Ken McClure - The Anvil

‘Any problems?’ asked Tansy.

‘None.’

‘When will you go?’

‘There’s a flight on Tuesday.’

‘Will I see you before then?’

MacLean shook his head. ‘It’s best that we don’t meet again. Your friends might get suspicious.’

Tansy opened her mouth to protest but MacLean held up his hand and said, ‘I have to be alone for a bit. I need to prepare myself. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’

‘You will take great care won’t you,’ said Tansy with sad eyes.

MacLean nodded and smiled. ‘You bet,’ he said.

MacLean spent the weekend in hard physical exercise. He wanted to feel fit for whatever the future held in store for him but there was also a therapeutic value to be had in pushing himself to his limits. It cleared his mind for the duration and freed him from the anxiety that was otherwise constantly with him. His training ground was the Pentland Hills, a range of hills skirting the southern fringes of the city.

On Saturday morning early, MacLean climbed the steep path to the top of Turnhouse Hill and started running along the Pentland Ridge. He traversed its entire length, clambering over the tops of Carnethy, Scald Law, and East and West Kip before he allowed himself a break of fifteen minutes to eat his two chocolate bars and recover. Then it was all the way back again, fighting against the pain but courting it at the same time because it blotted out everything else. His level of physical fitness was acceptable but his mental state posed questions.

Only a few months before, he had been on the verge of suicide. How complete was his recovery? His growing love for Tansy and Carrie had done much to heal the wounds but had he recovered sufficient grit and resolve to take on Lehman Steiner and all that might imply? He reluctantly had to conclude that there was no way of knowing. Just like in life no one really knows who is going to be a hero and who is going to be a coward until the real test comes. For most men it never does but MacLean suspected that, in the next week or so, he personally would be sitting the exam.

He reached the end of his run and allowed himself to collapse exhausted on the slopes, high above Glencorse Reservoir, his chest heaving and his heart thumping against his ribs. He lay on his back in the rough grass and watched the clouds race towards the Firth of Forth. Visibility was good; he could see an oil production platform being towed out of the estuary towards the North Sea. It brought back memories.

On Sunday, MacLean repeated the same punishing schedule, this time with the added burden of stiffness in his limbs from the day before. On the return journey along the ridge he altered his route to take him through a pinewood west of Caerketton. This would be his final self-imposed test. He was again close to exhaustion, a state when physical co-ordination was at its worst but that was what he wanted. Now he would see if Nick Leavey’s assertion that mental strength could overcome physical problems were true. All it needed was concentration.

Making sure that he was alone, he chose a branch some three inches thick and standing two metres off the ground. He turned his back on it and closed his eyes for a moment, picturing where the branch was. Still with his eyes closed he took out a coin from his pocket and threw it up in the air in front of him. When he heard it land he whirled round on his left heel and struck out with his raised right foot at where he remembered the branch to be. His foot made contact and the branch broke with a loud crack and fell to the ground.

He was pleased; he moved on through the forest, picking out imaginary enemies in the form of branches to the left and right of him and making his feet deal with them. As he neared the edge of the wood he picked out four final ‘enemies’ all to be taken out within a self-imposed five-second window. He took one long deep breath and hit the first with an eye-level kick from his right foot, the second he struck with his left hand, the third with another right foot kick and the fourth and final branch succumbed to a blind strike from the heel of his right hand.

MacLean emerged from the wood and found two hikers in red kagoules sitting less than ten metres away. They were in their early twenties and had stopped eating their sandwiches to stare at him. They had obviously witnessed his last ‘battle’.

For a moment the three looked at each other, the two hikers motionless with their sandwiches in mid air, MacLean with his chest still heaving from the effort, unshaven, hair soaked with perspiration and with his sweat shirt clinging to his body. Finally, MacLean broke the silence. ‘Another fine day,’ he said and walked off.

At four thirty on Tuesday afternoon MacLean’s flight landed in Geneva, its wheels sending up clouds of spray. It was raining, but then it usually was in Geneva. He paused for a moment at the head of the steps to look at the familiar terminal building and felt that in some ways it should have been like a homecoming but it didn’t feel like that at all. The universal greyness held a menace that reached out and caressed his skin as he descended the steps. The stewardesses smiled at the passengers but saw none of them. The uniformed passport controller took his document with an air of lethargy and asked the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m a tourist,’ said MacLean. The man waved him through with a casual wave of the hand. He was back.

MacLean had time to reflect on the past on the ride into the city. The sight of familiar buildings and restaurants forced him to remember the career and lifestyle he had enjoyed before the Cytogerm affair. From being a top surgeon to roughing it on a North Sea oilrig had been a hard road to travel. The thought made him sad but not angry any more. There had been compensations along the way for a lost career but there could be no compensation for a lost life, he thought, as they passed the shop where Jutte used to like buying clothes. MacLean looked at the lifeless mannequin in the window and felt a stab of sadness.

The taxi passed the Stagelplatz Hotel and MacLean looked up at it without emotion. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that personal feelings must not play a part in this. It was something that Doyle and Leavey had always stressed. ‘If you let it get personal, you can start digging your grave,’ were the words he remembered. ‘Identify exactly what it is you want, plan and execute. Don’t change the plan unless you absolutely have to.’ He had come to Geneva to obtain Cytogerm. That was the sole reason for his visit. There would be no lingering in Memory Lane, no settling of old scores.

The cab stopped outside his hotel and MacLean paid the driver. It looked perfect; it was small, clean and anonymous. He checked in and made himself coffee in his room while he considered how best to contact Eva Stahl. He looked at his watch and decided against phoning. He would shower, change his clothes and go round to the last address he had for her. It was only three miles from the hotel and he needed the walk.

The rain had stopped but the streets were still wet as MacLean started walking through the early evening crowds of well-heeled, well-dressed people. Geneva had an elegance in the evening. He passed a brightly-lit cafe and savoured the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke that lingered round it. Someone opened the door and the sound of laughter came from within. It was a nice sound, thought MacLean but it could have been a million miles away.

He found the street he was looking for and remembered that he had been there before on some social occasion, probably a party given by Eva and her husband. He hadn’t remembered because such occasions were all the same wherever they were held. The door to the building was open; he entered the hall and summoned the elevator to take him to the fourth floor but when he got out he couldn’t remember whether to turn left or right. He chose right and found the name ‘Stahl’ on the third door along.