Powerstone (38 page)

‘I am Irene Armstrong! There is
nothing I cannot do!’

When she looked back, the Jeep had
stopped directly in front of the gate. Dust drifted slowly upwards, clearing
far above the height of the fence.

The passenger door opened and a
man stepped out. Irene gasped as she recognised the sallow face and wiry red
hair of Kenny Mossman.

‘Kenny! It’s me!’ Irene pointed to
the Luckenbooth brooch that she still wore. ‘Irene! You remember me? You made
this!’

Kenny nodded. Kneeling, he aimed
the rifle directly at the brooch. ‘You stole the Clach-bhuai,’ he said,
quietly. ‘There is neither excuse nor reprieve.’ As he spoke, the driver’s door
opened and the squat, bald man emerged. He walked slowly toward Irene, unsmiling.
She remembered that his name was Iain.

‘You have one choice,’ Iain said.
‘Hand over the sceptre, or we will shoot you and take it.’

Irene glanced toward Kenny. She
remembered him as a quiet man with gentle humour, but when he levelled his
rifle there was nothing in his eyes but determination.

Iain had left the Jeep and was
walking toward her, his right hand extended, as if expecting her to tamely hand
over the sceptre. She had thought of him as small and fat, but now he looked
stocky and powerful, with a chin that thrust forward and forearms that filled
the sleeve of his dark suit.

‘You won’t take it!’ Irene backed
away. She could see the fence arrowing into the distance, a barricade between
the Manning Corporation and the outside world, a barrier between the mediocre
and the sublime. She knew on which side she belonged, and after so much effort,
she would never give up. Swooping into the Ford, Irene snatched up her bag.
‘Here it is! Here’s your damned sceptre!’ She saw Kenny’s attention falter slightly
as his eyes switched from the brooch on her breast to the bag. ‘Come and get it
boys, but be careful. If you shoot me you might hit the jewels!’

‘Don’t be stupid, Irene!’ Kenny
sounded hoarse. ‘We don’t want to hurt you. We just want the Clach-bhuai!’

‘Come get it!’ Turning, Irene
began to run. She had no doubt that she could outdistance the stocky Iain, but
Kenny would pose more of a problem. He was about her age and looked wiry,
rather than thin, although his city pallor hinted that he was not much of an
athlete.

She heard the crack of the rifle
at the same time as she saw the little fountain of dust leap up five yards in
front of her.

‘Irene! Stop!’

Glancing over her shoulder, Irene
saw Iain lumbering over the ground, but Kenny was on one knee, with the rifle
pulled hard into his shoulder. At that range he could not miss, but she was
determined not to surrender. It would be better to die here than to live in
relative poverty, haunted always by the knowledge that things could have been
so much better.

‘Shoot then!’ Thrusting the bag
over her shoulder, so it would bounce across her back, Irene ran on. If Kenny’s
aim was out, he would damage the damned sceptre, and they would both have lost.
If his aim were true, then all her troubles would be over. She ran on,
hopelessly, stumbling over the long grass as her breath burned in her throat.

She heard Kenny curse, and then he
was running too, so they both raced for the gate. Irene was the faster, but
Kenny caught her as she struggled with the simple lock.

He was a lightweight, but so
determined that his initial rush knocked her back. The bag skiffed across the
waving grass and she swore again, frantic with fear. Kenny seemed to be all
over her, all effort but no skill. Irene ducked a wild slap, thrust her knee
hard into his groin and heard his agonised gasp. Kenny fell back and Irene
wriggled free and scrabbled for the bag.

There was a man reaching it and
for a shocking instant she recognised James Drummond, tall and elderly with
eyes as hard as anthracite. Instinctively ducking low, Irene pushed the bag
away, rolled across the ground and held it close to her body.

‘Leave that!’ Drummond’s voice was
sharp, but before he could move the gate opened and a small convoy erupted from
beyond the barrier. The largest vehicle sped between her and Drummond.

‘I’ve won!’ Irene held up her bag,
‘Armstrong’s revenge!’

She watched as two of the Manning
vehicles hustled around the Jeep, which backed away and roared toward the highway.
She saw Drummond watching her, his face looking old and defeated through the
Jeep’s rear windscreen. Irene recognised the largest vehicle as the Ford
Expedition King Ranch, with the Manning logo on its doors and same laconic
driver who had brought her here so many months ago. The passenger door opened.

‘You’d have been a lot quicker if
you had trusted me!’ Drew grinned at her across three yards of prairie.
‘Running off like that, I was so disappointed in you!’ Stepping out of the
vehicle, he held the door open for her. ‘Come on then, you little rogue. Ms
Manning is waiting for you.’

‘Oh, sweet Lord in heaven.’ Irene
felt the strength seep from her legs as Drew strode toward her, arms extended.
She felt him catch her as she fell.

* * *

They sat under a shaded bower
looking over the courtyard, with the playful splash of the fountain a backdrop
to their conversation.

‘So you made it then, Irene.’ Ms
Manning was as direct and calm as ever.’ ‘You found an amazingly historic
artefact, obtained it and brought it here against many odds.’

Irene nodded. ‘Yes, but I don’t
understand. How does Drew Drummond fit into this?’ She leaned back in her seat,
allowing the high sun to warm her face.

‘I work for Ms Manning,’ Drew told
her. ‘She paid me good money to look after you. Which was an enjoyable job in
itself, mind you.’

‘So you knew all the time? About
the Honours, I mean?’

Drew shrugged. ‘I had a fair idea
when I watched you sniffing about
Edinburgh
Castle
, then my father mentioned
something about a threat to the Clach-bhuai and I put two and two together. It
was not hard, really.’

‘What’s the Clach-bhuai? Another
name for this?’ Irene lifted the sceptre that she had carried from the
Old World
to the New. Although she had
brought it specifically for Ms Manning, she could not bear to let it go.

‘Just the top part, that wee bit
of crystal,’ Drew pointed out the orb. ‘There is religious significance. It was
used by the Druids it seems, and maybe by Pontius Pilate.’

‘Is that so? I met his bodyguard
in
Edinburgh
.’ Irene examined the crystal. ‘It
doesn’t look very special.’

‘Oh, it’s special enough.’ Drew
grinned. ‘And you fought off the Society out there. That was something.’

‘So it was,’ Ms Manning agreed.
‘And what was just as important, you did not reveal for whom you stole it, not
even to your lover.’

Irene could not stop the blood
from flushing to her face. ‘You know about that?’

‘I asked Drew to test you. If you
had revealed my name, or even hinted who I was, you would have lost the final challenge
and Drew would have taken the sceptre back the same day.’

Irene glanced at Drew, who
shrugged and nodded. ‘Nothing personal, Irene. All in a day’s work, you
understand.’

‘So you were playing with me all
along,’ Irene shook her head, ‘you cold blooded bastard.’

‘Thank you. I notice you slipped
the leash as soon as you thought I could no longer help you. Greyhound bus to
New York
, railroad to
South Dakota
, hired car from
Sioux Falls
; nice itinerary.’

‘Were you following me all the
way?’ Irene felt anger battling with the smug satisfaction of achievement.

‘Look.’ Drew slipped off the
battered silver watch that Irene had admired. He flicked back the face and she
saw a map of the area, with a constant red light in the centre. ‘That’s you. My
watch is connected to the Manning satellites, so I can follow you wherever you
go. That’s how I could help you in
Edinburgh
, when these neds attacked you, remember? And I traced you
to the Botanic Garden after?’

Irene felt small as she stared at
the watch. ‘So you’ve known where I was all along? I still don’t understand.’

Leaning forward, Drew allowed the
back of his hand to smooth against her breast as he unclipped the Luckenbooth
brooch. ‘There is a tiny transmitter in the back of this jewellery. I like the
irony, with a member of the Society providing so much help.’ His grin revealed
that he enjoyed the humour of the situation. ‘When I first gave you the brooch,
it was just that, one of Kenny’s Luckenbooth brooches. But when you rejected it
– and hurt me dreadfully, of course – I added the transmitter.’

‘So it was never a love token
then,’ Irene said.

‘Love token?’ Drew shook his head.
‘Hardly that, Irene; you were part of the job; nothing more.’

Irene looked up quickly and caught
the lie in his eyes. ‘I thought the same about you,’ she said, carelessly. She
prised the transmitter from the back of the Luckenbooth and replaced the brooch
back on her breast. ‘As Ms Manning told me once, it’s a tough life at the top,
and there is no place for a partner.’ She looked at Drew with new respect. ‘I
will wear this forever, as a reminder that even the best of men could be a
fraudulent bastard. In future I will fly alone, Drew, but better that than a
life on the streets.’ In her head she heard the mocking chorus of the crowd.

‘On the streets! On the streets!’

Laughing, Irene touched the
crystal of the Clach-bhuai. She could sense the approval of her father and
Johnnie Armstrong.

* * *

‘Damned shame really,’ Meigle
said.

‘What was that?’ Drummond held a hand
to his ear. ‘I can’t hear you for the noise in this place.’ He looked around at
the crowd who had come in to the bar. ‘It’s always the same when there’s a
medal competition. The place fills up with all these youngsters who don’t
understand the traditions of the game. Shouting and drinking and getting above
themselves.’

Meigle nodded. ‘It’s a damned
disgrace, Jamie. Mind you, I remember a young couple riding a tandem around
here for a bet. Stark naked too, the pair of them.’

Drummond grunted. ‘She was a
good-looking girl too, in those days. That’s why I married her.’

‘I know. But it’s still a damned
shame,’ Meigle flapped a hand toward the television screen that occupied one
corner of the room. ‘Look at that fellow. Well set up, good looking in an American
sort of way, nice wife, and he loses his job just like that.’

‘What fellow?’ Drummond

‘That fellow on the television,’ Meigle
said.

‘Kendrick Dontell,’ the announcer
said, ‘who won
The
Neophyte
last year, has been sensationally
sacked. Ms Rhondda Manning of the Manning Corporation refused to give details,
but has revealed that the runner up, Irene Armstrong, is to take Kendrick’s
place. That means that Armstrong will fall heir to the power and wealth of Ms
Manning, who has a reputed 20 billion dollar fortune.’

‘That’s the girl that your Andrew
was running around with,’ Meigle said. ‘Twenty billion dollars, eh? That’s nice
money.’

‘Nice enough, but he dumped her.’
Drummond glanced at the clock above the bar and stood up. ‘Time for another
round, I think?’

‘Why not indeed.’ Meigle reached
for his clubs. He followed Drummond outside the clubhouse and took a deep
breath of the
East
Lothian
air. There
was a haar creeping in from the
Forth
, hazing the white cliffs of the Bass Rock.

‘So we’ve got the Clach-bhuai back
and all is right with the world.’ Meigle dropped the ball at his feet and
addressed it, hardly glancing up the length of the fairway that he knew so
well.

‘It’s only a pity that we can’t put
the sceptre where it belongs,’ Drummond looked out to sea. ‘Spoils the set
without it.’

‘Can’t be helped.’ Meigle took a
practise shot, then cracked the ball a full three hundred yards. ‘That beats
your average,
Sandy
.’ He watched Drummond tee up. ‘Bit
of a near run thing, though, with you switching the thing when Kenny was
diverting the Armstrong woman.’

‘She damned near killed him too.’
Drummond sent his ball in the wake of Meigle’s, grunting when it bounced a yard
short, and then rolled past. ‘We’ll let the Manning people bask in their
triumph for a few years yet, and then sensationally find the genuine article
hidden in the castle of some old Border reiver.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘
Maybe
Hollows
Tower
, Johnnie Armstrong’s keep. That
would be fitting.’

Meigle nodded. ‘Did that woman
really think that we would let the Clach-bhuai go so easily? We’ve been
guarding it for near three thousand years.’

Drummond laughed as he strode
beside Meigle. ‘How many copies of the Honours have the Mossman family made
since the sixteenth century? About eight? Well, now that Andrew is back on this
side of the Pond, we’ll soon bring him into the fold again. All he needs is a
good woman.’