Siege of Stone Page 11

  "And how do you intend to free political terrorists from the most well-guarded prisons in the British Isles?"

  "Oh, I have my ways. Believe me, it will be quite simple, and the results will be nothing short of spectacular. You see, I intend to just walk into the prisons, introduce myself to the prisoners, and walk them out again."

  "Ah," said Colin. The creature was insane after all. "And who's going to open the doors for you then?"

  "Doors? Did I say anything about using doors? But don't you worry your head about that. You just make a little list for me. You list all the Scottish terrorists now in prison that you would like on your side."

  Colin frowned. "That won't take long. There frankly aren't all that many . . . imprisoned Scottish terrorists."

  "But you were just bragging about this wonderful network you have."

  "Aye, we have the network, but there's been little activity. A couple of nutters who went off on their own, calling in reports of bombs under motorway bridges and in train stations, copycatting the IRA, mucking up the transport, and messing about with the tourist business."

  "Ah, phone pranks. Dangerous men, indeed."

  "A few planted bombs," Colin said defensively, then admitted, "Some didn't go off, some did, but to little effect."

  "So do you want them freed at all?" Mulcifer laughed, and Colin felt his face grow red. "They sound like more trouble than they're worth. I'll tell you what, why don't I free some of these Irish boyos? They sound like they've got more experience than your little soccer hooligans."

  "And why would IRA men do any favors for Scotland? We're bloody Protestants to them."

  "For gratitude," said Mulcifer. "The cost of their freedom is one job for Scotland, and then they're on their own to bomb Belfast to their little hearts' content. Again, you leave that to me. As you know, I can be . . . persuasive. What I want you to do is make a wish list of, say, a dozen men in Irish and English prisons who you'd want working for you, in the order of their relative desirability—in terms of terror, that is. I know you're a man's man all the way."

  "And assuming you can get them out of prison without getting caught, then what?"

  "What do you want, O laird and master?"

  "I'd not want them brought here to the castle. They could be given their directives elsewhere."

  "A good idea. That way they can't ever betray their former emancipator. I don't know if their fabled loyalty extends to Scots. I'll also need to know where these men are held, and I'll need plans of the prisons along with the locations of the cells, so I won't have to wander around until I find them. Can you do that?"

  Colin nodded sharply. "But I can tell you right now the single man I'd want most on our side. His name is Liam Riley, and he's held in Maze Prison in Belfast. He's an artist with explosives, and absolutely ruthless."

  "Good," Mulcifer mused, as if talking to himself. "Bombs are good. Lots of deaths with bombs." Then he brightened, beaming at Colin. "We'll start with Mr. Riley. I assume you and your men can get me over the water to Northern Ireland."

  "Aye, but Belfast is riddled with checkpoints, and they only get worse as you get closer to Maze. It's not like no one's ever tried to break someone out of there before."

  "You let me worry about the checkpoints. As I said, I'm persuasive, and that goes for English soldiers, too."

  "The security's tighter than hell, man."

  "I am hell, man. Now . . ." He rubbed his hands together. "You get your little wish list together and Saint Mulcifer will make your wishes come true. We'll take the first man you want out of Maze and then go on to the next prison, spring someone else, and so on and so forth, romping back and forth through Ireland and England."

  "It'll take time. We'll have to plan an itinerary. I want to be able to send messages to the government, received just after each escape so that they'll know what faction is responsible, set up safe houses for the prisoners..."

  "Trivia. I leave all that in your more than capable hands."

  Colin thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm committing a lot to this. How can I be sure you're not just leading my men into a trap, that you can do what you say you can?"

  "Don't ever doubt me." The smile vanished. "Don't you know what I am? Don't you know the things of which I'm capable? Did your father keep you so ignorant of my powers? I can make your men kill and eat each other. I can even make them kill you, if I wish it."

  "Which brings up the question," Colin said, refusing to be cowed, "why haven't you, then?"

  "Because it does not suit my purposes."

  At this time, thought Mulcifer. Not until you see your dreams go up in the smoke of burning Scottish children. Not until your precious land weeps its way through a thousand Dunblanes. Not until your countrymen curse your name as they would a plague, until Colin Mackay becomes vileness in their mouths and poison in their ears. Scotland will be the heart of my new darkness that will engulf the world, and your home and the home of your damnable father and his fellow jackals will become another name for hell.

  Chapter 17

  It all seemed absolutely suicidal, and Colin told Rob Lindsay so, but Rob was still willing to head the team to get Mulcifer into Ireland. "The crazy bastard wouldn't do it if he didn't think he could get away with it," Rob said. "But I don't see how the shite we're going to be driving away from Maze through British checkpoints with Liam Riley in the car."

  "That's why I'm telling you it's suicide. I won't blame you, Rob, if you don't want to do it."

  "Ah Christ, if it doesn't work I'll be a martyr, and if it does I'll be a legend. How can I lose?"

  Together, Colin, Rob, Angus Gunn, and James Menzies created a list of six men who, once freed, had the knowledge, talents, and ruthlessness to strike hard against England. Three were IRA, two INLA, and the last was a Scottish Nationalist. Two IRA and the INLA men were held in Maze and Maghaberry, but the Scot was in Edinburgh, and the other IRA man, Kevin Brady, was in a small, maximum security prison in northern England. "Brady's crazy as shite," James Menzies said. "They put him in Maze, and the first month he was there he killed two loyalists in his block."

  "They put the IRA in with the loyalists?" Angus asked.

  Colin nodded. "Same block, but separate wings. I guess they figure they'll be so busy watching and hating each other that they won't have any energy left to make trouble with the prison officers. Seems to work pretty well . . . unless you're a prisoner."

  "Or unless you're Kevin Brady," James went on. "Solitary didn't do a thing to him. Soon's he got out, four loyalists jumped him. He crippled two and would've killed them all if the guards hadn't gassed him. They moved him out of Maze, then to Hixton Prison, near York. You don't see another prisoner's face there. Pure solitary."

  "Is the bastard too crazy to be of use to us?" Colin asked.

  "Depends on how effective you think this Mulcifer is. But I suggest we put Brady last on the list. Ultimate weapon kind of thing, aye?"

  The plan went into high gear. While the other men handled the logistics of getting men and vehicles into Ireland and England, Colin wrote the letters that would be sent from remote mailboxes around the United Kingdom when he received word that Mulcifer and the crew were in position for the next jailbreak. The letters did not credit the breaks to any named group, but only stated that they would continue if the demands in the letter were not met. The demands ran on for six pages, but the gist of it was that the English government should extricate itself immediately from any and all Scottish affairs, and an interim government should be appointed by the nominating committee of the Scottish Nationalist Party.

  It was remarkable, Mulcifer thought, how people let politics direct their lives. Countries, governments, rulers—none of it meant a thing when compared to the true meaning of existence, the shedding of blood and the causing of pain.

  He walked alone in the night along the stony beach. The moon shone brightly in the water of the Minch, and he watched the way that its reflected light shimmered with the motion
of the waves. Everything certainly seemed to be working out for the best. First had come freedom, after all those centuries, and then the son of his greatest enemy had fallen into his hands, and given him a great game to play, presented him with a convocation of fools that he could use to deepen the pools of blood he would cause to be shed. Things could scarcely get any better.

  Now he stopped and stood looking at the water. There were, he thought, other sources of beauty in this world besides blood and death. He gazed up to the moon, looking like a great gold eye shining down, watching him.

  Then the moon seemed to tremble, and for a moment he thought that somehow the water had gone up into the sky, and that he was seeing the reflection above him. But then he realized what an impossibly foolish thought that was, and that he had been around human beings too much, that what little facet of his mind that he had called imagination was working overtime, as they put it.

  Then the moon trembled again, and seemed to lengthen vertically, and he froze, feeling true fear for the first time in a millennium. No, he thought, this could not be. There was no way they could know, no way they could have learned.

  The shape formed directly in front of the moon, its own pale glow blotting out the yellow light behind it. He could only stand and watch, not daring to move, as it took on form. It remained motionless for a long moment and then vanished instantly, so that the sky showed only the moon again.

  He watched the sky, but there was no other movement except for the stately drift of the moon and stars and planets. Had they seen him, he wondered, and if they had, how close were they? Far away, no doubt, for if they, rather than their searching images, had been there, they would have taken him immediately.

  No, he thought with relief, however they might have learned of his freedom, they were still far from him. There was still time.

  He turned away, thinking how much he suddenly wanted to draw blood again, to hear a scream, and see the contortions that pain could bring a man.

  They were on their way. Rob and Angus had gone with Mulcifer, leaving Colin and the rest of the men behind at the castle. Rob would call Colin when Mulcifer was ready to go through the final checkpoints and enter Maze Prison.

  Then Colin would have the message to the government, already in the hands of a man in Aberdeen, put into the mail. The first prisoner would be freed and placed in a safe house, and Colin's shadow group would receive the credit. Then they would move on to a man in Maghaberry before returning to Maze, continuing to go from one prison to another until all six men were freed.

  At that point, Colin would meet them and give them their assignments—half a dozen blows against what was left of a pitiful empire, simultaneous blows that would shake England to its core. Colin had already chosen three targets: the Tower of London, accomplished by a well-placed boat on the Thames; the Houses of Parliament, which necessitated a huge charge and the use of subterranean engineering, and, most outrageous of all, the island on which the darling Princess Diana was buried. All could be accomplished late at night, insuring the fewest casualties.

  But such audacity did not come without a price. MI5's counterterrorist division was skilled and tenacious and as ruthless in their pursuit as their quarry. It was altogether possible that the full weight of the law could come down on Colin Mackay and Castle Dirk and all those in his organization. The more people involved, the greater chance there was for informers and quislings. And it was because of that risk that Colin put into effect the plan he had discussed with Rob and James and Angus.

  It took Colin and James and two other men two trips to carry enough C-4 into the cellar. They piled it against the stone wall on which hung the worn coat of arms of the Mackays. That would be the right place. That wall, on the landward side, held up half the structure of the castle.

  Once the charges were set, Colin attached a manual triggering device. Once thrown, there was no hope of reprieve, no cutting wires, as in the movies. The device would allow whoever threw the switch five minutes to evacuate the castle, or, if the enemy outside allowed no escape, five minutes to sit next to the pile of C-4 and think about what you were going to die for.

  When that was finished, Colin at last found himself with some time on his hands. He went to the small study that had been his father's, a bedchamber like the others, but with a small desk. Colin sat down, undid a seal on some papers, and read what his father had left for him with the Inverness solicitors.

  They were all written, probably years before, in his father's broad hand, and said what Colin had thought them likely to say. They stated that since Sir Andrew had now been missing long enough to be considered dead, it fell to his son to carry on his work. And if it so happened that all of Sir Andrew's "brothers" were also gone, then it was up to Colin Mackay to assemble a new group of men, totaling twelve.

  These men should be of the highest moral character, and should come from pure Scots stock, with no traces of any Mediterranean bloodline whatsoever. Even then, they would not be approved for their task until they met within the confines of a place chosen by the Vatican and brought face to face with the Antichrist himself, to ascertain that his wiles would not be effective against them.

  There could be no exception. One man among the twelve that the Antichrist could touch with his evil mind could mean doom for the entire group, and for the world itself, were his influences to remain unchecked. "My son," Colin read, "you are pure. Both I and your mother, my cousin, are in a direct line untouched by the Antichrist's hateful blood."

  Goody for me, Colin thought, as he read on. "And as you know, the cup has made you as immortal as I—but not invulnerable. We can die, but not by disease or the ravages of age. When you find the men to make up the Twelve, find where my body lies, and there you will find the cup. In the Holy City, after the confrontation with the Antichrist, have all the chosen drink from that cup as you did, and you and they shall then be made Knights Templar, and protect the innocent from the wiles of Satan and his servant."

  There was more, equally superstitious and overwrought. At least it explained to Colin why his mind and will were untouchable by Mulcifer. But as for finding others with a similar heritage, it would be damn near impossible. The original twelve had been established in the 1300s. Colin would have had seven centuries more of mingled breeding to deal with. In a way, it was remarkable that every person on the earth was not somehow related by this time. Surely Mulcifer's progeny must be widespread if not universal by now.

  Of course, those concerns presupposed that Colin was actually interested in following his father's directive, while he had no intention of doing so. The whole Templar/Antichrist/ church affair was absurd, the remnants of an older and more foolish age. Whatever Mulcifer was, he was not the Antichrist, and Colin refused to allow his father's beliefs to infect him.

  What was his father so enthusiastic about preserving innocence for in the first place? Even though he was a classic example of religious mania, he had ruined the innocence of Colin's mother by taking her virginity when they were unmarried. He had married her once he had learned she was pregnant, taking a ship back from South America to ensure that he would arrive in Scotland in time to prevent his son's illegitimacy. That was the last thought that Andrew Mackay had ever had for his son's welfare, except perhaps for his giving him the immortality of the cup.

  Still, in both cases, Sir Andrew's thoughts had been more on himself. The offer of the cup had had behind it the ulterior motive of the preservation of his precious Templars. And making Colin's birth legitimate was born of Catholic guilt. Yielding to his lust had been a sin, but having a bastard child would have been a greater one.

  Besides, what did marriage mean to an immortal, anyway? The woman would be old and dead soon enough. Sir Andrew had never offered his wife the cup, and that omission told Colin that he had never loved her.

  Colin knew that his father had never loved him, either. His constant absences told him that. Of course, Sir Andrew gave his excuses that business kept him away from his family, bu
t Colin's mother had told him the truth about what his father's business was. The seeming romance and mystery of it were what had seduced her in the first place, like Othello's tales of adventure had seduced Desdemona.

  His father had told him the entire story when Colin had become a man, and when he had turned thirty, Sir Andrew had offered him the cup. Colin had taken it less for the promise of immortality than because it was the first thing his father had ever truly given him that meant something. And having just seen his mother die slowly of cancer was another spur to a disease-free longevity.

  Nearly seventy years had passed since then, and he had seen his father less than once a decade. Sir Andrew had provided him with money, large amounts of it, and had shown him during their infrequent meetings how a man who lives long enough can become very rich indeed, even by investing conservatively. Colin had grown rich quickly and had become even richer. He still received a hefty sum every month from his father's trust funds, funneled through a number of international accounts designed to hide both father's and son's true identities.

  That was something else his father had taught him, that governments tended to look with suspicion upon people who lived for several hundred years without dying or aging. Sir Andrew changed his identity every generation as a matter of course, and Colin had done the same. His closest associates still knew his true name, and thought that the Francis Scobie alias had been created simply to evade the attention of England's counterterrorist division.