A Highlander for Christmas (34 page)

“As a test. Or maybe as a demonstration of his power.” Frowning, he pulled out his own phone and spoke softly. “Izzy? I want backup on every phone here. That’s right, all three numbers. And I want a printout on all incoming calls, with name and location. I know that’s illegal, but you know a dozen ways around that. I saw what you did with that switch last month in Paris, remember?” He paced tensely, the phone close to his mouth. “Fine, do it that way. Just make it quick.” He studied the box on the table. “And check on a courier company called Lion Express. That’s right, like the animal. Send everything to my computer. Nothing more via phone, understood?”

Jared rang off and pocketed the small phone. “New rules,” he said tersely. “All packages or deliveries go through me, Marston.”

“Very good, Commander.”

“And I’m giving you both notice that from now on the phone lines will be monitored constantly, so if there’s something you’d rather not have overheard you’d better not say it. Marston, be sure to alert the Draycotts about this.”

Maggie nodded slowly. “I suppose there’s no other choice.”

Jared studied the taped edge of the package. “An explosives team will be arriving from Hastings within the hour. Meanwhile, I’m taking this outside for a closer look.” Jared looked at the butler. “Marston, if anything happens, you’re to get Maggie out and Nicholas down here pronto. He’ll handle the next step.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie watched him carry the box toward the front door. “You don’t really think that is some kind of explosive.”

He moved past her. “Don’t follow me, Maggie.”

“But you’ll need tests and X-ray equipment, won’t you?”

“I have what I need in the old conservatory.” He gave a dry laugh. “If that goes up, Nicholas would thank me.”

“You can’t do this
alone
, Jared.”

He turned, his gaze meeting hers squarely. “It’s what I’m paid to do, Maggie. It’s my job. This won’t be the first time.”

If he’d meant to reassure her, he failed completely. Maggie envisioned him crouched by other packages, sweating as he listened for telltale clicking or the smell of chemical explosives.

“Wait for help,” she said tightly.

“There’s no time. If it’s carrying a timer, we don’t have the luxury of a delay.” Jared gave Marston a hard look. “Both of you stay here. And keep Max inside. Is that understood?”

Marston nodded. “Understood, Commander.”

Maggie blinked at the sudden flood of sunlight through the open door. What if there was a bomb? What if she never saw him again? “Jared, I—”

The door closed. She started after him, but Marston gripped her arm with surprising strength. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go out, Ms. Kincade, much as I would like to join you there.” He turned, listening intently.

There was only birdsong. Only a silence that suddenly felt threatening.

“Stubborn man,” Marston muttered. “Unfortunately, he is right about this. It is his job and we must leave him to it,” he said grimly. “What we need now is a strong cup of Darjeeling laced with whisky—especially since I have a damned good view of the conservatory from the kitchen window. Are you coming?”

Maggie nodded, shaken by the anger and worry in his eyes. She had no way of knowing it was the first time the abbey’s butler had broken form and cursed before a guest in twenty-six years of exacting service.

~ ~ ~

Marston
paced before the open window as the seconds crawled past.

“He’s done this before?” Maggie asked tensely.

“Many times. It was his specialty. Greece, Hong Kong, the
Falklands.”
He slanted another glance toward the conservatory. “And Thailand, of course.”

“I can’t think about it.” Maggie cradled her teacup, barely noticing how the heat burned her palms. “Did any of the bombs go off?”

“Once,” Marston said. “Only once.”

The cup lurched. “What happened?”

Marston continued to stare out at the old conservatory. “I believe you’d better ask Commander MacNeill.” Behind him the phone rang, shrill in the silence.

After a brief hesitation, Marston raised the receiver. “Marston here.” He nodded slowly. “I’m afraid he is not available. Izzy, you say? Yes, I’ll tell him that you phoned. I’m sure he will be glad to know the work is finished.” Marston’s gaze wandered to the shadows at the far side of the moat. “When do I expect him? Soon, I hope. Very, very soon.”

The butler hung up slowly. “That was the commander’s colleague. The phone work is now complete. I don’t believe we’ve had listening devices here since 1990, when the queen—” He drummed his fingers against the glass.

“Marston?” Maggie swallowed. “What if he…”

She couldn’t finish.

“No one will die here at the abbey while I’m on duty.”

The butler strode to a high cabinet and pulled open a narrow drawer. His expression was resolute as he removed a small automatic pistol and slid a clip into place. “I would appreciate it if you stayed here and watched the conservatory, Ms. Kincade. I believe I will make a round of the house.” His jaw hardened. “Just in case.”

~ ~ ~

Sunlight brushed the moat and the Witch’s Pool. Without warning the wind dropped and clouds slid before the sun, shadowing the lawns.

A voice boomed out of the shadows. “Just let me have the blackguard within my reach. I’ll teach him to intrude!” White lace shimmered, followed by shoulders draped in black satin. “The utter audacity to bring an object of harm here to my abbey. I won’t have it, by heaven!”

At his feet the holly stirred, and a gray form ghosted into view. The great cat jumped to the stone bridge and meowed.

“
Where
, Gideon? In a truck just leaving the estate?”

The cat’s tail flicked side to side.

“Too late?” Adrian Draycott spun about, staring to the south where the gravel drive twisted away, lost in a row of oak trees. “I’ll set a bolt of lightning on the bounder if he sets foot on abbey soil ever again.”

The cat’s ears pricked forward, suddenly alert.

“He’s going to open the box? The bloody fool. Expert or not, Commander MacNeill will require our help.” Adrian rubbed a spectral hand across his jaw. “I thank the saints that the viscount and his family are nowhere about.”

A mass of holly flew down in a rain of dark leaves as his face turned thunderous. “Trouble, always trouble,” he muttered. “A pack of fools, these mortals be.”

The lace at his cuffs fluttered, then melted into the stone wall, followed an instant later by the length of Adrian’s tall form. “Are you coming, Gideon?” The words boomed from empty space. “I will need your help, my friend.
We must go to work
.”

In answer the cat took a delicate leap across the stone bridge. His head rose. Then he raced over the lawn toward the old conservatory.

~ ~ ~

Jared lifted the heavy paper carefully.

He had dealt with explosives often in Europe and the Middle East, in places where schoolchildren grew up familiar with names like Semtex and C-4. Over long months of duty he had developed the distance and objectivity to confront each assignment as if it were a simple exercise with no effect on the safety of himself or others.

But now, sweating amid the ferns in the abbey’s conservatory, Jared found his objectivity fraying:

He had already called in full backup. A municipal security team would bring metal containers to house the package until the firing mechanism could be disrupted and the device detonated harmlessly. Meanwhile, Jared had constructed a makeshift barrier of heavy iron lawn furniture and two solid metal gardening tables.

Hardly foolproof, but it was a start.

Now with every brush of his fingers, Jared felt the link tighten. The slightest touch brought an onslaught of cold emotion, marking state of mind of whoever had wrapped and delivered the box.

Jared suspected that Lion Express would appear on no corporate index or directory, in spite of Izzy’s relentless searching, and Jared refused to sit by and wait for disaster to strike.

Gently he slid a specially adapted stethoscope along the nondescript brown wrapper.

Silence.

Patiently he tested every inch, and each time he was met with utter stillness. The mechanism might be digital, triggered by silicon chips and microcircuits. It could also be chemically or magnetically triggered.

Jared lifted a black metal box with a long probe and ran the boom carefully over the brown paper. H waited for an electronic hum or a burst of static indicating the presence of a wireless transmitter that could trigger a detonation from a distance. Each pass came up clear.

So far the box was clean, yet Jared’s senses were screaming. Both experience and his singular intuition warned of close risk. His first priority was safety. He had to presume detonation capability until proven otherwise. And if he made a mistake, the conservatory and a sizeable part of the abbey could be blown into rubble.

Sweat dotted his forehead as he sprayed the top of the box and watched the paper glisten, then turn translucent. There was no trace of the oily stains that chemical explosives might leave. There was no network of wires or structural tubing visible beneath the paper.

Jared opened and closed his fingers, fighting to stay calm, trying not to think about the deafening blast and an acrid wall of smoke as circuits and wires clicked to their deadly purpose.

He called up the rules learned over years of exacting training.
Forget everything but technique. Use your eyes and ears as if your life depends on them because it bloody well does.
He almost smiled at the memory of the barrel-chested demolitions instructor from Leeds who had cursed and goaded him through his first year of specialized training.

And don’t bloody well forget to breathe.

He forced a stream of air into his lungs and then studied the box.

Not heavy, but that meant nothing. These days detonators could weigh less than five pounds and triggers even less.

No indication of motion or sound. Again, equally inconclusive. What he needed was a topflight CAT scanner and X-ray equipment, along with the newest disruptive devices. But he had none of them.

What he did have was his singular gift.

Summoning his energy, he focused deep, past the brown paper, past the scrawled lettering and the cardboard. Tightening his concentration, he probed the heart of the box.

The contact shimmered to life. Instantly he caught images of a lonely seacoast and scrub pines in mist.

He heard the muted sound of a foghorn.

He shifted, driving his focus deeper into the cold cardboard and rough paper. There he found anger, cunning, and the premeditation of a keen mind, but no active bomb. Fear, not death, was the sender’s intent. Fear was meant to grow, feeding on itself, until Jared and Maggie watched for shadows of their own invention.

While a stranger waited.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jared saw something move beyond a dwarf orange tree dotted with white blossoms. He was reaching for his Browning Hi-Power pistol when a gray shape ghosted through a row of ferns and brushed against his ankle.

“This is no place for you, my friend. You’d best be gone.”

The cat’s tail flicked once. He jumped onto a broad oak table jammed with ceramic pots and watering cans.

Jared scowled. “Out with you. This is no time for showmanship, damn it.” Jared felt his blood freeze as the cat shot forward, dislodging a watering can. With nightmare clarity, he saw the heavy pewter fall toward the box on the table.

He dove headfirst. Brackish water sprayed over him, soaking the box. Every muscle tensed as he struck the floor and waited for the deafening wall of sound that would be the last thing he would ever hear.

Water dripped over the paper. The box seemed to deteriorate, collapsing inward with a hiss. Jared grabbed the cat, and leaped beyond the protective barrier.

Seconds passed.

There was no deafening explosion. Water trickled down his cheeks and hands, the only sound in the room. Then the cat gave a low cry and squirmed free of Jared’s fingers.

In one leap he was on top of the box, which crumpled to a damp shell.

“Someone very special must be watching over you,” Jared said softly as he pushed to his feet. He felt an almost painful awareness of everything around him, from the exquisite lace of a foxtail fern to a dust mote that danced through the thick sunlight. The scent of orange blossoms and the rich smell of potting soil filled his lungs, making him feel almost giddy.

It was
over
, he realized. Something had changed. Perhaps the water had offset some delicate chemistry inside the box.

He tugged at the wet paper, assailed by a pungent, bittersweet scent as he pulled away the last fold. All that was left inside were long streaks mounded against the cardboard, interlaced in perfect squares.

Jared stared. He had seen lines like those before. The embassy bombing in Greece? The attack on a British school in Malaysia?

The memory eluded him.

He sniffed the drying white squares. Crystals of some sort. Sugar, possibly. But why?