For King and Country Page 3

  Somehow, he couldn't work up much enthusiasm about events from the year 538 a.d. when his body ached from still-mending injuries sustained in a firefight he should never have been involved in, in the first bloody place. He had, at least, come a long way since his initial discharge from hospital. Belfast to Blackpool by military airlift, down through Manchester and Derbyshire by rail to London and a battery of surgical specialists to repair his knee, then from London to York and points north by rail, on his way to a new posting he didn't particularly want. In fact, the only good thing he could find in the assignment Ogilvie had handed him, his first day out of rehab in London hospital, was the location.

  Trevor Stirling hadn't been home in four years.

  He'd forgotten how much he loved the dour Scottish hills until the train plunged over the edge of the Southern Uplands, revealing Edinburgh spread out in the late afternoon, golden light spilling across the Lothians and the Pentland Hills which swept down to the very edge of town. A storm front was moving in, scudding low over Arthur's Seat, an achingly familiar mountain that lifted its brooding black profile well above the prominence of Calton Hill. The Palace of Holyroodhouse and Edinburgh Castle dominated the skyline along the rocky spine known as Royal Mile, which ran slap through the heart of Old Town. The train roared its way across the high spans of the Forth rail bridge, far above the glimmering waters of the Firth of Forth, while the leading edge of the storm obscured all but a smudge of the Highland ranges in the distance.

  Stirling leaned back against the seat, abruptly exhausted by the hours-long train ride up from London. His wrist, broken in several places beneath the cast, ached and his newly repaired knee had swollen up and gone stiff inside its brace. It had needed surgery to repair damaged cartilage and torn ligaments. He wouldn't be seeing combat for a good, long while yet, a prospect that both dismayed and relieved him. Lying about in hospital with far too much time on his hands had eaten ragged holes in his self-confidence. When finally released, he'd left the hospital with a cane, a bad limp, and a gnawing fear that he'd be useless to the regiment.

  And Ogilvie, never the fool, had spotted the trouble at once. His final debriefing flashed through a memory still raw from his own inadequacy: the slow limp toward a chair, the stiff knee and the stiffer scotch Ogilvie poured and pressed into his hand, the embarrassed flush of awkwardness, easing himself down into the chair.

  "I've been giving some thought to your future with the regiment, Stirling," Ogilvie said quietly, steepling his fingertips. "Your record is exemplary, your loyalty unquestionable, which is why I'm considering you for special assignment."

  Stirling lowered his glass cautiously. "Special assignment, sir?"

  "We've had a request from the Home Secretary's Office for someone with experience in Belfast. Seems the IRA's been showing interest in a research facility they've tucked away in a nice, quiet little spot in the Scottish Lowlands. They want someone up there who understands the IRA. I've recommended you."

  Dismay rose like bile in his gorge. "Research facility? Are you fobbing me off with an assignment to guard a bunch of ruddy scientists?"

  Ogilvie grinned. "Pegged it straight off, didn't you? I know what you're thinking and you're not far wrong. This business has shaken you, lad, whether you admit it or don't, and frankly, I can't afford to send anyone up there who's not already sick-listed. We're short-handed until we can bring in replacements. You can't function on the streets with a partially rehabilitated knee and a broken wrist, but you're certainly up to handling this little job. Think of it as a holiday, if you like. Or call it a belated birthday present from your colonel. I think," he added with a quirk of the lips, "you'll rather fancy the research site."

  "Oh?"

  The colonel chuckled. "You hale from the Highlands, don't you?"

  "Stirling, actually," he nodded, "gateway to the Highlands. Straddles the only mountain pass between the Highlands and the Scottish Lowlands." Stirling Castle, whose walls overlooked seven major battlefields, including Robert the Bruce's resounding victory over England's Edward II at Bannockburn, was legendary in the annals of Scottish history. And if legend were to be trusted, even King Arthur had understood its strategic value, wresting a much older fortress on the site from a Saxon army. "My ancestors go back a ways," he added with a wry twist of the lips. "There've been Stirlings in Stirling since time immemorial."

  "That's grand, then. You'll be familiar with the countryside and the locals will trust you as one of their own. It's a delicate situation, calls for a man good with people. I've half a dozen other men sick-listed that I might've recommended for this job, but they haven't either the people skills or the Scots background we want. You're the man for it, no mistake. Study the file on your way up," Ogilvie added, handing over a sealed manila envelope. "Your train leaves for Edinburgh in two hours, the best transportation I could manage on short notice, since you're in no shape to be driving, and I can't commandeer military transport for one man. Wouldn't send the message we want, anyway. We're not taking them over, at the lab, we're protecting them. You'll be met by a car from the research site when you reach Edinburgh. Stop in and say hello to your family for a few days, when the job's done. You've earned that much, at least."

  "Yes, sir," he said, trying to conceal the glum disappointment settling over him. Sent packing to stand watch over a gaggle of scientists... "Thank you, sir," he added unhappily, finishing the scotch and accepting the envelope with his new orders.

  Ogilvie just grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Two hours later, he had limped aboard the train, found his seat, and rumbled northward through a wet English morning, heading home for an assignment no SAS man in his right mind would have volunteered for. Bloody holiday, my arse, he thought uncharitably, scanning the dossier on the so-called research facility. What in hell's the IRA thinking, to be interested in a crackpot scheme like this? Come to that, what was the Home Secretary's Office thinking, to be funding such a thing? Time travel, no less. Bloody lot of nonsense and a frightful waste of taxpayers' money.

  They hit a delay on the line when the train was forced to stop while crews worked to clear wet leaves from the rails. The weight of trains crushed the leaves into a gluelike sludge so slick trains had literally slid through stations, on occasion, unable to brake and ending derailed with passengers injured. The bane of British rail travel, thousands of pounds of fallen leaves every year required work crews to strip the rails by hand with sandpaper and cleaning solvents. Accustomed to military transport, Stirling had forgotten how frustrating such delays could be, particularly when he was tired and hurting.

  They finally jerked into motion again, houses and familiar landmarks flashing wetly past. Castle Rock, the Scott Monument with its Gothic spires, and the porticoes of Greek-style art galleries... By the time they finally chugged into Waverly Station at city center, depositing Stirling on the pavement along with the rest of the bleary-eyed flotsam spilling out through the station doors, the storm front had rolled across the city. A cold rain was pouring, typical of Scotland's weather, although Edinburgh's was generally drier than Glasgow's, farther west.

  Limping through the station, Stirling fought a running battle just to keep his eyes open. Should've slept on the run up from London... Belfast had robbed him of the ability to fall asleep in public places. Maneuvering through a crowd with a duffel over one shoulder, one wrist in a splint and the other braced through the cuff of a crutch-style cane, all in a stinging downpour, wasn't a great deal easier than threading through a riot in Clonard. Several people jostled him painfully, muttering brief apologies to the injured bloke in uniform before hurrying on their way.

  He finally reached the curb and scanned the line of cars queued up there, squinting against drenching gusts of rain, hopeful he wouldn't have to wait long. He spotted an ancient Land Rover, allowed his gaze to slide past, then snapped it back with a rising sense of dismay. The driver, a boyish chap who at second glance might have been as much as thirty, was leaning patiently aga
inst the battered fender, holding a ratty umbrella and a hand-scrawled sign that said, innocuously enough, Stirling. Whether it was meant to identify him by name or point out their destination hardly mattered. The driver caught sight of him next moment and hurried over to take his duffel.

  "You'd be Captain Stirling, then?"

  "I would," he allowed.

  "Marc Blundell, project liaison and dog's body. If anything wants fetching, I'm the one to do it." Blundell eyed the wrist cast and the crutch-cane with a dubious glance. "Training accident?"

  "No." It came out stiffer than his knee. "Clonard."

  Blundell's eyes widened. "Bugger, you say? The election riots? Bad luck, mate."

  Stirling didn't bother to respond. No civilian could possibly understand, anyway.

  A flush crept up Blundell's neck. "Right. Well. Let's be off, shall we? Beastly weather, it usually is." Blundell hunted through pockets for keys, unlocked the doors, and tossed Stirling's duffel into the backseat. "Put yourself in the passenger's seat, Captain. Would you be needing to go the messages before we leave town?"

  Stirling paused in the midst of wrestling one-handed with the door latch, surprised into a faint smile. Scots dialect, its English idiom influenced to an improbable degree by past ties to France, sounded at once alien and the most heartwarming thing he'd heard in four years. "Thanks, but no, I did my shopping in London before the train went."

  Blundell gave him another quick, narrow-eyed once-over, followed abruptly by a cheery grin. "You're a Scots lad, then? No lowland Englishman would've understood that."

  Stirling finally wrenched open the passenger door with a scream of rusted hinges, legacy of Scotland's eternal damp. The interior of the Land Rover smelled of mildew and stale pipe smoke; the pipe lay upended in the ash tray. He eased himself into the seat. "I was born in Stirling, as a matter of fact. Took a university degree from Edinburgh before signing on with the SAS."

  "A university man, now?" Blundell muttered, brows twitching upward as he slid behind the wheel. "That's one we didn't expect. What was it you studied?"

  "History, as it happens. Military history, mostly."

  Blundell's second once-over was even keener than the first. "You'll fit the bill better than we thought, then. Belt yourself in, Captain, and we'll be off. It's a bit of a drive to Stirling and the weather's supposed to worsen toward evening."

  That, at least, was no surprise. The Land Rover roared away from the curb with a surprising burst of speed which spoke of careful maintenance to the engine, whatever the condition of the chassis and hinges. Blundell negotiated afternoon rush-hour traffic with ease while the windscreen wipers played a slap-swash melody against the glass. As he made the turning onto the M9 Motorway northwest out of Edinburgh, Blundell said, "The site is well away from town, between Culross and Stirling proper, so make yourself comfortable."

  Stirling grimaced. "Right." He eased his leg into a new position.

  "There's coffee in the thermos, if you want it," he added, nodding toward a large canister between the seats, along with two plastic cups. "Might warm you up a bit, after that drenching rain."

  Given the lack of heat emanating from the Land Rover's vents—simple openings onto the engine block, not a proper heater at all—Stirling poured coffee and gulped it gratefully. Not as satisfying as tea, but warm and chock-full of caffeine, which he needed rather badly.

  "Were you posted to Belfast long?" Blundell asked at length.

  "Long enough. A year."

  "Not a good one, this last year. Bit of a mess."

  There wasn't much point in answering.

  Blundell glanced his way again "You've experience with the IRA, at least. We'll need that."

  Stirling studied Blundell's profile. Despite his apparent youthfulness, the skin around his eyes was taut and the muscles along his jaw had bunched into corded knots. "Trouble?"

  "Not yet. We're expecting it, though. Leastways, I am. Some of the others..." Blundell paused, reddening slightly. "You'll see when we arrive, I'm afraid. Security is a joke."

  Much like the project, Stirling thought uncharitably. Time travel... He'd be a laughingstock when word got round the regiment. He could hear it now: Have you heard about Stirling's latest conquest? Went haring off into the bloody Lowlands, chasing terrorists who've better sense than fall for a hare-brained scheme like time travel. Poor bugger, never was the same after Clonard...

  "I brought along employment dossiers," Blundell interrupted his glum maunderings. The project liaison was rummaging in a file box behind the thermos. "Thought you might like to get started," he added with an uncertain smile, "since it's a bit of a drive up and there's not much to see, with this rain."

  "Thanks." He hoped it hadn't come out quite as dryly as he feared.

  Blundell glanced rather sharply at him, then switched his attention back to the road, which flowed like a creek with runoff from the storm. "Don't mention it. I'll leave you to study our profiles, then."

  The chatty project liaison fell silent at last. Stirling opened the first file as the tires whined along the broad motorway, skirting the long reach of the Firth of Forth estuary. Paper rattled and crinkled as he read through the dossiers, the sound quiet against a backdrop of drumming rain and occasional rumbles of thunder. The staff were a mixed lot, which he already knew, of course, having read Ogilvie's files, but the employment dossiers gave him a different slant on the resident scientific team. At the very least, the files drew his attention away from the aches in wrist and knee.

  The first on his list was Terrance Beckett, project director and quantum physicist, with degrees from Oxford and an American university called MIT. His chief assistant, London-born Zenon Mylonas, obviously of Greek immigrant descent, had advanced degrees in quantum mechanics and theoretical mathematics. They jointly supervised the work of graduate student Fairfax Dempsey, another quantum physicist. All three men haled from England, with unimpeachable backgrounds, and all three had been with the project for more than a year. Irma Hubert, the only female mathematician among them, had joined the project six months previously, and Wilbur Rosswald, physicist, had come aboard five weeks ago.

  Cedric Banning, one of the six senior scientists, was involved with an unlikely field called psychoneuroimmunology, with a specialty in bioenergetic plasma fields, whatever those were. He, too, supervised a graduate student, a fairly recent addition to the staff. Jill Dearborne had been recruited by Terrance Beckett himself, three weeks previously. Banning had been with the project for two months, replacing a plasma-field specialist killed in a motor crack-up, victim of a blinding rainstorm and wet pavements. Banning hailed from Australia originally, but had been raised in Manchester, according to his security clearance paperwork.

  Marc Blundell, intent on his driving and fumbling tobacco into his pipe, might not look the part, but evidently was a quantum mechanics genius, thus proving that appearances had very little in common with talent. He was the official project liaison with the Home Secretary's Office, as well, which suggested shortcomings in Terrance Beckett's personality. Indrani Bhaskar, Whitechapel native, had won a scholarship to Oxford, where she had distinguished herself to the point of winning a professorship of history early in her career. Clayton Crandall and Amber Darnell served Bhaskar as assistant historians.

  Quite a mixed bag, and he hadn't even reached the bottom of the pile.

  Norvell Mann was resident computer programmer, working with Elsa Maynard, computer hardware technician. Then there was Edsel Cuthbert, data analyst; Leo Hobart, who performed complicated computer modeling scenarios; and Sergio Donatelli, computer data tech. The entire computer technical staff hailed from London. Not one had reached their thirtieth birthday, yet. Twenty-odd was plenty of time to develop clandestine connections, of course, but none seemed to have any connection to Ireland.

  In fact, there was only one person on the entire team who did have such a connection: Dr. Brenna McEgan, whose work in physiology and psychological biochemistry sounded as much like gib
berish as bioenergetic plasma fields. She was even newer to the team than Banning, having arrived only four weeks previously. McEgan, too, was a replacement. The crack-up that had killed Banning's predecessor had also killed the team's physiologist, leaving two critical holes to be filled in the senior research team. McEgan had been educated in Dublin, according to her dossier, but her birthplace was Londonderry, a Catholic stronghold of Northern Ireland. She had inherited an assistant named Cameron Blair, who served as medical technician.

  Stirling narrowed his eyes. He wanted a word with Mr. Cameron Blair. Several words, in fact. Although he disliked snap judgements, the leading candidate for IRA activity was clearly Brenna McEgan. He frowned and pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. There were plenty of other newcomers to the staff, of course, and the IRA certainly wasn't above paying someone to do their snooping for them, although it wasn't their usual modus operandi. He'd have to thoroughly investigate everyone, while working up new security procedures. A prickly problem, right enough, with too many unanswered questions simmering in his mind and a staff so large, any terrorist in the neighborhood could drive a bloody lorry through the possible security holes.

  He read them through twice, then set the last one aside, fishing through pockets for an anti-inflammatory which he swallowed with coffee from Blundell's thoughtful thermos. He sipped, grateful for the warmth. As they rounded a long, sweeping curve in the road, he said, "You haven't included the peripherals in these dossiers."

  "Peripherals?" Blundell echoed, eyes widening in uncertain surprise. "What d'you mean?"

  "Cleaning crews, groundskeepers, maintenance men, what have you. Peripheral staff."

  A look of utter chagrin stole a march across the liaison's boyish face. "Hadn't thought of that."

  Stirling held back a sigh. "How many?"

  "Let's see... Four—no, five. A charwoman, she comes every day for the cleaning; the groundsman and his assistant, they come round weekly; the equipment technician, he comes every five days or so for adjustments and spot checks. Then there's the lady who runs the concession, she comes in every couple of days to fill the machines. Oh, make it six, some days she sends her eldest daughter. Girl's sharp as a razor, but a sweet little thing. Completely wasted filling machines with candy bars and suchlike. Ought to be at college, someplace, but they haven't the funds and her father's that sick, her mother needs her at home."