Siege of Stone (21 page)

"And that's not likely, I know. Don't worry, Laika, I know the rules." He sighed. "And just think, a year ago at this time I was lodged in an office interpreting intelligence data, thinking how boring it was. God . . ." He chuckled. "What I'd give to be bored again."

"F
ive men you've released," Colin Mackay said to Mulcifer. His voice was controlled but angry, like the sound of a boiler just starting to overheat. "Five terrorists, five of the most violent and angry rebels ever seen, and instead of bringing them back here, you let them go. And then you refuse to tell me just what you're having them do."

Mulcifer sat back in his chair, his arms folded, that devil's smile upon his face. "Trust me."

"
Trust
you? For centuries people have called you the Antichrist, your only pleasure is in causing pain, you disobey me at every turn, and you keep telling me to
trust
you?"

"We want the same things, Colin. Besides, what choice do you really have? Those five men are infernal devices, as they used to so colorfully call bombs. And all five devices are set to go off at the same time, four days from now, and the cause of a free Scotland will receive all the credit. And there's more."

"Kevin Brady."

"Oh yes. The mad dog himself, the jewel in the crown. Without him the lovely six-pointed star becomes a mere pentagon. We'll motor down to England and free him tomorrow, set his little clock ticking. Believe me, Colin, you will be delighted with the boom. Look on it as my surprise for you—my little thank you for giving me such splendid opportunity."

Mulcifer stood up and stretched. "Ah, I don't know why I feel so tired. After all, I never have to sleep. I do believe I'll climb one of the remaining seaward towers and watch the Minch. After so many years of confinement, it's such a pleasure to observe nature in all its glory."

"It's raining buckets," Colin observed.

"Even better."

As Mulcifer left the room, Rob, Angus, and James came in, edging past him as though they feared to get too close. They heard his low laughter as he went down the hall. "Shut the door," Colin said, and the four men were alone in the small room.

"Christ, Colin, I'm sorry," Rob said. "I tried to keep him from letting them go—so did Angus, but we couldn't say shite against him. He'd get them out of earshot, tell them what he wanted them to do, and that was it. We'd drive them where he told us, and let them out into the night."

"What do you mean, Rob," Colin asked, "you couldn't say shite? Did he threaten you, or what, then?"

"Well, the first time I told him that letting them go wasn't what you wanted, that you wanted them brought back here for instructions, he just looked at me and he said, 'I don't want to hear any more from you,' just that, and I thought
the hell with you, you bastard
, and I opened my mouth to tell him so, but no words come out."

"Aye," Angus said. "Same with me. I was fixin' to tell him to go and fook himsel', and he just looked at me and shook a finger and said, 'No no,' and hell, Colin, that was it for me. But you think that was somethin', you shoulda seen the bastard at checkpoints. He was like that damned Obi-Wan Kenobi fella in those
Star Wars
movies. Sometimes he'd tell 'em to just let us on through, and they did, but other times one of the soldiers said hell no, and then he'd get another soldier to start in beatin' or shootin' the one said no. Weirdest thing you ever seen."

"Aw, shite, Colin," said James Menzies, "I knew something like this was going to happen. Maybe we should have just let this bastard alone and tried to get ahold of the nerve gas after all."

"Hell we should," Colin said angrily. He had thought this argument was behind them. "First off, all we know about the nerve gas is that the English buried canisters full of the stuff somewhere in Scotland.
Naturally
in Scotland, because they wouldn't want to put their own population at risk, but if a few thousand Scots died, well . . ." He gave his head a furious shake, trying to get back on track. "But we've got a mighty big country here, brothers. Only way we'd find out where the shite is would be to crack MI5 files, and that's not going to happen.

"But the main reason is that chemical and biological weapons are too bloody dangerous. They're too hard to target, and first thing you know, children wind up dying, and I will not have that. So forget the damned gas. You know how that shite Mulcifer didn't want to hear another word? Well, neither do I!"

B
ut Mulcifer heard far more than Colin Mackay thought he did. He was standing on the northwest tower overlooking the Minch. The dark water was being peppered by heavy raindrops, and the sound of all the drops striking the stones all around him made a ceaseless roar, a unity of sound born of individual specks of water, so weak on their own and so strong when combined.

Still, over the sound of the rain and distant thunder, Mulcifer heard what was being said within the room by the four men. He also heard the other men moving about the castle in their separate rooms. And he heard footsteps slogging through the mud that coated the dirt road to the castle.

Someone new was coming. A stranger. Someone who didn't belong.

T
aylor Griswold cursed under his breath, though he knew that in this storm no one would hear him if he shouted "Sonofabitching rain!" at the top of his lungs. But instead he cursed softly, first the rain, then the cold, then that Scotty-boy that he'd followed all the way over to wet, rainy, cold, shitty
Scotland
, for Chrissake.

Griswold was a reporter for an American tabloid newspaper,
The Inner Eye
, which covered more stories about angels, aliens, UFOs, channelers, Satan, and the efficacy of horoscopes, séances, and Ouija boards than it did stories about celebrities. The exception, of course, was Princess Diana. Only the
Eye
's stories concentrated on the many manifestations of her aggrieved spirit and the conspiracies regarding her death—the wilder, the better.

Griswold had also been a paid agent for a group in America headed by the man he had finally followed to this castle. He knew now that the Scotty-boy went by the name of Francis Scobie, but he was sure that was bullshit. In the States, they had paid Griswold to tip them off when it had looked like something actually paranormal was going down, and not the usual phony-baloney crapola that made up ninety-nine percent of the whole.

The reason, as far as Griswold could figure out, was that there was somebody these guys were looking for, and they weren't the only ones. There was this trio of government agents (at least, that was what he
thought
they were) who kept popping up whenever what could be the genuine article lifted its fishy head. All Griswold knew for certain was that undeniably real phenomena were taking place here and there, and that it was somehow connected to this dude who the Scots and the spooks were looking for.

And what was happening on this Gairloch peninsula looked as real as any of this stuff could be. He had heard about the mass sightings of ghosts or aliens through his usual channels, and had made the usual inquiries, only to find out that everyone who was supposed to have seen the things said (when they said anything at all) that it was a crock, and they hadn't seen anything and nobody understood what all the fuss was about, because
nobody
had said anything lately about seeing any ghosts or anything strange at all.

That would have driven most of the reporters off the trail, and probably
had
discouraged some who used sources similar to Griswold's. But Taylor Griswold knew something that the other reporters didn't, and that was that Francis Scobie and a number of his friends had flown to Scotland and were headed right to the spot where all these supposedly
rumored
ghost sightings had been made.

That was enough for Griswold. He had come over as soon as he had found out about Scobie and had tracked him down to Castle Dirk. Christ, what a great headline
that
was going to make: "HORROR AT CASTLE DIRK!" After all, he might as well expose whatever there was to expose. Scotty-boy had cut him off the payroll, so there wasn't any reason to avoid pissing him off. Of course, the death threat Scobie had made when he had last seen him made Griswold tread a bit lightly, but Scobie probably hadn't been serious, and even if he did catch him snooping around, Griswold felt confident enough to talk his way out of anything.

As if all this wasn't proof enough that some heavy shit was coming down, Griswold had spotted one of the three feds in the town, proof positive that there was going to be a paranormal convention pretty damned soon. It was the tall older guy Griswold had seen from his car, and he was sure the guy hadn't spotted him. He had thought about following him, but they had nailed him before when he had tried to tail them, and he didn't want to take the chance again. Besides, he wanted to find out what Scobie and his fellow kiltie-boys were after.

So here he was, making his way over a pile of fallen stones into Castle Dirk. He'd have felt like Errol Flynn if he hadn't been so damn cold and wet and pissed off. But he had always said he'd go anywhere for a story, and damned if this wasn't proving him an honest man . . . at least about his word.

He couldn't turn on his flashlight here, but the light coming through the castle's grimy windows was bright enough to let him see an opening that led between the buildings and into the inner courtyard, or whatever they called it. He moved through, hugging the wall, thinking that no one could see him in the darkness, and that if anyone did, the rain provided so much motion in the air, they might not even realize he was a man.

Now he was inside the courtyard, and there were a number of windows that were lit up. Still, he saw no sign of motion from within. Keeping his head down, he moved to the closest window, crouched below the bottom of the frame, and listened. He thought he could hear, over the rushing sound of the rain, men's voice coming from somewhere, probably inside.

He slowly raised his head until it was at the bottom corner of the window frame. Then he tilted it and moved it up diagonally so that as small a segment of his head as possible might be visible from inside. At last he could see inside, and there in the dusty glass was his own reflection, lit from inside, his own eye looking back at him.

But then that staring eye blinked when he didn't.

When his eyes went wide with shock, the eye on the other side of the glass narrowed like that of a predator about to strike. Then suddenly men were grabbing him and pulling him away from the window, and he felt himself falling back onto the wet stones and being dragged through the rain while men cursed around him.

Then there was light, and the rain stopped, and he was hauled to his feet and pushed down a corridor and into the room into which he had been peering. There was the man he knew as Francis Scobie, and some other men he recognized, the ones who had blindfolded him and taken him to see Scobie in the States. The room was large, but furnished spartanly. Plain wooden chairs, a large table, and a small desk. The only sign of decoration was two crossed claymores attached to the stone wall.

"Taylor Griswold," said the big, red-haired Scot called Scobie. "Christ, I should've known you'd show up like a bad penny sooner or later. What do you think you're doing here?"

Griswold tried to smile winningly. "I'm a reporter—I come to where the story takes me." Then he chuckled. "See, I'd heard about the sighting of ghosts around here, and then when I found out that you had come over here, well, I knew there must be more to it than just speculation. I came in here trying to find out how much you knew about all of it. Just wanted to touch base and see if you could fill me in, being as how I've helped you so much in the past."

"And you wouldn't say a thing about us being here, now, would you?"

"You kidding? Of course not. My lips are sealed."

"If you wanted to talk to me, how come you were skulking at the window like a burglar?"

"Well, I just wanted to see who might be with you. Didn't want to walk into . . . an uncomfortable situation."

"You've already done that, laddie, and no mistake. So who else knows we're here?"

Griswold considered telling him about the spook he had seen in Gairloch, then decided against it. The Scot was already pissed enough at him, and he was sure it would be news he didn't want to hear. "Nobody, far as I know," he said.

"And who knows
you're
here?"

"Still nobody. I keep my contacts confidential, you know that."

Griswold had been watching Scobie all this time, so the voice speaking right in his ear was such a shock that he could not help but flinch. "The only true silent ones are the dead."