Adrian was the typical paradoxical Scot: thrifty to the point of parsimony, yet a generous and congenial host.
Perhaps apocryphal, certainly believable, was the story repeated to Jason by more than one of Adrian's former subalterns as lore in the regiment. Nightfall on base brought young Lieutenant Graham prowling the enlisted men's quarters, ostensibly to verify that no one had taken unofficial leave. His actual purpose was revealed in the morning, when a dearth of toilet paper in the latrine was noticeable. Young Graham, it seemed, had an aversion to spending his meager officer's pay to purchase necessities so readily available.
A few of his peers called him Leftenant Bum Wad until the day he retired.
But Adrian had no compunctions about sharing the "last wee dram" of single-malt scotch or a Cuban cigar. On his sole visit, Jason had wanted for nothing. Jason supposed the generally hostile climate of his friend's native Highlands disposed him to waste nothing but offer bounteous hospitality to those who sought it.
Adrian ushered them into cane-bottom chairs, poured the red wine, and raised his glass. " A cent'anni!" He took a sip and grinned. "Sardinian greeting and toast; means 'live a hundred years.'"
Adrian dipped a generous serving of the stew onto Maria's plate before serving Jason. "I'll not be inspectin' th' teeth of any gift horses, but I'll admit to a certain curiosity as to why you called, wantin' to visit Clare 'n' me all o' a sudden."
Jason gave Maria a slight shake of the head. He would explain.
"Maria was doing some work for my employer. We encountered some, er, unhappy customers and decided it would be best to let things cool off."
Adrian gave Jason a long look, a smile tickling his lips, before he nodded his understanding and changed the subject as adroitly as a running back shifting field.
"You'll be interested to see th' farm Clare 'n' I got."
"I thought you came here because of the archeology."
"That, too." Adrian took a mouthful of stew, chewed, swallowed, and continued. "I spend as much time in yon old stone dwellings as I can. But it's not like we have a butcher and greengrocer convenient. We raise most of our vegetables, slaughter most of our meat. Even raise a few grapes." He held up his glass. "Not a fine claret, but sufficient."
And far better than Sicilian.
"I can't think of anything that would go better with what we're having," Maria said tactfully.
Adrian rolled his eyes at her. "Clearly ye've not had good wine, lassie, but thanks."
After the meal, Adrian leaned over his wife's chair, planting a prim kiss on her cheek. "Mind, now, Mother, there's more'n enough of yer bonny stew for lunch on th' morrow if it's put up proper in th' fridge."
Clare rolled her eyes, a woman who had kept house for a lifetime; only to have her retired husband begin to tell her how to do it.
Adrian took Jason by the elbow. "Let me show you my projects," he said pointedly.
Outside, behind the house, Jason saw perhaps an acre or so of vines, the young green shoots limning the stumps of last year's harvest. From nowhere a dog appeared, a large, shaggy animal with a tail wagging with pleasure.
Adrian stooped to pet the broad head. "Name's Jock."
"What kind is he?"
The Scot shrugged. "Never asked, but he's good at roundin' up the wee lambs that get lost, stays out of the henhouse, and generally makes good use o' himself."
Jock barked as if to confirm the resume.
It was something Pangloss might do. Jason reminded himself to check on his dog's well-being the next time he communicated with Mama.
They walked past a half acre or so of sprouting vegetables. Jason was surprised to see tomatoes already blushing with ripeness so early in the season. Yellow zucchini buds were visible through thick leaves, and there were the herbs mandatory for any Italian garden, basil and oregano.
Brown-spotted chickens scratched rocky dirt in front of a fenced shingle coop. A few feet farther they came to a run delineated by stout logs. Two of the biggest pigs Jason had ever seen stopped their rooting to watch through red, feral eyes.
Jason put his hand on the top rail and leaned over, the better to see. "Damn, Adrian, I've never-"
Adrian snatched him backward just as one of the animals charged the place where he had placed his hand. The animal moved faster than anything that size Jason had ever seen. Its head struck the wood with a force hard enough to shake the thick timber rails. Its teeth were grinding into the wood.
"Laddie, you've never seen swine like these, obviously. Both hog 'n' sow are specially bred for size-have shoats that measure up to some full-grown pigs."
Jason looked at the space between rails where one had stuck its snout through, exposing large, yellow tusks. "Not exactly friendly."
"That's why I keep 'em fenced rather than let 'em root wild. If I hadn't pulled you back, oP Goliath there'd be chewin' on yer arm."
Jason looked from the pig to Adrian. "I didn't know pigs were carnivores."
"Omnivorous," Adrian corrected. "Most pigs'll eat anythin' they can chew or swallow. The mate to Jock, the dog there, somehow got into that pen. Wasn't much left of her, time I got here. Ever' time I herd the sheep, I go way 'round, make sure none of 'em wander into that pen there."
As they turned to go back to the house, Adrian produced a pipe from one pocket, a tobacco pouch from the other. In minutes he was puffing something that smelled like a combination of silage and wet dog hair, so bad that Jason checked the soles of his shoes before ascertaining that the pipe was the source of the odor.
Adrian sucked noisily on the pipe's stem. "Clare won' let me smoke in the house anymore…"
Small wonder.
"… and I can't get the good tobacco I used to enjoy."
Surprise!
"You used to smoke cigars, I recall."
But nothing that stank like that pipe.
"Still do when I can get Havanas."
Adrian stopped, blowing a perfect smoke ring that shimmered in the daylight, then warped and disappeared. "If I'm pryin', say so, but should I be on the watch for any, er, unexpected company?"
Jason shook his head. "Don't think so, but you never know."
"Perhaps you'd enlighten me. I'd be interested in hearing as much as you can tell me without breachin' whatever security you're operatin' under."
Jason shrugged. "You're letting me hide out here; you're entitled."
While Adrian was staring into the bowl of his dead pipe, Jason took a quick breath of fresh air.
Striking a match with one hand, Adrian coaxed smoke from the briar. With the other, he indicated a woodshed and took a seat on an upright log. "We can talk here."
Jason stared into the sky, wondering exactly where to begin. "Back last winter, I had a mission to snatch one of the bad guys, an arms dealer. He didn't survive the process. One of his customers is afraid somebody knows too much or will find it out…"
"An' who might that be?"
"We think they're an organization that calls itself Eco, run by former Russian Mafia turned eco nut."
"There's always a chance they might figure you know nothing. Bad blood makes trouble."
Jason remembered a two-hundred-year feud between Scottish clans, Graham as the House of Montrose on one side, the Campbells on the other, but he decided to say nothing.
Instead, he continued. "Whatever this thing, this weapon-they call it Breath of the Earth-is, it's something that renders an enemy helpless while the bad guys cut his throat. Some minerals were included, minerals that came from somewhere around the Bay of Naples."
Adrian was poking around the bowl of the again-dead pipe with a matchstick. "And your kit is to find out what that weapon is, destroy it, and manage not to get your own throat cut in the bargain."
"As we used to say in the army, 'kee-rect.'"