Ash

  ‘We have others like Lukovic,’ Shawcroft-Draker was saying, ‘but we at Comraich do not judge, we simply listen.’

  ‘And use what you hear for blackmail, of course.’

  ‘Nothing so crude, Mr Ash, although I admit our guests and their knowledge are often very advantageous for us.’

  ‘What about Robert Maxwell? How was he “advantageous” to you during his time here?’

  Lord Edgar stiffened and scrutinized the investigator with heavy, weary eyes.

  ‘How on earth did you discover that?’ His tone was more curious than threatening.

  Ash realized he was doing himself no favours; the more he knew, the less likely Lord Edgar was to let him leave.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said, backtracking. ‘It was just a lucky guess. I’d never believed the story that Maxwell either had a heart attack or jumped overboard. But he needed to disappear, and this would have been the ideal place.’

  ‘Very perceptive, Mr Ash.’

  Lord Edgar suddenly sat straight, as if making a positive effort to regain his authority. Ash was aware that Byrone was watching from the sidelines.

  ‘Unbelievably perceptive, in fact,’ he continued. ‘It seems you have “guessed” rather too much about Comraich. I would imagine Dr Wyatt has been of some help to you in that regard. Perhaps I should tell you everything; that might help your deliberations as to our problem here. However, it need not be a problem for much longer.’

  Ash frowned, perplexed. Was Shawcroft-Draker hinting that Ash would soon no longer be a problem? That sounded ominous. Nevertheless, Ash was intrigued as Lord Edgar continued to reveal more than Ash could have ever imagined of the secrets of the Inner Court. He was horrified by Comraich’s grisly roll call of criminals and despots who’d spent or were spending their last days at Comraich while the world thought they’d dropped off the face of the earth. And yet, it was fascinating.

  The most intriguing story concerned Rudolf Hess, Deputy Head of Hitler’s Third Reich, and his solo flight to Scotland during the height of the Second World War

  ‘You may have read of the famous Mitford sisters? Particularly Unity Mitford, who became obsessed with Hitler, and, unfortunately, fell in love with him.’

  Lord Edgar leaned forward in his armchair again as if to take the investigator into his confidence.

  ‘Or,’ he said quietly, ‘of Hess’s solitary foray into Scotland. You see, Unity Mitford, entranced by Hitler, fell pregnant by him. When war was declared, she shot herself in the head at the English Gardens in Munich. She failed, but the bullet did enter her brain. The family brought her home and immediately sent her away to a secret place where she gave birth to Hitler’s child.’

  Ash was grey with shock, but managed to remain still and expressionless.

  ‘Now the great irony.’ Shawcroft-Draker was still leaning forward in his seat, grimacing. ‘The baby was not a boy. Hitler’s dreams of siring a male heir to follow in his own footsteps were dashed. The child was a girl!’ The lord weakly slapped his knee as though he thought the outcome was greatly amusing.

  ‘Not only that, the great Führer, leader of Germany, and most of Europe at that time, had not only fathered a girl, but it was apparent that she was abnormal!’ His voice had risen in near-hysteria, but Ash remained unmoved. ‘She was abnormal, dear boy, with a misshapen head and was, as the doctors and carers were soon to discover, feeble-minded too. Can you imagine Hitler’s shock when the news got back to him? Which Churchill made sure it did.’

  ‘Churchill knew?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Did she die?’

  ‘No, she has lived in Comraich ever since.’

  Ash gasped. ‘Of course. In the dungeons. That old disfigured woman is Adolf Hitler and Unity Mitford’s daughter.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Lord Edgar merely nodded his head.

  Suddenly, Shawcroft-Draker clutched his stomach and bent forward, a grimace appearing on his face. Byrone hurried over to his master, looking full of concern.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Lord Edgar assured him. ‘Not yet, not yet.’ He’d emphasized the words as though the two men shared a secret pact. Ash studied the room, particularly the high French doors that opened onto the battlements. He was looking for a fast way out should the necessity arise.

  And instinct told him it wouldn’t be long before it did.

  76

  From the edge of the woods, but where he could not be seen from the castle or by the guards patrolling its perimeter, Twigg had watched the large Augusta 109 helicopter settle not far from the smaller Gazelle, its landing light cutting a clean beam through the night sky. Earlier in the day, he’d heard the arrival of the other helicopter, bringing more important members of the Inner Court all the way from Canary Wharf and Biggin Hill. No doubt the passengers it had disgorged on touchdown were tired, thirsty and hungry after the long journey. Their smart suits may have been a little rumpled after such a tedious trip, but he was sure they’d swaggered self-importantly into the castle lobby where Sir Victor Haelstrom would have greeted them at his most obsequious, the more acceptable side of his Jekyll and Hyde personality.

  Now four passengers disembarked. Twigg saw the long and thin Andrew Derriman, a worthless streak of piss to his mind, hurry from the castle to welcome the late arrivals. Haelstrom was probably now in one of the small state rooms, drinking with the visitors who had arrived much earlier.

  Set before the assassin on the scattered leaves was an array of battery-powered detonating equipment that would set off a series of explosives expertly concealed. He’d hidden a number of bombs and incendiaries around the place – oh, so carefully hidden – which, when they blew, would set off a series of chain reactions to create utter chaos and destruction.

  The placement of the explosives on the helicopters had been easy enough. Earlier, as Twigg had watched, a fully uniformed guard had escorted the VIPs into the castle (fear of more wildcats on the prowl had made sure the new arrivals were well protected) and had soon returned to watch over both helicopters, or in case any Comraich guest capable of flying such machines decided they’d had enough of their confinement. Twigg had waited in the trees until he saw the guard amble off to pee. And that was when the assassin had his chance. In the Gazelle, Twigg had planted a timer-ignited bomb: a rectangular wad of brick-red Semtex 10 inside a small box, easily hidden, to be detonated at his convenience. It hadn’t taken long, and nobody had come along to ask him what he was doing inside the machine.

  Twigg sniggered to himself in recollection and gazed lovingly at the detonator that would start the sixty-second countdown. In the castle below, the explosion would be devastating.

  He would wait a little while longer for the IC senior members to rush for the bigger helicopter, and when the Augusta 109 had risen into the night sky, Twigg would create a glorious airborne funeral pyre by exploding the machine in mid-air.

  This time, his snigger induced a bubble of snot from his nose as it turned into barely suppressed laughter.

  77

  The light from the slowly dying fire was as ineffectual as its heat, creating curling, wraithlike shadows around the room. Ash couldn’t help but think these weaving, ever-moving dark shapes were like gathering phantoms. They were growing stronger and denser by the moment, and it was difficult to see Lord Edgar’s face. Byrone had taken a seat by the wall after tending to the laird, which surprised Ash, for the butler wasn’t the type to sit in his master’s presence unasked. The room was very dark in that corner, though, and Byrone was merely an indistinct shape in the shadows. Ash noticed that even the light from the lamp on the small occasional table had dimmed to a faint glow, so the adumbration made everything nebulous, lacking in definition as if the darkness that hovered around them were closing in.

  Lord Edgar’s chin now rested on his chest, and just as Ash thought he had dropped off to sleep, the slumped figure suddenly rallied, lifting his weary eyes to the investigator’s. To Ash, the man appeared to be in pain as he picked up th
e glass of medicine and sipped at it. Ash wondered again at what else besides morphine was in that glass. The long French doors rattled against their frames as a stiff gust of wind suddenly threw itself against the cliff face and battlements.

  Ash felt the chill wrap itself around him, and the shadows further encroached upon the fading firelight, cooling even while the logs in it continued to burn. The two men could have been enclosed in their own private world, from which the silent figure of Byrone was excluded.

  ‘Lord Edgar,’ Ash began, ‘are you okay?’

  A dry croaky laugh broke out as if the laird were genuinely amused. When the laughter finished, Shawcroft-Draker leaned forward to scrutinize Ash’s features more deeply.

  The investigator caught the wince of pain that tightened the old man’s face. Nevertheless, he seemed determined to speak.

  ‘Unfortunately my cancer is incurable. Do you see, no matter how wealthy you are, in the end money cannot buy you health. Even the best of specialists cannot cure you of the incurable, no matter how much you may offer. You know, I used to joke when I was a fit young man, “What’s health without money?” Now, even I don’t think it’s funny.’

  ‘Can nothing be done?’

  ‘You’re not paying attention. Incurable means incurable, simple as that.’ He thumped his hand weakly on the arm of his chair for emphasis. ‘I also have a tumour in my stomach that they’re afraid to remove in case I die on the table. Look . . .’

  He whipped back the tartan blanket. Ash’s only response was to hiss ‘Jesus’ when he saw the man’s grossly distended abdomen.

  ‘Even here at Comraich, death will not be cheated.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve told me so much, because you’re beyond caring, or because you know I can never escape?’ Ash asked, briefly wondering if Byrone was already pointing a gun at his head.

  ‘No, Mr Ash. I suppose I’m trying to ease my own conscience. It wasn’t my choice to head this part of the Inner Court; you might say I was born into it. My father held the office and his father before him. Indeed, the Shawcroft-Draker name has been involved in the Inner Court right from its very beginnings.’

  ‘So why the meeting tonight?’

  ‘I have no heir, you see. The main purpose of the meeting is to elect my replacement. I think Sir Victor is eager to stand.’

  He carefully took a longer swig from the glass, its contents now almost drained.

  ‘It’s for the pain, Mr Ash. Although I want to keep my focus clear for just a while longer. I find the morphine barely blunts the edge these days; this is a rather more potent cocktail.’

  Shawcroft-Draker appeared to be slowly dying before his eyes and Ash did not know what to do next. He turned towards Byrone, but could hardly make out the butler’s figure in the gloom by now, let alone a reaction.

  ‘The second item on the agenda is whether to offer a well-known figure sanctuary at Comraich. You might recall that some time ago a man named Musa Kusa was sent to England to make a pact with both Britain and the United States. He was acting as an envoy for—’

  ‘Gaddafi,’ Ash finished for him.

  ‘Indeed, Colonel Muammar Muhammad al-Gaddafi, if we wish to use his official title. But believe it or not, Musa Kusa was a little more ready to discuss his own sanctuary. In fact, we already have a few wealthy Libyan guests with us at present, men who decided to leave their county and its regime years ago before it all came tumbling down. And who could blame them, although I’m sure their families paid a very high price for their loved ones’ abandonment.

  ‘But Musa Kusa was beyond redemption, I’m afraid. Intelligence agencies suspected it was he who co-ordinated the Lockerbie bombing.’

  This time it was not just a wince, but a barely suppressed groan of discomfort that interrupted his words. No matter what illegality the laird had been involved in, Ash could not help but feel sorry for him. However Lord Edgar was soon sinking back in his armchair again.

  Shawcroft-Draker sighed. ‘Before long, even this mixture will have no effect. But soon, it really won’t matter.’

  Ash wondered again what he was getting at.

  ‘So,’ Lord Edgar said, a little more sprightly now, although his voice remained weak, ‘do we accept this new guest at Comraich? I’m against it, although there are many members of the Inner Court ready to vote yes. I fear his riches are far too compelling to reject. And such a man would be asked to pay a very high fee indeed.’

  When Shawcroft-Draker paused for a moment, Ash jumped in. ‘Hold on. “Such a man”? You are talking about Gaddafi, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lord Edgar snapped back. ‘Gaddafi is already here.’

  Ash quickly subdued his shock.

  ‘However, I believe Gaddafi is far too great a risk for even Comraich. It was to be my main thrust at the conference later tonight that we must dispose of Gaddafi ourselves. We already have access to his fortune. He put his complete trust in us once he knew his surviving family would be provided for.

  ‘It’s too risky for the Inner Court, don’t you see? We know that MI6 is only too aware of the succour we give to certain rogues, but if they found out we were sympathetic towards someone as genocidal as Gaddafi . . . well, they would regard us as enemies of the state. It would be tantamount to having offered Saddam Hussein sanctuary during the Iraq crisis. No, the Inner Court’s own survival depends on its actions; there are lines we must never cross.’

  ‘But all the other evil war criminals, financial miscreants and deposed dictators you pamper here – how can that be tolerated by those in authority?’

  ‘Yes, how indeed? But then you’re not taking into account our knowledge. Believe me, knowledge is a great power in itself.’

  ‘As I said earlier: blackmail.’

  ‘Point taken, Mr Ash. We could even break the monarchy, should we choose so to do. That’s a first-class reason to leave us alone, do you not think?’

  A moan came from across the room and both men looked in that direction. The swirling shadows seemed even deeper to Ash.

  ‘Are you all right, Byrone?’ Lord Edgar enquired.

  ‘For the moment, my lord, for the moment,’ came the muttered reply.

  Lord Edgar returned his attention to the investigator, who was baffled by the exchange.

  ‘I can sense your confusion, Mr Ash, so let’s make the most of whatever time is left. You see, I believe acceptance of our prospective guest would mean the certain ruination of the IC.’

  Ash waited patiently for Shawcroft-Draker to continue.

  ‘I expect you’ve heard of a certain Robert Gabriel Mugabe,’ said the laird.

  ‘Mugabe wants Comraich to take him in?’ Ash said incredulously.

  ‘Oh yes, my friend. Even though his prostate cancer will probably kill him soon enough, he actually fears assassination. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Illogical, certainly.’

  ‘He has seen the uprisings elsewhere in the world and knows that eventually it will happen in Zimbabwe. He’s afraid of what the rebel forces would do to him, and so he would rather live out the rest of his days in secure comfort. With the billions he has stolen from his own people, he can easily afford that.’

  ‘But you object to his acceptance here.’

  ‘Precisely. We might be able to keep one assassination quiet, but two would multiply the risks enormously. Mugabe would be an unnecessary problem that in my view would prove insurmountable. Our whole organization would be jeopardized.’

  ‘So at tonight’s conference, you’ll veto the idea.’

  ‘Tonight it will no longer matter to me.’

  Even more puzzled, Ash said, ‘Does that mean you’ll let me leave Comraich?’

  ‘Soon you will be on your own, and then you can do whatever you like. Yes, you’ll be free to go, and I sincerely hope you make it.’ The old man wheezed in a deep breath and Ash saw that his shoulders were trembling and his head unsteady. Then he said something Ash found even more surprising: ‘Corruption has a li
mited shelf life, as many of our moguls and politicians eventually learn for themselves. And, dear God, I’m so weary of it.’

  ‘You could end the Inner Court, though, couldn’t you?’ Ash said urgently, yet knowing it was hopeless.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could; but corruption breeds more corruption. No, there are too many secrets, too many secrets . . .’

  Lord Edgar’s head suddenly slumped to his chest and the investigator thought for a second the old man had gone. He laid his almost empty glass of whisky down and knelt before the laird, ducking his head to look into the troubled face.

  ‘Lord Edgar . . . ?’ He gave the man’s bony knee a gentle shake. To his relief, the laird gave a muffled grunt and peered about him with half-open eyes.

  ‘Did you think I was dead?’ he asked the investigator, who remained on one knee. Lord Edgar smiled, just a wisp of a smile, but a smile nonetheless. ‘Would you . . . would you do something for me? Would you please go over to Byrone and tell me how he is?’

  Mystified, Ash rose and walked across the room to take a look at the butler. The curling shadows almost seemed to clear a path for him.

  Byrone was rigidly still, leaning slightly to one side. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off the chair, thought Ash. He realized in shock that something was not right, and felt the butler’s neck for a pulse. There was none.

  He went back to Shawcroft-Draker.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said, quietly and tonelessly, like a doctor who’d had too many patients die on him that week.

  Another weak smile. ‘That’s good, that’s grand,’ Lord Edgar murmured.

  As the investigator made to return to his own chair, the laird grabbed Ash’s wrist with surprising strength.

  ‘Byrone chose an easier way than I.’

  Ash crouched on his haunches so that he could hear Lord Edgar a little more clearly. ‘You mean he deliberately took his own life?’