So, nothing yet.
Dengler was not discouraged, but he knew that every passing day wheeled him a little closer to the grave. Some might say he had lived on borrowed time since 1945, but he finally had the verdict of physicians that his days were numbered. Six months, one had said. Another guessed that he might last a year. The third refused to speculate in finite terms, but urged him to be expeditious in arranging his affairs.
And so he had.
The work at Loch Ness was his last unfinished task. It would not be completed as intended, from the outset, but at least his early efforts might not be entirely wasted. If he succeeded here, Dengler could reach out from beyond the grave to smite his enemies. And they would know exactly who had wounded them, when the communiqué he’d left with his lawyer in Zurich reached The Times, The Independent and The Guardian. Whatever happened after that was immaterial.
But in the meantime, nothing could disrupt the plan that he had hatched with Macauley. No distractions could prevent the search from going forward to fruition. After decades of delay, he could not fail.
Frustration set his teeth on edge, and Dengler drew a deep breath, holding it to calm himself. Gibson might be a lunatic, deluded in his dream of separating Scotland from the British monarchy, but he was adept at relatively simple tasks—such as planting bombs; eliminating minor cogs from the machinery of empire; squeezing information from a hostage, if it came to that.
He was a tool, but useful in his way.
And there was still time to eliminate a threat, if one existed. On the other hand, if Dengler cast fatal suspicion on a hapless tourist…well, bad luck for him.
The strong survived and subjugated the weak.
So it had always been. So would it always be.
BOLAN MET BEACHER at the tourist car park, handing her his cell phone after they were seated in the Camry. While he drove back to the lodge, she watched the video he’d shot of the DeepScan, its crew and the men who had come down to meet it.
“The fellow who’s tossing the lines out is James Raeburn, Jimmy ‘the Cat’ to his friends. That’s Fergus Gibson catching, so we’ve literally tied Macauley to the Tartan Independence Front. And there comes Graham Wallace from belowdecks.”
Slowing for the hotel’s driveway entrance, Bolan said, “I don’t suppose you recognize the old man in the wheelchair.”
“Sorry, no,” Beacher replied. “There’s no one like him on the TIF rosters.”
“An educated guess, then?” Bolan prodded, as he slowed around the last curve of the driveway, nosing toward a parking space.
“He’s ancient from the look of him,” Beacher said. “Even if he’s old-guard Tartan Army, he’d have been middle-aged or older when it started in the seventies.”
“And since Macauley has no family…”
“That’s it. Another mystery,” she affirmed.
“Just what we need,” Bolan replied, setting the Camry’s brake and switching off the engine.
“Send that footage to my cell,” Beacher suggested, “and I’ll e-mail it to London. Do the same with your crowd, and between us, maybe we’ll get lucky with a facial recognition hit.”
Resigned to waiting, Bolan pushed the necessary buttons on his cell phone, waited thirty seconds for a minor miracle of cyberspace, then told Beacher, “You’ve got it.”
They found the black Lab waiting for them in the hotel lobby, and were forced to pay a toll by scratching him around the ears. Their hostess came from dusting in the lounge, inquired about their day and asked if they were dining in.
“Indeed we are,” Beacher replied. “Seven o’clock, I think you said?”
Bolan confirmed the time with a nod before they made their way to their room.
They had agreed that, since full dark would not descend over the Highlands until half-past eight or later, they should eat at the hotel and set out afterward for a drive-by view of Macauley’s estate.
Once in their suite, Bolan opened his map on the four-poster and Beacher traced their route with a finger.
“We go back through town to the point where we entered,” she said, “then keep left at the abbey, instead of following the A82. That puts us on the Glendoe Road, named for the lodge, also known as the B862. We loop around the south end of the loch, here, and veer off toward Loch Tarff and beyond. It’s sheep country out there, losing sight of Loch Ness, but we don’t take it all the way. There’s a split beyond Whitebridge, where the B852 branches off and comes back to shore at Foyers.”
“Where the poacher lived,” Bolan observed.
“The very same. And not far from Macauley’s land. From there, the B852 runs north along the eastern shore to Dores, where it joins up with the B862 again. Confused yet?”
“I can handle it,” Bolan replied.
“Our greatest danger will be getting spotted on the B852. It’s narrow two-lane all the way, with woods and farmland on your right, and a sheer drop into Loch Ness on your left. There’ll be no place to turn around between Foyers and Dores, unless we pull into someone’s private drive.”
“I need the recon,” Bolan told her. “If you’d rather sit it out…”
“Did I say anything about me sitting anywhere?” she asked.
“No, but—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me, Cooper. If I want out of this arrangement, you will be the first to know.”
“Does this mean that the honeymoon is over?” Bolan asked.
“I told you not to get any ideas,” Beacher replied.
“Okay. Unless you want the shower first…?”
“Go on ahead. I’ll make some coffee.”
“Black for me,” he said, “if that’s not out of line.”
“It isn’t in my job description, but I’ll let it go this time,” she said with the suggestion of a smile.
The shower was a handheld nozzle on a hose that came out of the wall above the large Jacuzzi tub. In other circumstances, Bolan would have tried the whirlpool bath to help himself relax, maybe inviting Beacher in to join him for a while. But these weren’t other circumstances, and the honeymoon he’d joked about had never started.
They were on a mission that was bound to end in blood, and Bolan spent the next ten minutes washing off old stains, wishing the hot water and soap could reach his conscience and his soul.
“IT FIGURES we’d get stuck with this,” Colin MacGregor groused. “Out on the feckin’ boat all day, and now we hafta go around askin’ about more feckin’ boats.”
“The old kraut’s paranoid,” Jimmy Raeburn said, talking from the left side of his mouth while fussing with a match to light his cigarette. “He sees a boat pass on the loch and makes it some kinda conspiracy.”
“He likely thinks it’s the Israelis,” MacGregor said, “come to lift him for a trial back home.”
“Like anyone remembers the old shite’s alive, or gives a damn,” Raeburn replied.
“Macauley seems to set a lotta store by him,” MacGregor said.
“And who’s Macauley, when you think about it?” Raeburn asked. “Just another fat-arse, la-di-da aristocrat tellin’ the little people where to go and what to do. I dunno why Fergus coddles him.”
“The money, eh? Why else?” MacGregor said.
“What else,” Raeburn echoed, sounding resigned and disappointed all at once.
They’d found three places listed in the Fort Augustus telephone directory where small boats were available for hire. The first was closed when they arrived, and an old lady in the shop next door told Raeburn that its owner was in the hospital. Something about his back that didn’t mean a damn to Raeburn, so he stopped listening.
The second place was open, but it rented only kayaks and canoes, cheaper to buy and to maintain, without a single moving part, and certain tourist
s seemed to like that kind of thing. The woman who’d been left in charge was easy on the eyes and all, but Raeburn didn’t have the time to flirt with her.
“Third time’s a charm,” MacGregor said.
“I bloody well hope so,” Raeburn replied.
MacGregor was right, up to a point.
Their third stop had the kind of motorboats Gibson had sent them out to find, all right, and it was situated on the channel where the local tour boat docked, for easy access to the town. A surly codger saw them coming and called out before they reached him, “Too late. There’s no more hires today.”
“We didn’t come to hire a boat,” MacGregor said, as they drew closer.
“Makes it easy, then,” the man said dismissively.
“We’re after information,” Raeburn said.
“Across the bridge and on your left, behind the BP station there. I reckon they’ll be shut by now. Come back tomorrow after nine.”
“Not bloody tourist information,” MacGregor stated. “What we need to know is who’s been hirin’ out yer wee boats here.”
“Whoever’s got the money,” the man said, drawing up to his full height of five foot three or four. “And what the hell is it to you?”
“Listen, old man—”
Raeburn saw it was getting out of hand and knew that Gibson would be pissed if they did anything to draw heat from the police. Bad enough that bloody Dengler thought someone was spying on them from the loch, without a constable arriving on Macauley’s doorstep.
“Easy, now,” he said, more to MacGregor than the old guy, since he figured his colleague was more likely to go off. “We’s only come to talk, is all. There might be somethin’ in it for ya, if you got the wherewithal to help us.”
“Somethin’, eh?” the man said. “What kinda somethin’?”
“How’s twenty pounds?”
“Depends on what you’re askin’. If it’s about my customers, fifty’d suit me better.”
“Call it fifty, then,” Raeburn replied. “If you can help us.”
“Ask yer questions,” the man said.
“Earlier today, around five o’clock or so, we think you hired a boat out to a tourist type,” Raeburn said.
“Haven’t heard a question yet.”
“Well, did you?” MacGregor asked.
“I did.”
“You get his name?” Raeburn asked.
“No. Got a deposit on the boat, in case he never brought ’er back. Paid back the half of it when he come in on time.”
“He leave you with a name and all to trace him by?” Raeburn asked.
“His pound notes was enough on that score,” the man said.
“You’re not big on curiosity, I reckon,” MacGregor said.
“Not like you lot.”
“You can describe him, though, I figure. Just in case he skipped out with your wee boat,” Raeburn said.
“Six foot, I’d say, and call it fourteen stones. Dark hair, clean shaved. He wasn’t local. Sounded like a Yank to me, no British in his voice at all.”
“You see him with a car?” MacGregor asked.
The man shook his head. “Nobody parks down here except the registrar and water bailiff. He’d have used the car park up the road, or left it somewhere else.”
“You reckon he was police?” Raeburn asked.
The man thought about it, then shook his head. “He had a smell, I don’t deny it. But he weren’t from the constabulary.”
“And there’s nothing else?” Raeburn asked.
“Just my fifty pounds,” the man said. “Don’t be forgettin’ that.”
AFTER THE BEST MEAL that he’d had in weeks—smoked salmon, followed by prime rib with roast potatoes, garden vegetables and a sweet horseradish sauce—Bolan went back up to the room and waited while Beacher changed into what she called her working clothes—gray jacket, with coordinated blouse and slacks, and sturdy flats replacing the high heels she’d worn to dinner. Once she’d tied her hair back, she was ready for the road.
Full night had fallen by the time they stepped into the Inchnacardoch’s parking lot. A floodlight helped them find the Camry, and the driveway was illuminated, but Beacher had told him that the road they would be traveling was dark and narrow, prone to accidents if someone took the two-lane track too fast, or with a little too much whisky underneath his or her belt.
Bolan drove back through Fort Augustus, following Beacher’s directions and a small sign for the B862. Off to his left, the former abbey showed warm lights in many of its windows, indicating that the guests had settled in. Beyond it, Bolan drove through trees and watched for stray sheep, crossed a stone bridge wide enough for one car at a time, and then picked up his speed a bit, swinging around the south end of Loch Ness.
Chasing the twin beams of his headlights through the night, he could imagine how the early settlers had to have felt, huddled in thatch-roofed huts along the loch’s shore, sharing stories of a beast that rose by night to claim their cattle, or to snatch a careless traveler. He understood how superstition could take root, perhaps encouraging reports of sightings in broad daylight.
Or, there might be something in the dark loch after all.
When the highway split again, a mile or so from Fort Augustus, Bolan stayed with the Glendoe Road. His other choice, Beacher explained, would take them to the Glendoe Lodge, then snake around through hills until it came lochside with a dead end. To reach Macauley’s property, they had to take the relatively long way round, past Glendoebeg, Loch Tarff, and on across the windy moors, until the B852 branched off, half a mile due south of Bailebeag.
So Bolan stayed the course, seeing no more of the surrounding countryside than high beams would allow, surprised at intervals by sheep whose rumps were spray-painted in garish shades of pink and green.
“What’s with the colored sheep?” he asked.
“The farmers here use paint, instead of brands,” Beacher replied. “It’s more humane and washes out at shearing time.”
Thus educated, Bolan made his turn onto the B852 as scheduled, hardly surprised to see the road grow narrower as he departed from the main highway. Two cars could still pass each other, traveling in opposite directions, but if either driver let his or her eyes or attention wander, paint and wing mirrors would be lost.
“Macauley’s land begins about two miles ahead,” Beacher advised. “Before we get to Boleskine House.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Bolan remarked. “Can’t place it, though.”
“Aleister Crowley lived there for a dozen years or so, until the eve of World War I,” Beacher explained. “The witchy fellow. Liked to call himself the Great Beast. He later died from heroin, and Jimmy Page moved in. You’ll know him as the lead guitarist from Led Zeppelin. It looks across a cemetery to the loch.”
“Charming.”
“We won’t be stopping in,” she said. “But if I had a choice, I’d rather share a dram with Crowley than our Alastair Macauley.”
“I don’t think he’ll be inviting us for tea,” Bolan replied.
“Let’s hope not, anyhow.”
Five minutes later, Beacher said, “All right, this is his property, off to our left. The main gate should be coming up…right…now.”
Bolan slowed to give himself a better look. The tall gate was wrought iron anchored to tall stone pillars, with a fence stretching away in each direction, topped by decorative spear points. Bolan couldn’t tell how sharp they were in passing, but he guessed they weren’t entirely there for show.
“Man likes his privacy,” he said.
“He does, indeed. You saw the cameras above the gate?”
“I did,” Bolan replied. “One for visitors, the other turned out toward the road. I couldn’t tell if
it was tracking.”
“New technology for the old laird,” Beacher observed with just a hint of sarcasm.
“I’d like to make another pass,” Bolan said, “if we find a place where I can turn around.”
“I told you, it’ll have to be a private driveway. If we… What?”
Headlights appeared behind them, emerging from Macauley’s gate and following.
“We’ve either got a tail,” Bolan replied, “or someone’s got a sudden urge to take a moonlight drive.”
Beacher turned in her seat and said, “I don’t like the way this feels.”
“Okay,” Bolan replied. “Let’s find out if they’re serious.”
Chapter 10
“They’s runnin’,” Raeburn said.
“I see that,” MacGregor answered, sounding snippish as he jammed down the pedal and powered after the Toyota they’d scrambled to pursue.
The two had been on guard duty until midnight, after all they’d done that day already, for the laird and Gibson. Raeburn knew when he was getting hosed, but what was he supposed to do about it? Any luck, they would’ve caught four hours’ sleep, but with this latest development he knew there’d be no end of work to do, no matter how it went.
They had the laird’s Mercedes—make that one of them, the S-Class W221 Saloon. Macauley seemed to have a fleet of them.
“C’mon,” he urged MacGregor at the wheel. “Close up with ’em.”
“This isn’t the motorway,” MacGregor replied. “I’m doin’ what I can.”
In fact, Raeburn knew that the smaller car in front of them had an advantage on the B852. The Mercedes might have more power for an all-out hammer down the open straightaway, but narrow lochside roads were something else. You never knew when you would meet a truck or a tractor, find a flock of sheep crossing the road, or hit a rockslide when you least expected it. A smaller car might slip around or through some obstacle, leaving the Benz to crash and burn.
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