Chapter 41

Firth of Clyde, Scotland

4:04 pm GMT, 5:04 pm Local

At that very moment Rōnin Phythian was on board a small fishing vessel named the Ceilidh which, in Gaelic, roughly translated to “social gathering.” The old wooden craft struggled against the bitter elements as it chugged out from the tiny village of Brodick on the Isle of Arran, an hour ferry ride across the Firth of Clyde from the town of Ardrossan. Phythian had arrived there an hour ago, following the bus ride from Glasgow, and he’d quickly found a captain willing to take him out for a cruise.

The Ceilidh—pronounced “kay-lee” by the locals—had plied these waters for thirty years and, barring any unexpected mishap, would be doing the same for the next thirty. Captain Urquhart—somewhat pronounced “urk-utt”—was the owner and master of the boat, and he’d assured Phythian of this fact before they set out on this charter excursion, as long as he paid full freight up front.

The sky was the color of charcoal, the sea a deep shade of pewter and running at six feet. A light rain was dribbling down upon the western Scottish coast, and the heavens were threatening to split open in a downpour. A wind was building from the northwest, blowing spray from the cresting waves across the bow of the boat.

“Thar she is,” Urquhart said, peering through the now-driving rain at the gray horizon. He was a grizzled man, with a leathery face and gnarled knuckles. A mop of thick, black hair covered his scalp, and his chin was cloaked in a beard that carried streaks of rust and silver in it. “Lying off to starboard, thar,” he said, pointing. “You can see her best when the chop lies low.”

Phythian looked in the direction of the captain’s gaze, but he saw nothing. He had never been in these waters before, and he did not know what he was looking for. Urquhart, on the other hand, had grown up in Lamlash, a few miles south of Brodick, and he knew the sea as if a nautical chart had been tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.

“Try these.” He handed Phythian a pair of old British Air Force field glasses. “Look just above the horizon, there—”

This time Phythian did see it, but only briefly. At this distance it appeared as no more than a speck of stone protruding from the roiling waters, as gray as the sky and just as lifeless.

Gray Rock.

“The old man arrived middle of May, and he’s expected to leave early next month,” Urquhart said. “On account of he’s not got a lot of days left in him.”

“Are we expecting this storm to clear?” Phythian inquired.

“This is no storm, my friend. But we got a bloody fierce one moving in from the west, barometer’s been dropping since midnight. Should be quite a blow.”

“Can you put me ashore in weather like this?”

“It’ll be rough, and you may have to jump the last couple feet,” the captain said. “Gray Rock, she’s a wild lass on a flat sea—and on a day like today, she’s a true bitch and a bloody whore.”

“Let’s go have ourselves a look,” Phythian told him.

Ten minutes later they had drawn within fifty yards of the rocky outcropping. The driving rain had turned into a ferocious squall, and the roiling seas had evolved into a wild, undulating swell.

Phythian peered through the tempest at the old stone quay; the water between it and the boat looked very cold. “There’s the quay, there,” he said.

“Any closer and she’ll break apart.” Urquhart said. “You going to pay for my boat if she goes down?”

“You said jumping distance.”

“Bloody hell,” the captain cursed. “I’ll get you as close as I can, but I’m not losing my lady on account of a crazy man.”

“Jumping distance,” Phythian repeated, pushing the concept into Urquhart brain.

“You’d better be quick, then. I’m only making one pass at the bugger.”

One pass was all it took, but not without the captain’s steady hand on the wheel and his instinct for the sea. The lead-colored water pounded against the granite pier with five-foot waves, a constant eruption of salt spray washing over it and periodically obscuring it from view. The Ceilidh rocked and pitched as the captain eased the engine and came at it from an angle, closing from twenty meters to ten, then five. As he swung the vessel around, the surge began to roll the boat up against the old jetty, but he spun the wheel at just the right moment and yelled “Go.”

Phythian went. He’d positioned himself along the starboard gunwale, a firm grip on the cabin top, and with one mighty effort he leaped across the heaving surf. At the same moment, the Ceilidh rocked seaward on the crest of an errant wave, hurling him into the side of the quay with the force of a catapult. The impact momentarily knocked the air from his lungs, and he started to slip into the numbing waters of the Firth of Clyde.

He clawed wildly at the rough stone and his fingers finally found purchase on a rock jutting out from the side of the quay. Then his foot found another small ledge, and he was able to steady himself as the boat chugged back out into the open water. Phythian heard the captain call out something to him, but the words were lost in the howling wind and the crashing surf.

A minute later he was standing on the top of the pier, shielding his eyes from the salt spray. His clothes were drenched, he was chilled to the bone, and he was being pelted by rain driven sideways from the force of the storm. Out in the depths of the gale he heard the engine of Ceilidh fading in the distance, as well as the occasional moan of a foghorn on the Isle of Arran.

Phythian knew from his evening with Le Serrurier that Gray Rock was a small knob of land twenty acres in size, the shape of a teardrop when viewed from above, or from Google maps. The main residence—a stone structure originally erected at the end of the nineteenth century—was nestled in the rocks at the highest point of the land, with a wrap-around veranda and a cupola providing a three-sixty view of the sea.

A narrow path led up from the quay through the dense scrub and grass that covered most of the island. The few trees that grew here—mostly cedars and alders—bowed at a precarious angle due to the constant sweep of the wind. As Phythian made his way to high ground he took great pains to look for booby traps and detection devices, but concluded none was to be found. Had The Chairman grown so arrogant over time to believe that no one would dare infiltrate his summer lair? Or was he saving his surprises—and his armaments—for when Phythian arrived at the top of the mount? Either way, he was going to find out soon. He’d followed the trail to the uppermost reach of the island, and now was crouched low beside a large fist of stone.

Thirty yards away stood the great stone house of Gray Rock.