Revelation

5 The Whisky Society

The Apeiron Trader drifted through a damp, freezing haar which wrapped itself around Findhorn's neck and trickled down to his shoulders, undercutting jacket, Aran pullover and thermal vest. Port Seton and Musselburgh drifted past a mile to port, their street lights coccooned in an orange haze.

Hansen appeared on the deck and leaned on the railing next to Findhorn, pipe smoking. 'Not a night for brass monkeys. Mind you, after your wee swim in the Davy Sound…'

Findhorn nodded, staring down at the flow of dark water reflecting the distant town lights. 'I'm confused.'

'Aye.' Hansen looked at Findhorn shrewdly in the half-dark. 'I've been thinking about this. What do you deduce from the following?' He raised a gloved finger. 'First. They order me to put in at Longyear Island. Why did they do that, Findhorn?'

'To transfer us over to the Apeiron Trader.'

'Aye, but why? And second.' Another finger went up in the air. 'Having put us on to this glorified banana boat, and told us we're bound for Aberdeen, it does a last-minute change and comes down the coast to Edinburgh.'

'They're disorganized?'

Hansen laughed cynically. 'Norsk disorganized? No way. No, Findhorn, this is being done for a reason. Think about it. Longyear Island is about the most desolate, godforsaken hole on the planet. The transfer was carried out with only polar bears for witnesses.'

'I don't get you,' said Findhorn, but he did.

'They're trying to make sure we're not traced.'

Findhorn said, 'You've been too long at sea, Captain,' but he felt a chill: Hansen's story made sense.

'There's something in that briefcase.'

In the half-dark, the captain was looking angry. Findhorn waited, and Hansen continued: 'I've had a fax from Norsk. The crew are being put up in the Post House and flown out to their destinations tomorrow. We've been fixed up at the Sheraton.'

'Why the dour expression?'

'I have reasons. Three of them are wrapped up in sheets in the Apeiron's cold room. A few more are enjoying an Arctic cruise a thousand yards down in an iceberg. They'll end up in your fish fingers some day.' The wind caught little sparks from his pipe and blew them out to sea.

'What happens next?'

'Paperwork. And the Leith police and the Lloyds people and the Board of Trade and the Marine Accident Investigation Board. But not you, Doctor Findhorn, not according to my instructions. Our masters don't want you involved in these enquiries in any circumstances. They want you to disappear into the foggy night wi' that briefcase.'

'What do you think about that?'

Hansen took the pipe from his mouth and spat in the water. 'What do I think about it?' he repeated angrily. 'This just happens to be my country, bought and paid for with six hundred years of blood. I'm no' having a bunch of Eskimos telling me what I may or may not say to the lawful Scottish authorities.'

'So what will you do?'

Findhorn caught an eyeful of stinging pipe smoke, but Hansen kept puffing. 'Co-operate with the aforesaid authorities and stuff Norsk. Effing reindeer herdsmen trying to run my country.' Hansen spat again into the Firth of Forth. 'And I'll tell you somethin' for nothin'. There was some funny business went on in that American expedition.'

In the semi-dark, Findhorn could see the captain's shrewd eyes narrowed, staring intently at him. 'Just what is this about, Findhorn?'

'I haven't the faintest idea.'

'Maybe you have and maybe you haven't. And what's in yon briefcase to get the Yanks so excited?'

'Not to mention Norsk. Do you think they've fixed it so the police let me disappear into the night?'

'If they have it's an outrage. By the way, you meet with Company officials on the premises of the Whisky Society. After this little voyage, it strikes me as a damn good rendezvous.' Hansen tapped his pipe out on the railing; little sparks drifted downwind. Then he turned back to the bridge.

Leroy sauntered up and joined Findhorn at the railing. Now they were within sight of Edinburgh Castle a couple of miles ahead and to the left, astride its basalt plug, floodlights illuminating its massive walls. The Apeiron Trader was slowing and heading to port, the automated lighthouse on Inchkeith Island swinging round to starboard.

'Edinburgh is a cold, cold city, mon. Time was when I had a little hot chocolate used t'wait foh me in Constitution Street. Just the thing after a long voyage. Lucinda, that was her name, a real enthusiast.' Leroy's mind was momentarily elsewhere. 'Smooth, dark skin, Jamaican, a lovely girl. But damn me, while I's in Murmansk and points north, if she doan up sticks and go back to her daddy in Jamayca, somewhere up in the Blue Mountains. He's a coffee farmer, mon, which is Jamaica-speak for abject poverty. Some day I will go there and I will rescue her from a life of pickin' coffee beans.'

'Maybe she likes picking coffee beans, Leroy. Which would you rather be, poor and warm or rich and cold?'

'But now my hot chocolate come in a mug,' Leroy complained. 'Choa man, how is de mighty fallen.'

Findhorn, his ears now painful with cold, grinned in sympathy and headed for his cabin.

There was a knock on the door. Hansen, briefcase in hand. 'From now on it's your responsibility, laddie. I take nothing more to do with it.' Findhorn nodded and took the briefcase.

He tossed it on the bed. It was black. On its side the letters LBP were printed in gold. It was in good condition and it was hard to believe that it had been under glacial ice for half a century. Findhorn tried the lock, but it was squashed almost flat. It would take a hammer and chisel to get at the contents.

Who owned it? The USA, Denmark, the Company, or Finders Keepers?

Another knock on the door, this one peremptory. Admiral Dawson, dressed for shore in a heavy seaman's jacket, and with the expression of a man anticipating a fight. The admiral nodded at the briefcase. 'Thanks. I'll have it now.'

'No way, Admiral.'

Dawson tried to push into the cabin but Findhorn put a hand on his chest and shoved. 'Hey, chum, you're a guest on this ship.'

'Get out of my way, Findhorn. That briefcase is United States property.'

'Maybe, maybe not.'

Dawson took a deep breath. He spoke softly, but there was anger in his voice. 'Look, pal, you have no idea what you're getting into here. Just forget the whole business. Hand over the briefcase and walk away. Believe me, it's in your own interests.'

'If that's a threat, can I have it in writing?'

Dawson, red-faced and grim, didn't reply. Findhorn closed the door on him.

Twenty minutes later, Findhorn was down the gangplank while it was still being secured. He had a backpack and carried the briefcase in one hand while holding the gangplank rail carefully with the other. A thrill of pleasure went through his nervous system when he felt solid concrete under his feet. There was the sour smell of yeast in the air; the Edinburgh brewers were emptying their vats. There was no sign of the admiral.

The crew began to trickle down the gangplank but Findhorn went on ahead, towards the customs shed. The Irishman, grim-faced, was standing at it as if it provided sanctuary. Two policemen were approaching him in a businesslike manner. Findhorn passed him with a nod, and then, in the shed, ran a gauntlet of keen-eyed officials; but he went unchallenged back into the dark, freezing fog.

A cluster of high-spirited young sailors passed him and disappeared into the dark; they sounded as if they had a riotous evening ahead. A police car sat on the dock, its driver watching the little flurry of late-night activity with dispassionate curiosity. Tall metal gates a couple of hundred metres ahead marked the end of the docks. More policemen, two in uniform, and more close scrutiny. A nod so imperceptible that Findhorn wondered if he had really seen it, and then he was through the gates and into the streets.

Leroy was standing in conversation with a mini-skirted girl. Beyond lay the bonded warehouses of the big distilleries; and beyond them again was Leith Walk, and pubs and restaurants and crowds and anonymity.

Findhorn walked quickly along the quiet dockside street, past the barred windows of the whisky warehouses. A taxi hooted as it passed; Leroy was grinning and waving, girl in tow. Half a mile ahead a brisk evening traffic was going around Leith roundabout. Findhorn glanced nervously behind him; the street was empty. His footsteps were echoing off the high grey walls and buildings. He broke into a trot, the backpack bouncing heavily on his back. He made it with relief to the roundabout. There were restaurant crowds here, and drunks, and young people hanging about. He turned right along Constitution Street and past the Spiral Galaxy. Close by Leith River was a high wall. Through to a little cobbled courtyard and up a flight of stairs. A man stood at the top, polite, suited, muscular.

'Are ye a member, sorr?'

'The name's Findhorn. I'm expected.'

'Aye, Doctor Findhorn, sorr. Your party's waiting for you.' The door was opened and warm air enveloped Findhorn.

It was a big old tenement room, plush red and gloriously warm after the nip of the Edinburgh haar. It was sprinkled with an odd collection of comfortable, Victorian-style armchairs and tables. Each table had a jug of water: at cask strength, it was advisable to dilute the whiskies on offer. An open fire burned cheerily in a corner and a pot of coffee was on the go next to it. There was an aroma of whisky and coffee, and the air was light blue with tobacco smoke.

The Society was crowded. A woman, at a table near the fire, caught Findhorn's eye. She was tall, about fifty, with trim, greying hair and pearl ear-rings, and was wearing a long red coat. Her companion was squat, bulky and had a far-Eastern appearance; probably Korean, Findhorn thought. The woman waved. As Findhorn approached, it became plain that the Korean's bulk was due to muscle rather than beer. He had a heavily lined face and was smoking a cigarette.

Findhorn suddenly felt uneasy.

'Doctor Findhorn? I'm Barbara Drindle, from the Arendal office of Norsk Advanced Technologies. And this is Mister Junzo Moon. I'm afraid he doesn't speak much English.' Her voice was husky and her accent was good, very good, but it wasn't native English.

Findhorn put backpack and briefcase on the floor and sat down at the vacant chair, next to the glorious heat. The woman smiled: 'After your adventures I should think you need something strong. The Society buys direct from distillers. Because of some strange quirk in the law it isn't allowed to use their brand names, which is why the bottles here are labelled by number. But you'll see a little catalogue on the bar which tells you all you need to know. What would you like?'

'A coffee, I think.' Findhorn helped himself and returned to the table.

'The Company have arranged a room for you at the Sheraton tonight. I expect you'll want to get back to your office as soon as possible.' She slid over an envelope. 'An airline ticket for Aberdeen.'

Findhorn slid the envelope back. 'No trouble. I haven't seen you around at Norsk. Which division is that?'

Suddenly, the Korean's expression was hostile, but the woman's smile didn't falter. 'The Secretariat. I work directly for Mister Olsen. And now, we'll be getting on.' She leaned down for the briefcase.

Findhorn seized her wrist. The woman was surprisingly strong.

'Do I really know you're Company? Some very persistent Americans have been after this.'

The Korean looked as if he wanted to break Findhorn's neck. The woman's smile acquired a chilly edge. She sighed, disengaged Findhorn's hand and produced a sheet of paper from her handbag:

The paper was letter-headed with the Norsk Advanced Technologies logo of an Earth held in the palm of a hand, it had all the right e-mail, telephone and postal addresses, and was signed with the neat, precise hand of Tor Olsen himself.

'Satisfied?'

Findhorn said, 'Forgive me, I had to be sure. So, you're with Olsen's office in Arendal?'

'Correct.'

She picked up the briefcase and tried the lock. Then she handed it over to the Korean. Findhorn tried to look calm while the Korean hauled at it like a bad-tempered gorilla. He finally snarled and shook his head like a dog getting rid of fleas.

Findhorn said, 'It's been under tons of ice.' Ms Drindle gave him a cool smile once again and gestured to the Korean, then headed for the exit with a wave of the hand. The Korean stood up. To Findhorn's amazement he turned out to be little more than five feet tall which, with his girth, made him look like an orang-utan. He shot Findhorn a look of pure hatred and followed Ms Drindle out.

Findhorn gave them thirty seconds, then went to the exit. A car was taking off smartly on the riverside street and he just failed to catch its registration number. Then he was briskly down the stairs and off in the opposite direction. He trotted smartly up Constitution Street and turned into the Spiral Galaxy. Once in the safety of the crowded, smoky bar, he sat down with a sigh of relief: he didn't want to be around the muscular Korean when they discovered the Apeiron Trader's supply of Playboys.