Tamsin Beech Ch. 09: Edinburgh

THE STORY SO FAR:

Jessamy Beech, her daughter Phoebe, Ross, Merida and Hamnavoe have set sail from Orkney on their stolen trawler Kerrera II to investigate rumours of a Coalition holding facility at Fort George on Scotland's north east coast, hoping that it might give them some clue as to the whereabouts of Jessamy's younger daughter Ada.

Meanwhile, Tamsin Beech, Leonid Denisovich and McTavish have taken the fishing boat Girl Flora further south to enlist the help of Edinburgh's cannibal Reekies in order to attack the stronghold of Lindisfarne Castle. Little do they know that Coalition Supreme Marshal Volk and his power hungry lover Ludmila Mudak are about to make their own move against the president, Vladimir Zakhvatchikov ...

. . .

Bristol, August 2009 ...

"I don't care Mags, if one of them grabs my ass again I'm walking. I fucking mean it. I'm not being paid enough to put up with that kind of shit."

Maggie Hannigan led the younger woman by the arm, away from the shouts and clattering of pans coming from the kitchens to the quieter end of the service corridor, "It's only for this evening," she said in a calm voice, "once this reception dinner is over and done with they'll all be concentrating on their bloody conference tomorrow."

"Nursing raging hangovers I hope."

Mags smirked, "They're Russians. They can probably handle it. Now ... dry those tears, get back out there and ... for fuck's sake Sorrel, try to smile, eh?"

. . .

"Zdes' ona snova. Nash malen'kiy ryzhiy!" shouted one of the Russians the moment Sorrel Watchcroft re-entered the conference centre's wide dining room. He and four of his colleagues lounged around a corner table littered with empty glasses, bottles and cigar butts - though they'd been specifically requested not to smoke indoors.

The red-faced Russian's eyes swam as he attempted to focus on her, "You there! The pretty redhead. We need more drinks."

Sorrel cursed her hair. Thick and lustrous, it had always been the envy of her friends. But it also made her stand out from the crowd. Sometimes too much. Conspicuous. Rachel and the other waitresses weren't getting anywhere near the attention she was getting. Why had she volunteered for this she asked herself again. Because Maggie Hannigan was an old family friend and she could never bring herself to say no. It felt so wrong letting anyone down.

"Did you hear me? Redhead with the cute ass!"

"Sergei ... sprosite yeye, nravit•sya yey," one of the others giggled drunkenly to him, "chto ona ponravit•sya po zadnitse."

Sorrel Watchcroft muttered under her breath and fished her notepad from the pocket of her apron as she moved towards the Russians' table. A week long conference hosted jointly by NASA and the European Space Agency had attracted delegates from all over the world to discuss and debate the legal and moral implications of military satellites. The Russians were by far the rowdiest - attracting disapproving looks from the centre's management and the hundred or so other attendees alike.

Another of Sergei's colleagues leaned over to whisper in his ear. He howled with laughter, slapping his prodigious beer gut, "Devstvennitsa! Mogu posporit', chto ona yest'," then gestured at Sorrel, "na neschastnaya malen'kaya pizda."

"What can I get you?" Sorrel asked pleasantly.

Sergei took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, "Haha ... we would like, ha ... six of your cat's piss English beers ... and a bottle of your Scotch whisky. Then Yuri here would like you to sit on his cock."

Sorrel's face flushed as the table exploded with loud, raucous laughter. She was eighteen. A university student, and doing this waitressing job as a favour for a friend - nothing more. She didn't have to endure any more of this abuse.

Sorrel untied her black uniform apron and threw it down, "Get your own fucking drinks!" and turned to storm out.

A meaty paw suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Sergei, even redder faced - his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "I didn't say you could leave. Malen'kaya shlyukha."

"Let go of me," Sorrel tried to prise the fat Russian's fingers from her arm, aware that many of the other delegates were now watching. Watching, but doing fuck all to help her.

"Why not stay with us?" Sergei growled, pulling her close enough to smell his stale breath, "show us some of your ... English hospitality eh?"

"DAVAYTE DEVUSHKU!" shouted a voice. Sergei glanced up to see the sixth member of their party striding back across the room from the toilets. Tall and gaunt looking, his face was like thunder as he approached, "my gosti v etoy strane! Vam vsem dolzhno byt' stydno za sebya."

Alarmed, Sergei immediately released Sorrel's arm.

"Seychas izvinyayus," snarled the tall Russian, looming over the table, "ili vy budete na sleduyushchem samolete obratno v Moskvu."

Sergei clambered unsteadily to his feet and sheepishly addressed Sorrel, his voice slurring, "Pl-please accept my apologies young lady. My friends and I were only ... how do you say? ... fooling around ..."

"Now get back to your hotel," Sorrel's rescuer ordered the others, "you've had enough for this evening."

Like scolded schoolboys, Sergei, Yuri and the other Russians around the table picked up suit jackets and smartphones and made their way muttering towards the exit. The other delegates slowly returned to their meals and conversations.

"Please accept my sincere apologies young lady," said Sorrel's rescuer in a low voice, "my colleagues can get a little ... out of control."

He seemed even taller close up, Sorrel realised. The top of her head barely came up to his shoulder. Black suit, plain red tie. Pale blue grey eyes regarded her from a thoroughly unremarkable face beneath a shock of jet black hair. Not handsome at all in the traditional sense but Sorrel felt there was something about him. Some quality of decency hiding beneath the surface that might make him a better prospect than some of the other men she'd known.

She guessed he might be no more than perhaps five years older than her. So how he'd been able to boss around colleagues twice his age Sorrel had no idea. Some IT expert who'd risen up through the ranks more quickly than them perhaps, "That's okay."

"If you feel the need to make an official complaint about their behaviour I honestly wouldn't blame you. We are guests in your country and should be behaving accordingly."

Sorrel snatched up her apron and began collecting empty glasses, "Really, I don't want to make a fuss. It's all over."

Her rescuer reached inside his jacket and thumbed through a black leather wallet, "In case you change your mind ... my card."

Sorrel hesitated for a second, staring intently into the Russian's eyes. They were kind eyes. Gentle eyes, that could nevertheless become as hard as steel should circumstances dictate. She'd seen it. The eyes of a man she wouldn't have minded getting to know if she hadn't been a lowly university student and he a Russian diplomat.

Sorrel nervously accepted the business card, and with a nod, the Russian left.

'VLADIMIR ZAKHVATCHIKOV,' she read.

. . .

It was three days before Sorrel summoned up the courage to call Vladimir Zakhvatchikov's mobile. Three days in which she wondered if she'd been mistaken all along. He looked nice enough. He seemed nicer. But perhaps he was no different to the others, with no interest whatsoever in her, other than getting her into his hotel room for a quick fuck. Another notch on his bed post.

She rehearsed and rehearsed what she would say, giving herself options depending on how favourably he responded to her call. What if this Vladimir Zakhvatchikov character was drunk? Or otherwise engaged with some other pretty redheaded waitress that had caught his eye? He'd most probably forgotten about the reception dinner incident already and wouldn't even remember who she was. Sorrel decided to let his phone ring no more than five times, then end the call.

Vladimir Zakhvatchikov answered after the third ring, "Privet. Kto eto?"

His voice sounded strong, confident. Sorrel's hands trembled as she sat on the edge of her bed at her parents' tiny terraced house, "Um, hello? I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Sorrel. Sorrel Watchcroft. The waitress from the Filton conference centre? You ... rescued me."

There wasn't even a moment's pause, "Da, da. Of course I remember. The prettiest girl in the room with the beautiful hair. Again, accept my apologies for my colleagues' behaviour the other evening."

Now came the difficult part, thought Sorrel, "That's okay. Uh, look ... I don't usually do this sort of thing but ... w-would you like to grab a a bite to eat ... as like, a thankyou."

This time the Russian hesitated for perhaps a second, "A meal?"

"Yes. My treat of course," Sorrel answered. Then she wondered. Where the hell was she going to take some young Russian diplomat on a waitress's pay? McDonald's? Pizza Hut?

"Nonsense," Vladimir Zakhvatchikov countered, "it will be my treat ... as recompense for any embarassment caused at the reception dinner."

"Oh," that was unexpected, thought Sorrel, "well okay then."

"Give me your address," the Russian continued, "and I'll send a car to pick you up. Is 7.30 this evening alright?"

. . .

54 years later, onboard the Coalition aircraft carrier Lenin ...

President Vladimir Zakhvatchikov remembered their first evening together as if it had been yesterday. More pressing matters vital to the success of the Coalition's UK colonies sometimes slipped his mind after mere minutes, but he had no doubt his first evening alone with Sorrel Watchcroft would live in his memory forever.

He tugged the ermine lined collar of his jacket tighter up around his neck against the biting wind, as he gazed west towards the devastation of what had once been Edinburgh - even after all these years still infested with the subhuman savages the locals called Reekies. It was about time that particular thorn in his side was attended to, he thought ...

He could never have expected a chance meeting with a pretty waitress to turn his life so completely upside down in such a short time. But it had. The limousine at his disposal had collected the young woman from a non descript terraced house in Bedminster on the outskirts of Bristol and delivered her to the restaurant he'd chosen - a small, family run Italian place in the middle of Clifton. Being only a lowly waitressing student - and a teenaged one at that, he honestly hadn't expected much from Sorrel Watchcroft. The evening would be a distraction - nothing more.

But when she'd stepped into the restaurant sheathed in a simple dark green sleeveless dress with her hair tumbling elegantly around her bare, freckled shoulders the sight of her had literally taken his breath away. With simple gold ear studs the only adornment and her understated makeup, he'd decided then and there that Sorrel Watchcroft was the woman he wanted for his wife.

They'd talked animatedly for hours, their food barely touched - as if they'd known one another for years. About her family and her Sports Psychology degree at the local university. About life growing up in Moscow and his career as a junior diplomat - though he'd obviously kept certain things to himself. Time had flown as time always does in good company and their date had eventually drawn to a close. But instead of pressing his advantage and inviting the pretty redhead back to his hotel in the city centre, Vladimir Zakhvatchikov had clasped her hand in both of his and humbly asked if they might meet again.

That had been the beginning of their relationship. Tentative, cautious steps into a larger world. Throughout the course of his stay in the United Kingdom, he and Sorrel had met at every possible opportunity. Going for meals, to galleries, and on long walks hand in hand - content and comfortable in one another's company ... and unsurprisingly falling in love. Sex between them, when it had finally happened had been glorious. They were both still young and fit with the stamina and willingness to satisfy one another. Even now Zakhvatchikov's hands tingled with the muscle memory of stroking her smooth flanks, clutching her sweating hips as she rode him, tumbling hair hanging down around her face like a red curtain.

The uncomplicated purity of the act had been a far cry from the hedonistic, depraved excesses of the orgies he now arranged in his private quarters - sometimes taking part, sometimes merely watching - when half a dozen or so handpicked crewmembers would perform for him. Or else risk incurring the president's displeasure.

Zakhvatchikov's Spetsnaz bodyguards stayed close and watchful as he strolled across the Lenin's deserted flight deck. Not all their North Korean allies had been willing to accept him as their new leader and three assassination attempts had been foiled over the last week alone. He was getting too old to really care any more but nevertheless felt blessed he still had trustworthy comrades like Volk he could rely on.

Much to the bewilderment and consternation of his superiors, Zakhvatchikov had applied for a permanent posting in the UK, to be with Sorrel. Moscow had grudgingly agreed - with the understanding that he might be better positioned to investigate the NATO states' rumoured Soteria weapon project. Mere months after they'd first met, he and Sorrel Watchcroft were married. Their only child - a healthy daughter, was born soon after in 2011 - appropriately named Merida Natalya after the wilful red haired heroine of some upcoming Disney animation and his own mother.

Their life together was for the moment complete. The Zakhvatchikovs had employed a nanny so that Sorrel could return to her degree course, and they became so immersed in wedded bliss that the alarming news of tension between Russia and the US became mere background noise. The reports of unrest in the far east between North and South Korea locked out. And the massive rogue asteroid the size of France that was predicted to narrowly miss annihilating the planet became no more than a trifling inconvenience.

Under the guise of a junior diplomat for the Russian government, Vladimir's attempts to glean information about Soteria had been depressingly fruitless. It was a weapon - that was all they knew. A devastating weapon with which the United States could wipe out any chosen target in his homeland at the flick of a switch. He'd known, and his government had known that what Russia needed was the capability to make a pre-emptive strike. As a deterrent if nothing else. But with their nuclear arsenal depleted by disarmament treaties, the Kremlin's eyes had quickly turned to the heavens ...

... to Thanatos.

CHAPTER NINE: EDINBURGH

Scotland, autumn 2063 ...

PART ONE: FORT GEORGE & PERTH

Leaving Ross and Merida on the anchored Kerrera II to take care of Hamnavoe and man their shortwave radio, Jessamy Beech and her eldest daughter Phoebe rowed their tiny inflatable dinghy through early morning mist ashore at the village of Ardersier. Their oars dipping into the grey waters of the Moray Firth and the peeping of one or two turnstones the only sounds. Common seals watched with mournful eyes from flat rocks as they heaved the inflatable up onto the pebbly, seaweed strewn beach.

Being careful not to slip on thick patches of bladderwrack, Jessamy paused, head cocked to one side listening, "Hear that?"

Phoebe nodded. Why the hell hadn't she insisted on going with Tamsin and the others instead of on this wild goose chase with her mother? In the distance the slowly crumbling Kessock Bridge arched over the Beauly Firth to the ruins of Inverness - now an abandoned ghost town. Silent. Like most of this part of Scotland, "Yeah ... nothing. If there's anyone left alive here ... they're bein' awfully quiet."

Her mother agreed, "Chances are if there are people here, they'll be scared of any outsiders. Reivers haven't made it this far east according to Keaton's scouts, but keep your eyes and ears open anyway. Act casual. We get in, find what we need ... then get out again, quick," she gripped Phoebe's sleeve, "and only shoot if someone else shoots first."

. . .

Ross Beech had guided the Kerrera II south from Orkney's capital Kirkwall, along Scotland's rugged north east coast, avoiding capsized container ships wedged against the cliffs and the broken remains of oil platforms that had been undergoing maintenance at Cromarty and Invergordon when fragments of Thanatos had struck. After forty years of freak weather and occasional bombardment by meteorites, not much remained. But even one rusted support strut or rib lying just beneath the surface would be enough to rip the belly out of their stolen beam trawler and leave them floundering or stranded.

Slowing as they approached the narrow strait beyond Rosemarkie Bay and the charred stump of the Chanonry Point lighthouse, Jessamy and the others peered at the towering ramparts of Fort George to their left - awed by what they saw. Constructed on a narrow spit of land protruding out into the Moray Firth, it had been the largest military fortification in Britain on its completion in 1769, enclosing forty two acres within its twelve metre high walls, with facilities to garrison over 2,000 English redcoats.

"Looks deserted," said Phoebe, squinting against the bright sunshine.

Jessamy nodded, "According to Keaton it was built to crush any future rebellions after a battle near here hundreds of years ago ... called Culloden. All Zakhvatchikov's Coalition troops pulled out of the fort a few years ago. Moved back down south to guard their fleet near Edinburgh."

"If we'd looked after your daughters better in the first place," said Merida, stepping out of the wheelhouse onto the peeling deck, "you wouldn't have to be here."

Jessamy huffed. She could still remember the conversation she'd had with Merida back in Berwick all those years before, "Would you take care of Phoebe and Ada for me?" she'd asked, "teach them right and wrong and how to be good people?"

Merida had looked hurt. Her own father had hardly been a model parent and she'd been determined never to follow the same path of abandonment, "Why are you even asking me that Jess? They're my nieces, they're family. I'd look after them as if they were my own flesh and blood."

But war and circumstances cared nothing for promises made between friends, "It wasn't your fault Meri," Jessamy replied, "Berwick was being attacked. Even if Ada isn't here we might at least find some clue as to where she went."

"Mum?" Phoebe ventured cautiously, "have you ... considered the possibility that she may be ..."

"What, dead?" Jessamy snapped. She shook her head, refusing to entertain the thought, "I'm her mother. I'd know," then more gently, "believe me I'd know Pheebs, and your little sister ... is still very much alive."

. . .

Keeping their weapons stowed but in easy reach, the two women made their way north from Ardersier along what had once been Stuart Street, the B9006. The remains of the tarmac road surface had been chewed up by the movement of heavy tracked vehicles - evidence that the Coalition had indeed been in the area. Rows of gutted houses ran alongside the road. Some scorched by fire, with empty windows staring like the eye sockets of a skull. Others literally blown to pieces cluttering the way ahead with broken rubble, timber and shards of roof tiles.

Ahead, a high wall stretched across their field of vision, pockmarked by small arms fire, strangled with weeds and ivy and defaced with faded graffiti. Triangular bastions, 'ravelins' and corner turrets ensured that the fort's gun emplacements covered every possible angle from attack. Phoebe could understand the demoralising impact the sight would have had on any rebellious locals, but with the 21st century weapons at the Coalition's disposal the fort's 18th century defences were utterly useless.