Greg Iles - Black Cross

McConnell closed the cases and sat down opposite him. “Yes. And you’re damn lucky we’re about the same size.”

Brigadier Smith picked up a straw basket from the floor. “Rations in here, lads. I won’t be making the trip with you, but I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“So where are we going?” Stern asked. “Can’t you tell me, now that he’s finally here?”

Smith stuck out his lower lip. “If you must know, you’re going to Achnacarry Castle.”

“Where in God’s name is that?”

Duff Smith smiled. He’d heard that question repeated a hundred times before. Achnacarry . The name alone was enough to send some men into a cold sweat. “Some say it’s the end of the world,” he said. “But there’s others who claim Achnacarry’s the next thing to heaven. Mostly Scotsmen. Camerons, at that.”

McConnell looked up sharply at the name Cameron.

“Why the hell are we going there?” Stern pressed.

Smith stopped smiling. “First, secrecy. Second, training. Third, time. Gentlemen, I cannot tell you why, but the time factor has suddenly become critical. In eleven days, the target of our mission will cease to have any strategic value.”

“But if time is a problem,” Stern argued, “why go all the way to Scotland? For God’s sake, just tell me what you want done and put us into Germany. I’ll make sure it gets done.”

The brigadier shook his head. “You may have harried the Germans in North Africa, laddie, but you don’t beard the lion in his den without some specialized training. We have eleven days. You are about to spend seven of those with the toughest men in the British Army. The C.O. at Achnacarry — which is now called the Commando Depot, by the way — is a friend of mine, and he has generously agreed to have his instructors pound their hard-earned knowledge into your thick skull. In seven days you will be a different man, Mr. Stern, a better man, and just possibly ready to accomplish the mission I’m sending you to do.”

Smith ended the argument by stepping out of the compartment. “Change trains in Edinburgh,” he told them. “You want Spean Bridge station. There’ll be someone waiting for you. I’d conserve those rations. Charlie Vaughan runs a tight ship. If you reach the castle late, there may not be supper.”

The brigadier looked at his two recruits for several moments. “Cheer up,” he said. “By the time you reach Spean, you should be fast friends.”

He laughed softly as he marched off down the corridor.

McConnell leaned back into the corner of the compartment. He wasn’t sure exactly where Spean Bridge was, but he thought it was well up into the Scottish Highlands, possibly near Loch Ness. It was going to be a long trip.

The train lurched forward exactly on time and gathered speed rapidly as it moved north out of London. The day was clear and cold, the sky gray. After several minutes, Stern said, “What changed your mind, Doctor? What made you decide to come on this mission?”

McConnell kept looking out of the window. “None of your business,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Are you sure you’ve got the nerve for it? This mission could get bloody, you know. I wouldn’t want your pacifist sensibilities to be offended.”

McConnell slowly turned from the window. “You obviously like fighting,” he said. “But I’m not your problem. Whoever you’re mad at, take it out on them. This is going to be a long ride.”

He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. Stern stared furiously at him for a while, then turned to the window and watched the winter countryside as the swaying train rumbled past Alexandra Palace.

The two men did not speak again for the next eight hours.

“Spean Bridge!” shouted a high-pitched voice, stretching out the syllables until the words were barely recognizable.

When McConnell blinked himself awake, Stern, the picnic basket, and one of the suitcases were gone.

“Spean Bridge!” shouted the conductor for the third and last time.

McConnell snatched up the other case and scrambled out of the compartment. He found Stern on the station platform, huddled beneath a green awning, eating a soggy sandwich from which the bread crust had been cut away. Cold rain poured relentlessly from a slate sky. Dark, forbidding hills rose on all sides of the village of Spean. They looked to be made of solid rock, cloaked with frost and crowned with snow.

It was still early in the afternoon, but McConnell had the feeling night was coming on. Then he realized that it was. Darkness fell early in the Highlands in winter, and dawn came very late. As the train chugged out of the station, he looked around the platform. It was as deserted as the green-and-white station building, which was locked tight.

“Smith said there would be someone to meet us,” McConnell said. “I don’t see anybody.”

Sour-faced and puffy from sleep, Stern said nothing. McConnell reached into the picnic basket and took out a sandwich. Just then he saw a tall figure wearing a kilt and a green beret standing motionless at the end of the platform. The tartan was predominantly red, with highlights of yellow and forest green.

“Doctor McConnell?” the man called, rolling the r with a Highland burr.

“That’s me.”

The kilted man marched toward them. McConnell had never dreamed he would be intimidated by a man wearing a dress, but he was. Well over six feet tall, the newcomer stopped and stood in the freezing rain outside the awning as casually as if he were basking in May sunshine. There was an unsettling, animal strength about him. His chest was high and broad, and the calves that stretched his stockings looked sculpted from bronze. Short-cropped hair framed a chiseled, handsome face illuminated by sea blue eyes.

“Sergeant Ian McShane,” the giant said mildly. “You’re Stern, I ken?”

Stern nodded.

McConnell held out his hand, but the sergeant just looked at it.

“I dinna ken much about you,” McShane said, “and I dinna need to know more. Our business has nothing to do with who you really are. From now on, McConnell, you’re Mr. Wilkes.” He looked at Stern. “You’re Mr. Butler.”

The Highlander eyed both men from head to toe. “Either of you ever in the military, then?”

Stern straightened. “I’ve had some experience.”

“Have you now? Well. We’ll find out tomorrow what we have to work with. It’s fallen to me to shepherd you two through a wee bit o’ training. Quite irregular, actually. Still, the MacVaughan ordered it. That’s the way it’ll be.”

With a last appraising look at his charges, Sergeant McShane turned and walked back the way he had come.

Stern and McConnell looked at each other, then snatched up their bags and hurried after him. At the end of the platform, they saw the Scotsman climb into a covered jeep and start the engine.

“Hey!” McConnell yelled. “Sergeant! Wait!”

McShane leaned out and said, “Follow this road west across the Caledonian Canal, turn north at Gairlochy, march along the loch till you sight Bunarkaig, then up the switchback road to the castle. It’s about seven miles, all told. You can’t get lost.”

“But there’s plenty of room in the jeep!” Stern objected.

McShane’s blue eyes seemed to grow tired. “That’s no’ the point at all, Mr. Butler. Nobody rides to Achnacarry their first time up. All transport is by foot.” He glanced at Stern’s worn leather shoes. “We’ll get you some proper gear at the castle. I will take those bags for you, though.”

McConnell loaded the heavy suitcases into the jeep, then tossed Stern’s leather bag after them.

“But it’s pouring rain!” Stern shouted.

Sergeant McShane looked skyward and smiled. “Aye. It’s pissin’ it down, all right. I suggest you get used to it, Mr. Butler. It always rains at Achnacarry.”