Chapter 43

Firth of Clyde

5:35 pm GMT, 6:45 pm Local

The great room in the center of the stone manor at the top of Gray Rock was a contrast in extremes. The storm that raged outside pelted the large glass windows, and visibility through the fog and sea spray was virtually zero. Inside, however, the flames in the massive fireplace with hand-carved granite mantel roared with the ferocity of Dante’s Inferno, danseurs of light cavorting with the shadows of hand-carved chairs and grandfather clocks that had been crafted by artisans over a century ago; back in an era when pride and patience held more worth than paycheck and profit.

Warm and toasty, The Chairman lounged in a William IV reclining armchair, hand-finished mahogany with tulip legs in the front. He’d found the antique in a secondhand shop in Edinburgh twenty years ago, and had it packed and shipped to the island, along with a matching mahogany table that had been hiding in the store’s attic.

This evening, a thick tartan blanket was draped over his emaciated legs, and he held a glass of warm Cuban rum in his equally skeletal hands. He was gazing through one of the windows as if he were remembering a time when most of his life was still ahead of him, and growing old and decrepit was just a feeble tease of a distant yet inescapable future. He had come to terms with his imminent demise several months ago, the same day the doctors in Milan had explained to him that his renal cell carcinoma was now the size of a grapefruit and was consuming far more calories than he was taking in. Especially since he had lost his appetite for most things, save for the thirty-year-old Don Pancho rum, a glass of which he held in his hand…and an occasional nip of the Balvenie Dark Barley twenty-six-year-old single malt he kept in the locked cabinet under the mother-of-pearl globe. He deeply inhaled the honey and nougat aroma, contemplating at what point in life a fading pensioner gladly switches his affections to rum and Scotch, and leaves women to the devices of younger men.

“We have a visitor, sir,” came a voice from the doorway that opened in from the vaulted entry hall. It belonged to the old caretaker who had served the summer tenants of Gray Rock for over fifty years, long before The Chairman had taken up residence and renovated the stone structure. His name was Gordon but, like all his predecessors before him, he was known as Gordy. The nickname sounded a bit adolescent for a man in his late seventies but, because he liked his boss and the job paid well, he’d learned to let it go.

“Is that a fact, Gordy?” The Chairman said without turning around. “Someone braved the elements to come all the way out here on a day like this?”

“Does seems a bit puzzling, sir,” Gordy replied. It was puzzling not because of the weather or the rough seas, but because everyone who lived in any of the villages on the Isle of Arran knew that travel out here was greatly discouraged. “What would you like me to do?”

The Chairman slowly pondered the question, more because his synapses were slow to fire these days than because he was giving it much consideration. Eventually he asked, “Where might our weather-beaten friend be?”

“At the southern edge of the clearing,” Gordy answered. “He came up by way of the trail leading up from the jetty. Perhaps he got swept off a fishing boat.”

“Are we certain it is a ‘he’?”

“Just assuming, sir. Hard to imagine a lady foolish enough to venture out in this.”

“I see your point, Gordy. Well, why don’t you go fix a pot of tea? Better yet, fetch another glass for our visitor and welcome him in from the cold with a tot of warm rum.”

The Chairman dismissed the caretaker with a wave of his hand, never drawing his eyes off the angry gloom roiling outside the window. Fishing boat my ass, he thought. No fisherman in his right mind would be out in a storm like this. One call to the mainland could get him that information, if he wished. He lived for information; it was the currency of the world—the great specie of power and wealth—and, judging by such standards, he was a rich man; very rich indeed. Information had its time and its purpose, but this evening there was no point in checking to see if any boats were late coming home from the sea.

For The Chairman had expected to receive company: perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow or the next day, but sometime soon, most definitely.

A most deadly adversary, he thought as a shadow fell upon the room. He peered through the dusky gloom as Gordy led his visitor into the library.

“Rōnin Phythian—can that really that you?” he inquired, squinting through eyes ravaged by age. “How many years has it been since our paths last crossed?”

“Nowhere near enough,” Phythian responded. He’d already sensed The Chairman was aware of his presence on Gray Rock, desperately trying to determine the best method to deal with him. “Time has gotten the better of us both, I’m afraid.”

“What’s past is prologue,” the old man agreed. “I must say, I never expected for us to meet again under circumstances such as these.”

“You never expected us to meet again under any circumstances,” Phythian reminded him icily. “Funny how our mistakes always come back to haunt us.”

“The world is plagued by false starts and fickle turns,” The Chairman agreed. “And since these starts and turns have brought you to my door, please: make yourself at home.”

They were sizing each other up, much the same way fencers begin a match. Get a feel for the opposition: how he moves, how he thinks, what he feels—how he anticipates not just the next move, but the next five—and how he prepares for them all. Lunge, parry, riposte. Passata sotto, counter-attack, remise, feint. It was an art form defined by basic principles of competitive balance, mental acuity, and guarded sportsmanship.

“Thank you,” Phythian said appreciatively. “Your house is my house.”

Despite his confidence and bluster, The Chairman was finding himself unnerved by the confidence with which his unexpected visitor spoke. That Phythian was here at all was enough cause for concern, but the way he appeared to feel no sense of peril was disconcerting.

“Gordy, please pour our guest a glass of Don Pancho,” he told the caretaker. “I do hate to drink alone.”

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”

“A gentleman does not turn down the hospitality of another,” the Chairman admonished him sourly. “Particularly when said gentleman has arrived without invitation or summons.”

“Neither of us has fit the definition of ‘gentleman’ for a very long time,” Phythian said. He continued to stand by the roaring fire, drying his trousers, making no effort to sit down.

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’ve always believed the term to mean a person with courage and honor in his heart. A man who is gallant and respectful and decent and, most of all, of high moral character. Gentlemen do not rape and plunder and kill at the expense of others but, unfortunately, both of us are forced to live with such sins.”

“Hate the sin, love the sinner.” The Chairman folded his hands into a steeple, the canonical irony apparently lost on him. “And I see no reason to anguish over actions of such little consequence when there’s always been a greater objective to consider.”

“The old ‘ends justifying the means’ excuse, is that it?”

“An elementary triviality that may not sound particularly civil, but sometimes one must consider the larger scenario. The greater good, as they say. At one time you used to understand that, my friend.”

“What I’ve come to learn is it’s a convenient way to expunge guilt and conscience.”

“Let’s not distract ourselves over lost scruples or dogmatic contrivances,” The Chairman said. “Instead, please entertain me with why you have elected to visit my modest abode on such a dark and stormy night. Pardon the tired bromide, but I cannot resist. And Gordy, you are excused for the evening.”

The caretaker nodded but said nothing as he slipped out of the room, leaving the two adversaries to their own devices. Once he was gone, The Chairman gathered up his glass of rum and let a trickle of the amber liquid flow smoothly over his tongue and down his throat.

“You’re certain I can’t interest you in a tot?” he asked.

Phythian thought for a moment how far he’d traveled in over the past three days just to get to this point. “I didn’t come all this way to share the pleasantries of the day,” he replied.

“Then what does bring you here, Phythian?”

“Monica Cross.”

The Chairman narrowed his eyes and studied him warily, then said, “What about her?”

“Back off, or I shut you down.”

The Chairman broke into a bony grin and shook his head with mock pity. “Shut me down? You’re out of your bloody mind. You can’t be so naive as to think you could set foot on this island and get away alive.”

“What makes you think I intend to leave?” Phythian replied, returning the grin.

His words caused The Chairman to furrow his brow, which was abscessed and infected to the point that all that remained was a scraggy film that seemed the texture of onion skin. “You should have stayed wherever the hell you were,” he said, his voice barely a thread above the crackle of the fire. “Left well-enough alone.”

“Yet here I am,” Phythian reminded him. “And my message is this: pull your dogs off Monica Cross.”

“Why do you care?” The Chairman asked him. “Why does the fate of one insignificant woman matter in the overall framework of the world?”

Phythian had no interest in a pointless debate over existential philosophy or free will. His was a much more pragmatic reason for being there, and he got right to the point as he removed an object from his waterproof money belt.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked as he allowed the light from the fire fall upon it.

The Chairman had lost all vision in one eye years ago to glaucoma, and without his glasses he had great difficulty seeing out of the other. He squinted for a long time at the blurry object in Phythian’s hand, then said, “That’s Equinox—”

“You didn’t think I’d leave it behind in the plane, did you?” Phythian said. “For just anyone to find.”

“You were never meant to survive.” The old man didn’t even bother denying the mission he’d set in motion six years ago, in an attempt to rid himself of two big problems.

“The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” Phythian replied. “And if you don’t pull your hounds off Monica Cross, I’ll yank the plug on you and this entire operation. Beginning with the release of every bite of information that’s on this drive.”

“You’re bloody crazy,” The Chairman blurted, trying hard not to betray the signs of genuine worry mounting inside him.

“Perhaps,” Phythian said as he glanced at the grandfather clock set against the wood-paneled wall. “Time’s ticking.”

“Humor me, for just a moment. Just how do think you’d pull off such a stunt?”

“‘Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.’”

“You think you’re going to kill me.” The Chairman said, almost laughing. “With a line from Shakespeare, no less.”

“It would give me no greater pleasure,” Phythian replied. “But pleasure and action make the hours seem short, which you would do well to realize. In the meantime, we have another, far more pressing matter at hand.”