Edinburgh, July 13
Meigle held up his hand for silence. ‘Thank you all for coming to my house at such short notice,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you long, but I want to keep you abreast of events. As you will be aware from the news, there was an attempted robbery in Edinburgh yesterday. A group attacked the convoy carrying the Queen and various heads of state to the Scottish Parliament. They specifically targeted the Honours.’ He waited until the gasps of shock and murmurs of sympathy died down before he continued. ‘The army managed to recover the Sword of State, but the crown and sceptre are still missing. That means that the Clach-bhuai has gone.’
There was a few minutes’ pandemonium as people shouted their comments. It was Drummond who stood up, looking every one of his sixty – odd years. ‘We had a man closely monitoring this group, Sandy. Is he still with them?’
‘Stefan Gregovich was killed.’ Meigle said the words softly. ‘As yet we have no more details for the police have imposed a total security blackout on all information.’
Drummond shook his head. ‘That’s a bugger. He was a good man.’
‘Indeed.’ Meigle allowed the news to sink in before he continued. ‘So our original plan of following them cannot be followed. However, we are not entirely without clues. For instance, we know that Stefan was working within a small group of people, and we have a picture that we believe shows the woman who masterminded the robbery.’ He raised his voice. ‘Could you douse the lights, somebody, and show the film?’
The group settled down with only a little grumbling as Meigle adjusted the television. ‘This piece was on the television news last night. We copied it and have tried to enhance it as best we can. Now watch closely.’
The members of the Society leaned forward as a slightly fuzzed picture of the Royal Mile was displayed, with crowds of people jostling together. ‘Now. Here is a side view of Stefan. He is waiting in the mouth of this close.’ Meigle paused the tape to allow the members time to focus on Stefan. He restarted it, and the camera panned onto the crowd. ‘And here we have Desmond Nolan. That is his real name, although he travelled here under an alibi. Stefan named him as one of the prime movers in this little escapade. We can see him quite clearly talking with a blonde woman. See?’
Again Meigle paused the tape, allowing the society members time to scribble down notes. ‘Does anybody recognise her?’
Most of the members shook their head; some looked puzzled, but nobody came forward with a name. Somebody mentioned that she looked familiar, but was not sure from where.
‘I do not recognize her either, but Colonel Drummond is on to her. He has resources that most other people lack.’ Meigle forced a smile. ‘Is that not correct, James?’ He had always admired Drummond’s efficiency, but now wondered about replacing him. Drummond had not saved the Clach-bhuai when it mattered.
‘I was seconded to the Intelligence Corps for a while,’ Drummond sounded just as calm as ever. ‘I have retained my contacts.’ He stepped out in front of the gathering. ‘If this woman is known to any of the intelligence services of the Western World, then we will be able to have her name within a day. After that we will trace her known movements and her likely whereabouts.’
‘Good. So all is not lost.’ Meigle tried to prevent any panic from the members.
‘Hardly.’ Drummond languidly returned to his seat. ‘You see, Sandy, it is relatively easy to steal an art treasure, even the Clach-bhuai. That sort of thing happens all the time. It’s disposing of it that really causes problems. Think about this; trade in stolen artefacts is at least 4000 years old. Looters were digging up the tombs of the pharaohs days after the last royal servant marched away. Put it another way, art historians estimate that around 98% of the antiquities on display in the world’s museums have been stolen at some time.’
A woman in a smart denim skirt lifted her hand. ‘Surely that makes it easier then? To dispose of things?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Drummond was using specialist knowledge to regain control of his position. ‘However, every known antiquity and every artistic artefact is now known, catalogued and easily recognisable. That means that it would be very difficult to sell the Clach-bhuai, the entire sceptre or the Crown on the open market. As soon as they appear for sale, we will be aware of them.’
‘So we just have to wait?’ The woman seemed pleased with the simplicity of the plan.
‘Not quite.’ Producing his pipe, Drummond looked to Meigle, received a quiet nod of permission and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl. ‘It is unlikely that the Honours were stolen for a speculative sale. There are two other possibilities.’ He held up his left hand and raised a finger. ‘One: they may have been stolen to make some political point. We know that this fellow Desmond Nolan has a strong Irish Republican connection, so it is possible that his colleagues are similarly involved. Unfortunately, Stefan did not send us all their names. Perhaps they intend to ransom the Honours for some political advantage. In that case we will eventually hear from them and will act accordingly.’
‘So that’s hopeful,’ the woman said.
‘As far as we are concerned, that is extremely hopeful.’ Drummond lit his pipe and puffed aromatic smoke toward the members. ‘The government may not be so happy.’
‘And the other possibility?’ The woman was looking quite optimistic.
‘Not so good. The Honours may have been stolen to order. We suspect that some master criminal has ordered them stolen, so he can offer them for sale on the underground market. If we are correct, then they will be far more difficult to trace. There are quite a number of crooked dealers out there.’
As the denim-skirted woman nodded cautiously, Drummond shook his head. ‘Even worse, the Honours may have been stolen for the personal enjoyment of just such a Mr Big. The last few decades have seen an upsurge in the theft of cultural heritage. The Taliban destroyed everything they could in Afghanistan, but there was still a strong trickle of artefacts that left the country, and the Iraq War saw massive looting. You will remember that the Iraqi National Museum in Baghdad was virtually stripped bare? Some of the oldest and most famous artefacts in the world disappeared, such as the Uruk Vase, which is the world’s oldest narrative work of art.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s probably older than our Clach-bhuai, if not as important to us. The stolen art trade is the second largest traffic in the world, after drugs.’
‘So what can we do?’ The woman’s confidence had evaporated as quickly as it had risen, but Drummond replaced his pipe in his mouth and smiled around the stem.
‘We are creating a database of the known collectors of rare artefacts, legal and illegal. Obviously an organisation so old as ours has a number of assets; Sandy Meigle is a financial wizard and manages our finances with great aplomb, so we are offering incentives for any information that will lead to the recovery of the artefacts, but without actually revealing the provenance of the Clach-bhuai.’
‘Will that work? Will that be enough?’
‘It’s early days yet. Dealers in artefacts prize their reputations for honesty. If they lose that, they lose quite a lot, so some, at least, will be pleased to help.’ He smiled again, with the stem of his pipe clicking cheerfully against his teeth. ‘I have forwarded full particulars to the collectors within the Society.’
‘You said that Stefan had not sent us the full names of the thieves,’ the woman did not seem reassured. ‘Could you tell us what you do know?’
‘There were five of them. Desmond Nolan, a man named Bryan, a woman he knew as Mary and a young marine named Patrick.’ Drummond glanced toward Meigle. ‘There was also another woman, but Stefan was not sure of her. Her name was Irene or Amanda; he was not sure which.’ He gestured toward the television with the stem of his pipe. ‘It is possible that the young lady on the video recording is this person, but it may also be Mary.’
‘It’s like a detective story, isn’t it?’ a tall man with a weathered face said.
‘Indeed.’ Meigle stood up. ‘Obviously if any of you hear of anything at all, you will contact Colonel Drummond or myself. There has been some sort of news blackout imposed, which may mean that the police are pursuing some positive line of enquiry, or that they do not wish the public to know exactly what is happening.’
‘Bad PR to lose your crown jewels,’ the weathered man said.
‘Indeed. And bad for us to lose the Clach-bhuai, particularly as we were warned about the impending attempt.’ Meigle glanced at Drummond, ‘would you like to draw this meeting to a close, James? You are the security officer.’
Drummond did not show any offence at the implied slight. Instead he again showed the picture of the blonde woman. ‘This woman, Amanda, Irene or Mary, may be the key to the whole thing. If we can find her, or find out who she is, I think we will unravel the rest. I have people making prints of her face even as we talk, and they will be delivered to your address first thing tomorrow morning. From this time onward, our Society has one objective. Locate this woman, ladies and gentleman, and bring news of her to me.’
Just for a second Meigle saw the urbane mask drop from Drummond’s face, revealing the stark severity of a lifetime in the British Army. He was suddenly very glad that he was not the young woman whose face smiled from the television. He also thought it would be a good idea to retain James Drummond in his present position.