building where once he had been near to Laura. The trouble was, the black, burly Fergus was unaware of his motives, and, with ears that could hear a shot pheasant hit the ground at 200 yards, he heard a footfall on the gravel drive. He came off his bean bag like a tiger, barking at the top of his lungs, racing toward the front door, pursued now by the even bigger Muffin, and Mr. Bumble.
The noise was outrageous. Upstairs, the admiral awakened and walked out into the corridor, where Bill was already standing in his dressing gown, with all the downstairs hall lights on.
“What’s the matter with them?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Iain, but when dogs react like that in the middle of the night it’s always because they heard something.”
And even as they spoke, they heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling away, heading up toward the village of Inverary, fast.
“Probably someone was lost,” said the admiral. “It’s pretty dark out there.”
The dogs were quiet now, and Sir Iain turned out the lights. “See you in the morning Bill, 0900.”
“Yessir,” said Bill, against house protocol.
Commander Adnam shot through Inverary at almost 70 mph his headlights on full beam. He might not have had much success at beating his all-time record to St. Catherine’s and back. But he set some kind of a mark for the Scottish all-comers Inverary — Creggans Inn run. Right around the north end of the loch, pedal to the floor. He used his key to slip in the side door and went immediately up to his room. And there he lay exhausted on his bed, wondering exactly who was at home in his former Teacher’s house, and where Laura was.
Would he ever see her again? And what had he been doing, lurking in the night shadows, like some burglar? He did not know. Except there was nowhere else where he could connect with anyone, even in his mind. It was as if the aura of the MacLeans, a family that once had almost liked him, had created a roomful of memories. And to sit in his cold car outside the house was to sit in that room. The alternative was so lonely, so frighteningly isolated, that he did not believe he could face it for much longer.
He knew one thing, however. For the first time in his life, he was in danger of losing his grip. Because there was nothing for him to do. He was friendless, stateless, and certainly homeless. And his ungrasped straw was Laura.
Ben did not sleep at all that night. Partly because he was afraid to do so, because of the nightmares. But mostly because he knew he had to move and seek out a direction. The problem was he could not even make a phone call, because there was no one he could call. One false move, and he would be arrested and possibly deported to the United States, where he was undoubtedly Public Enemy Number One. If they nailed him, they would not, he knew, bother with murder or life imprisonment. He would face a charge equivalent to treason against the state, and that, he guessed, meant the chair.
He drank just coffee at breakfast, in sharp contrast to the splendor of the spread that was prepared at the MacLeans. The admiral loved fish for breakfast, so long as it was served after 0900, and Angus had prepared both kippers and poached haddock, for two, since none of the female members of the household had yet made an appearance.
Bill had never had fish for breakfast, but he entered into the spirit and tasted his first kippers, ended up having two pairs of the rich, smoked Scottish herrings.
Over China tea, and toast with locally made chunky marmalade, he and the admiral settled down to chat about the Great Theory. The atlas was already open on the table. “Well, Bill,” said Sir Iain, “what did you come up with?”
“Not much really. I was tired as hell, and Laura wanted to play some opera for sentimental reasons. By midnight I thought
The admiral chuckled, and produced some newspaper clippings. “Here,” he said, “read this one…it’s got the stuff in it from the lobsterman, the stuff they have all, apparently, dismissed as unreliable. I’d be glad if you’d read it.”
Bill did so slowly. “Well, Mr. MacInnes was pretty definite, wasn’t he? I mean about the Zodiac suddenly showing up in the small hours of the morning. And he was also pretty definite about the new guy on the fishing boat, the one wearing the military jacket.”
“Wasn’t he, though? Very definite. And I can understand why. That chap has lived all his life in Mallaig, where his father was also a fisherman. The sight of that harbor is unchanging.
Bill laughed, but he was very serious. And he interjected, “Like seeing a sheep on my land. We’ve never raised them. Just cattle.”
“Exactly so, Bill. That man, even through the alcohol, remembered. If I were the investigator, I’d regard the drinks as a plus, not a minus.”
“I think I would, too, Iain. So what you’re saying is that someone got off the fishing boat, in the Zodiac, and drove it all the way back to Mallaig. Christ, it’s gotta be, what? A hundred and sixty miles?”
“At least…more like 175, I’d say.”
“It couldn’t carry that much gas, could it?”
“Easily. If it had four of those four-and-half-gallon jerry cans. Then it might.”
“Well, let’s assume, it did. What does this have to do with the man commanding the rogue submarine?”
“Only that someone may have got off the rogue submarine.”
“Onto Gregor Mackay’s kipper ship?”
“Possibly.”
“You think he was out there recruiting?”
Sir Iain laughed loudly this time. “Bill, I love that American sense of humor…but that’s not really what I meant. I meant maybe Gregor’s boat had been hired to go out and
“But who could have hired it? The Iraqi Embassy?”
“No,” replied the admiral. “But how about the foreign-looking laddie in the Navy jacket standing by the Zodiac.”
“Jesus, I’ve been so busy making jokes, I never really thought about that.”
“Well, son-in-law. Think.”
“Right. I’ll do it. One question. How far from the place
“I’ve calculated it, Bill. The VP crashed at 53 North, 20 West. The
“How about timing?”
“The Boeing was lost around 1300 GMT on Sunday, February26. The harbormaster at Mallaig lost contact with Captain Mackay on the night of March 1.”
“So the submarine had six days to get there.”
“It would have done, my boy, if February had more than twenty-eight days in this non — leap year.”
“Christ, I’d forgotten about that. So it had only a little over three and a half days?”
“Correct.”
“You got a calculation on that, sir?”
“Uh-huh. Four hundred ninety divided by three and a half is 140 miles a day. Divide that by 24, and you have a nice quiet little running speed of 5.8 knots. Just about reasonable for a submarine creeping away from a crime to a meeting point, wouldn’t you say?”
“Just. But then what? Ben gets off, pinches the Zodiac, and somehow sinks the fishing boat? I can’t buy that. If Captain Mackay had come all the way out to meet him, why didn’t Ben just travel to Mallaig with the boat?”
“Well, I agree, Bill. It’s all a bit far-fetched. But in the middle of it all, we do have one incontrovertible fact —
