“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.
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
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.”
The instructor on the stool grinned up at McShane. “Funny how often that very thing tends to happen, isn’t it, Ian?”
“True enough, John. Are you busy? These two will only be with us for a few days.”
“Not at all. Just put a few Poles through their paces.”
“You’re the unarmed combat instructor?” Stern asked.
The man on the stool frowned at the sound of Stern’s voice. German accents were seldom heard in the Lochaber hills.
McShane said, “All of us are qualified to teach any part of the course. But Sergeant Lewis does specialize a bit. This part of the course is actually called Silent Killing.”
Sergeant Lewis stood up and grinned again, though this time his eyes stayed sober. “Step into my parlor, lad.”
“I’ll let my friend warm you up,” Stern said.
McConnell turned to McShane. “Is this really necessary?”
“Get on with it, Mr. Wilkes.”
McConnell eased cautiously down the bank. He felt his pulse quickening. His entire pugilistic experience consisted of one round of boxing in a makeshift ring in the Fairplay High School gymnasium. It was the week after Tunney hammered Jack Dempsey for the title in Philadelphia. The high school boys had caught a seven-day boxing
