Queen Victoria's Revenge (12 page)

He had done it! The guard, seeing now that he was a man of some substance and wealth despite his clothes, smiled and opened the door for him. While Tony had been in the bank the clouds had been whipped away and the cheerful sunlight reflected from the damp pavement and the puddles. When he strolled up, the girl in the haberdashers opened the door for him and he looked beyond her to the racks and drawers.

“Do you have raincoats?” he asked. She arched her eyebrows at this—does the Sahara have sunglasses?—and pointed to a heavily laden rack.

“We do a fine line of raincoats, sir. What sort would you like?”

This opportunity to stave off pneumonia and improve his appearance was too good to miss. A gray knitted sweater—was it really spring here?—a clean shirt along with a tweed tie to match his cap, a package of handkerchiefs and a change of underwear. Life was looking better.

“They lost my luggage,” he explained. “Never caught up with me.”

“Happened to my mother in Edinburgh.”

With this gratuitous commiseration working for him he used the changing room to do just that while she added up his purchases. He paid gladly from inside his waterproof and woolly womb. “You don't have a razor, soap, you know?”

“Just along here at the chemists, they'll have what you need.”

“I'll do that. And could you tell me, I know it sounds funny hut you lose track, you know this is Monday so it must be Rome sort of thing, but—where am I?”

“In Urquhart, haberdashers,” she responded briskly.

“No, I mean—what
city?”

Most of the warmth was gone from her voice now. “Campbeltown, Argyll.” Then, as an afterthought as she closed the door quickly after him, “That's in Scotland.” Her eyes widened in fear and she stepped back a pace when she saw his foot was holding the door open. He clutched the paper bag of discarded clothes to him and attempted a friendly smile.

“I was pretty sure I was in Scotland. I even drove here with friends from Glasgow. But I have to hurry back. Could you tell me where the train station is?”

“No train here, none at all. The Duke of Argyll never liked trains.” She was frightened. “But there is the plane to Glasgow. Afternoon flight leaves in ten minutes.” The door closed firmly as he removed his foot.

Plane! Too good to be true. But ten minutes—where was the airport? And how was he to get there? He looked around wildly and saw trundling slowly toward him, the answer to a secret wish, a stubby black car with the single word
TAXI
glowing on its roof. When he waved his arm it swung neatly up to the curb beside him.

“Can you take me to the airport?”

The driver, wearing a cloth cap very much like his, peered out at him through a great wealth of curling beard that merged into bushy sideburns. Hair even sprouted on the tops of his cheekbones. The eyes blinked a few times as the unusual request was considered, with the result that he produced a seemingly reluctant, “Aye.”

“Can you get me there in ten minutes?” Tony tore at the door handle and flung himself into the back seat. “I have to make the plane going to Glasgow.”

This took more consideration and, after a long pause, the driver said, “I make no promises,” then shifted into gear.

It was not a long ride, which was a good thing since the cab was of venerable years and hurled itself down the road at a magnificent fifteen miles an hour; Tony would have preferred an engine overhaul to the cut-glass vase of flowers in the passenger compartment. In stately splendor they trundled out of Campbeltown and down a road through the fields that apparently led only to the Machrihanish Royal Air Force Base. This mystery was explained when, just before entering the base itself, the road turned off and skirted the end of the runway, following the signs to the British European Airways Terminal. Another turn in the road revealed a traffic light, just turning red, and the taxi slowed to a stop. The ten minutes must be up, the plane must be leaving by now! Tony banged on the glass divider, then scratched it open with his fingernails.

“Drive on—I must make that plane. There aren't any cars coming.”

“Can't do that. Can't pass a red light. And no cars coming because this is no a road. It's for the plane to cross.”

A grade crossing for planes; Scotland had not revealed all its secrets yet. But this meant the plane was leaving. “Leaving!” he cried aloud. “I've missed it.”

“No, just coming in. A wee bit late today. This happens sometimes.”

With this reassurance Tony relaxed, settling back into the cushions, hearing the roar of approaching engines, prepared to watch the leviathan of the airways taxi past, his transport of delight that would bear him to safety.

Louder the engines roared and there, no more than a dozen feet from him, waddled by the most incredibly ugly aircraft he had ever seen.

It looked like a boxcar with wings. The sides were perfectly flat, tipping not the slightest nod to streamlining, the tricycle landing gear permanently fastened into place. A single wing fixed to the top of the boxcar had squared off ends, as did the vertical rudders of the double tail. With a futile attempt at decoration these were adorned with painted-on bits of the British flag. All of this incredible apparatus, which; looked like something assembled from a breakfast cereal box, was powered by two tiny engines that industriously, and noisily, whirred the propellers. This apparition lumbered away and the light changed to green.

“What was … that?” Tony asked hoarsely.

The driver, who had obviously been asked the question before, in the same tone of voice, nodded gloomily.

“It's called the Short Skyliner, but folks here call it by other names. Holds fifteen passengers, or twelve with luggage. There used to be a big beautiful Trident flew from here to Glasgow. Och! Took it off, the English did, and found this thing.”

He pronounced the word
English
as though it were a curse word, and perhaps it was. Tony wondered if the driver could possibly be a member of the underground nationalists, then decided not to worry about it. They pulled up to the small wooden building of the terminal at the same time as the plane and he hurriedly paid the taxi fare then rushed to the ticket counter.

“You are in luck, sir,” the charming counter attendant said, all green eyes, red hair, freckles and cheering smile. “Just one seat left. I hope you don't have any luggage?” Her smile faded to a slight frown. Forewarned, he told her no and waved the paper bag as his only possession. The smile returned, the ticket was issued and he joined the other passengers at the boarding door.

It was very much like traveling by winged stagecoach. The incoming passengers climbed out, hurriedly it seemed to him, clambering down the inside of the door, which, swung from ropes and hinged at the bottom, proved to have steps on its inside face. An attendant, strap of uniform cap under his chin to keep it from blowing away in the arctic wind that had sprung up suddenly, went to the flat rear of the plane, where a stagecoach would have a luggage boot, and slid open the door to the luggage boot. Then the boarding passengers were waved forward and Tony stepped out briskly with the others. After all, the thing had gotten here safely from Glasgow so, presumably, it could return there in the same manner.

He had been assigned a window seat; he wondered if it really would be a good idea to look out. Buckling in, he clutched his package to him. The ground attendant clambered by and passed a sheaf of papers to the pilot, clearly visible through an open curtain a few feet forward, and gave him the cheerful news as well that the boot was closed.

This was it, the moment of truth. The engines roared to hideous, vibrating life. The attendant left the plane and began to close the door—then opened it again. He had to shout over the sound:

“Is Mr. Duncan McMillan here?”

Tony's seat mate, a stern man in a stern black suit, turned to the question and, after some murmuring, left the plane. But he returned quickly and the door was closed behind him and he sat again next to Tony, who was looking out the window at the wildly whipping grass on the field.

It wasn't until they were taxiing out that Tony turned to look at his seat mate and saw that the stern Duncan McMillan had not returned after all.

Willy, the bespectacled man from the house in Carradale, was sitting there in his stead.

NINE

Tony would have leapt to his feet had he not been restrained by the seat belt. Instead he vibrated and thrashed in place, staring unbelievingly at the man, who only smiled in return. “Willy Fraser is my name, you'll recall we met once before.” He nodded at the answering silence. “Anthony Hawkin is your name, I do believe. Look there, what a magnificent view, a perfect day for flying.”

While his attention had been diverted the plane's engines had buzzed like insane bees and had pulled the craft bodily into the air. The slate rooftops and blue harbor of Campbeltown were slipping by under them as they clawed vigorously upward while ahead over the channel, a craggy island came into view.

“Arran,” Willy said, noticing Tony's attention. “A very mountainous place. There's the highest peak here, Goat Fell, almost three thousand feet. Much of Scotland is like that.” He cleared his throat and quoted: “‘O, Caledonia! Stern and wild,' that's Sir Walter Scott of course. ‘Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood.' It's a fine country we have here, Mr. Hawkin, so I hope you'll no be doing anything to try to hurt it.”

“Me? All I want to do with Scotland is to leave it. It wasn't my idea to visit Scotland—or England either for that matter.”

“I'm sorry about that. Scotland's a bonny fair place when you get to know it. It will be my pleasure to tell you more of its history when we return.”

“No fast talking, Fraser. I'm on my way to London and I'll bet planes fly there all the time from Glasgow.”

“They do. But it is my unhappy duty to tell you that you won't be on any of them. There will be a car waiting for us and we'll drive back tonight.”

“You can't make me!”

“Me! Och, no. I'm more of a talker than a doer. There'll be a few wee lads waiting for us. I just came along to tell you not to do anything foolish.”

“That's nice of you.” Tony looked out of the window that now revealed nothing except unbroken cloud. Rain beat against the glass. “I don't see what you want me for.”

Willy chuckled dryly. “You
do
have a sense of humor. But I'm afraid your friend the colonel with the long name has told us everything. He has been most co-operative.”

“Juarez-Sedoño?” Willy nodded. “Did he also tell you that he and his thugs kidnapped me and forced me to come to Scotland?”

“That's not
quite
the way he relates it. After all, we have plenty of witnesses who saw the two of you walking and drinking together in Carradale. We know now you were in on the plot from the beginning and you also know how to dispose of the money…”

“He's lying! Or mad—or both.”

“Is he? He said you were carrying part of the ransom money, and we know you cashed some of it today.”

Tony's hand made an inadvertent movement toward his pocket, watched keenly by Willy. He jerked it away angrily. “That's not true. Or not the whole truth, I can explain everything.”

“We hope you will, Mr. Hawkin, as soon as we get back.”

“I won't go.”

“It will be a shame if you do not change your mind; I don't like violence since I'm no man of violence myself. But there are times when it is needed, the ends justify the means, and this appears to be one of the times.”

“Oh no they don't.” Tony clutched the seat arms as the plane fought its way through solid-seeming clouds. “There are no ends—just means. And yours are pretty dirty—first skyjacking, then murder.”

“I regret that as much as you do. It was all the doing of Angus Macpherson, who was an angry and violent man, God rest his soul. It was an unhappy accident when the Cuban died. But many have died for Scotland, and many more will do so in the future. Since 1746 we have been an occupied country, under control of a foreign power, the longest occupation of a country in the world's history. But now we're fighting back and neither you, nor anyone else, will stand in the way.”

He was breathing heavily when he finished saying this, and his glasses were fogging up. He took them off—his eyes were amazingly mild in juxtaposition to the fierceness of his arguments—and polished them on his handkerchief. The pilot's voice rattled loudly through the loudspeaker:

“We have now reached our cruising altitude of thirteen thousand feet. Please see that your safety belts are fastened because we will be coming in for a landing at Glasgow Airport.”

Tony glanced at his watch. Wonderful, fifteen minutes to claw their way to this dizzy altitude—and now they were coming down to land. Patches of land were visible through the cloud, coming closer, and he wondered how to get out of this one. The Scots had the colonel—he hadn't been in the VW after all—and were obviously putting him to the question. The colonel was lying like a trooper and seeing that everyone was involved except himself. This cooperation was not healthy and Tony had no desire at all to be interrogated by their joint forces. Houses tilted up under the wing and they dropped sharply. A long runway swung into view and the plane hurled itself down toward it, bucking and pitching in the gusty wind. Tony knew his last moments had come. To die so far away from home!

With energetic countermovements the pilot fought the Skyliner across the sky, lifting a wing that tried to jam into the ground and forcing the careening machine to obey his will. A last effort sent them to the runway on a fairly level basis and the wheels touched. Braking and reversed propellers brought them to an immediate crawl and they taxied toward the terminal. It was raining again. Tony knew what he had to do. While those about him were involved in unbuckling their belts and all the bustle of leaving he pushed his wallet into the crack of the seat cushion.