The Prodigal Son Page 2

  “Look Justine, I meant what I said about a serious family problem. I need to get to Achravie.”

  “Achravie?”

  “It’s a little island off the west coast of Scotland … sits between Arran and the Mull of Kintyre. My family lives there and owns pretty much the whole island. It’s my ancestral home as they say, been in the family for generations. Not the easiest place to get to, as it happens. But I need to get there, sharpish.” He smiled amiably.

  Justine frowned. “How urgent is your family problem?”

  Rob sighed. “It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, I left home sixteen years ago when I was just a teenager and in the bad books, to put it mildly. I’ve had no contact with my family since, apart from letters from a guy called Fraser McEwan, my father’s ghillie. I’d given him my mobile number and told him that if there was ever an emergency, or if he ever needed me, he should contact me at that number and never, ever to give it to anyone else. That call was Lorna Cameron—she and I were close when we were young. That’s the first contact I’ve had with Achravie in sixteen years. She said that Fraser needed me, as in now, but that my brother Bruce wasn’t to know. Fraser’s in hospital. She sounded desperate. I have to go.”

  “No wonder you wanted me gone. But let me help. I’m used to making travel arrangements for Sir Andrew and you’re going to need to travel quickly. Let me make a couple of calls and you go get your things together.”

  “That would be good.” Rather than waste time arguing with a very determined sounding Justine, Rob entered the en suite to shower. As he brushed his teeth, he contemplated having a quick shave, but decided against it.

  Rob had left Achravie as a tall, skinny, clean-shaven spotty teenager and he resolved to look as little like that boy upon return. Years in the military and as a Special Forces operative had seen him transformed from a gangly youth to a powerful athletic man with broad shoulders, broad chest, and well-developed muscles. A petulant teenage gave way to a highly trained, combat hardened ex-soldier—a very dangerous man to cross swords with. He studied his face in the long mirror. His long, blond curly boyhood hair was now fashionably short. A white scar ran diagonally across his left cheek and gave a rakish look to an otherwise handsome face. Only the vivid, bright blue eyes of the boyish Robbie MacLaine gazed back.

  3

  Having showered, Rob dressed and went to his study, which the estate agent had described as “Bedroom #3” when he’d bought the penthouse apartment just over a year ago. From the study, which required a four-digit access code to unlock the door, he could view the opposite end of Vauxhall Bridge.

  The MI6 building was directly opposite and one night, Rob had almost convinced some friends that he could actually see into James Bond’s office from the room. He closed the door and opened a half-height door at the rear to expose a good-sized safe. Entering a numerical code, he pulled out a black, waxed canvas rucksack. It was prepacked with essentials for times like this—times when he needed to move quickly.

  He checked the contents, changes of clothes, toiletries, passport and driver’s licence. Military training had taught him that no matter how sure you were of something, always double-check. Better to be safe than sorry, better to stay alive than be killed, he’d been continually told. Rob took out a metal case and again checked the contents, this time a Heckler & Koch SFP9-SF pistol. He disassembled, checked and reassembled the weapon and was in the process of replacing it when Justine walked in.

  “Oh my God, you have a gun?” She eyed it apprehensively.

  “Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout. ‘Be Prepared’, as the motto states,” he smiled grimly.

  “Don’t you need a licence for that?” She sighed softly. “What am I getting into?”

  “Nothing. You offered to arrange some travel for me and that’s all. And yes, I need a licence to own a gun and I need separate approvals in the UK to take it with me on a commercial flight. I have both.”

  “You’re taking it with you?” Her eyes widened.

  “I’m sure I’m not going to need it, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing. Lorna said Fraser was in hospital, but not why he was there. She also said it wasn’t safe. Just in case, it comes with me.” He shut the case and stuffed it into the rucksack on top of the leather sheath housing a black KA-BAR, Serrated Edge Tactical knife with a razor-sharp seven-inch blade. Locking the safe, he stood. “Tell me about my journey to Achravie, Miss PA. What have you booked? How am I getting there and, most importantly, when will I arrive?”

  Justine eyed him mischievously. “I told Sir Andrew that I kind of knew you through your dealings with the company and had bumped into you last night. I mentioned your call about a serious family matter that you needed to attend to … and suggested the use of his pilot, Peter Hall, who’s low on flying hours this quarter. As such, he might like to cement relationships between our two companies by having Peter fly you north.” She smiled. “Two birds, one stone. Andy rather likes you, so it wasn’t too hard a sell, and probably not a bad thing if you’re going to tote that thing around with you.” She motioned the rucksack.

  “You’re joking. You’ve borrowed Andy’s chopper?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “Let’s stick with ‘helicopter’, shall we?” As she walked from the room, she called behind, “Just let me know when you want to leave and I’ll set things up with Peter. He’ll meet you at the Savage building.”

  Rob followed closely behind and found Justine staring through the glass doors at the view across the Thames. He stood behind and put his arms around her slender waist, pulling her back towards him. “Thank you for doing that,” he said, kissing the back of her neck lightly.

  She turned in his arms and touched the tip of his nose with a finger. “You can show your appreciation when you get back, big boy. While Peter’s getting organised at his end, how about that breakfast you mentioned earlier? Then, we’ll head out.”

  Joe had been driving the previous day, so Rob’s car had been left in the underground garage at his apartment. It was merely a matter of picking up Justine’s black Mercedes SLK from the bar car park. On the way to the Savage building, he called Joe to fill him in on the morning’s events, including Justine’s overnight stay (assured of Joe’s discretion, Justine had reluctantly agreed).

  “There has to be something seriously wrong, Joe. After sixteen years, I get this urgent message to go there, that I can’t tell my brother … that it’s dangerous.”

  “I’ll get Eve to clear your diary for a few days. Do you need me to do anything else?”

  “I’m sorted at this end. I’ve got a bag, so I pretty much have everything I need. Justine somehow managed to persuade Andy Savage to give me his chopper and pilot for the day.” Rob smiled at Justine. “Do you remember Big Mac—Iain MacDonald—one of the snipers we worked with in Helmand?”

  “Yeah, big guy. About seven feet tall and built like a brick shithouse wall, if I remember rightly.”

  “A bit of an exaggeration, but yeah, big guy. Anyway, he’s kept in touch time to time and runs an adventure-training camp thing on Arran, about half an hour from the Achravie ferry. I gave him a call, and he’s going to meet us and let me have a vehicle to use for a few days. I thought a helicopter landing on Achravie might attract attention, so I’m going to his place and driving down from there.”

  “Have you got any hardware?”

  “Just my Boy Scout stuff.”

  “I take it that means a handgun and a rather large knife. Boy Scout stuff.” Joe snorted. “Baden Powell would turn in his grave, man. Just remember that you’re going to Achravie, not Kosovo. Don’t e-enact the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. I don’t want you getting locked up.”

  “I just need to see what’s going down. I’m not going to engage if it seems dangerous. I’ll talk to Fraser to find out what the issue is.”

  Having seen first-hand Rob’s ability to create mayhem in a combat situation, Joe didn’t sound convinced. “Ok
ay, but keep me in the loop. If you drop out of contact for more than twenty-four hours, I might have to come looking for you. Text me a number for Big Mac.”

  “Okay, Daddy, I’ll be a good boy. I’ll text you that number and I’ll report back every twenty-four hours. See you soon.” Rob cut the call, then texted Big Mac’s contacts to Joe.

  Justine drove quickly and confidently through traffic, which was building to the usual morning peak as people headed for offices, shops and factories. As they approached the Savage Building in Chiswick, Justine glanced across at Rob. “I like you, Rob MacLaine. I don’t say that often or lightly.”

  “I like you, too,” Rob said, smiling and caressing the hand resting on the gear-lever. “Does that make you my girlfriend?” he teased. “I can’t remember when I last had one. One-night stands, yeah, but not someone that I really liked and wanted to spend more time with.”

  She nodded to a security guard at the gate and presented her pass to the panel on the post beside the main entrance barrier to Savage Guidance Systems. The barrier lifted and she drove to the parking bay beside the main reception., parked her car, threw the gear-lever into park and took out the ignition key.

  “Let’s go” she said “Peter’ will be waiting on the roof.”She blipped the remote and indicators blinked as she led Rob through automatic doors to the elevators. As they rose smoothly towards the rooftop helipad, Justine looked at Rob with a wistful smile. “I don’t trust easily. Too many broken hearts in the past, so please don’t play with me.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  “Friends call me Tina.”

  “Am I your friend?

  “Yes Rob MacLaine, I think you are, which means I can say, ‘Look after yourself’ … so don’t take chances out there!”

  “Oh God, I’m falling for a nagging woman.” He laughed and pulled her close.

  “Is that what you’re doing: falling for me?”

  “I do believe I am.” He smiled as he kissed her lightly on the lips. on the lips

  Justine was about to say something, but the elevator doors opened and there stood a smiling Peter Hall. The two jumped apart quickly.

  “Hi Justine. Hello again, Mr MacLaine,” he said jovially. “All ready to go?”

  “If you need anything Rob, give me a call or a text,” Justine said, pulling a business card out of her purse and handing it to him. “Otherwise, call me when you get a chance. Bye for now”. She blew him a kiss when Peter began walking.

  Peter had met Rob on a number of occasions when the latter was providing Sir Andrew Savage personal protection. He wasn’t a talkative man. Experience over the years had taught him that the people he flew about the country and into Europe didn’t normally want to have ongoing conversations when they were travelling. Both men silent, the Agusta 109S Grand Helicopter took-off.

  Rob closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep; he was remembering events sixteen years ago, ones that had led to the acrimonious departure from his home and family … sent away in disgrace by his father, blamed by his brother Bruce for an accident he didn’t cause.

  4

  Achravie - January 1999

  Fifteenth of January. A cold winter’s night. It was Robbie MacLaine’s eighteenth birthday party in the library of Hillcrest House, where he lived with his father Andrew his mother Elizabeth, his eldest brother Angus, and his middle brother Bruce.

  Like most boys brought up on a large estate like Achravie, or any sizable farm for that matter, Robbie was an accomplished driver before he was eighteen—having driven cars, Land Rovers, quad bikes, and tractors about the estate from the day his feet reached the pedals. It was therefore no surprise that Robbie had booked his driving test for the next week and in expectation of him passing, his father had bought him his first car for his eighteenth birthday. A shiny, if not quite new, Ford Escort sat on the drive outside the house.

  The music was loud and dancing in full swing. The boys’ parents had beaten a discreet retreat to allow the young ones to enjoy the night. At ten o’clock, someone suggested that they should go to the Red Lion, the local hotel, which was a mile or so from the Hillcrest road end. The theory: this would enable Robbie to enjoy his first legal pint. The party decanted into four cars and set off down the hill.

  “We’ll take your car,” shouted Bruce to Robbie as they raced down the front steps of the big house. “You can drive with your L plates up and I’ll sit beside you. I’ll not drink a lot and drive you back, which is only fair; it’s your birthday.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Robbie excitedly, diving into the car, anxious to drive it for the first time.

  Fraser McEwan, the ghillie, watched as Robbie, who resembled a six-foot-something skeleton with a skin-graft, racked the driver’s seat of the Escort all the way back to allow his tall frame a comfortable position.

  “He’s needed to do that for a few years now,” Fraser McEwan mused aloud and laughed to himself. Strange, how two boys from the same parents could look so different—Robbie was six-foot-odd tall, lanky and all arms and legs, and Bruce, a full head shorter and stocky, was more like his father.

  Robbie felt good driving his own car for the first time; the tractors and Land Rovers were good fun, but only when you were a boy. “This Escort really motors compared to the stuff on the estate,” he declared to Bruce and the others in the car.

  In no time, they’d reached the Red Lion and piled into the car park.

  “Mind out,” warned Lorna Cameron. “This car park is getting icy.”

  Bursting through the front door into the public bar, Robbie was first at the bar. “This rounds on me,” he said loudly to Hamish Allen, the landlord. The music and chatter seemed unusually loud. “And mine’s a pint o’ lager.”

  “Whit’s awe this,” Hamish shouted back. “Wee boys comin’ in tae ma pub and wantin’ to buy drinks?”

  “Wee boys my arse, Hamish. Eighteen today, so as of now you’re talking to a man, no a wee boy. Anyway, I’ve been about six inches taller than you for the past three years, so we’ll have less of the ‘wee boy’ if you don’t mind,” Robbie laughed.

  “Aye. A knew it wis yer birthday, fur yer dad left some money behind the bar fur yer first round, so put yer money away for the time being anyway. Right lads and lasses, whit’ll it be?” He grabbed glasses and smiled cheerfully.

  The bar closed at eleven o’clock, but as was common in many small village pubs and hotels, behind closed doors Hamish served a few more rounds, including a few more pints of lager for Robbie.

  By midnight, the bar shutters were down and as the last of the revellers left the bar to go home, mostly in the village, Bruce and Sheila Stewart, whose father worked on the estate, poured semi-conscious Robbie into the back of the Escort. Lorna lived in the village like most of the others and as she started to walk home, shouted to the others, “Watch these roads, it’s getting really icy now.”

  A few moments later Robbie’s blue Escort shot past her heading for Hillcrest Estate. He couldn’t remember much of what happened next. In his drunken stupor, he felt a sudden impact and heard the crunch of metal hitting something solid and glass breaking. It fell around him. Vaguely, he recalled himself lifted off the floor of the car and vomiting over his jacket and trousers. Then, he blacked out.

  He awoke to shouting voices and flashing blue and red lights. He was sitting in an ambulance and someone was trying to clean vomit and blood from him. Someone else was asking, “Can you hear me son? Can you speak? What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” he mumbled. “I was sleeping on the back seat, ask Bruce. He was driving. Ask Sheila, she’ll tell you what happened. This is crazy. What’s happening? … I’m going to be sick again.” Robbie vomited just before he passed out again.

  When he awakened again, he was lying in a hospital bed wearing a surgical gown and oxygen mask. Tubes were hanging from his arms and he was sore all over. He peered sideward and saw his mother sitting in a chair beside his bed.

  “Robbie, dar
ling, how do you feel?” She leaned over and squeezed his hand.

  “Sore, Mum, sore all over.” He pushed aside the oxygen mask. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Cottage Hospital. Do you not remember the accident?”

  “Accident? What happened? Where’s Bruce? Is he all right?” Robbie started to get more agitated as some of the events of the previous night came back to him: the impact, the noise, being lifted from the car, the ambulance. Oh God, his new car! “Is the car okay, Mum? Can we get it fixed?” He felt tears well.

  “Were you so drunk, you don’t remember the accident?” his mother asked through streaming tears.

  “Mum, I don’t remember anything! I was sound asleep in the back seat when it happened. Ask Bruce, he was driving” Robbie pleaded.

  “Andrew! Come here,” she called.

  His father appeared at the door. “Elizabeth?” He looked weary and angry. He used Elizabeth when angry or upset, and Lizzie at any other time.

  “Robbie says Bruce was driving … says he was sound asleep in the back of the car … says he doesn’t remember a thing about the accident.”

  His father stared. “Aye, doesn’t remember a thing because he was nearly four times over the drink drive limit, drunk as a skunk. That’s why he can’t remember anything.” He regarded his son crossly. “And now he has the cheek to say Bruce was driving.”

  Robbie looked at his father in horror. “What are you saying? Bruce was driving! Did Bruce say I was driving?” He gasped, astounded. “I was absolutely out of it. I couldn’t walk, never mind drive. Bruce and Sheila dumped me in the back when we left the pub. Bruce said he’d drive back when we were leaving the house. Ask Sheila, she’ll tell you.”