Powerstone (7 page)

‘No,’ Irene said, ‘it’s held in
the New York Metropolitan. Ms Manning was very specific that it had to be from
abroad.’

‘Jesus,’ Patrick checked the next
ten entries. ‘About half of these are held in the States. She makes things
difficult, doesn’t she?’ He spent a few more minutes scrolling down the list.
‘Here’s a nice site. The
Melbourne
Museum
. That’s in
Australia
, so it’s all right if we rob it. How about some Aboriginal
Art? Or here are the Ashes: that’s some sort of sporting remains that the
Australians and Limeys play for.’

‘I agree that they are valuable,’
Irene said as diplomatically as she could, ‘and very portable, but I don’t
think it’s what Ms Manning wants. I don’t think that the ashes of a cricket
stump can be called art.’

‘Man, you’re hard to please!’
Patrick stood up. ‘You find something then. I’ll see if there’s any football
on. The Jets are playing
Buffalo
.’

‘Go the
Buffalo
Bills!’ Irritated that Patrick
had lost interest so quickly, Irene cheered for the team that opposed his Jets.
‘I could try
Venice
,’ she said, ‘and bring back some
priceless glass.’

‘You’d probably drop it,’ Patrick
retaliated for the Bills quip, but Irene ignored him.

‘Here’s a cool one: Titian’s
Danae
in the
Capidimonte
Museum
in
Naples
. It’s got an interesting history
too, because Hermann Goering stole it during World War Two and it was recovered
from a salt mine in
Austria
.’

‘Is that so?’ Patrick half rose
from his seat as the Jets powered forward, and then swore as somebody called a
time-out and a commercial for Budweiser took control of the television screen.
‘A salt mine, eh? Now that is cool; did the salt not damage it?’ With the
football temporarily suspended he could spare some attention for Irene.

She treated him to one of the
frowns that regularly subdued her underlings. ‘And here’s more. During the war
the British carried all
London
’s art treasures to underground
quarries to protect them from German bombers.’

‘Hitler should have nuked them.
The Brits drove my ancestors out of
Ireland
.’ Patrick returned to the television, switching channels as the
commercial break seemed to last longer than the game. He swore again, ‘talking
of the Brits, here they are now, Queen Elizabeth in all her pomp and glitter.’

Irene studied the screen,
consciously comparing the British queen with Ms Manning and wondering who was
the wealthier. ‘That’s the queen eh? She thinks she’s real special, with all
these horsemen around her.’

‘Toy soldiers,’ Patrick gave his
opinion. ‘A squad of US Marines would wipe out the lot of them.’

‘Nice jewellery she’s wearing,’
Irene commented. ‘I could see me wearing that tiara when I next go shopping in
Macy’s.’

‘That would be worth stealing for
Ms Manning.’ Patrick held Irene’s eyes. The smile began slowly but spread until
his whole face altered. He reminded Irene of a mischievous small boy in an
adult’s body. ‘Think of that as a blow for old
Ireland
. Steal the crown jewels of
England
and bring them to
America
.’

‘They’re certainly valuable,’
Irene agreed.

‘And portable,’ Patrick continued.

‘And spectacularly impressive.’
Irene was also smiling.

‘What a coup that would be!’ She
returned to the computer and typed in ‘Crown Jewels of England.’ Paraphrasing
the words, she read out the various entries.

‘The Crown jewels are more than
just a crown; the collection also contains sceptres, orbs, swords, gold and
silver plate and other regalia. The plate was refashioned in 1661 after
Cromwell had ordered the originals melted down.’

‘Well done, Cromwell,’ Patrick
approved. ‘I’ll bet he was an Irishman.’

Ignoring him, Irene continued,
‘The Imperial State Crown was worn at the coronation. Its jewels are so ancient
that Edward the Confessor is believed to have worn the sapphire as a ring.’

‘Edward the who?’ Patrick asked.

‘Confessor. Listen. The Imperial
State Crown holds over 3000 diamonds and pearls, including the incomparable Cullinan
diamond. The Queen Mother’s Crown has the Koh-I-Noor diamond, the
Mountain
of
Light
which carries a curse for male
owners, but any woman who owns it will rule the world.’

‘Sounds just Ms Manning’s sort,’
Patrick moved closer. Let’s get them.’

‘There’s just one problem,’ Irene
read on. ‘The English crown jewels are housed in an underground Jewel House
beneath the Waterloo Barracks.’ She looked up. ‘Barracks. Get it? That means
soldiers.’

‘Toy soldiers, though. Brits.’

‘Soldiers with guns.’ Irene
stepped back from the screen. ‘Museum guards I can cope with, soldiers with guns
are scary. Even a Brit can shoot somebody; all he has to do is point and
click.’

Patrick had replaced her at the
computer. ‘You give up too easily.’ He continued the search and laughed out
loud. ‘We can still get at the Brits though, and without burrowing under a
barracks. Look: they’ve got more than one set of crown jewels. The Queen has a
spare set in
Scotland
. The Scottish crown jewels.’

Irene leaned over his shoulder as
childhood memories stimulated her interest. ‘The Scottish crown jewels? I did not
know that they had any.’

‘Well, they have, and I bet that a
tin-pot little country won’t guard them as well as the English,’ Patrick
cracked his fingers in a gesture that Irene always found intensely irritating.
‘That’s our target, so let’s get to work.’ He grinned across to her. ‘They
might have soldiers with guns in
London
, but in
Scotland
even the soldiers wear skirts.
This should be easy.’

Irene looked at him, aware that
the decision had been made. She was going to steal the crown jewels from the Queen
of Britain. She was going to steal the crown of James Stuart. In her mind she
could nearly hear the approval of Johnnie Armstrong.

Edinburgh
, December

The view from the hotel window was
spectacular. Directly opposite her window,
Edinburgh
Castle
glowered from its volcanic rock
onto a swathe of gardens and the bustling artery that was
Princes Street
. A long row of double-decked
buses chuntered along the street, while pedestrians ignored every traffic
signal as they dashed over the road as the fancy took them.

‘Don’t they have rules of the road
here?’ Patrick slid a hand around Irene’s waist.

‘Apparently not. That’s the castle
over there.’ She indicated the massive stone structure with its towers and walls.
‘I’ve never seen a real castle before. It’s different to what I imagined.’

‘Bigger.’ Patrick gave his
opinion. ‘But just as old fashioned.’ He lifted the binoculars from the highly
polished table and scanned the castle. ‘It looks quite solid, though, but there
are lots of windows to break into.’

‘Are there any guards?’ Irene
lifted her own binoculars and stood beside him at the window.

‘According to the guidebook, there
are uniformed stewards in the castle for the benefit of the tourists. They speak
different languages.’ Patrick grinned to her. ‘It doesn’t say that they carry
guns.’

‘Nobody carries guns over here,’
Irene retorted. ‘The walls look thick though, and that rock is steep.’ She
allowed her binoculars to sweep over the volcanic plug, slowly searching for an
easy way up.

‘That doesn’t matter. We won’t be
climbing any cliffs and I don’t think that we’ll be tunnelling through the
castle walls.’ Placing his binoculars on the window ledge, Patrick leafed through
the booklet that he had bought at the airport. ‘They call the jewels the
Honours of Scotland,’ he said, ‘and they are on exhibition inside the castle.’

‘We’ll go there right after
breakfast,’ Irene smiled brightly, ‘how good of them to show us everything.’
Raising her binoculars again, she examined the battlements of the castle. A
score of heads bobbed above the walls as, despite the winter chill, tourists
gaped over the view of
Scotland
’s capital. There were stone walls
and colourful winter clothing, grilled windows and laughing children: a
composition of opposites. ‘Imagine if the States allowed tourists to wander
around
Fort
Knox
,’ Irene said. ‘I mean; it’s as if they’re asking to be
robbed.’ She slapped his leg smartly, ‘how do we get in, Patrick?’

‘Through the front door,’ he
replied. ‘It tells us here: the
Castle
of
Edinburgh
rears from its volcanic rock
right in the centre of the city. With public gardens to the north, and busy
streets on the other three sides, the only public entrance is on the east,
where a gateway glowers down the length of the Royal Mile, once Edinburgh’s
main thoroughfare.’

Irene dragged Patrick up the
steeply curving Mound, before passing the ancient tenements that led to the
Esplanade in front of the castle. Two young soldiers stood sentinel, modern
reflections of the statues of Robert Bruce and William Wallace, the mediaeval
guardians of the realm who stared sightlessly over an international collection
of visitors.

‘Military. That’s not good,’
Patrick commented. He eyed the nearest soldier with distaste. The sentry stared
ahead, his pressed uniform and bayoneted SA80 rifle somehow out of place
against the dark stone of the castle.

‘He’s not wearing a kilt,’ Irene
said. ‘I wanted to see a soldier wearing a kilt.’ She stopped to take a
photograph before crossing the bridged moat and passing through the main
doorway. The castle closed in on them, wearing its history like a sombre
shroud. A squad of soldiers marched down the precipitous road from the castle’s
interior, their boots echoing on the granite setts as they exchanged jokes. A
sergeant winked to Irene, his back straight, eyes mobile.

‘Lots of military.’ Patrick
sounded gloomy.

‘Let’s get an idea of the place
first,’ Irene suggested, photographing the portcullis whose spikes threatened
from above. The walls rose before them, formidable as ancient cliffs, while
each doorway led into cavern-like rooms, shadowy, strong and enigmatic. Irene
thrilled at the dark blood of history as tourists exclaimed at the eighteenth century
cannon and stared over the battlements, eating hamburgers where once besieged
men despaired of their lives.

‘This is a place of stone,’ Irene
said, tapping her toe on a basaltic outcrop of rock. ‘Stone ground, stone
walls, stone floors and stone roofs.’ She shivered in the keen wind. ‘Maybe we
should find something else?’

‘Enough of this,’ Patrick shoved
past a crowd of people who listened to the tales woven by a green-uniformed
steward. ‘Come on Irene; let’s find the Crown Jewels.’

There was a courtyard in the heart
of the castle, with
Scotland
’s National War Memorial on one
side and the much older Royal Apartments on the other. A slender central tower
thrust toward a sky of grey.

‘Here we go,’ Irene could not
contain her rising excitement as she squeezed through the entrance, immediately
aware of the aura of age.

Irene was unsure what she had
expected, but, refusing the sombre allure of the great hall, she moved straight
to the rooms in which the story of the Crown Jewels was told. Unobtrusive wardens
stood quietly in the rear, watching everybody and smiling as they answered the
occasional enquiry. Irene took copious notes from the cards. ‘These Honours are
old,’ she said quietly. ‘Older than the English crown.’ She pointed to the
words. ‘It says here that these are one of the oldest sets of crown jewellery
in Christendom.’

‘That’s cool.’ Patrick nodded
‘Where’s Christendom?’

‘The Christian west, you ass hole!
Europe
!’ Irene landed a playful punch on
his arm.

Patrick rubbed his arm. ‘Does it
say how valuable they are?’

‘No. But Pope Julius II gave the
sword to King James in 1507, and Pope Alexander gave him the sceptre in 1494.
That’s just two years after
Columbus
discovered
America
.’ Irene shook her head. ‘It says
that the crown was refashioned for King James V in 1540. That means it was made
from an even older crown.’ The mention of that king brought an image of her
ancestor hanging from a tree and she frowned. She must keep this impersonal,
but she wanted James Stuart’s crown.

‘Yes, but is it valuable?’

‘It’s made of Scottish gold and
Scottish pearls, with other precious stones and as much history as you can
get.’ Irene nodded. ‘Yes Patrick, these Honours are valuable, or rather
invaluable. Irreplaceable. You could not buy them or make them.’