Greg Iles - Black Cross

He was nearly asleep when Stern’s disembodied voice said: “Did you see those grave markers?”

McConnell blinked in the chilly darkness. “I saw them.”

“Nothing but dirt under those crosses.”

“What do you mean? The graves are empty?”

“Right.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the British Army. Fought with them in Africa. On their side, if you can believe it. Those graves are typical of their crap. They put those crosses there to scare recruits. ‘Showed himself on a ridge line.’ What rot. The British Army’s just like those graves.”

McConnell saw nothing to be gained by arguing with Stern about the British. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.

Stern grunted contemptuously in the darkness. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Wilkes,” he said in German. “Come morning, I’ll show those limey bastards commando training.”

17

McConnell kicked Stern out of bed at nine a.m. After a quick trip to the toilet at the end of the hall, he dressed in the clothes McShane had provided: army denims, gaiters, and a heavy green cotton smock. Last, he put on the “toggle” rope, with its loop at one end and short handle at the other. He coiled it around his hand, then clipped the coil to the web belt he found in the clothes bag.

Stern was already dressed and standing by the door.

“You don’t have your toggle rope,” McConnell reminded him.

“I don’t need it.”

McConnell shrugged and led the way to the first floor of the castle. They met Sergeant McShane in the entrance hall. The Highlander wore his green beret, but he had forgone his kilt in favor of denims, a khaki shirt, and camouflaged rain smock.

“I was about to come lookin’ for you,” he said. “You missed breakfast.”

“We’re ready,” said Stern.

“Ready?” McShane stared at him in amazement. “I dinna see your toggle rope.”

“I don’t need the damned thing.”

“Oh, you’ll be needin’ it, Mr. Butler. Now, go back and get it. Move .”

When Stern returned with the rope, McShane led them outside into a gray Highland dawn. The smell of wood and peat smoke mingled with the scent of coffee and pine, bringing McConnell fully awake. At last he could see the place to which Brigadier Smith had sent them. Achnacarry itself was built of gray stone, with crenelated parapets and mock turrets at the corners. The gurgle of water from behind it announced a river he could not see, but beyond the castle roof rose wooded hills shrouded in mist like that in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in northern Georgia.

A majestic tree-lined drive led down from the castle to the glen below, where a great loch with a surface like burnished silver lay in the growing light. But the pastoral scene ended there. Achnacarry’s expansive lawns were dotted with corrugated steel Nissen huts and canvas bell tents, a metropolis of instant housing. In the center of a field McConnell saw a tent as big as an aircraft hangar, and just across the drive the long row of graves Stern claimed were empty.

Not far from the graves, a powerfully built soldier of about fifty was speaking to a tall, bearded farmer twenty years his senior. The soldier’s voice modulated quickly between apology and indignation, his accent the furthest thing imaginable from Highland Scots.

“That’s the colonel,” Sergeant McShane said.

McConnell was perplexed. “That’s Colonel Vaughan?”

“Aye.”

“But that’s a London accent. I thought he was a Highlander, like yourself. I thought he was lord of the castle.”

McShane laughed. “The laird , you mean? No, no. The real laird, Cameron of Lochiel, moved two miles up the loch to Clunes for the duration. But he keeps an eye on his place, make no mistake. It’s his duty to all Camerons around the world.”

McConnell regarded the heavy-jowled colonel. Vaughan seemed a bit on the bulky side for a commando, though he certainly looked as tough as an old army boot. “Vaughan’s a commando himself?”

McShane shook his head. “Ex-Regimental Sergeant Major in the Guards.”

“I don’t see any commandos,” Stern observed.

“They’re on their thirty-six-hour scheme. Should be in any time, though.”

“What’s a thirty-six-hour scheme?” McConnell asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like. Thirty-six hours of running up and down the Lochaber hills in full kit under live fire. Be glad you missed it.”

“They were out in that storm last night?”

“Aye. And it’s a good thing they didna run across you two—”

A cacophony of wild, primitive screams rose out of the trees from behind the castle. “What the hell’s that?” McConnell asked.

“Mock assault on the Arkaig bridge. Climax of the scheme.”

McConnell watched in amazement as over a hundred commandos wearing strange cloth caps charged out from behind the castle with bayonets fixed. “What’s that they’re yelling, Sergeant?”

“Who knows? They’re Free French blokes.”

By the time the French commandos reached the Nissen huts, their enthusiasm had vanished. As they collapsed around their tents, Colonel Vaughan marched up the drive, cursing under his breath.

“What is it, sir?” Sergeant McShane asked.

Vaughan’s face glowed red with anger. “Some fool pinched a bicycle from a crofter’s hut down the hill. Bloody beggar’s accusing one of our lads.”

“One of ours, sir?”

“Right. Claims no one local would have pinched it. Says everyone knows it’s his only transport other than his cart-horse.”

McConnell looked Stern in the eye but saw no reaction.

“If he turns out to be right,” Vaughan bellowed, “I’ll flay the man who did it. We can’t afford to offend the locals. And God forbid Lochiel should hear of it!” He glanced suspiciously down the hill at the exhausted Frenchmen. “Suppose one of the Frogs could have pinched it,” he mused. “Seems unlikely, though.”

At last Vaughan’s eyes focused on Stern and McConnell. “What’s this lot, then? Dummies for the bayonet course?”

“They’re our special guests, sir.”

Vaughan stuck out his lower lip and gave them a measuring look. “Duff’s boys, eh? Very well. Carry on as we discussed, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you look into that bicycle.”

“Aye.”

Colonel Vaughan started to go, then paused, tucked his chin into his chest and squinted at Stern. McConnell wondered what had caught his interest. The desert tan? Stern’s languid posture? The insolent curve of his mouth? The colonel leaned his massive head in toward Stern’s chest and spoke with paternal familiarity.

“You’d best get that chip off your shoulder, lad. Before somebody knocks it off.” Vaughan cut his eyes at McShane. “Happens quite often round here, eh, Sergeant?”

“Seems to,” McShane confirmed. “Now that you mention it.”

Colonel Vaughan nodded once at McConnell, then disappeared into his castle.

Sergeant McShane stared pointedly at Stern. “Know anything about a missing bicycle?”

Stern silently returned the stare.

“Right,” McShane said. “Let’s get to business. Not much daylight in winter.”

As the sergeant led them across the grounds, McConnell leaned toward Stern and whispered, “Where’d you hide the bicycle?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stern.

Sergeant McShane eventually stopped on top of a small hillock. On the other side, a stocky man of about forty sat on a camp stool, smoking a cigarette with obvious enjoyment. A clipboard and a pen lay on the ground beside him.

“My orders,” said McShane, “are to see where you two stand as far as taking care of yourselves. We’re going to check your God-given ability first. Weapons come later. Let’s see how you’d do if you were caught without one.”