Siege of Stone Read online

The press was being informed that the escapes were carried out by large teams of men disguising themselves as prison officers to infiltrate the prisons, and British soldiers to facilitate the escapes once the prisoners were free of the walls. The government was taking an enormous amount of flak over not being able to secure the facilities properly so that impostors could not intrude.

  But that was nothing, the memo said, to the amount it would take were it to be discovered that the escapes had been carried out by a single man and a getaway car. The counterterrorism head apologized abjectly for having to make this report, but the facts were that of all the witnesses questioned, and they numbered in the dozens, all reported the same details.

  All the escapes had occurred between midnight and 4:30 A.M. The escaping prisoner was suddenly seen by the witnesses in the company of another person, showing up in whatever wing of the prison housed their political and religious rivals. They were always holding hands.

  There was no good description of the accessory to the escape, because even during the same event, some men reported him to be short and stocky, others tall and thin; some dark-haired, some blond. There was not even any consensus on the accessory's race or sex. Some prisoners and guards saw a woman, and some a black woman. One saw an Asian man.

  Admittedly, it sounded insane, but the reports existed, and there was absolutely no evidence of collusion between witnesses. Besides, such a conspiracy would surely not be possible between prison officers, prisoners, and soldiers located in and around three different prisons on two different islands. But as strange as the different descriptions were, there were stranger things to come.

  The prison officers had tried to restrain the two men, and the escapee's enemies had naturally tried to attack them for intruding into their areas of the prison, but both groups found themselves fighting and in many cases killing each other. Some claimed that they had simply been overcome with the urge to turn on their fellows, and those who had not been so affected had had no choice but to defend themselves against their former allies, so the escapees were never interfered with.

  However, soldiers outside both Maze and Maghaberry had sworn that they had hit both men with gunfire from the walls, and during the second Maze escape, a number of witnesses had claimed the two had been struck repeatedly, but had showed no ill effects from the gunfire.

  As for how they actually got out of the prisons, that was the most bizarre circumstance of all. Again, there were several dozen witnesses, consisting of officers, inmates, and soldiers, who claimed that the two men passed directly through solid concrete block walls and steel doors, as well as through spiraled enclosures of razor wire without the least hesitation or any signs of injury.

  Hundreds of inquiries had been made, and informants among the IRA and the few known Scottish paramilitary groups had been consulted, but as yet there had been no trace of the five escapees. Watches had been placed on all known family members, but this too had proved useless. Wherever the men were hiding, it was not with their former comrades, as far as the counterterrorism division was able to ascertain.

  As for the claims of responsibility from the unnamed Scottish nationalist organization, they had to be taken seriously. Multiple letters had been received by the government and the media, postmarked the day before the escapes, giving the name of the prisoner who had been freed. The letters had been printed on a common white bond on the most popular laser printer sold in the United Kingdom. The Courier 12 typeface offered no indication of the word processing program with which it had been written.

  The philologists stated that the voice of the letter writer was certainly Scottish, and the psychologists studying the texts felt that the writer, although showing a great deal of maturity (he might, they claimed, even be an elderly man), was in some ways very naive about the political climate he and his organization were so anxious to change.

  Operations were now under way in every major Scottish city to infiltrate nationalist movements and so apprehend the terrorists. Security had also been increased in every British prison, and the most notorious terrorists had been placed under twenty-four-hour guard, despite the reactions and threats of the IRA inmates.

  The memo ended with the assurance that the deputy director would continue to be informed of any further information pertaining to the incidents. Attached was another memo from the deputy director confirming receipt of the original memo, along with a directive for the head of counterterrorism to appear at a meeting with the prime minister, the director-general, and both deputy directors, during which a cover story least harmful to the government could be developed.

  Skye neatly stacked the small sheaf of papers on top of his desk, then leaned back, breathed deeply, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he reached for the executive toy upon his desk, pulled back the end steel sphere on its string, and let it fly, striking the others and starting the back-and-forth motion of the five balls. He never ceased to appreciate how one affected all the others, how movement and purpose in one place created a similar motion elsewhere.

  Men walking through walls, unharmed by bullets. Political comrades closer than brothers suddenly becoming the deadliest of enemies. A man who looks different to everyone who sees him. And all these things had been confirmed by the highest levels of MI5, whose members, as Skye's experience had shown him, were far from imaginative. It meant one thing, as far as Skye was concerned.

  It meant paranormal activity of the most bizarre kind. He naturally would have thought of assigning his three shadow operatives to look into it, but the fact that they were already in Scotland when the motivation for the escapes had a strong Scottish connection was fortuitous. He wondered if there was a connection between the ghostly sightings on the Gairloch peninsula and the paranormal aspects of the escapes. Probably the Gairloch sightings were a hoax, but another intercepted memo had told him that MI5 was also investigating the spectral reports. Surely between them his operatives and MI5 should have come up with the culprits by now.

  The long arm of the mysterious Prisoner might easily be involved. But had he then somehow been freed? Skye's suspicions that his operatives had been holding information from him had grown stronger than ever. He would set them onto the prison escapes as well. If they were indeed familiar with the Prisoner's methods, they should learn something within a few days.

  Then he would step in—physically this time—and squeeze the truth out of them, if need be. But one way or another, he would find this man he was looking for, this man of mysteries and miracles.

  Chapter 23

  Richard Skye's three operatives were feeling particularly ineffective. They gathered back at the cottage at the end of the day, and Tony was the first to report.

  "I stood, sat, and lay up on the ridge all day, watching the castle. The van that had left last week returned, but I couldn't see who was in it. I did see Francis Scobie—or young Mackay—taking a walk, disappearing down over the cliff to the beach. I didn't follow. I didn't think I could bear the excitement of watching somebody walk on the beach, especially in such a lovely drizzling rain. And now I think I'll have another cup of tea to drive the chill out of me bones."

  "You sound Irish, not Scottish," Joseph said. "I happened to learn something of great import today. In our never-ending search for ghosts, I spoke to a retired fisherman who lives in a cottage up near Rubha Reigh lighthouse. I'm doing archeological work, any sites of prehistoric stones about that he'd know of, worked the topic around to local legends, blah blah, ever see any ghost, heh heh. And for some reason, this guy didn't clam up. Maybe MI5 hadn't gotten to him yet. Anyway, there is, only two hundred yards from him, another cottage, long deserted, and he told me with great certainty that it was haunted, and that people who had the nerve to stay there overnight—and many who just visited during the day—saw a man with a sailor's cap, high sea boots, and a coat with brass buttons. Naturally I explored the cottage and found a lot of dirt, three empty beer cans, and a used condom. Laika? Your turn."

  "Two little vi
llages on the east coast of the peninsula. Inverasdale and Midtown. As with the good folks in Brae and Naast, which I visited yesterday, I can see in their eyes that they either have seen an apparition or know someone who did. But when I ask them, they know nussing, they see nussing."

  "Hogan's Heroes?" Joseph guessed, playing Spot the Allusion.

  "Yes, and I'm feeling about as competent as Colonel Klink." She shook her head as she set down her cup of tea and booted up her computer. "I know that half of police work is waiting for something to happen, but God, it's hard."

  They sat in silence, sipping their tea, while Laika checked her e-mail over the encrypted line. "Well," she said after a time. "Seems that something may be happening after all. Mr. Skye sends a message." She read it aloud.

  First came the directive from Skye that depending on the potential of the Gairloch sightings, they add to their investigations the recent prison breaks taking place in Ireland and Scotland, centering on the Scottish escape.

  "What?" Tony said. They had heard the official news reports about the escapes on the BBC, and read about them in the newspapers. "That's an internal British situation, Laika. What are we meddling in it for?"

  "Yeah," Joseph agreed. "Did Skye read something in the tabloids about IRA aliens using an escape-o-ray?"

  "Just wait," Laika said, and read to them the attached MI5 memo that the CIA had intercepted.

  "Holy shit," Joseph said softly when she was finished. "Sound like our boy? Especially that part about turning people against each other."

  "The same thing that happened to LaPierre's men in Utah," Tony said. "And bullets don't hurt him. And he walks through walls."

  "As long as they're not lead, eh?" Joseph added. "Well, considering that we've been striking out with the ghosties around here, it makes sense to follow Skye's directive and get cooking on this thing . . . if we can do it without getting in the British government's way. Christ, they've got to be pouring all their energies into this one."

  "And that's why we're not going to go whole hog on it," Laika said. She had been looking quietly at the computer screen, but now she turned and fixed Joseph and Tony with a hard look. "Everybody got it all?" she asked, and they nodded. The details of all she had read to them had been committed to memory. With a few keystrokes she deleted Skye's message and the accompanying document completely. "One person, and it's going to be you, Joseph. You'll attract the least attention. Tony looks too Italian, and I look . . ." She smiled. ". . . too Jamaican. But your accent is impeccable and you look British."

  "I'm Jewish."

  "So was Disraeli. In a dim light, you look like Sean Connery."

  "A younger Sean Connery, I hope."

  "Of course. Anyway, Tony and I will stay here. I think it's more important than ever that we keep an eye on the castle, since it's supposedly Scottish loyalists behind these escapes." She shrugged. "A Scottish castle filled with men, and with a possible link to our Templar Mackay, along with the fact that currently the only two paranormal events in the British Isles have Scottish connections. I think we're starting to see a pattern, and it's altogether possible that our old friend the Prisoner might be at the core. Joseph, you realize this is going to be very dangerous. There's no cover provided for this. If you should get yourself into a position where you'd be questioned by MI5 or the police, there's no using your CIA status. You're on your own, unless Skye decides to bail you out."

  "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."

  "Five 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!"

  But 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 the
ir 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.

  Chapter 24

  Taylor 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.