Powerstone by Malcolm Archibald Page A

‘Barracks. Get it? That means
soldiers.’
    ‘Toy soldiers, though. Brits.’
    ‘Soldiers with guns.’ Irene
stepped back from the screen. ‘Museum guards I can cope with, soldiers with guns
are scary. Even a Brit can shoot somebody; all he has to do is point and
click.’
    Patrick had replaced her at the
computer. ‘You give up too easily.’ He continued the search and laughed out
loud. ‘We can still get at the Brits though, and without burrowing under a
barracks. Look: they’ve got more than one set of crown jewels. The Queen has a
spare set in Scotland . The Scottish crown jewels.’
    Irene leaned over his shoulder as
childhood memories stimulated her interest. ‘The Scottish crown jewels? I did not
know that they had any.’
    ‘Well, they have, and I bet that a
tin-pot little country won’t guard them as well as the English,’ Patrick
cracked his fingers in a gesture that Irene always found intensely irritating.
‘That’s our target, so let’s get to work.’ He grinned across to her. ‘They
might have soldiers with guns in London , but in Scotland even the soldiers wear skirts.
This should be easy.’
    Irene looked at him, aware that
the decision had been made. She was going to steal the crown jewels from the Queen
of Britain. She was going to steal the crown of James Stuart. In her mind she
could nearly hear the approval of Johnnie Armstrong.

Chapter
Four
    Edinburgh , December
     
     
    The view from the hotel window was
spectacular. Directly opposite her window, Edinburgh Castle glowered from its volcanic rock
onto a swathe of gardens and the bustling artery that was Princes Street . A long row of double-decked
buses chuntered along the street, while pedestrians ignored every traffic
signal as they dashed over the road as the fancy took them.
    ‘Don’t they have rules of the road
here?’ Patrick slid a hand around Irene’s waist.
    ‘Apparently not. That’s the castle
over there.’ She indicated the massive stone structure with its towers and walls.
‘I’ve never seen a real castle before. It’s different to what I imagined.’
    ‘Bigger.’ Patrick gave his
opinion. ‘But just as old fashioned.’ He lifted the binoculars from the highly
polished table and scanned the castle. ‘It looks quite solid, though, but there
are lots of windows to break into.’
    ‘Are there any guards?’ Irene
lifted her own binoculars and stood beside him at the window.
    ‘According to the guidebook, there
are uniformed stewards in the castle for the benefit of the tourists. They speak
different languages.’ Patrick grinned to her. ‘It doesn’t say that they carry
guns.’
    ‘Nobody carries guns over here,’
Irene retorted. ‘The walls look thick though, and that rock is steep.’ She
allowed her binoculars to sweep over the volcanic plug, slowly searching for an
easy way up.
    ‘That doesn’t matter. We won’t be
climbing any cliffs and I don’t think that we’ll be tunnelling through the
castle walls.’ Placing his binoculars on the window ledge, Patrick leafed through
the booklet that he had bought at the airport. ‘They call the jewels the
Honours of Scotland,’ he said, ‘and they are on exhibition inside the castle.’
    ‘We’ll go there right after
breakfast,’ Irene smiled brightly, ‘how good of them to show us everything.’
Raising her binoculars again, she examined the battlements of the castle. A
score of heads bobbed above the walls as, despite the winter chill, tourists
gaped over the view of Scotland ’s capital. There were stone walls
and colourful winter clothing, grilled windows and laughing children: a
composition of opposites. ‘Imagine if the States allowed tourists to wander
around Fort Knox ,’ Irene said. ‘I mean; it’s as if they’re asking to be
robbed.’ She slapped his leg smartly, ‘how do we get in, Patrick?’
    ‘Through the front door,’ he
replied. ‘It tells us here: the Castle of Edinburgh rears from its volcanic rock
right in the centre of