For King & Country (4 page)

"Thanks." He hoped it hadn't come out quite as dryly as he feared.

Blundell glanced rather sharply at him, then switched his attention back to the road, which flowed like a creek with runoff from the storm. "Don't mention it. I'll leave you to study our profiles, then."

The chatty project liaison fell silent at last. Stirling opened the first file as the tires whined along the broad motorway, skirting the long reach of the Firth of Forth estuary. Paper rattled and crinkled as he read through the dossiers, the sound quiet against a backdrop of drumming rain and occasional rumbles of thunder. The staff were a mixed lot, which he already knew, of course, having read Ogilvie's files, but the employment dossiers gave him a different slant on the resident scientific team. At the very least, the files drew his attention away from the aches in wrist and knee.

The first on his list was Terrance Beckett, project director and quantum physicist, with degrees from Oxford and an American university called MIT. His chief assistant, London-born Zenon Mylonas, obviously of Greek immigrant descent, had advanced degrees in quantum mechanics and theoretical mathematics. They jointly supervised the work of graduate student Fairfax Dempsey, another quantum physicist. All three men haled from England, with unimpeachable backgrounds, and all three had been with the project for more than a year. Irma Hubert, the only female mathematician among them, had joined the project six months previously, and Wilbur Rosswald, physicist, had come aboard five weeks ago.

Cedric Banning, one of the six senior scientists, was involved with an unlikely field called psychoneuroimmunology, with a specialty in bioenergetic plasma fields, whatever those were. He, too, supervised a graduate student, a fairly recent addition to the staff. Jill Dearborne had been recruited by Terrance Beckett himself, three weeks previously. Banning had been with the project for two months, replacing a plasma-field specialist killed in a motor crack-up, victim of a blinding rainstorm and wet pavements. Banning hailed from Australia originally, but had been raised in Manchester, according to his security clearance paperwork.

Marc Blundell, intent on his driving and fumbling tobacco into his pipe, might not look the part, but evidently was a quantum mechanics genius, thus proving that appearances had very little in common with talent. He was the official project liaison with the Home Secretary's Office, as well, which suggested shortcomings in Terrance Beckett's personality. Indrani Bhaskar, Whitechapel native, had won a scholarship to Oxford, where she had distinguished herself to the point of winning a professorship of history early in her career. Clayton Crandall and Amber Darnell served Bhaskar as assistant historians.

Quite a mixed bag, and he hadn't even reached the bottom of the pile.

Norvell Mann was resident computer programmer, working with Elsa Maynard, computer hardware technician. Then there was Edsel Cuthbert, data analyst; Leo Hobart, who performed complicated computer modeling scenarios; and Sergio Donatelli, computer data tech. The entire computer technical staff hailed from London. Not one had reached their thirtieth birthday, yet. Twenty-odd was plenty of time to develop clandestine connections, of course, but none seemed to
have
any connection to Ireland.

In fact, there was only one person on the entire team who
did
have such a connection: Dr. Brenna McEgan, whose work in physiology and psychological biochemistry sounded as much like gibberish as bioenergetic plasma fields. She was even newer to the team than Banning, having arrived only four weeks previously. McEgan, too, was a replacement. The crack-up that had killed Banning's predecessor had also killed the team's physiologist, leaving two critical holes to be filled in the senior research team. McEgan had been educated in Dublin, according to her dossier, but her birthplace was Londonderry, a Catholic stronghold of Northern Ireland. She had inherited an assistant named Cameron Blair, who served as medical technician.

Stirling narrowed his eyes. He wanted a word with Mr. Cameron Blair. Several words, in fact. Although he disliked snap judgements, the leading candidate for IRA activity was clearly Brenna McEgan. He frowned and pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. There were plenty of other newcomers to the staff, of course, and the IRA certainly wasn't above paying someone to do their snooping for them, although it wasn't their usual
modus operandi
. He'd have to thoroughly investigate everyone, while working up new security procedures. A prickly problem, right enough, with too many unanswered questions simmering in his mind and a staff so large, any terrorist in the neighborhood could drive a bloody lorry through the possible security holes.

He read them through twice, then set the last one aside, fishing through pockets for an anti-inflammatory which he swallowed with coffee from Blundell's thoughtful thermos. He sipped, grateful for the warmth. As they rounded a long, sweeping curve in the road, he said, "You haven't included the peripherals in these dossiers."

"Peripherals?" Blundell echoed, eyes widening in uncertain surprise. "What d'you mean?"

"Cleaning crews, groundskeepers, maintenance men, what have you. Peripheral staff."

A look of utter chagrin stole a march across the liaison's boyish face. "Hadn't thought of that."

Stirling held back a sigh. "How many?"

"Let's see... Four—no, five. A charwoman, she comes every day for the cleaning; the groundsman and his assistant, they come round weekly; the equipment technician, he comes every five days or so for adjustments and spot checks. Then there's the lady who runs the concession, she comes in every couple of days to fill the machines. Oh, make it six, some days she sends her eldest daughter. Girl's sharp as a razor, but a sweet little thing. Completely wasted filling machines with candy bars and suchlike. Ought to be at college, someplace, but they haven't the funds and her father's that sick, her mother needs her at home."

A good candidate for bribe money, then, from any IRA mole wanting access or information. "Any of them housed on site?"

"Not the peripherals, as you call them. Not all the staff, for that matter. Team's grown, these last few months, and we haven't enough space in the cottages to accommodate everyone. McEgan lives off site, so do Banning and Mylonas, from the senior group, and most of the assistants rent rooms, as well."

"There's a gatekeeper, surely, acting as a security checkpoint?"

Blundell's chagrin deepened visibly. "Well, actually, we haven't needed any such precautions. Until now." He cleared his throat. "We're accustomed to civilian status, y'see. It's only recently, with the Home Office's interest, that we've realized there might be military or terrorist applications to our work."

Stirling sighed aloud this time. Blundell was right. If this were their notion of security, it
was
a joke. Civilian scientists, too myopic to comprehend realities like Belfast... It'd been too long since the IRA had bombed London or Manchester. Riots and bombings in Clonard notwithstanding, people outside Ireland—with the exception of the London ministries—were beginning to forget the dangers of civil disturbances spiraling out of control.

It was nearly dark by the time they turned off the main road, several kilometers short of Stirling, with its century-spanning history of warfare and its high cliff where Stirling Castle sat—if legend was correct—atop the remains of a Dark Ages stronghold that had been named as one of King Arthur's fortresses, possibly even ranking as a "second Camelot." Caerleon and Carlisle, down in the border counties, vied for the honor of "first Camelot."

The familiar, much loved countryside stirred long-forgotten memories, adventures with schoolmates, playing rough-and-tumble war games up the slopes surrounding Stirling Castle, pretending he and his mates were knights of the Round Table. No remains had been found, of course, but neither he nor his mates had cared one whit for archaeological evidence. It was the romance of it that mattered.

As he glanced out the Land Rover's windows at the rain-darkened slopes, Trevor Stirling allowed himself a slightly bitter smile. What fools they'd been, playing at war in these hills. Warfare in the sixth century had doubtless been a bloody business, as grimly devastating to civilian populations as it was in the twenty-first century. Stirling was no longer interested in the tales which both his grandfathers—Scots and Welsh—had recounted, of brave British chieftains holding back incursions of barbarians from Saxony, from Jutland in Denmark, from Ireland and the Pictish Highlands.

Fighting a sixth-century war would've been bloody hard business, even against more favorable odds than the Britons had faced. When all was said and done, what had Arthur really accomplished? A delay of the inevitable for a few decades? Stirling closed his eyes. God, he was tired of the fighting... Which was exactly why Ogilvie had sent him up here, rather than posting him back to Belfast. He wasn't fit for duty any longer.

As the Land Rover's headlamps picked out the rough asphalt track Blundell followed up into the mountains, Stirling's low opinion of security dropped even further. There
was
a fence, but no one guarded either its perimeter or its gate, which stood wide open. He didn't see so much as a watchdog. No cameras, either. Maybe the Home Office thought the project was as loony as he did? In which case, why bother to fund it?

A row of cottages stood along the access road, prefab affairs lacking any remotely attractive features, just dull little buildings of concrete where some of the on-site staff lived. "That largest cottage, there," Blundell pointed, "is Terrance Beckett's. You couldn't pry him away from here with all the whiskey in Whitechapel."

"What, he never goes into town at all? Doesn't he fancy a night at the pub now and again?"

Blundell grinned. "Oh, aye, now and again. But with the Falkland Arms just a few hundred meters down the road, why go all the way to Stirling? The Falklands run a nice pub, the local girls are pretty enough to suit, and the fish and chips better than any you'll find in Stirling proper."

"Yes, I know the Falklands, by reputation at least. We didn't move in the same circles. Where do your people stay, then? Surely not Stirling?" he added, eying the map.

"No, the Falklands rent rooms in some cottages that were put in last year, catering to summer tourists, birders and fishermen and the like. Everyone who lives off site stays in the Falklands' cots. We'll settle you there, as well."

"Huh." Stirling wondered just how friendly the local girls were and what sort of security risks they might pose. He probably knew a fair number of them by sight. Stirling found himself hoping the Falklands' cottages, at least, were a bit more picturesque than these drab concrete huts.

They swung round a final bend and Stirling got his first good look at the main facility. It was a larger version of the squat concrete cottages, but windowless, with steel security doors and a sizeable power plant visible off to one side. Rain squalls slashed across ugly walls and rooftops, racing past with a storm-lashed rhythm before writhing across the mountain slopes beyond.

He knew the valley, from childhood summer excursions. High, cloud-shrouded ridgelines, all but invisible in the rainy twilight, fenced the facility in, with only one access road leading out. If they'd bothered setting a gate guard, the place might have been virtually impregnable, by dint of sheer isolation. It was at least two kilometers from the nearest major huddle of farm cottages, a fair distance to hike through mountainous terrain with a load of unpleasantness strapped to one's back, but not far at all to come by car bomb. He wondered how amenable the researchers would be to the changes he intended imposing.

Not that he thought much additional security would prove necessary, but having come all this way, he might as well do a proper job of it. The Land Rover halted near the main doors and Stirling sighed, extricating himself gingerly with crutch-cane and compressed lips. There was, at least, a card reader at the front door, so no one could simply stroll straight in. Blundell swiped his identity card through it and the heavy steel door clicked open. "We'll get you a card, first thing," Blundell assured him as they stepped through.

"Second thing. Where's the bog? It's been a long drive and I drank most of that coffee."

Blundell grinned and pointed the way to the men's room, where Stirling took advantage of the sink and mirror to repair the worst of the travel damage and wash grit and sleepiness from his eyes. Ten minutes later Stirling was in the project director's office, with Blundell making introductions.

Terrance Beckett was a stringy sort of fellow one might have called rangy, had he possessed any decent physical conditioning. He glanced around at their entry, a scowl flickering into existence beneath a hawksbill nose. He glared down the long length of that nose, clearly resenting Stirling's intrusive presence in the lab's affairs as much as his more famous namesake, the Archbishop of Canterbury, had resented the intrusive presence of Henry II in the church. Come to think of it, Henry II was directly responsible for the present mess in Ireland, since he was the English king who'd first invaded the Irish.

This
Beckett gave Stirling a long look, his glacial, blued-steel gaze sweeping across the wrist cast, the knee brace, the crutch-cane. "I see the Home Office has dispatched its best, as usual."

Stirling produced a nasty smile. "I often question the wisdom of the Home Ministry."

Beckett reddened, then bit out, "You'll want the tour, I suppose?"

"Bit of a problem designing security measures without one."

"Well, there's no one here tonight, so you'll bloody well have to wait. Gone to the damned pub, they have, bunch of lazy bastards. See to it our
Captain,
" the emphasis he laid on the word made it an insult, "receives the grand tour in the morning, Blundell. Now get out. I'm much too busy to be bothered. And see that he doesn't touch a single, bloody piece of equipment on his way through the door!" Whereupon Beckett presented his back and became reabsorbed in his computer screen, which presented the disgruntled physicist with what amounted to colorful gibberish, as far as Stirling could determine.