Revelation

7 Fat Sam's

Findhorn looked at his watch. He had fifty-five minutes until the meeting at Fat Sam's; time enough to complete one important piece of business.

Back at the library, he pulled out a dog-eared Yellow Pages directory and ran a finger down Translators and Interpreters. He thought of his overstretched credit card and avoided the outfits with expensive boxes and names like 'School of Modern Languages' or 'International Interpreters', or which offered interpreters for trade missions. German and French translation figured heavily and he excluded these. That left half a dozen two-line entries. He noted their numbers.

Back to the museum. With change from the cafe he went through the numbers systematically. None of them had Armenian on the menu.

Back to the library. The security man at the entrance gave him a look. Now Findhorn opened the directory at Clubs and Associations and ploughed through working men's clubs, the Royal Naval Association, the Heart of Midlothian Football Club, Royal British Legion clubs, community associations, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, bingo clubs and Masonic Grand Lodges. From this bewildering miscellany he drew two conclusions: one, homo sapiens is a gregarious animal; and two, Edinburgh did not have an Armenian Club.

And he now had forty minutes.

On an inspiration he took a taxi to Buccleuch Place and asked the taxi to wait. He dithered between the School of Asian Studies and Islamic and Middle East, conscious of his one o'clock appointment and the ticking meter. He chose the Islamic at random. The building was almost deserted. He scanned a notice board, ignoring the lists of examination results and the conference notifications. There were three cards, pinned on the board. Two were curling at the edge and offered tuition, one in German, one in French. The third was new and written in blue ink:

It was corny enough to be a student enterprise, suggesting fees he might be able to afford. The address was in Dundee Street, which Findhorn remembered as a down-market part of the city. Again suggesting impoverishment.

The taxi passed the Fountain Brewery, a massage parlour and a sign for Heart of Midlothian FC, and disgorged him at the entrance to a tenement flat. The interior of the close was dingy and there was a faint smell of urine. A yellow Vespa scooter was attached to the metal bannister by a heavy chain. Findhorn made his way up worn steps. On the second floor, the door on the right had a doorbell, a peephole and a card:

Nothing about Angel Translation Services. He hesitated, then pressed the buzzer.

Apart from the over-large gypsy ear-rings, she looked as if she was just out of bed. She was in her twenties, with dark eyes and blonde hair going dark at the roots. She held the lapels of her green dressing gown together and blinked at Findhorn curiously.

'Angel Translation Services?' Findhorn asked doubtfully.

The effect was startling. Her eyes opened wide. 'Oh my gosh! What can I do for you?'

'I'd like a little translation.'

'Romella!' she shouted, without taking her eyes off Findhorn. 'Business!' Then, 'Which language?'

'Armenian.'

'Romella! Oh, please come in. I'm Stefi Stefanova. I do Bulgarian and Turkish. She's having a bath. Are you sure you don't need some Bulgarian?'

Through a hallway with a bicycle, propped up against a table with a pile of mail. Findhorn glimpsed a final demand letter in red. Doors to left and right led to bedrooms. A pile of soft dolls was spread over a bed. A kitchen to the right was a clutter of unwashed dishes and an overflowing pedal bin. Stefi led Findhorn ahead to a small room draped with psychedelic curtains and furnished with a low table, candles and cushions, but no chairs. A football team poster was surrounded by postcards pinned on the wall along with pictures of quaint Irish cottages and dizzying snow-covered peaks. A calendar on the wall showed a hunk of half-naked masculinity flexing his pectorals for the camera.

'Did I hear you say Armenian?'

She was running a comb through shoulder-length brown hair, still damp. She was slim, although with well-rounded breasts, and quite small. She had a small round face and big brown eyes behind John Lennon spectacles. She had delicate facial bone structure and smooth skin. Silver earrings in the shape of two long cylinders hung down from delicate ears. She was wearing a plain pink T-shirt and black leather trousers, and a pair of worn Nike trainers.

'I'm Romella. Romella Grigoryan if you can pronounce it.' The accent was Scottish, melodious, with a tinge of American.

'Fred Findhorn.' They shook hands. Findhorn opened the briefcase and pulled out the photocopies. 'This is just a selection. There will be about two thousand pages in all. What do you think?'

She flicked through a few pages at random. 'The handwriting's clear enough. Some of this is pretty technical, I'd probably have difficulty even in English. But yes, I think it's okay.'

'I'm meeting some people and I'd like to leave this with you for a couple of hours. Now, there might be a couple of problems.'

She raised her eyebrows.

'I need the translation urgently. Can you take it on right away?'

She frowned doubtfully and glanced at the wall calendar. It was a good performance.

'If it's too much you could point me to another translator.' He sensed Stefi tensing at the door.

Romella smiled slightly. 'No, I can squeeze it in.'

'A verbal translation would be quickest. We'd have to go through the diaries together.'

'Okay.'

'And as I say it's urgent. It will mean working long hours.'

'Business is business.'

'There's another problem. The material is confidential.'

Romella bristled. 'Naturally, confidentiality is assured.'

'I mean, highly confidential.' Findhorn glanced at Stefi. She nodded and smiled, taking in every word with open fascination. 'We'll need a separate workplace.'

This time, the frown was genuine. 'I'll have to think about that.'

Findhorn pulled a card out of his wallet. 'You're right to be careful. Actually I'm Jack the Ripper.' She laughed, displaying a row of perfect white teeth, and read the card. 'My secretary Anne's on holiday but I can give you her home number now if you like. My father is Lord Findhorn, a Court of Session judge. He's at home too, in Ayrshire, and if you like we can phone him to confirm that I really am —'

'I wasn't implying —'

'I have to go now. We can discuss terms when I get back. That is if you want the job.'

'Unsociable hours —'

'No problem. You fix a rate.'

Taking the stairs two at a time, Findhorn wondered about another problem: how to tap the old man for a few quid.

Findhorn risked the streets again. It was a straight mile and he heard the sharp crack of the one o'clock gun just as he was turning into Fat Sam's.

A few business types were scattered around, and there was a birthday lunch in progress. Al Capone, king-sized cigar in mouth, was resting a sub-machine gun on his arm. Bogart, Dietrich and other icons of the bootleg era also looked down on the proceedings from posters scattered around the walls. In a corner, a piano was thumping out rhythmic jazz by itself, and a fat fish near the cash register kept bumping its head against the tank. A notice said it was a pirhana.

Two men at a corner table, waiting. One was tall, elderly and stooped, formally dressed in suit and tie. Findhorn could make out a large Roman nose, a blotchy skin over a skull-like face, and a slightly vacant expression which didn't fool him for a moment. The other was about forty, gaunt, with metal-rimmed spectacles, dressed in a formal suit that made him look like a Jehovah's witness. Findhorn saw them in outline: sun was streaming through a roof window, obscuring their faces.

'This place used to be a slaughterhouse,' the skull said, indicating a chair. The accent was English ruling class, Winchester, Eton or the like: a species in decline but still with plenty of bite. 'Hence the roof windows. We can move if you wish.' Findhorn shook his head. The man ordered spaghetti alle vongole and Findhorn took the calzone. The Jehovah's witness ordered nothing. They all settled for aqua minerale: clear heads were the order of the day.

The skull waited until the waiter was out of earshot. 'My name is Mister Pitman, as in shorthand.'

'Of course it is.' Findhorn looked at the Jehovah's witness. 'And I expect you're Mister Speedhand.'

The Jehovah's witness nodded. 'It'll do.' The accent was American.

Pitman said, 'I won't insult your intelligence by pretence of any sort, Doctor Findhorn. You hold certain documents. We represent people who are willing to pay for them.'

'Documents?'

'And please don't insult mine.'

A little bread basket arrived. 'You have a consultancy business in Aberdeen, I believe. You sell weather. You call yourself Polar Explorers to create the illusion that there is more than one of you.'

'There is more than one of me,' Findhorn complained. 'I have a secretary.'

Pitman nodded absently, trying to spread icy butter on soft bread. 'Ah yes, Anne of a thousand hairstyles. And how is your business doing?'

'I'm sure you're about to tell me,' Findhorn said warily.

'As an entrepreneur you are best described as a bad joke. You sell a few sparse grid points for commercial and military climate programmes, which make only miniscule improvements to their forecasting ability. Your turnover pays Anne's wages, and the office rent, and perhaps the coffee money. It leaves you with less profit than a street busker.'

'I could use a few more ice stations.'

The waiters had clustered round the birthday table. A candle-lit cake was presented and they burst into 'Happy Birthday to You' with the help of the piano and electrically powered black mannikins with banjos on a stage. The man waited for the cacophony and the applause to subside. 'Would a hundred thousand pounds help?'

A second-generation Sicilian waiter served up the main course with a flourish. Pitman started to poke at the little clams on his pasta. Findhorn had started on his third glass of water but still his mouth was dry. 'Enormously. But the documents, as you call them — actually they're diaries — aren't for sale.'

Mister Shorthand was concentrating on a clam, dissecting it like a zoologist. Mister Speedhand said, 'One million, then?' The American accent was turning out to be east coast, probably Boston.

Findhorn felt himself going light-headed. He looked at Al Capone, spoke thoughtfully to the gangster. 'If you offered to put a million pounds into my bank account, in exchange for the diaries, I guess I'd have to say no.'

Findhorn, dazzled by the sunlight, hoped he had imagined the look in Mister Speedhand's eyes. Pitman examined a little clam on the end of his fork. 'Someone has been talking to you.'

'No.'

Mister Speedhand said, 'Doctor Findhorn, before you find yourself in an irretrievable situation, just hand over these diaries and walk away. It's in your own interests.'

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.