Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

The coolness vanished from McKee’s face, replaced by a spasm of anger that nearly melted the table. It was a look, Pitt thought, of pure derangement. Nearly a minute passed before she calmed herself enough to respond.

“Our facilities are located in Inverness,” she said in a low, gritty tone.

The table fell silent as the entrée was served—braised lamb shanks with barley, rosemary, and root vegetables.

Loren tried to break the chill. “This is delicious.”

“Yes, quite good.” Pitt gazed toward McKee. “It’s kind of you to allow us an extra night after your other guests have departed.”

“We like to have our new attendees stay an extra day,” McKee said. “We’ll have something of an initiation ceremony in the morning.”

“Initiation?” Pitt asked.

“Into the Sisterhood of Boudicca,” Loren said. “The women’s organization that Mrs. McKee started here.”

“I didn’t realize there was a secret society at work,” Pitt said with a humorless grin.

“There’s nothing secret about it,” Audrey said. “Just a group of like-minded women supporting their mutual empowerment.”

McKee looked to Pitt. “Are you familiar with the story of Boudicca?”

He nodded. “A Celtic queen who led a bloody revolt against the Romans in Britain after her husband, King Prasutagus, died.” He gazed at Audrey. “As I recall, she had two daughters.”

“You are correct,” McKee said. “We desire to embody the Celtic strength and spirit of Queen Boudicca in our public and private lives.”

“She was a fierce warrior. I hope your sisterhood doesn’t involve hanging, burning, and crucifying.”

“We reserve that for those who oppose us,” she said with a cold grin.

“What are the criteria for membership?”

“All our members are accomplished women who have made significant achievements in the worlds of science, business, or politics. We are dedicated to the support of one another to attain even higher levels of influence. Women make up half the world, Mr. Pitt, but remain sorely underrepresented in roles of leadership. It is time for a new global order, with female leadership across all countries. We believe the world would be a safer and a more just place with women at the helm. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Pitt?”

“It could be, with the right women.” He patted his wife’s arm.

The conversation drifted to politics, which held little interest to Pitt. When the focus was off him, he reached for a saltshaker at the center of the table and intentionally knocked over his wineglass. He stood, dropped his napkin on his plate, and grabbed the upended glass. A servant rushed over and wiped up the spill.

“Agnes,” McKee ordered, “bring Mr. Pitt another glass of wine.”

As Pitt sat down, he scooped up a large chunk of lamb with his napkin and brought it to his lap. When the conversation resumed, he folded the meat in the cloth and slipped it into his sport coat pocket.

A dessert of berries and cream was served, and the guests grew increasingly quiet. Pitt noticed a listless look from both Loren and Abigail Brown.

“I think we’ve all had a tiring day,” McKee said. “Get a good night’s sleep, ladies, and we’ll resume in the morning with your official welcome into the sisterhood.”

Everyone said their good nights, and Pitt escorted Loren to their room.

“How about you skip the Celtic warrior ceremony in the morning,” he said, “and we leave first thing?”

“I can’t do that after all her hospitality,” Loren murmured as she suppressed a yawn. “She wants me to run for president.” Her words came out slurred.

She slipped under the covers of the bed without another word and was asleep in seconds.

Pitt tucked Loren in and gazed at her with rising anger. The odds were high that she was drugged by McKee, to aid some sort of manipulation. He could only guess at the purpose.

Stroking her hair, Pitt stepped to the nightstand, opened her purse, and removed a box of Dramamine she carried for airsickness. Turning off the lights, he took a seat by the window and calmly waited for the time to pass.

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