Battle Cry

by Don Pendleton

  “So far, so good,” Bolan said.

  “But the English apparently had their fingers crossed. In February 1692, they sent the Earl of Argyll’s Regiment to slaughter the Maclain’s while they were sleeping. Thirty-eight men were killed overnight. Forty women and children were left to die in the snow after their homes were burned. The Highlanders never forget.”

  “I wouldn’t, either,” Bolan said.

  A sign for the Glencoe Visitors’ Centre showed up on his left. At sight of it, Beacher said, “Let’s pull in there. I’ll make my call while you soak up some history.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, and made the left-hand turn.

  A two-lane driveway looped around to Bolan’s right and took him past a parking lot reserved for buses and campers—“coaches” and “caravans,” as they were known locally—to reach a smaller car park near the buildings. Beacher left the car without another word and headed toward a scenic overlook nearby, while Bolan bypassed the gift shop to enter a long room filled with dioramas and posters depicting Glencoe’s creation through upheavals in the prehistoric landscape.

  Beacher found him three-quarters of an hour later. There was more pink color in her cheeks than present weather could account for, and her full lips had compressed into a narrow line.

  “Ready to go?” she asked him.

  “When you are,” he answered.

  “Right, then.”

  In the car, he asked her, “So, you’re headed back to Glasgow?”

  “No,” she said. “Rather amazingly, I’ve got the go-ahead to work with you, prefaced by observations that I must be certifiable to make a move without reporting in beforehand. Once the ranting ended, and my boss had words with someone down in London—who, I’m fairly sure, rang up that number in the States you supplied me with—we’ve been cleared to proceed.”

  Bolan frowned and asked her, “Just like that? No argument? No leash?”

  “They’re trusting in my personal discretion,” she replied, voice etched with acid. “And if that sounds like a subtle way of saying my career’s stuffed…well, I couldn’t argue with you.”

  “I can take you back,” he said. “Or put you on a bus from here.”

  “A coach.”

  “Whatever. You can bag it, do your penance and still keep your pension.”

  They had reached the exit from the parking lot to the A82. A right turn would begin the journey back to Glasgow, while a left would take them on into the Highlands, toward Loch Ness.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s go and meet the laird.”

  “I DON’T BELIEVE I’m hearin’ this,” Frankie Boyle said. His fingertips were numb from squeezing the cell phone. His temples felt as if an imp in hobnailed boots was kicking at the inside of his skull.

  “Sorry as I can be,” the caller said, secure in distance from the epicenter of Boyle’s wrath. “I’d keep on going, if the choice was mine.”

  “Whose is it, then?” Boyle demanded.

  “My sponsor,” Gibson told him. “Says there’s too much heat in Glasgow at the moment, and we can’t be tied to any of it.”

  “Heat?” Boyle felt the angry color in his cheeks. “You figure this is heat? And what about the stunt your lot pulled with the Yank and all? Didn’t that count as heat?”

  “That was an action for the cause,” Gibson replied. “You understand the difference, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, aye. When you put heat on me, it’s for the holy cause. When strife’s comin’ at me because of you, it’s my fault.”

  “What do you mean, because of me?”

  “You doesn’t think this blew up out of nowheres, do you? I’ve got nothing in works to bring it on myself.”

  The caller’s tone turned sharp. “Was something said? Some kind of message left? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Boyle felt a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not tellin’ you shite,” he said, “since we ain’t doin’ business anymore.”

  Boyle cut the link, turned off his cell phone and tucked the device into his pocket. Let the bastard chew on that and see how much he liked the taste, he thought.

  It was a petty victory, but Boyle would take what he could get for the time being. While Gibson stewed in his own juice, Boyle had to earn a living with the police on his tail and still find out who’d barged into his home with guns blazing.

  It was the kind of insult that demanded a response.

  There’d been a bit of bluff behind him blaming Gibson and his Tartan Independence Front for the attack, but just a bit. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone who’d dare to risk that kind of move, no matter what the cops suspected of his usual competitors.

  Maltese? Not bloody likely, with their hash and knives.

  Not Basil Dunlop’s crew, Boyle could say for damned sure, since the best of them were planted in a landfill off St. George’s Road.

  Hew Alexander? Only if he’d grown new balls since the originals got banjoed in the alley back of Knickers, over Christmas, Boyle thought.

  The truth as he believed it was that no other poxy prick in Glasgow—or in all of Lanarkshire, for that matter—had both the nerve and strength to challenge him, Frankie Boyle. Particularly not within the walls of his own home.

  Which meant the shite storm was propelled by rage at someone he was doing business with, and Boyle could think of no one but the TIF to blame. He had no beef with the suppliers of his drugs or weapons. All his smuggling routes were clear—or had been, anyhow, until the previous night.

  It had to run back to Gibson’s gadflies, somehow. Or the sponsor who had just turned off the money tap.

  And who was that? Boyle didn’t have a clue.

  But he was damn sure going to find out.

  THE A82 RAN ALONG Loch Leven’s southern shore from Glencoe into Lettermore, then crossed a suspension bridge to follow the eastern bank of Loch Linnhe to Fort William. The town had had a surprising seaside look about it, with no end of hotels and B&Bs facing the water.

  “It looks like the ocean,” Bolan said.

  “It is, in a way,” Beacher said. “It’s a sea loch, fed through Loch Eil by the River Lochy.”

  “Lochs galore,” Bolan said. “Was somebody having a sale?”

  She laughed at that, then answered, “What about your Minnesota? Isn’t that the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes?”

  “You may be right,” he said. “I thought it was the Gopher State.”

  “I’m thinking we should stop for lunch at Spean Bridge,” Beacher said, “before we go on up the Glen.”

  “Suits me.”

  The last road sign he’d seen put Spean Bridge ten miles farther north. Say fifteen minutes at his present speed, if they avoided getting stuck behind a tour bus or a truck piled with who knew what.

  In fact, he shaved five minutes off that estimate. Just before half-past noon they entered the village that had hosted U.S. Army Rangers for assorted training exercises during World War II. They passed the impressive Commando Memorial, depicting three soldiers in bronze and full battle gear, perched on stone with the message “United We Conquer.”

  Beyond it, the road wound through town until Beacher pointed to a driveway on the right and said, “In here.” A sign told Bolan they were entering the Spean Bridge Woollen Mill, but there was no mill to be seen. Instead, he parked behind a good-sized shop and restaurant with covered walkways to its public restroom in case of rain.

  The restaurant was cafeteria-style, with a fair choice of sandwiches, salads and hot entrées offered. Bolan ordered Scotch pie and a bowl of soup, not knowing when they’d eat again, while Beacher chose a sandwich and a piece of cake. They found a corner table by the window, no one else within earshot so far, and settled down to eat.

>   “I’ve booked a room outside Fort Augustus,” she informed him. “There’s a loch view and it’s close to everything. We’re down as man and wife, but don’t get any notions.”

  “Notions aren’t my specialty,” Bolan replied, and caught her frowning at him with an eyebrow raised, while he tucked into his spicy mutton.

  “You realize we can’t barge in on Alastair Macauley out of nowhere,” she advised him.

  “I suppose that would offend a laird,” Bolan said.

  “Not to mention my superiors,” Beacher said. “So far, he’s a person of interest, no more and no less. If he turns out to be an innocent eccentric—”

  “Then we’re wasting time,” Bolan said, “when we could be squeezing Frankie Boyle or someone from the TIF for contact information.”

  “Are all Yanks so impetuous?” she asked.

  “I look before I leap,” Bolan replied. “But time is always at a premium.”

  “Just bear in mind we’re going north to stop a war, not start one.”

  “Which assumes the war is already in progress,” Bolan said. “The body count corroborates it. And from what I’ve heard, the TIF is a Degüello kind of outfit.”

  “Come again?”

  “El Degüello,” Bolan said. “The Spanish bugle call. No mercy and no prisoners. Santa Anna’s army played it at the Alamo, before the final charge.”

  “John Wayne,” she said.

  “Among others.”

  “You’re right,” Beacher agreed. “They won’t negotiate, nor would we offer any terms beyond complete and unconditional surrender.”

  “Which, I’d say, is—”

  “Pretty damned unlikely,” Beacher finished for him.

  “So, they won’t give up their moneyman,” Bolan continued. “It’s my job to link them up and take them down.”

  “Our job,” she said.

  “I’m still not sure your people understand the game plan. If they get cold feet after the party’s started, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I’ve told you they coordinated with your people in the States.”

  “All right,” Bolan said, “if you trust them not to flip and use you for a scapegoat.”

  “That’s my worry,” Beacher told him, picking up her paper plate and wrapper from her sandwich. “Shall we go?”

  Chapter 7

  The A82 ran north from Spean Bridge to the eastern shore of Loch Lochy, southernmost in a chain of four lochs that comprised the Caledonian Canal. The third deepest loch in Scotland, it measured nine miles long, but over half of its length lay behind them when Bolan’s route met the shore at Letterfinlay. Four miles farther on, they crossed the canal on a swing bridge, shifting to the west bank of another lake.

  “Loch Oich,” Beacher advised, moments before a road sign validated her announcement. “It’s supposed to have its own monster, or did at one time. Locals call the thing Wee Oichy.”

  “Not a rival for Godzilla, then,” Bolan replied.

  “I shouldn’t think so. Halfway up its length we turn away and cross the River Garry, then swing back to shore. Another swing bridge then, above Loch Oich at Aberchalder, and our next stop will be Fort Augustus, at the south end of Loch Ness.”

  “And where’s that in relation to Macauley’s place?”

  “His land is on the east side of the loch, near Foyers. He’s got something like two hundred acres, with a clear view of the water from his manor.”

  “Landed gentry,” Bolan said.

  “With serfs dependent on his generosity,” Beacher replied. “Although they’re known as laborers these days.”

  “I’m guessing they won’t be involved in his shenanigans with Gibson’s gang.”

  “Shenanigans are Irish, but I take your point,” she said. “Macauley isn’t fool enough to let his maids and groundsmen sniff around his private business. One we’ll have to watch, though, is Ewan MacKinnon, his ghillie.”

  Bolan frowned at that. “I’ve heard of ghillie suits,” he said, not mentioning that he had worn some, too, on Special Forces missions in another life.

  “For sniping, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why am I not surprised? A ghillie is a combination game keeper and hunting guide. On large estates they watch for poachers, deal with predators, preserve the laird’s wildlife, then lead him and his guests on shooting walks to kill them.”

  “And we need to watch MacKinnon why?” Bolan asked.

  “Rumor has it that he’s equally adept at hunting humans. There’ve been two trespassers drowned on Macauley’s estate in the past five years that I know of. Both ruled accidental, of course, but the forensic evidence was…fuzzy, shall we say?”

  “Collusion with a coroner?” Bolan inquired.

  “Decomposition and predation,” Beacher said. “The folks who vanish on Macauley’s land aren’t found again until they’re ripe and rendered.”

  “Lovely.”

  They passed homes, a school and entered Fort Augustus proper from the southwest, with a looming Gothic structure on their right.

  “That used to be a Benedictine monastery,” Beacher said. “Today it’s called the Highland Club, self-catering apartments and cottages. Very upmarket.”

  “Is that disapproval I hear?” Bolan asked.

  She shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a jealous cow. But some things shouldn’t change.”

  The swing bridge at the heart of Fort Augustus was open as they approached. Bolan nosed his Camry up to the barrier and watched the tall masts of a fishing boat creep past, northbound to Loch Ness and, presumably, beyond it into the North Sea. It took a while to pass, and then the bridge swung back around, clearing the traffic lane.

  “You’re in luck,” Beacher said, pointing to their left. “There’s Nessie.”

  Bolan turned and saw a model of a long-necked creature poised beside the roadway, bending as if to feed a smaller version of itself. Both forms were sculpted out of wire, the larger covered in flowers that clung to the mesh.

  “Seems harmless to me,” Bolan said.

  “But you’re not in the water,” Beacher advised him.

  They passed the mooring for a tour boat, shops on their left and a riverside walk to their right. Outside a granite building, people with cameras and flowers cheered for an emerging bride and groom. Then more shops, restaurants, a tourist parking lot—and they were out of town, tracking the loch’s long western shore. Beyond the swing bridge stood another, made of stone, spanning the River Oich.

  “Our hotel is a half mile ahead,” Beacher said. “The Inchnacardoch Lodge. You can’t miss it.”

  She was right again. On Bolan’s left, a short half mile from town, a sign proclaimed the Inchnacardoch Country House Hotel. It was a Victorian-era hunting lodge converted to lodgings, all brick with peaked roofs and a vast lawn occupied by several woolly Highland cattle. Bolan turned into the long driveway and followed it around to parking on the hotel’s doorstep, elevated sixty feet or so above the loch. Emerging from the car, he had a panoramic view that included a tour boat passing.

  No monster anywhere in sight.

  Turning, he saw antlers mounted on a whitewashed wall, above the hotel’s entrance. He popped the Camry’s trunk, retrieved their bags and left the guns, then followed Beacher inside from the parking lot.

  THE VESSEL HAD BEEN built in Plymouth. DeepScan was fifty-four feet long and had a top cruising speed of eight knots—or ten miles per hour to landlubbers. True to its name, the boat was packed with underwater scanning gear: an ES 60 fish finder and color GPS plotter from Simrad, an Olex 3D seabed scanner, radar with a range of thirty miles and four LCD monitors. In addition to its pilot, it carried a four-man crew.

  All five were oath-bound mem
bers of the Tartan Independence Front, with Graham Wallace on the bridge, commanding.

  “This is a feckin’ waste of time,” Jimmy Raeburn said, sitting hunched before the bank of monitors, a can of beer in his hand.

  People called him “the Cat,” because he had a sort of pushed-in nose with freckles on its flattened bridge, and slightly pointed ears. Top off the picture with a mess of red curls that wouldn’t yield to any comb, and there was something feral about Raeburn.

  “I’ll say when it’s a waste of time,” Wallace replied. “Till then, do as you’re told and watch the feckin’ screens. Okay, Jimmy?”

  “Sure, sure,” Raeburn agreed. “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Wallace said, interrupting him. “You don’t like boats. That’s too damn bad.”

  “Sure, Graham. Not a problem, honestly.”

  Despite the need for discipline on board the DeepScan, Wallace knew what Raeburn and the other crew members were feeling. Whether they were put off by the sailing bit or not, it felt like they were stuck out on the damned loch doing nothing, when they should have been in Glasgow—maybe even down in London—carrying their fight to England.

  Wallace, like most other members of the Tartan Independence Front, had only vague ideas of how the world would change should their revolt against the British Crown succeed. There was a list of things he’d memorized—autonomy and liberty, revitalized economy, and so on—but the talking points were vague, with little in the way of evidence to back them up.

  So, what? Wallace thought. Did the Americans know how their country would turn out when they’d risen in arms against crazy old King George the Third? They’d all been flying blind, and you could see how well they’d done by turning on the telly.