Revelation

Findhorn said, 'This is fascinating.'

Pitman said, casually, 'Whoever holds these diaries is a target.'

Findhorn felt light drops of sweat developing on his forehead. He put it down to the warmth of the restaurant. 'Wrong place, wrong time. This is new millennium Edinburgh, not thirties' Chicago.'

Pitman smiled thinly. 'And you have no place to hide.'

Findhorn took a deep breath. 'If I fall under a bus, the diaries will vanish for ever.'

'Believe me, that would suit some people very nicely.'

'I could get Special Branch protection,' Findhorn said. A weird feeling was coming over him, as if he was stepping into some parallel universe: the familiar, Edinburgh surroundings were still around him, but another reality was taking over.

The thin smile widened. 'Are you a Salman Rushdie targeted by Muslim fanatics? A famous film star being stalked? You are nobody. Unless you have a high public profile, the state will save itself the expense.'

Findhorn pushed his plate away, feeling nauseous. 'You were right about the calzone.'

'You have a stark choice: a million pounds, or imminent death.' He stared at Findhorn with curiosity. 'For most people, the choice would present no problem at all.'

Findhorn took some toothpicks out of a dish. He started to build a little pyre but found that his hands were trembling. 'Nobody is getting these diaries until I've found out what's in them. And maybe not even then.'

A fleeting dark look; a spoiled child being denied a toy.

Mister Speedhand said, 'Doctor Findhorn, I would like you to trust me on this. You simply cannot imagine what you're getting yourself into here.'

Findhorn asked, 'You represent American interests, right?'

In spite of the sunlight streaming in Findhorn's face, he became aware of a subtle change in the body language of both men. Speedhand hesitated, and then pulled back: 'That needn't concern you. What matters is that you have just been offered an absurd sum of money for documents which you have no right to in the first place.'

'And then there's the veiled threat.'

'Was it veiled? I'm sorry about that.'

Findhorn picked off the points with his finger. 'Ten men died trying to get these diaries. I've just been offered a million for them. I've been issued with heavy threats in the event I don't hand them over. I'm sorry, chum, but until I find out what this is about… let's just say I'm curious.'

'Curiosity did the cat in,' Mister Speedhand said.

'I'm not a cat.'

'But do you read Armenian?' Pitman asked.

Findhorn side-slipped the question. 'Something has been puzzling me.'

The man waited. Findhorn sipped at his water and continued, 'There were no rescue vessels in the vicinity of that berg. Nothing on radar, at least. But Dawson wasn't behaving like a man about to drown. A man risking his life, yes. But not a man expecting to die.'

Findhorn waited, but the men remained impassive. 'Okay,' he finally said. 'So arrangements were in hand to rescue Dawson. What about the others?'

The older man was twirling spaghetti like a native. 'They were, shall we say, an inconvenience.'

Findhorn felt himself going pale.

'Much like yourself,' Speedhand added.

Pitman sucked up a long strand of spaghetti. 'Perhaps it will help you reach a decision if I tell you that there are other parties interested in these diaries, parties with a less friendly disposition than us.'

With a surge of self-blame Findhorn thought about the Armenian translator, and he wondered what he might be getting her into, and he wondered, what the hell is in those diaries?

Pitman was now attempting an avuncular tone. 'Come under our wing, Doctor Findhorn. If you really will not sell us the diaries, at least let us offer you protection, and of course a translator. Solve the riddle of the diaries, thus satisfying this dangerous curiosity of yours, and give us first refusal on the information you find.'

'The endgame should be interesting, when I hand over the information and find myself out of bargaining power. Do you seriously expect me to trust you?'

The man acquired a puzzled look. 'Of course not. But what other option do you have? Unprotected, you will last at most only a few days, perhaps hours.'

Mister Speedhand said, 'A large organization is looking for you now. You cannot use road, rail or airport.'

Pitman said, 'And the streets are very dangerous for you.'

There was a grim silence. Findhorn's toothpick structure collapsed.

'You still don't get it, Findhorn,' Speedhand said. 'We have to have those diaries. Refusal to hand them over is not an option we can tolerate.'

'And if I refuse nevertheless?'

'Without our protection, the other party will find you very quickly.' The man snapped his fingers at a passing waiter.

'Nothing is what it seems here,' said Findhorn.

Pitman's expression didn't change, but Speedhand was acquiring a hostile look.

'Take that pirhana, for instance. Actually it's a big grouper, Serranid Serranidae.'

'What do you want?' Speedhand asked. 'A prosecution under the Trades Description Act?'

'No. It just makes me wonder what else is on the level hereabouts.'

As the Sicilian approached, Findhorn suddenly got up and made for the exit. The men, taken by surprise, sat astonished. He ran out and turned left and left again, glancing behind from time to time, and with no plan in mind other than to lose himself. He found himself in Lothian Road. A black taxi cab appeared and he stepped in front of it. It squealed to a halt.

'Bloody hell, mate.'

'I know. Morningside.' It was the first thing that came into his head. The Morningside suburbs were full of doctors and lawyers, and big mortgages, and care homes for the well-heeled elderly.

'You'll get yourself killed, Mister.'

Not in Morningside. Nobody ever gets killed in Morningside. Nasty, rough people beat you to a pulp or knife you in Leith or Craigmillar, but that never happens to people in Morningside. They're too genteel.

'Oh my God!'

The taxi driver stared at his passenger with alarm. 'Are you okay, mate?'

'Not Morningside. Dundee Street. Can you make it fast?' A thought had suddenly hit Findhorn like a punch. How many translators of Armenian are there in Edinburgh? And how long will it take to find Romella Grigoryan, and through her, me?

But the Edinburgh rush hour was building up and the traffic lights were consistently against the taxi, and by the time it pulled up at the tenement, Findhorn was being torn apart with frustration. He ran up the stairs and knocked.

And knocked again.

8 Camp L

Findhorn caught a whiff of cheap perfume. He tried to sound relaxed. 'Can we go?'

'Now? Not tomorrow?'

'I'd really like to get started. We can discuss your fees on the way.'

'Can't it even wait until after dinner?'

'Please!'

Romella gave him a slow, suspicious look while Findhorn inwardly fretted. She disappeared, leaving him at the open door.

'On the way to where?' she shouted through from a bedroom.

'My brother's flat. We have to get ourselves to Charlotte Square.'

She reappeared wearing a denim jacket over her pink sweater. She handed Findhorn his briefcase.

'You're sure you're not Jack the Ripper?' She was pulling a Peruvian hat down over her ears.

'Not even Jack the Lad.'

Stefi appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. It was half past four in the afternoon and she was still in her dressing gown. 'Do you like shish kebabs? My shish kebabs are…' She kissed her fingers.

'Another time.'

'You have to eat,' Stefi pointed out.

'I just have, thanks.'

Romella said, 'Okay, let's go.'

Out to the landing. She pulled the door behind her with a click. Someone was coming up the stairs. Findhorn froze.

'Evening, Mrs Essen.'

An old crone with a plastic bag in each hand; she grunted sourly as they passed. Findhorn exhaled with relief, felt weak at the knees.

The sky was dark grey and a light trickle of sleet was promising heavier stuff to come. 'We're about a mile from Dougie's flat. You don't sound like an Armenian.'

'Not surprising, considering I'm frae Glesca…' she momentarily affected a thick Cowcaddens accent '…I was brought up for some years in California. My folks still live there, in La Jolla. Dad's a lawyer. So your father's a Court of Session judge?'

'Yes. The whole family are lawyers. If you ever see a pink Porsche driving around Edinburgh, that's my younger brother, Dougie. He's with Sutcliffe & McWhirtle.'

'I've heard of them. They're criminal lawyers, aren't they?'

'Dad thinks they're criminals who just happen to be lawyers. They specialise in finding tiny legal loopholes and turning them into gaping chasms. They'll get you off anything — if you can afford them. My sister lives in Virginia Water with a barrister called Bramfield. He's rich, she's miserable and they're both drunk whenever I visit them.'

'But you didn't go in for law. Your card says you do polar research.'

'I've broken with the family legal tradition. Result, poverty.'

'I hope you can afford my fees.'

It was growing dark and car headlights were coming on. The gloom gave Findhorn an illusion of security. They passed Fat Sam's and turned left down Lothian Road. By the time they were crossing Princes Street the rush hour was in full swing and the light sleet had turned into a freezing downpour. They trotted along slushy pavements down to Charlotte Square. Here the grey terraced flats had doors with up-market brass knockers and brass plates proclaiming private medical practices, tax consultants and law firms with bizarre names. Interspersing these were private flats with names ending in Q.C. and enormous lamps in the windows.

Shivering with cold, Findhorn turned up a short flight of broad, granite stairs. He fiddled with some keys, opened a heavy door with a brass plate saying Mrs M. MacGregor, and switched on a light.

They were met by opulence and cold. Pink Venetian chandeliers threw glittering light over a patterned Axminster carpet, a little Queen Anne table with a pseudo-thirties telephone and half a dozen stained-glass doors. Jazz players cavorted amongst spiral galaxies and naked angels on a high vaulted ceiling. Stairs at the end of the corridor curved out of sight; they were guarded by a big wooden lion, and a scantily draped Eve was eating a marble apple on the first landing.

Romella laughed with delight and surprise. 'The Sistine Chapel!'

'Dougie's into surrealism,' said Findhorn. He turned a knob on the wall and there was a faint whump! from a distant central heating boiler. 'He's in Gstaad just now. He skiis there over the winter.'

Into a living room with a hideous black marble fireplace, a floor-to-wall bookcase, and a faded wallpaper effect expensively created with hand-blocked Regency patterns. Light cumulus clouds floated on a sky-blue ceiling.

'Wait till you see the bedrooms,' Findhorn said. He switched on a coal-effect fire and headed for a cocktail cabinet made up to look like a Barbados rum shack.

Romella flopped down on a cream leather settee. 'The bedrooms. A gin and tonic, please, and don't overdo the tonic'

Findhorn poured two glasses and sank into an armchair. Then he pulled the photocopies from his briefcase and put them on a glass table between them. 'There are people after these diaries. And they're looking for me. You ought to know that before you start because if you help me they might come looking for you too.'

Her low, gentle laugh was captivating. 'That must be the weirdest chat-up line ever. Certainly it's the most original I've ever had.'

'You can come and go as you please, but I'm staying here. I don't want to risk the streets more than I have to.'

'Here am I, all alone in a big empty flat with a weirdo. It's like something out of Psycho.' She said it jokingly but Findhorn thought there was a trace of uneasiness in her voice. 'You're kidding about people looking for you, right?'

'No, I'm serious. Maybe you want to pull out.'

'If you're into drugs…'

'Look, if it makes you feel safer why don't you ask your friend Stefi to come over? And Grim Jim and anyone else you want — a boyfriend if you have one. You can all stay here. There's plenty of room.'

'Okay, I'll ask Stefi. A little girl company might be good. The phone people aren't disconnecting us until tomorrow.' Romella waved a hand around. 'She'll love this. Jim's on a field trip over Christmas, he's a geology student.' She sipped at the drink. 'Are you going to tell me the real story on this stuff?'

'I am serious. There's something in the diaries. I have no idea what it is. But there are people very anxious to get their hands on them and I have been threatened. What I need is a translator to help me solve the riddle. And I have to stay out of sight while I'm about it. They're looking for me in Edinburgh and I can't risk railway stations and the like. I know I come out sounding like a mad axeman on the run from Carstairs.'

Romella was sitting unnaturally still. Findhorn waited. He added, 'I need your help. Your fees are secondary.'

'Let me phone Stefi.'

Findhorn headed for the kitchen, G&T in hand. He half-expected to hear the front door banging shut as Romella made her escape. A thirties-style light blue refrigerator held nothing more than a bar of Swiss chocolate, a few out-of-date yoghurts and a wedge of diseased Stilton.

Romella appeared; she had taken off her denim jacket. 'I've given Stefi the story. Wild horses won't keep her away — she's a bit of a romantic. She's Bulgarian and I suspect she has Romany blood from somewhere. She promises to keep out of our hair while we're translating. She's coming over with clothes and food and stuff.'

'Brilliant.' Findhorn saw no point in hiding his relief and he grinned.

'And she loves to cook.' Romella thought of the highest number she dared. 'I think I want to charge a hundred pounds a day for this one.'

'Agreed,' Findhorn said without hesitation. 'And Stefi gets twenty plus expenses for housekeeping.'

'Well now, Fred Findhorn B.Sc, Ph.D., Arctic explorer in a hurry, why don't we get started?'

The big living room was now comfortably warm and Findhorn sank into the settee beside Romella. He passed over the copy of The Times obituary. 'By way of background.' She started to read out loud: