene raised her left hand, for her right was throbbing painfully. For the first time she felt the dried blood and mud on her face where she had fallen from the helicopter. ‘I had a bit of a fall,’ she explained. If this busy young mother had noticed, then so would the police at the park entrance. Forcing a smile, Irene waited until the woman wheeled away her pram before she began to walk slowly back toward the park. She would have to wait until night before trying again.

  Standing on a prominent knoll, the ruin of an ancient building overlooked the loch. It might have been important at one time, but now consisted of a stone shell with only three walls and no roof. Irene struggled up the slope, stopping to nurse her ribs or her leg every few steps, and collapsed thankfully into the angle of two of the walls. Now she had shelter and a viewpoint. The sceptre was hard and warm against her body so she slipped it free and placed it at her side.

  Perhaps it was the strain of the previous few hours, but she suddenly felt very tired. As she closed her eyes, images from the day burst into her mind. She saw Desmond being bayoneted; yellow smoke slithering between the Canongate tenements; the retching casualties in Holyrood Road, Mary’s sneer as she stamped on her hand, Patrick’s taunting face as he left her behind.

  Irene woke with a start, aware that she was shivering and in a very unfamiliar place. She looked around, seeing utter blackness in one direction and the glow of streetlights in another. Something splashed coldly in the loch beneath. She checked her watch. It was two in the morning, with stars pricking the sky and the breeze moaning through the gaps of her ruin.

  Where could she go? Not back to the hotel, for if she had been identified the police would be waiting for her. Where then? For a second she thought about approaching the United States Consulate, but dismissed the idea immediately.

  The memory of Drew’s calm presence came to her. Drew. Although she hardly knew him, something instinctively told her that he would provide sanctuary. Drew would know what to do. Irene shivered
and straightened her legs, gasping at the renewed pain in her side and the constant throbbing of her knuckles. Lifting her coat, she held it tight in her left hand as she replaced the sceptre under her clothes, flinching when the cold metal touched her skin. Her injuries had stiffened while she slept so the descent from the ruin to the loch was jolting agony.

  Guessing that there would still be police at the main entrances to the park, Irene reluctantly turned away from the orange glow of Edinburgh and headed into the darkness. After ten stumbling minutes, she came to the tarmac road, crossed quickly and slipped down a slope of grass. She fell, stifling her moans as the sceptre scraped against her side, and slammed against a stone wall.

  Lying still until the waves of pain subsided, Irene rolled away as headlights gleamed on the road. A police car grumbled past, its blue lights flashing a warning. Fear forced her to her feet and she pulled herself over the wall, feeling the rough stone rasp against her ribs, renewing yesterday’s pain.

  There was a short drop on the opposite side, and a piece of mercifully soft ground on which to land. Irene shuddered as she saw an array of windows, some dark, some lit. She was in what appeared to be a communal back yard, with a smooth lawn and a garden shed. Voices murmured above her, and somebody laughed. She lay still as a figure appeared at one of the illuminated windows and a man peered outside.

  As soon as he ducked back again, Irene ran forward, tripped and stumbled down an unlit flight of steps. She landed with a clatter, bit her lip to kill her yell and remained still in case somebody came to investigate. Somewhere in the night, a cat yowled. After a few minutes she rose, whimpering.

  A doorway gaped before her, and Irene stumbled forward until she emerged from the dimness of a passageway into the orange glow of street lamps. She staggered onward, passing dark tenements and dingy basements, rows of parked cars and small clusters of graffiti-garnished shops. There was a main road ahead, with traffic lights and what was obviously a sporting stadium.

  Irene hesitated for a second and turned left, holding the sceptre close to her body and moving as quickly as she could. Her watch told her that it was four in the morning but already the light was strengthening, and people were on the move. A red Royal Mail van hummed past, then a double-decker bus.

  ‘Where the hell am I?’ Irene wondered.

  It was another hour before Irene came to a part of the city that she recognised, weaving around the orderly streets of the New Town with their end-to-end parked cars and identical cliffs of buildings. Her feet were sore, her ribs ached constantly, but she had to keep moving. She had to reach Drew. He would help her.

  The hill sloped abruptly downward, its opening nearly hidden in the half-light of morning. The street was narrow, nearly mediaeval in its crooked descent but Irene paused only briefly, frantic to reach shelter before full daylight revealed her to the remorseless stares of Edinburgh’s godly. Limping, she held onto the iron rail that ran down one wall, and allowed her feet to follow the uneven pavement. Drew’s apartment was down here, but so much had happened since last she saw him last; it was hard to believe that only a few days had passed.

  She had to reach Drew. He would help her.

  The fairy-tale towers of the Dean Village seemed to exude mystery. Irene stood outside, staring upward; she knew that Drew lived on the top floor of one of those buildings, for he had mentioned the views, but she did not know exactly where. She had to reach him. He would help her. But not if he found out that she was a thief. Irene felt the sceptre pressing against her side. She must hide it somewhere, so that Drew would never know.

  She looked around frantically, searching for a suitable hiding place, swearing in a low monotone that alarmed a passing teenager. She gave a parody of her most charming smile and the girl hurried on, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘She must think that I’m a junkie,’ Irene told herself, and recognised her immediate laughter as hysteria. ‘Oh shit, how did I get into this mess?’

  The sound of leaves rustling in the wind inspired her to duck to the walkway beside the Water of Leith. Birdcall and whispering water soothed her nerves, but desperation drove her over the iron railing that separated the path from the riverbank. She sobbed as her feet sunk into the hole- pitted earth of the banking, until she realised that the inconvenience was a muddy blessing. It was the work of a moment to wrap the sceptre in her coat and thrust it deep into one of the holes, and another minute to conceal her handiwork with a tangle of bracken. Barely noticing the sting of nettles, Irene hauled herself back onto the path. She waited until the pain in her ribs subsided, and then returned to the street.

  It was lighter now, full daylight by half past five, and she still had to find Drew. Each building in the courtyard had its own entrance, and with no names displayed on the ground floor, and no commissionaire to give friendly guidance, Irene had to labour up each stone stairway to the top flat. There were four towers, each five stories high, and two doors on each flat. The first two doors had no names at all, so she noted their position and hoped that she would not have to return.

  She struggled on, repeating the same phrase, as if it were mantra of divine protection. ‘Drew. I must find Drew.’

  ‘Are you going to the top?’ The papergirl was blonde haired and young, with sharp eyes and piercings through each eyebrow.

  ‘I’m looking for Drew. Drew Drummond?’ Irene hid in the shadows to try and hide her appearance.

  ‘Aye, top floor. That’s what I said.’ The girl sighed, as if she was granting a major favour in speaking to Irene. She handed her a small pile of newspapers. ‘You can take this with you. Save me the bother, ken?’

  Irene accepted the newspapers, thankful that she had at last found Drew’s apartment. She climbed slowly, with every muscle in her body screaming. Working in a penthouse office with a brass-mirrored elevator and a smart commissionaire to push the buttons had not prepared her for this type of exertion.

  The name was bold and plain across the door. Andrew Drummond. Irene nearly sobbed with relief as she knocked. When the door opened she fell inside, sobbing.

  ‘Drew. Drew, you must help me.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Edinburgh, July 13

  Meigle held up his hand for silence. ‘Thank you all for coming to my house at such short notice,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you long, but I want to keep you abreast of events. As you will be aware from the news, there was an attempted robbery in Edinburgh yesterday. A group attacked the convoy carrying the Queen and various heads of state to the Scottish Parliament. They specifically targeted the Honours.’ He waited until the gasps of shock and murmurs of sympathy died down before he continued. ‘The army managed to recover the Sword of State, but the crown and sceptre are still missing. That means that the Clach-bhuai has gone.’

  There was a few minutes’ pandemonium as people shouted their comments. It was Drummond who stood up, looking every one of his sixty – odd years. ‘We had a man closely monitoring this group, Sandy. Is he still with them?’

  ‘Stefan Gregovich was killed.’ Meigle said the words softly. ‘As yet we have no more details for the police have imposed a total security blackout on all information.’

  Drummond shook his head. ‘That’s a bugger. He was a good man.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Meigle allowed the news to sink in before he continued. ‘So our original plan of following them cannot be followed. However, we are not entirely without clues. For instance, we know that Stefan was working within a small group of people, and we have a picture that we believe shows the woman who masterminded the robbery.’ He raised his voice. ‘Could you douse the lights, somebody, and show the film?’

  The group settled down with only a little grumbling as Meigle adjusted the television. ‘This piece was on the television news last night. We copied it and have tried to enhance it as best we can. Now watch closely.’

  The members of the Society leaned forward as a slightly fuzzed picture of the Royal Mile was displayed, with crowds of people jostling toge
ther. ‘Now. Here is a side view of Stefan. He is waiting in the mouth of this close.’ Meigle paused the tape to allow the members time to focus on Stefan. He restarted it, and the camera panned onto the crowd. ‘And here we have Desmond Nolan. That is his real name, although he travelled here under an alibi. Stefan named him as one of the prime movers in this little escapade. We can see him quite clearly talking with a blonde woman. See?’

  Again Meigle paused the tape, allowing the society members time to scribble down notes. ‘Does anybody recognise her?’

  Most of the members shook their head; some looked puzzled, but nobody came forward with a name. Somebody mentioned that she looked familiar, but was not sure from where.

  ‘I do not recognize her either, but Colonel Drummond is on to her. He has resources that most other people lack.’ Meigle forced a smile. ‘Is that not correct, James?’ He had always admired Drummond’s efficiency, but now wondered about replacing him. Drummond had not saved the Clach-bhuai when it mattered.

  ‘I was seconded to the Intelligence Corps for a while,’ Drummond sounded just as calm as ever. ‘I have retained my contacts.’ He stepped out in front of the gathering. ‘If this woman is known to any of the intelligence services of the Western World, then we will be able to have her name within a day. After that we will trace her known movements and her likely whereabouts.’

  ‘Good. So all is not lost.’ Meigle tried to prevent any panic from the members.

  ‘Hardly.’ Drummond languidly returned to his seat. ‘You see, Sandy, it is relatively easy to steal an art treasure, even the Clach-bhuai. That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s disposing of it that really causes problems. Think about this; trade in stolen artefacts is at least 4000 years old. Looters were digging up the tombs of the pharaohs days after the last royal servant marched away. Put it another way, art historians estimate that around 98% of the antiquities on display in the world’s museums have been stolen at some time.’