23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hartfield
Coleman finds a motel two hours’ drive from the coordinates Romano gave us, somewhere that even has an electric vehicle charging point.
We check in for a couple of nights rather than planning to drive straight back.
I try to act normally, but the messages have put me on edge.
Once inside my room, I close the curtains and pull out my handgun, checking the flow of the operating mechanism before hiding the weapon beneath my pillow.
After freshening up, we share a plentiful, if not particularly imaginative, meal at the motel’s restaurant.
I eat very little but manage a glass of red wine with the meal.
Coleman opts for soda water with a slice of lemon.
I half-listen as he shares stories of his experiences with the Callico family.
His attempt to pepper his tales with humour does little to mask his vitriol.
We turn in at eight, agreeing to meet early for breakfast. I have just finished a few important tasks before bed when Lorenzo calls.
Our distance has made me realise how much his voice grounds me.
I know I’m wholly capable alone, but I feel something extra whenever I hear his voice and especially when he’s beside me.
Lorenzo is less emotionally contained than I am and has me smiling when he complains about how much he wants to fuck me—or to be fucked by me.
To lighten the mood, I tell him about the mound of fried fish and chips I had for dinner.
Turns out Lorenzo is a fan of fish and chips, but when he tells me about the simple meal Mrs Bellacci threw together, I know I would trade places in a heartbeat.
He goes on to complain about being chosen for the security detail, claiming that his and Mrs Bellacci’s skills are wasted.
And he is probably right. Although I don’t tell him, I’m sure Romano knows their presence will provide added protection and confidence.
And as though the man himself has been listening in to my thoughts, Romano’s name pops up on my display.
I explain to Lorenzo, who tells me to take the call because it might be urgent.
As soon as I connect with Romano, I explain that I’ve been speaking with Lorenzo.
“I apologise for the interruption, Aksel. He will be in touch with you again tomorrow. Right now, though, I need you.”
“Do you want me to go and wake Mr Washington?”
“There is no need.”
I keep things brief, telling him about checking into the motel and our plans for the morning.
“What is the satellite link like?” he asks. His question is a good one because I’ve been increasingly worried as we made our way farther north.
“We have a good connection in the motel, but satnav kept dropping out in the car.”
“Be prepared to lose coverage. You may want to check whether the motel has a map of the area, just in case. Don’t rely on the car’s navigation system.”
“Understood. I might be able to download a map from my phone or at least ask the front desk to print it off in the morning. If necessary, we can always stop and ask directions.”
“Be careful who you speak to. You don’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.
I know you are in a remote location, but local communities tend to be tightly knit and friendly, and infinitely less discreet.
I expect this to be a quick in-and-out mission.
I imagine that means you’ll be offline until you return.
Tomorrow may be a wasted day, Aksel, but stay alert and pay attention.
Do you still have the handgun we issued? ”
“Of course.”
“Take it with you. Just as a precaution. And make sure you check in with me as soon as you’re back.”
“Will do. Any updates from your end?”
I can hear Romano hesitating. “Significant. But still some loose ends. And I do not want to distract you from your task. I promise to give you more when we next speak.”
“Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good luck, Aksel,” he says, and I am sure he is about to end the call. “Don’t forget Albert’s last words to you.”
He rings off before I can consider whether to tell him about the cryptic message containing Albert’s pigpen cypher.
Maybe that’s just as well because I’m still not sure what it means.
What could Romano do, anyway? Albert is not alive.
I remember Victoria telling someone on the phone that she had been the one called to identify Albert’s body.
How could she have made a mistake identifying her own brother?
The idea is ludicrous. But then, who sent the message, because they clearly know our code?
When I do finally sleep, I have troubled dreams of Albert standing at the edge of the pool as I surface from a punishing swim, shaking his head and urging me to remain still for a moment.
In his usual calm way, he tells me that only if I let the waters calm will I discern the important pattern at the bottom of the pool.
And something does niggle in my memory, like the Scottish mountains on the way up, the peaks shrouded in mist, ones I know are there, but I’m just not seeing right now.
When I rise at five, a large envelope has been pushed beneath my door.
Inside is an A-Z road atlas of the local area.
No note is attached. I wrench open the room door and check outside, but everything is calm, no sign of movement.
At breakfast, I toss the gift onto the table.
Coleman stares in surprise for a moment before picking up the booklet and scanning through a couple of pages.
“Good thinking, buddy. Satnav might be unreliable as we head north.”
I scan his face to see if he might be bluffing but, clearly, he didn’t provide the map. His response seems genuine and I answer simply.
“I had the same thought.”
Lucky for us, the map soon comes in handy when the satellite signal drops in and out and finally dies, along with all radio station signals.
We drive through Applecross at seven-thirty in the morning, descending into the isolated fishing village as a thick mist rolls in from the sea.
The land around this remote part of Scotland is wild and rugged, and the driving is slow, down narrow single lanes.
Coleman’s electric SUV is a workhorse and handles the roads well.
The tiny coastal town of Applecross flashes past, a single row of old fishing cottages keeping watch over the brooding grey ocean, which is lost in fog and more like a threat this morning.
Within barely a few breaths, we are past the pub in the centre of the village and out the other side.
The well-maintained lane we are following for the next few miles ends at the ruins of a farmhouse, and from there becomes a bumpy dirt track undulating through barren land bordered on both sides by crumbling dry stone walling.
Even the road map does not show the route.
At one point, the lane begins to climb steeply, and I am sure I feel the SUV’s wheels lose traction on the muddy surface.
I turn to Coleman and notice he is frowning.
“Do we need to park up and to walk?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says, shaking his head. “This baby’s designed for off-road. We don’t walk unless we have no choice.”
Each hill gets progressively steeper, but his car manages to tackle them.
Eventually, we reach a plateau where a river on the far side runs into a large open body of water.
I check and find the remote location on the map dotted with walking tracks but no roads.
As we circumnavigate the loch, a feeling of déjà vu surfaces, the sight eliciting an innate shiver at the chill waters.
“I know this place. I’ve been here before,” I mutter. “I’ve swum in that loch. Many times. We are not far from wherever we’re heading. I can feel it.”
We don’t have to go much farther. When we struggle up and crest the next rise, tall, barbed-wire-topped fencing held in place by solid wooden posts crosses the landscape in the distance.
We drive up to metal gates blocking the lane, displaying weather-worn but still legible red-and-white signs with a simple warning: MOD Property— Keep Out.
The gates are secured by heavy chains and secured by three bulky padlocks.
Beyond the gate, the lane that heads onwards is strewn with weeds, and there’s also an old puddle-filled set of tyre tracks.
In front of the gates, ample room has been carved out for errant drivers to manoeuvre a three-point-turn and head back the way they came.
Coleman brings the car to a halt on one side.
“Okay, buddy. Now we walk.”
I nod and begin to climb out, grateful to stretch my legs and breathe in the fresh air. I perch my backside against the side of the car and wait for Coleman, who comes to stand next to me. I wonder why he has his phone out, clicking photos of the gates and the surrounding countryside.
“Romano suggested I do this. You want evidence, don’t you?” he says, and I shrug in response.
I don’t need to examine the gates to know they are impassable without keys to the padlocks. Instead, I survey the landscape, hoping flashes of memory might return.
“Aren’t we conspicuous parked out here?” asks Coleman, peering around.
“Where else is there? It’s all exposed ground. If anyone was keeping a lookout, they’d have spotted us by now.”
“Fair point. Any idea how the hell we are going to get in? I might have some bolt cutters in the back of the car. Do you want me to check?”
“No point. These padlocks are seriously heavy-duty, and the chains are industrial. You’ll only end up breaking your cutters.”
“Shit. Any suggestions, then? We could try burrowing under a fence, but someone told me your military has been known to lay mines around perimeter fences. Might be a crock, but I don’t care to risk losing a limb to prove them wrong.”
I take a few steps back and check the fence line to the right. Fog is lifting in my brain. Memories are coming back. I have entered through this gate before, but this is not the only way in.