Cold War - Jerome Preisler [14]
He turned to face Gordian.
“An old friend of ours with NASA is due to shepherd a small delegation of reporters and Senators around Cold Corners. The timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s part of a government funding push that can’t be called off,” he said. “At any rate, give my regards to Annie.”
Nimec stood with his hand suddenly tight on the brass doorknob. “Annie?”
“Caulfield,” Gordian said. “You remember her, of course.”
Nimec swallowed.
“Sure, I’ll say hello,” he said.
And strode from the room.
THREE
NORTH HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND MARCH 2, 2002
AS HE EMERGED FROM HIS EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY ESTATE outside Rosmarkie for his daily predawn walk, Ewie B. Cameron, whose fifth great granduncle was the eldest son of Sir Ewen of Lochiel of the Highland Camerons, could feel nothing of the legendary courage and fierceness of his ancestors, but only an awful nervous gnawing in his stomach that had worsened throughout the long, long night.
If the documents that plant supervisor had slipped him proved authentic . . .
No, no, he thought. Their authenticity was beyond question. He could not seek an out for himself by playing the willful fool. . . .
If his interpretation of them proved accurate despite their many cryptic references, verifying the supervisor’s story . . .
And if the plant’s key stakeholders could not then provide an acceptable accounting of the transactions . . . which Ewie knew would be nearly impossible given their flagrant violation of Scottish and international regulations . . .
If, if, if . . .
Ewie reached the end of his private lane, where a holly hedge screened his lawn from the narrow country road rolling past, the brightness of its berries muted now in the crepuscular light. Stepping onto the shoulder of the road, he turned left against whatever traffic might happen by at this early hour, and strolled toward the stone embankment where it was his habit to do some leg stretches before intensifying his pace. The morning was cold but not at all blustery, with just enough bite to be invigorating. Though Ewie was prone to be an abstemious sobriety of temperament, it was the sort of weather that would usually lift his mood like the fine mist curling off the mature Archangel firs that rose a hundred feet into the air on either side of him.
Today he was only wishing the twist in his gut would slacken a bit, so he could summon the appetite for a minimal breakfast.
For if the evidence Ewie had obtained was what it seemed on its face, the apprehension he felt about this evening’s meeting was as nothing compared to his dread of its broader consequences. Indeed, his first impulse had been to keep the information to himself until he conducted a quiet personal investigation. But that would have been imprudent. Say word of the alleged goings-on at Cromarty Firth leaked in the meantime? Say his informant grew impatient and brought the hard copies elsewhere—another council member, an Energy Authority constable, some damned English bureaucrat with the Department of Trade of Industry? Lord knows, the man might even rashly trot off to the press. Were his own prior ken revealed, Ewie knew his reputation would be compromised. Or worse. He might well be patsied and have to forfeit his council post. Face civil and criminal prosecution.
It was a mad predicament he’d been tossed into. Absolutely mad.
Ewie had been walking for several minutes, bogged in thought, when he noticed that he’d almost missed the embankment. He frowned at his distraction and stepped off the dirt shoulder for his routine warmup exercises.
Standing close to the rock, he leaned against it with his forearms, rested his head on his hands, then bent his right leg forward and extended the other straight back, holding the stretch until he felt it in his left calf. Then he changed sides. After about a minute, he put one foot up on a projecting ledge and, hands on his hips, bent his knee to relax the hamstring and groin muscles. . . .
Perhaps, Ewie thought, he should have shied away from the plant supervisor. Declined to attend their clandestine meeting