Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

“Well, good luck. Loren, we’ll look for you to join us in the dining hall shortly.”

As Audrey moved off to mingle with the other guests, Loren leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve never known you to have the patience for fishing, even on vacation.”

Pitt glanced around the room, wondering if there were eavesdropping devices. “It all depends on the quarry. I’m of the opinion there’s a large catch to be had in these waters.”

Loren shook her head. “Well, just don’t bring back any monsters.” She rose stiffly and turned her back on him, joining the other women migrating to the hall. Uncharacteristically, she neglected to kiss him good-bye.

Pitt watched her leave with growing concern. Loren was turning more distant by the hour. Audrey appeared, grabbing Loren’s arm and herding her down the hallway. The younger McKee turned and looked at Pitt, tossing him a smug smile. He watched them leave, feeling a touch light-headed himself, but trusting his instincts. He sniffed at his coffee, then put it down, unfinished. He returned to their room and grabbed a jacket and the car keys.

He found the corridor empty and decided to have a look around. Their room was at the manor’s back corner, and he continued along the lakefront hallway. The view suites, named for Scottish clans with bronze plaques on the doors, were separated by small windows that overlooked the lake. Similar rooms lined the interior wall, with windows that opened onto the manor’s central courtyard.

Pitt walked to the opposite corner, where the hallway turned and ran toward the front rotunda, passing the dining hall along the way. Near the corner, he stopped at a single side door that lacked any emblems. He tested the handle, and the door opened to a carpeted stairwell that led to a lower level. Scant lighting illumined the way as Pitt descended to the basement.

The carpeted steps gave way to a thick-planked wood floor, worn by centuries of use. The empty open room was dimly lit and unheated. Pitt realized why when he saw a large stack of oak barrels to one side. Behind them, he found a row of wooden racks filled with bottles of wine. He pulled out a bottle, blew off its dusty coating, and read the label aloud. “‘Château Lafite Rothschild, 1961.’ Well done, Mr. McKee.”

He replaced the bottle and moved past the wine racks to a dark side room. Groping for a wall switch, he illuminated a richly decorated den with walnut paneling and a polar bear skin rug. Two huge salmon, presumably from the loch, were stuffed and mounted over the doorways. A pair of wingback chairs sat in the middle of the room, facing a side wall.

Stepping into the room, Pitt could see the wall displayed an assortment of museum-quality artifacts. The centerpiece, in a glass case, was an ancient frock and kilt, stained with dirt and blood and identified as a Highland rebel’s uniform from the Jacobite uprising of 1745. A dagger, spear, and blunderbuss were mounted beside it. A small label beneath proclaimed ANGUS McKEE, BATTLE OF CULLODEN.

On either side was an impressive display of ancient armaments, from medieval battle axes to eighteenth-century dueling pistols. Pitt admired a highly engraved flintlock boarding pistol with attached bayonet, displayed in a wooden case. The case was dusty like the wine. No one had admired the collection in quite some time.

Pitt turned off the light and left the study. Beyond it, a wide corridor ran to his right, toward the front of the manor. He passed several empty storage rooms and a pair of dark offices, then reached a set of double doors. They were locked.

He backtracked and entered the first office. A plushly decorated executive retreat, it featured rich paneling, Persian carpets, and a large mahogany desk. Lining the walls were oil portraits of historical female figures, including Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, and Queen Elizabeth I. On the far wall hung a floor-to-ceiling painting of a red-haired woman with an upraised sword, leading a band of warriors in battle against a Roman legion.

The desk was clean and orderly, adorned with a single photo of Evanna McKee at the manor’s entrance with Audrey and Riki. He opened the desk drawer, finding only a calendar that showed upcoming meetings in Paris, Jakarta, and Istanbul. He heard the bass thumping of music and realized he was directly below the dining hall.

He exited the office and poked his head into the next room. Modestly decorated, it was a functional working office with two standard-sized desks, each supporting a desktop computer.

Pitt stepped near one of the desks and noted a stack of binders with the BioRem logo on them. He flipped through the top one and found company profit and loss statements. Another contained shipping transportation quotes.

His fingers froze when he flipped a page and saw a pair of ship photos. The first was a stock photo of a familiar-looking tanker with a black hull and red deck. Pitt held the photo to the light to make out the name on its hull. Mayweather. The second photo was also a tanker, but one Pitt didn’t recognize. He made a mental note of its name. Alexandria.

A turning door handle down the hall gave a metallic click. Pitt replaced the binder and stood against the wall. Through the crack of the half-open door he saw a figure pass through the double doors and enter the adjacent office.

Pitt thought better of hanging aro

und and stepped quietly into the hallway. He made his way to the other end and ducked behind the armaments room. As he crossed to the corner stairwell, he noticed a short set of steps on a side wall that led to a heavy planked door.

He climbed the steps and pulled on the door, which opened onto a small boathouse built flush to the manor’s lakefront façade. A sleek black speedboat floated in the narrow berth, concealed from the lake by a pair of high sliding doors. The boat looked clean and prepped for regular use, its keys dangling from the ignition. Pitt made his way out of the boathouse and up the stairwell to the main level, where he left the manor.

Outside the front door, he passed a female guard, who picked up a phone once Pitt had walked by. As he retrieved his damaged Mini, Pitt noticed two people climb into a dark BMW and start the engine. He exited the gate and turned toward Inverness.

Pitt drove slowly at first, watching in his mirror as the BMW left the manor and followed at a respectable distance.

Pitt toyed with the car, accelerating rapidly, then slowing, smiling to himself as he watched the car follow suit. He drove casually the rest of the way, passing Urquhart Castle and the village of Drumnadrochit before turning down a side road marked with a sign proclaiming MOORINGS.

The road led to the waterfront, where he found a dock mooring a half-dozen small boats. Pitt entered a wood-frame building beside the dock, where he was greeted by a short old woman refilling an urn of coffee.

She eyed him up and down. “You must be the empty-handed Yank looking to acquire some Loch Ness salmon,” she said in a weathered voice.

“I am indeed,” Pitt said with a smile, “though I’d prefer to catch a pike or two.”

“Aye, a sporting man to boot. Sure you don’t want to hire a guide? Most visitors prefer to fish with a local to improve their odds.”

“Today, I’d prefer to let the fish find me.”

She nodded at him with respect. “Usually the better approach. As you requested, I’ve got your boat all ready with a full complement of fishing gear. Here’s some sandwiches and coffee, on the house.” She passed him a small weatherproof bag.