CHAPTER 3
From the northernmost cannon mounts known as the Argyle Battery of Edinburgh Castle, the view of the New Town section of Edinburgh was breathtaking. Far below the craggy heights of the ancient castle, which seemed to grow out of the rock like a gnarled oak, the snow-covered Princes Street Gardens stretched from St. Cuthbert's Church to the west, to Waverley Station to the east and far, far down the Lothian Valley to the North Sea. Beyond Princes Street Garden, the modern shops, hotels and homes of New Edinburgh — "new" in this instance meaning the part of town that was only two hundred forty years old, as opposed to the rest, which was over twelve hundred — bustled with activity despite the cold winds and occasional snowfalls.
There were a few die-hard tourists visiting this imposing stone castle overlooking Edinburgh, but for the most part the site was deserted except for the warders and members of the Castle Guard. Only a few hardy, well-dressed individuals stood by to watch as the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard made their way to the Mills' Mount gun platform for the one o'clock signal. "The townspeople, merchants and sailors of Edinburgh have set their timepieces to the one o'clock gun ever since the time of Napoleon Bonaparte," a tour guide was saying. His thick Scottish brogue, dulled by the chill winds swirling around the top of the castle, made him difficult to understand, but the man who stood a few feet to his left, dressed in a gray trenchcoat, wool-brimmed hat, leather gloves and sunglasses was not really listening. "It is even said that Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, stops by Edinburgh every day to check the spin of the earth and moon with the gun so sailors won't get lost."
"Why do they fire the gun at one o'clock?" a man with a slight Middle Eastern accent asked. He had been waiting there for some time, and was now standing right up near the chain and stanchions that kept visitors away from the small fifty-five-millimeter howitzer. "It seems a strange hour. Why not signal at noon?"
Now the man in sunglasses was interested, but not in the tour guide's reply — being a native of Scotland, he'd already guessed the answer. "Ye forget, sir," the tour guide replied, his lips forming a sly smile, "you're in Scotland. Having to fire only one shot per day, rather than twelve, appeals to a Scotman's sense of economy. "
The foreigner gave a short laugh and the tour guide went on with his well-rehearsed script. The Scots, the man with the sunglasses observed, seemed as fond of making fun at themselves as they were of the English and Irish.
Presently the guards entered the chained-off area, and at the direction of the officer in charge, fired one economical round to the north over the New Town. By force of habit the man in sunglasses checked his watch — the timing was perfect. The Scots were nothing if not both thrifty and punctual.
The tourists quickly retreated out of the numbing wind that blew in from the glacial bay called the Firth of Forth; even the Dragoon Guards' pace seemed to quicken as they marched off the Argyle Battery back to the massive group of two-hundred-year-old buildings called the New Barracks.
The man with the slight Middle Eastern accent turned away from the Mills' Mount Battery as if reluctantly relinquishing the sting of the icy winds on his face and walked down the cobblestone concourse toward the Portcullis Gate. He almost walked right into the man in the sunglasses. "Excuse me." His voice was even colder than the chill Scottish winds.
The man in the sunglasses began in French. "Pardonnez moi, Monsieur le President Alientar."
"McDonough?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I was afraid you were not going to come. I thought your government was going to change its mind again."
"We can talk over here, sir," McDonough said, letting Alientar's shot glance off him unanswered. He led him past the former cart sheds turned souvenir shops and down a narrow alley to the Back Parade between the Butts Battery and the building marked "Governor's Residence." They then turned left across to a cobblestone half-moon carriageway to an entrance in the rear of the governor's residence.
"We are going in here?" President Alientar asked.
"The English and Scottish governments were kind enough to offer us a secure place to talk," McDonough said.
They walked up the stone-and-filed portico of the rear of the building and were immediately met by a member of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard in a black cold-weather uniform. No kilts, dirks or ceremonial basket-hilt broadswords here — the guard had a very mean, modern-looking Heckler and Koch MP5A3 assault submachine gun at portarms. He checked McDonough's ID, compared it against a separate roster, motioned them inside.
A man dressed in household whites but clearly a member of the Dragoon Guard — the bulge of a Special Air Services Browning high-power automatic pistol was visible under his tunic — led the two foreigners through the outer galley and kitchen area, through the well-appointed dining room and large sitting room and into a smaller office area. He eyed them both suspiciously, then left without saying a word.
"Not very friendly…"
"He probably feels this meeting of foreigners demeans the surroundings," McDonough said, and motioned Alientar to a leather-covered seat. A few moments later the guard returned with a tray of tea and scones.
"M' omerica, " McDonough said in Gaelic. "My thanks." The guardsman gave McDonough a piercing look, obviously feeling that the foreigner was making fun of him by speaking the ancient Scottish tongue. He left with a loud thud of the heavy oak door. "No doubt my presence is a particular irritant," Alientar said. He eyed McDonough as he removed his hat, coat, and gloves. "What is it you do, Mr. McDonough?"
"I'm an assistant to the president of the United States. I'm assigned to the National Security Council but I report directly to the president."
"Are you a military man?"
"Retired — United States Air Force. I was an air attaché to Tehran before the revolution."
"A spy, then."
"No, an air attaché. I was liasion between the Iranian and U.S. air forces."
"You would deny it in any case," Alientar said blandly. McDonough took a deep breath, surprised at how steady his hands were as he poured the tea. "I am distressed that the president did not send one of his senior advisors to this meeting," Alientar said. "I would have expected at least a cabinet-level officer, or the vice-president." He looked casually around the office, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. "This troubles me deeply. I question the sincerity of your government if they can't at least send someone of ministerial or ambassadorial rank—"
McDonough thought how a few years back Bud McFarland said almost the same thing to second-rank Iranians when he had come to Tehran to sell arms for hostages. Full-circle… "My apologies if we've offended you," McDonough said. He had been expecting this. "But the president requested this meeting in anticipation of a more formal state visit by you to Washington at the earliest opportunity. He asked me to talk with you, hear you out, and transmit your messages to him.
Alientar shrugged. "Very well, but I am disappointed. And to have this meeting in Scotland? In the dead of winter? A poor choice."
"Excuse me, sir, but this was by far the most secure place for this meeting. True, it's not recommended that you stray too close to these Royal Scots Dragoons. Too many Scottish seamen in the Royal Navy have lost their lives in the Persian Gulf because of your predecessor's attacks on British escort vessels in recent months. But almost any other site would be far more dangerous." McDonough paused for a moment, then went on. "Internal disputes in your own Revolutionary Guard make it no longer safe for you to be in your own palace in Tehran. Half the Muslim nations have shunned you or are afraid to show you any friendship, and the other half want you dead. Even France, where you've stayed for the past month, is close to deporting you because of the terrorist attacks you provoke by being there. You were let into Great Britain only after personal assurances from my president that secrecy would be maintained. All in all, I'd say we are lucky that this meeting is being held in the office of the governor of Scotland rather than in some jungle hut in South America—"