Страница 30 из 114
Chapter Six
Colonel Hamish Ogilvie stepped out of the helicopter and headed for the laboratory's main entrance. His aide de camp scrambled out in his wake, while a detachment of troopers spread out around the site in a defensive cordon. A chap from Whitehall followed, one of the undersecretaries of the Home Office, a slightly rabbity and officious bureaucrat named Thornton Hargrove who had spent the entire journey up from London delineating the flaws, faults, and morally ambiguous antecedents of the SAS in general and Captain Stirling in particular. Ogilvie, weighing the pros and cons of tossing him out through the cargo doors, had finally snapped, "It's your chaps who vetted this terrorist and cleared her for top secret work. If you haven't the decency to admit your mistake, kindly refrain from blacking the reputation of the man trying to salvage this mess!"
Hargrove sputtered for several seconds, then clamped his lips shut and fell blessedly silent. Dawn had scarcely touched the Highland hills when Ogilvie stepped through the laboratory's main door, held open by a bleary-eyed, worried young man who introduced himself as Marc Blundell. "We haven't telephoned the constables, yet," Blundell said, "Captain Stirling told us not to until you'd arrived."
"Quite right," Ogilvie nodded. "Let's see it, then."
He went through the entire lab, examining everything, and had his aide photograph the entire facility. Hargrove stalked along in his wake, yammering more blithering idiocies about SAS incompetence. Ogilvie was more interested in Bre
The first, faint glimmerings of unease came when Ogilvie was examining Bre
The clincher came twenty minutes later, when one of Ogilvie's troopers, searching the perimeter of the site, came across a sodden bundle of cloth thrust under a rock at the bottom of a small stream which rushed past one corner of the property. "It's a woman's coat, sir," the man said, snapping out a salute. "No bloodstains on it, but there's a gun in the pocket."
Ogilvie fished the gun out using the barrel of an inkpen, never touching the weapon with his hand. There was, indeed, a gun in the coat, a wicked little Makarov 9 mm. "Now why the devil would Bre
Thornton Hargrove had blundered up behind him, slipping in the treacherous mud and cursing in his high and irritating voice. Hargrove said, "A knife is a better weapon to send a message of terror with. I'm surprised you don't know that."
Ogilvie glanced around. "Really? Now the IRA is very good at sending messages with their weapons. Generally, they do so with car bombs and suchlike, trying to blow up the Queen Mother, taking out an entire street of British office buildings, leveling some Orangemen's favorite pub. Car bombs and AR-180s are their hallmarks. The one thing I have not seen them do is hack some man to pieces with a butcher's knife. Not when they've access to a perfectly serviceable firearm."
Hargrove sputtered again, turning red from the hairline down. Ogilvie studied the sopping coat, carefully slipping the Makarov back into its pocket. "And why, for the love of Mary, would she bother to hike out here in a drenching downpour and bury this at the bottom of a streambed? There isn't a sign of blood anywhere on it—and there should be, if she stabbed Beckett to death. Nor can I imagine her taking it off and burying it, with gun in pocket, before killing him with the knife—yet there's no blood on this coat, and a great deal of it on her blouse and skirt, which were under the coat. It makes no sense."
Ba
"I want a background sweep on Cedric Ba
His aide scrambled for the helicopter and its shielded radio equipment.
Ogilvie stalked back toward the lab while a cold fear grew in his heart that Trevor Stirling had gone into the past in pursuit of the wrong terrorist.
It is perhaps a hundred sixty kilometers, straight-line, from Stirling, Scotland, to the site of the Sixth Legion's ancient stronghold at Carlisle, in England's border country, which Trevor Stirling eventually deduced must be the fortress Artorius was heading toward. His use of kilometers confused his host, who had never heard of metrics, of course, and resisted thinking in meters and centimeters and kilometers. Stirling realized it would not only be easier for him, as a twenty-first-century man, to think in terms of miles and feet and inches—he'd at least heard of them and knew approximately what each measurement meant—it would also be far safer if he stopped thinking in metrics, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. One slip-up in Bre
So he started the laborious process of allowing Ancelotis' way of measuring things to filter into his mind, recasting the distance from Stirling to Carlisle as a hundred miles, more or less, as the crow flies. Ancelotis and Artorius didn't call it Carlisle, of course, another difference Stirling had to get used to. They called it Caerleul. The Romans had called the winter-camp fortress Luguvalium, and later, Caer-Ligualid, names Stirling dredged up from rusty memory. Caer-Ligualid—eventually shortened in colloquial use to Caerleul—was close to the western terminus of Hadrian's Wall, down on the Scottish border. He cast back through everything he'd ever read or heard about Roman settlements in Scotland and the border counties, from public school and university courses, from tour guides, from family holidays to museums and ruins, from road signs and chance remarks made by shopkeepers and pub owners, and dredged up a few tidbits of his own to add to Ancelotis' memories.
There were two additional forts between Carlisle and the coast, far less important to the Romans than Luguvalium, itself, which had been winter headquarters of the Sixth Legion as far back as 127 a.d. or so. Three and a half centuries Artorius' stronghold had already existed, squarely astride the crossroads of the major Roman roads through western Scotland and England. Stirling was betting Luguvalium was just as important to the Briton defenses as it had been to the Roman ones, a notion Ancelotis confirmed.
Aye, the king of Gododdin agreed, Caerleul is our greatest stronghold in the north. So long as we hold Caerleul, the Saxons will never take substantial ground from the northern Briton tribes. From Caerleul and Gododdin, we can thunder down on any army trying to enter from north, west, east or south, and meet them in force within a handful of days—and the Saxons well know it. As do the Irish and the Picts. Why else do you suppose Cutha wants alliance with Rheged? He hopes to probe our defenses at Caerleul and find a way to betray our fortress into his father's hands, which would give them free rein in the south and a great chunk of the north.