A hotel receptionist answered, and Reeve asked to be put through to Mr. Rowe’s room. Jay answered on the first ring.
“It’s me,” Reeve said icily.
“Who else? I want to thank you, Philosopher. I’ve always wanted an excuse to come back home. And all-expenses paid, too.”
“Kosigin’s a generous man. You weren’t worried I’d sic the regiment onto you?”
“I don’t think that’s what you want.”
“You’re right.”
“So when and where do we meet?”
“An island. Not far from my home.”
“You want home advantage, eh? Well, I’d do the same. Give me the details.”
“Head to Mallaig.” Reeve spelled it out. “Just north of the town, there’s a boathouse with an old Saab parked outside. You’ll see it easily enough. The boathouse is owned by a man called Creech.” He spelled this, too. “He’ll hire you a boat.”
“A boat? Hey, do I get to row it, like in the song?”
Reeve ignored this. “Will you need just the one boat?”
Jay laughed. “It’s just you and me, Philosopher.”
“I’ll bet. Creech will know where you’re to go. He’ll give you directions. Naturally, he’ll want paying for the hire.” Reeve watched Creech’s tongue flick momentarily from his mouth.
“Naturally. I’m looking forward to seeing you again. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
Reeve blinked away the pink fog. Soon, he thought. Soon. But he mustn’t let the anger get the better of him. He had to control it.
“Kosigin must really want those tapes,” he said.
Jay just laughed. “Come on, Philosopher, we both know this isn’t about the tapes. Screw the tapes. Screw Kosigin. This is about you and me, am I right?”
“You’re a clever man, Jay.”
“Not as clever as you, Philosopher, but I’ve been trying.”
Reeve put down the receiver and pushed his way out of the box.
“Is he coming?” Creech asked.
“He’s coming.”
“When?”
“As long as it takes him. Come on.”
“Where to?”
“The boathouse. I want you to drop me off somewhere.”
“An island?” Creech guessed.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
So Reeve told him.
TWENTY-FOUR
JAY AND HIS MEN took three cars from London.
They drove steadily, without saying much. The front car had a map. All three cars were equipped with comms: two-way radios, cell phones, beepers.
“And if those don’t work,” one man had said, “we’ll just have to whistle.”
There were ten men altogether. Jay split them as two four-man patrols and one two-man patrol. His was the two-man patrol. His second-in-command was an ex-L.A. cop called Hestler. Hestler was very good; Jay had worked with him before. However, Jay hadn’t been given much notice of the mission, had needed men in a hurry, and a few of the others in the group were unknowns. There were a couple who weren’t much more than street kids, ex-gang members. They looked mean, but looks counted for very little. Reeve could sneak up from behind them and take them out. The first he’d see of their mean looks, their eyes would already be glazed over.
Jay and his squad hadn’t flown direct to Heathrow. He knew Heathrow customs could be tough. They’d flown to Paris instead, and got a French operative to organize cars to take them across the channel by ferry. It was slow, but it meant no one checked the contents of the large metal cases they’d brought with them from the French capital.
The cases were polished aluminum, the sort of rigid carrier camera equipment was often shipped in. There could have been video cameras inside, but there weren’t. Instead, the cases were packed with the same equipment they’d taken on the Villambard mission.
Everyone was tired, Jay knew that. They’d hardly checked into the hotel before Reeve’s phone call had come. Probably Reeve was playing on that factor. He would keep Jay moving, keep him from sleeping. Jay had considered staying put in London, getting some rest and setting off next morning. But he was keen to get this over and done with. He was good and ready. There’d be plenty of time for sleep afterwards.
He knew his own enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone. The car passengers were trying to sleep. They’d switch drivers every hour, and stop every two hours for a stretch and some coffee. The map was a Collins road atlas, and it showed them that Mallaig was in the Scottish Highlands, a hell of a way from London but very close to Reeve’s own home. Reeve wanted them on his territory. Mallaig was coastal, not quite wilderness. Jay didn’t mind. When he wasn’t working, he liked to take off east out of L.A. to the forests and mountains of San Gabriel and San Bernardino. There was no terrain he didn’t know. He was an adept skier, climber, and runner. Last fall he’d taken off into the wilds for fifteen days, not coming across another living soul for fourteen of them. He knew Reeve had been running survival courses, but doubted they could be anything near as arduous as his own survivalist training. Plus, of course, Jay had been through the same training as Reeve, the same grueling marches over moor and mountain. He didn’t think the Highlands would faze him.
But that was another thing about his troop-they were city dwellers for the most part, used to street-fighting and gun law. Only two, Jay apart, had served in armed forces. One of these was Hestler, the other was a big but paunchy Native American called Choa whose main line of work these days was as a bouncer at a nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. Some actor had died there a while back, but Choa’s name hadn’t been mentioned…
Reeve had done all right so far. He’d handled himself pretty well. But he’d been operating swift strikes, vanishing again afterwards. Jay didn’t think he’d cope with confrontation quite so well. The odds still favored Jay, which was the only way he’d play them.
They reached Mallaig at ten in the morning. It had been raining ever since they’d crossed the border. The windshield wipers were on full and still were barely coping. There wasn’t much of a road north out of Mallaig, and the next settlement along, Mallaigvaig, was the end of the line. The only thing you could do when you got there was turn back to Mallaig itself.
But just before they reached Mallaigvaig, they saw the boathouse and the Saab.
“Hestler, with me,” Jay said. At the last service station, they’d opened the metal cases, and when the two men left the front car, each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 set at three-round burst. They ran to the boathouse door, and Jay banged on it with his shoe. Then they stood to either side of the door, and waited for someone to answer.
When the door started to open, Jay shouldered it inwards, throwing Kenneth Creech onto his back, from which position he peered up into the mouth of the submachine gun.
“Are you Creech?”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“Are you Creech?”
Creech eventually managed to nod that he was. Hestler had recced the shed and now said, “All clear,” then went to the door to signal for the others to come in.
“You know someone called Reeve?”
Creech nodded again.
“What did he tell you?”
“He said you’d… you’d need a boat.”
“To go where?”
“Skivald. It’s a small island off South Uist.”
Jay turned to Hestler. “Tell one of them to bring the map.” He turned back to Creech. “I notice you’ve wet yourself.” The stain on Kenneth Creech’s trousers was spreading fast. Jay smiled. “I like that. Now, Mr. Creech, how big is Skivald?”
“About a mile and a half by three-quarters of a mile.”
“Small.”
“Aye.” Choa handed the map book to Jay, who put it on the floor and crouched down to flick its pages. The MP5 was still trained on a point between Creech’s eyes. “I don’t see it,” Jay said at last. “Show me.” Creech sat up and looked at the map. He pointed to where Skivald was, north of Loch Eynort.
“There’s nothing there.”
“No,” Creech said, “it’s not marked. You won’t find it on a map.”