Legacy of the Highlands (37 page)

Diego wrapped his arms around her, slid his
hands down her back and held her, just held her, for a long time.
He never wanted to let go of the woman whose feelings and desires
were suddenly more important than his own.

His body’s heat and the sound of his
heartbeat soothed her until she abruptly broke the embrace and
turned away.

“Look at me, Alex. Please look at me.”

She turned to face him. Her jade gaze never
wavered as she met eyes as dark as espresso. She waited until he
was ready to speak again.

“I once promised that I would never do
anything to hurt you and I meant it. If you ask me to call it off,
I will.”

She knew what that concession cost him and
she buried her face in his neck, inhaling his scent. “You’d do that
for me?”

“Yes,” he said as he gently stroked her hair.
“I don’t ever want to cause you pain.”

Her decision was instantaneous. “This man
robbed us of someone we both loved and stole Will’s future. I’ve
discovered a surprising barbaric streak in myself and that part of
me wants the same thing you do. He has to die. But I don’t ever
want to know how Serge does it. Okay? Promise me. Never.”

“I promise,” he murmured as he slid the robe
from her shoulder and they lost themselves in the healing power of
each other’s bodies.

“It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it, James?” Michael
Graham said cheerfully as he let himself into Mackinnon’s darkened
shop fifteen minutes before the scheduled 8 p.m. conference
call.

“I’m glad one of us is in fine spirits
tonight, but what have you got to be so chipper about, Michael?”
the old man growled. He shifted and the ancient desk chair creaked
under his weight. The cramped office’s dim lighting cast shadows
over Mackinnon’s face as he raised his eyes to give Graham a
cursory look. He was feeling his age. He was tired of plots,
fearful for his jailed son and fugitive grandson, fed up with the
whole damn mess. He wanted to go back to simply blathering about
Scotland’s shoddy treatment by her English rulers and let things
be. Maybe he would sell his shop, buy a simple croft in the
Highlands, and live out the rest of his days in peace. The idea had
appeal.

“Are you daydreaming man or are you hammered
again?” demanded Michael irritably.

“I’ve had nary a drop since you left. I’m
tired is all. You’ll remember I had little sleep last night what
with your Mairi’s visit and then waiting outside that posh hotel
for the Americans to show themselves,” said a peeved Mackinnon as
he grabbed for the Bounty bar stashed in a desk drawer. He hoped
the coconut and chocolate confection would provide him with enough
energy for the next hour or so. Then he’d want his bed.

“I stopped by that hotel on my way here and
was told that the American that Mairi was over the moon about is
still there, but his friends — the so-called Sloanes — checked out
this afternoon, likely right before they came to see you,” said
Graham. “I tried to persuade Mairi to pop by to question this Steve
Spencer, or whoever the hell he is, but my daughter is sulking and
wants nothing to do with the man, the stubborn bitch. Just like her
mother, she is,” he snarled.

“How can you call your own daughter and wife
such names, Michael?”

“I can if I wish to. They’re mine. But that’s
no matter,” he replied, then picked up where he’d left off. “The
desk clerk told me he offered to book a hotel for the handsome
American couple at their next destination, but they had no idea
where they were off to. I should have dropped everything and found
a way to pick up their trail. Or, once we knew their identity, one
of us should have been watching them. Now we don’t know where they
are or what they intend to do.” Graham restlessly roamed the
office, pausing only long enough to study the photos of Alex and
Diego as if their images might reveal their whereabouts.

“Aye, well, that’s not good, is it?”
Mackinnon frowned as he waited for Graham to continue.

“No, it’s not, James. This Navarro or bastard
son of John Cameron — I don’t care what he calls himself — must be
taken care of and soon. From what you said of his visit, he has the
determination and money to do us great harm. We need to find him,
but damned if I know how to do that,” Graham snarled as he stomped
from one side of the small office to the other. “ Christ, man, how
can you work in here? I feel like I’m in a cage. I’ll be out
front.”

“Wait a minute, Michael. Shall I see if the
others are ready?” Graham checked his watch, saw that it was two
minutes before eight and nodded, his fingers twitching impatiently
as he turned his back on the old man and strode into the business’s
retail space.

Mackinnon punched in the first number. “Is
that you Ian? Hold while I bring John and Duncan aboard.” Mackinnon
continued to press numbers, impressed, despite himself, with the
easy efficiency of British Telephone’s conferencing set up. Of
course it was a Scot, Alexander Graham Bell, who’d invented the
telephone in the first place, so obviously the thing was
brilliant.

“Good evening gentlemen,” said Graham as he
lifted the extension and took charge of the meeting. “We have a
problem, a big one and I’ll come straight to it. Will Cameron
wasn’t the traitor Cameron’s only son.”

A chorus of gasps, exclamations and a couple
of curses met the revelation that Graham delivered so
dispassionately. He ignored their reaction and continued before he
was bombarded with questions. “We’ve learned that Cameron also
fathered a bastard, a man named Diego Navarro, who showed up in
James’ shop today and threatened him. The dead mans’s widow was
with him and this Navarro hinted that he knew who killed his
brother. He also left behind proof that he is precisely who he
claims to be. We must decide how to proceed and it must be done
quickly. I want to hear what each of you thinks we should do. John
Malcolm? What say you?”

“Blast it to hell is what I say,” responded
John. “I knew things had gone too smoothly. I’m not one to cry over
spilt milk, but if ye recall I argued against this murder. It was
just a matter of time before this came back to bite us in the
arse.”

“I didn’t ask for a bloody lecture!” Graham
snapped. He didn’t want the others to know how unnerved he was by
Diego’s sudden presence, but his irritated response spoke for
itself.

“Aye, well…let’s see. How we proceed is not a
simple question, Michael, is it?” stalled John. “When we met at
Elgin Cathedral after the deed was done, James told us that Will
Cameron had a formidable friend who we should fear more than the
dead lad’s father. It’s this Diego Navarro isn’t it?”

“Aye, ‘tis,” replied Mackinnon.

“If this man already told the police about
us, we’d have been rounded up by now,” Duncan Buchanan chimed in.
He patted the gun at his side to reassure himself of its presence.
“That tells me that he will do whatever he has in mind without
involving the law. Did you get the impression, James, that he’s
capable of violence?”

“Violence of the very worst kind. I felt like
I was looking into the face of Satan himself. This man would like
nothing better than to dance a jig on my grave, on all of our
graves,” said Mackinnon who shivered as he recalled Diego’s threat
to watch with pleasure as one by one they were drawn and
quartered.

Ian interrupted. “How can one man, however
mighty he may be, do anything to five men — six if we count young
Jamie. Be reasonable, man! We’re scattered in different parts of
the country. I can’t believe he knows who all of us are. We’ve been
too careful. I say he’s bluffing and we should go on as we were, as
if nothing is amiss.”

“Ian’s right. One man and the Cameron woman
pose no danger to us...unless they go to the law with their
suspicions,” added John Malcolm. “Might they have accomplices
here?”

“They may. My Mairi recently met an American
businessman here in Inverness. When she saw him with Navarro and
the Cameron woman, he used phony names when he introduced them to
the girl. Why would someone do that unless he isn’t who he says he
is and is up to no good? Answer me that, will you,” said
Graham.

“We need to discover what he means to do so
we can protect ourselves,” added John.

“I agree. I’ll have a chat with this American
— Steve Spencer is the name he goes by — and persuade him to tell
me how he’s connected to Navarro,” said Graham.

“And what makes you think he would he talk to
you?” asked Ian.

“He may not want to, but he will…he will,”
said Graham confidently as he lifted his pants leg to reveal the
dagger sheathed above his ankle. “I don’t believe there’s any
immediate danger to us, but we must stay alert. If you’ve a weapon
in your home, even a knife, keep it handy. We’ll do another call
like this at 7 a.m. tomorrow and I’ll want your ideas. By then I’ll
have had my talk with Mairi’s American.”

Duncan had more to worry about than the
others and wasn’t ready to ring off. “Since mine is a safe house,
I’m responsible for young Jamie. He’s off camping for a few days.
Shall I warn him?”

“Let the lad be for now,” Michael Graham
ordered. “If anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

As soon as he heard Graham boast that he had ways to
persuade “Steve Spencer” to talk, Serge coolly gathered the few
things he hadn’t already loaded in his car. He’d planned to leave
for the coast in the morning, but couldn’t allow Michael Graham to
find him when he came to the hotel to question Mairi’s “friend.” He
was fond of the girl and the generous way she’d shared her luscious
body with him, and he didn’t want to be forced to kill her father.
Mairi would suffer enough when her friend Jamie vanished and her
father was arrested.

He had names, dates, addresses — everything
the British authorities would need to round up these men and charge
them with conspiracy or worse. And he knew just where to find this
Jamie Mackinnon. Serge methodically checked the room one last time,
then left the hotel through a side door, his immediate objective to
get to the murderer’s campsite before the young man was ordered to
move on. He checked his watch — 9 p.m. If he made it to the coast
by 1 a.m., he’d have adequate time to scope out the cliffs. He’d
then backtrack to Boddam village where he expected to easily find
the condemned man asleep on the beach. Nice of the fools to
unwittingly provide him with that bit of information and save him a
search. He wasn’t worried that the conspirators had been warned to
remain alert and arm themselves. He’d dealt with much worse.

Michael Graham stormed into the Palace Hotel and
took the stairs two at a time to reach the second floor suite
occupied by his daughter’s American friend. He would have bet his
youngest child’s life that Steve Spencer wasn’t who he pretended to
be, so sure was he that the man was a fraud and involved somehow
with Cameron’s illegitimate son. He reluctantly admired the
whoreson’s nerve to first work his charm on Mairi and then to have
the ballocks to come to their house to sit at his family’s table
and eat his food! He wouldn’t hesitate to use his knife if that’s
what it took to learn the man’s true identity and intentions. And
if it turned out that Steve Spencer was exactly who he claimed to
be, Michael vowed to beat him bloody anyway for playing fast and
loose with his Mairi.

“Room service,” Michael announced. No answer.
His knock became more insistent. Silence. When he cautiously tried
the door, he found it unlocked. He opened it just wide enough to
peek inside and saw the vacant room of someone who hasn’t simply
gone out, but who has left for good.

“Damn it to hell,” Michael muttered and tore
downstairs to the lobby. He shoved startled guests aside as he
cornered the hotel clerk who’d fed him information before.

“The man in 218, is he gone?”

The flustered clerk tapped his computer keys
with trembling fingers. “Mr. Spencer hasn’t checked out. His last
instructions were that he wasn’t to be disturbed, but that was this
afternoon.”

Graham’s heart began to pound as if he’d just
run a race. Something beyond his control was happening and for the
first time since they’d hatched the plan to punish John Cameron by
killing his son, Michael Graham was scared. He needed to order the
others to go to ground for a bit, starting with Duncan Buchanan who
was charged with protecting young Jamie Mackinnon. If the lad was
caught and talked...well, they’d all be dead. Once he did his bit
and alerted everyone, Michael would use the phony passport and
counterfeit credit cards he had at the ready to disappear without
giving a second thought to the family and friends he’d leave
behind.

Few cars were making the late night journey to the
coast on the pitch-dark roadway. Although the powerful V8 engine of
his rented black Range Rover would have delivered whatever he asked
of it, Serge fought the temptation to speed. He still made good
time, arriving near the cliffs a little past midnight. Unlike many
other operatives, he wasn’t superstitious, yet he considered it a
good omen that a shroud of coastal fog would obscure his
movements.

He avoided the deserted car park at the base
of the cliffs south of Boddam and left his vehicle behind a nearby
abandoned shack where it wouldn’t arouse the curiosity of passers
by, especially the law. The rocky precipices were no place for a
midnight stroll and the area was most likely patrolled to prevent
the kind of accident he was about to cause. He easily found the
start of a narrow trail that led uphill. Several “DANGER” signs
warned hikers to keep their distance from the perilous cliffs’
edge, although the roar of the surf was all the warning any sane
person should need.

Serge paused beside each marker to carefully
evaluate the terrain and the drop-off as he sought the perfect
spot. The coastal fog’s moisture provided an assist by turning the
narrow footpath along the steep rock face’s unfenced rim to mud.
He’d already lost his footing once. Luckily he’d landed on his ass
and not in the water, but the fall put an exclamation mark on the
need for caution. Yeah, he thought with satisfaction, the trail was
slippery enough to make an accident not just believable, but
inevitable. The place and conditions were better than he’d
imagined. And the turbulent sea’s deafening roar as it crashed into
rocky inlets below would muffle any scream the target might make
should he regain consciousness before he hit the water. Assured by
his reconnaissance, Serge jogged back to his car and headed north
to find his prey.