off out of Edinburgh, southeast to the Borders.
He drove quietly out past the city limits and onto the A68. It was 28 miles to the Galashiels area, down a long winding road, past the western edges of the Lammermuir Hills. There, on the high ground, were some of Scotland’s finest grouse moors, in particular those of the dukes of Roxburgh, and those of Sir Hamish Anderson, the magisterial father of Douglas.
Commander Adnam sat behind the wheel, glancing occasionally at the cold bleak winter home of the game birds, and reflecting upon his forthcoming tactics. He would pretend that he knew nothing of the divorce and that he had come to visit Laura and her husband as a result of a long-standing invitation.
In the end he wanted just one thing from the banker — the American address of Lieutenant Commander Baldridge. And if Mr. Anderson should prove difficult, it might be necessary to force the information from him, which might mean he would have to silence him permanently before leaving. But that was a course of action the commander was quite prepared to take. Old habits tend to die hard among terrorists. And Ben Adnam knew that for the rest of his life, if he was to evade capture, he might have to take such actions. Because for him, one witness as to his possible identity was one too many. That would signify, quite simply, the end of his life.
He reached the junction with the Selkirk — Kelso road and continued on straight for the 6-mile run down to Ancrum. The afternoon had turned suddenly bright, as the rain cleared swiftly away to the northeast, and, after a couple of miles, Ben stopped in a desolate stretch of green hilly countryside and checked his map. He was inside a triangle, bounded on three corners by Selkirk, Jedburgh, and Kelso. Twelve miles away to the southwest was the cashmere and knitware town of Hawick.
Right there he was in the heart of the great border tribes of Scotland, the men once known as the Border Reivers. Their lawless reign of terror had flourished along those lonely hills for 350 years, until 1600, because England regarded the entire region as “ungovernable.” Ben himself had just seen, in the past 20 miles, signs that remain of them still — ancient castles, stately homes, fortified farmhouses, ruins of historic abbeys, remains of watchtowers built as fortresses with walls 7 feet thick. There were remnants of abandoned hamlets in remote valleys, remnants of a cruel and turbulent history in which the warring tribes of England and Scotland had fought each other savagely over four centuries. Many of their descendants still lived in the area: families with names like Nixon, Armstrong, Graham, Kerr, Maxwell, Forster…and Anderson.
But it was quiet there as Ben Adnam drove south, almost eerily quiet. For these borderlands represent the center of one of Britain’s last wilderness areas, a land of vast moors, forest, hills, rivers, and streams. And the Iraqi ran on down to Ancrum, stopping just short of the tumbling River Teviot, for hundreds of years a silent haven for salmon fisherman. Ben actually drove past the village green and on out to the other side before realizing his mistake and turning back.
He stopped and turned around, drove back to the village shop, where he inquired as to the address of Mr. Douglas Anderson. “Take the road to Nisbet,” he was told by the gray-haired, tidy Scottish lady behind the counter. “And on your left you will come to a graystone gateway with carved granite lions on the posts. Turn in there…the drive’s about half a mile long. Mr. Douglas is in residence, I believe. By the way, if you get to the Memorial, you’ve gone too far.”
The commander found the road to Nisbet and drove out through the rolling country traditionally hunted by the duke of Buccleugh’s foxhounds, next to the vast lands owned by the marquis of Lothian. He found the lion gates and turned into the drive, making his way between long lines of towering spruce trees on either side. The house itself was gray stone with four columns on the front portico. The oak doors stood 12 feet high.
Ben parked the car, walked up the four steps to the entrance, and rang the bell. An elderly butler, dressed in striped trousers and a black jacket, answered the door, and Ben asked if he could possibly see either Mr. or Mrs. Anderson. His English was impeccable, and the butler recognized this to be so and invited him to step inside. Then he asked who he should say was inquiring.
“Tell them, Mr. Arnold. Ben Arnold from South Africa.”
“Very well, sir.”
When he returned he was accompanied by a dark-haired, youngish woman of medium height and quite striking good looks. She wore a deep red silk shirt, tight black pants, and high heels. Her lavish lipstick matched her shirt. She looked like an actress to the tips of her dark red fingernails.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’m Natalie Anderson. My husband is rather busy at the moment, I wonder if I could help…I don’t believe we have met?”
The commander smiled and offered his hand. “No…no we haven’t. I’m Ben Arnold…and this is all rather embarrassing.”
“It is?”
“Well…it is. You see, I thought Mr. Anderson was married to a lady named Laura.”
“Not anymore,” said Natalie, laughing. “They were divorced two years ago. I’ve been married to Douglas for more than a year now.”
“Oh…I see. Then that makes it even more awkward.”
“It does?”
“Well, yes. You see my wife and I met and became quite good friends with Laura Anderson in Cairo several years ago. We live in South Africa, but we exchanged addresses and promised to meet if we ever were in the same place…my wife arrives tomorrow, and we’re staying in Kelso. So I thought I’d do a recce, and arrange a dinner or something…”
“Well, Mr. Arnold…that sounds lovely…but since none of us knows each other probably out of the question.”
“Oh, absolutely. And I apologize for taking your time.”
Ben turned to leave, but he hesitated and looked back suddenly, and said, “I say, I’m sorry to be a bore…but do you think your husband would have Laura’s address? At least my wife could send her a Christmas card and let her know we tried.”
Natalie smiled, and replied, “I’m sure he would. Let me go and get him. I have to go to Kelso myself now, so I’ll say good-bye and send Douglas to see you.”
Ben waited, feeling the hilt of his desert knife in the small of his back, wondering how he would feel when he confronted the man who had taken “his” Laura. In less than two minutes he found out. Douglas Anderson, a tall, heavily built man, wearing a country suit with thick, long socks and plus fours, came marching across the hall, the steel tips on his highly polished brown brogues clipping on the stone floor.
“Good afternoon,” he said, in an accent that betrayed every vestige of the polished, landed Scottish banker. “I hear you’ve got your wires a bit crossed. I’m Douglas Anderson.”
The two men shook hands, and Anderson immediately looked at his watch, and said, “What is it…five o’clock? Tell you what. You’ve come a long way…how about a cup of tea?”
“Well, I hate to intrude, but that would be very nice.”
“Come on in here,” he replied, leading the way into a warm, comfortable drawing room with a log fire. “You can tell me about meeting Laura.”
Ben followed him in. “Cairo,” he said. “Maybe eight years ago.”
“Yes…I remember she did go there once for a brief holiday with a girlfriend. Annie, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I believe that was the name of Laura’s friend. But anyway, my wife Darlene got on very well with Laura. They went shopping together, hired a couple of camels and rode out around the pyramids. I used to call her Laura of the Desert. We were all staying out at the Mena House Hotel near Giza.”
“Absolutely. I remember her telling me about the place.”
“Anyway, we lost touch, but we always kept her address, and now I’m here on business for a few days and Darlene’s flying into Edinburgh tomorrow. I thought we might all get together…but it really was a bit embarrassing meeting the new Mrs. Anderson like that. I suppose I should have called and saved everyone a lot of trouble.”
“Think nothing of it, old boy. I’m glad of the company. Natalie’s gone to her bloody aerobics class, and I’m alone for a couple of hours.”
The butler brought in the tea, and Douglas Anderson poured it. “Sugar…?”
“No thanks. Just a splash of milk.”
“And how about you, Ben? What’s your line of country?”
“Mining. Copper and coal. We have holdings in both. I’m here to see several bankers in Edinburgh, but I thought it would be nice to stay out here for a few days in the country. I say, I’m really sorry about you and
