“The home of Scarlett O’Hara?” Summer said.
“Frankly, my dear, no,” Brophy said in his best Clark Gable voice. “The Hill of Tara, north of Dublin, is an ancient site regarded as the most sacred venue of the early Irish kingdoms. In the 1950s, a burial site was discovered there containing a Bronze Age skeleton that was carbon dated to around 1350 B.C.E.”
“That’s the same era as Meritaten,” Summer said.
“The body was adorned with a bronze necklace that contained turquoise-colored beads. Faience beads, they call them. They are believed to have originated in Egypt. They are, in fact, identical to faience beads in the gold collar piece worn by Tutankhamun.”
“Could the skeleton,” Summer asked, “have been Meritaten?”
“No, it was a young male. They refer to the lad as the Prince of Tara.”
“If his remains have survived,” Dirk said, “then so could Meritaten’s.”
“Where could she be buried?” Summer asked. “You said that she died at Slieve Mish. Is that a specific battlefield?”
Brophy shook his head. “It’s a mountain range extending along the Dingle Peninsula. The battle likely occurred over a long front and lasted for weeks, possibly months. The historical accounts suggest she was buried between Slieve Mish and the sea.”
“How big an area would that be?”
“Nearly twenty kilometers long. But we don’t have to search that much ground. Our task is a bit easier.” He smiled. “It’s why I had you meet me in Tralee. Just five kilometers south of here is where we need to be.”
“Not in the mountains?”
“No, just a picturesque glen. Glenscota, it’s called. The historic burial place of Queen Scota.”
40
Pitt returned to the manor well after dark. He nosed the battered Mini against a stone wall to conceal the front-end damage, then strode to the estate’s entrance. McKee’s guardian, Rachel, stood just inside the door and gave Pitt an unfriendly nod. The rotunda was otherwise empty. Pitt made his way to his room, which was dimly lit by a small table lamp. He found Loren in bed, asleep.
He sat on the edge of the bed and brushed Loren’s hair from her face. Her eyes nudged open with a struggle.
“There you are,” she whispered. “I couldn’t stay awake. Must be the jet lag. I had some dinner brought to the room, if you’re hungry.” She motioned toward a covered platter on a side table.
Pitt kissed her on the cheek. “Get some rest. I’ll join you shortly.”
She smiled, closed her eyes, and drifted back to sleep.
Pitt stepped to the tray and lifted the cover, revealing a plate of grilled salmon and potatoes. He took a few bites, poured a glass of wine from an open bottle, and sat by the picture window.
The loch appeared as a black ribbon unfurled across the landscape. A handful of yellow lights twinkled from the low gray hills on the opposite shore. To the south, Pitt found a dark smudge on the water, the outline of the tanker. Sipping his wine, he stared for a long time at the tanker and the invisible facility behind it.
* * *
• • •
IN A LOW-LIT ROOM on the second floor, Evanna McKee watched his every move on a color video monitor. An entire wall of monitors captured the live feed from a dozen security cameras around the manor, including a handful concealed in select guest rooms. She watched as Pitt finished his meal, undressed, and climbed into bed.
“He doesn’t appear to be a ghost,” she said in a hard voice.
At a desk across the room, Audrey looked at her mother and shook her head. “Irene reported that while she tried to run him over outside the lab, he slipped by her and escaped.”
“Did he penetrate the facility?”
“He got no farther than the front gate.”
McKee came over and sat across from her. Heavy makeup she wore for her earlier speech made her face look thick and pasty under the fluorescent lights.
“I watched the video of his interview with Richards.” She frowned. “I think Pitt knew he was not speaking to the real Perkins. Why did the fool rush back to the lab so quickly? He should have known better.”