Frustrated, he decided to walk the forty minutes to theEast End, where he was meeting his contact, rather than take a local train or cab. It was raining, or rather that drizzly mistlike rain that Scotland was famous for, but wet and uncomfortable were something he barely noticed anymore. He’d had it beaten out of him in BUD/S thirteen years ago.
They were meeting at a pub near Celtic Park Stadium, the legendary home of the Celtic Football (aka soccer) Club. Though it wasn’t game day, Dean had been cautioned against wearing Ranger blue and red. The fierce rivalry between the two Glaswegian clubs was serious business with a sectarian component that he hadn’t been aware of. He thought Protestant and Catholic crap like that only existed in Northern Ireland, but apparently Glasgow had its share.
The East End wasn’t the best part of Glasgow, but despite recent proof to the contrary, Dean did know how to keep his head down, and he was a bigger target than most “Neds” (a derogatory term for Scottish hooligans who had a penchant for track suits) wanted to fuck with.
The sites along London Road covered the gamut of residential, business, and industrial, but like with many parts of Glasgow, the main theme was red brick. Lots of it.
Like Liverpool in the south, Glasgow had made its mark as one of the great industrial cities, and it still retained some of its grit. Most people preferred the “nicer” Edinburgh, but Dean liked the working-class vibe of Glasgow. It was a long way from east Texas, but he could relate to the values, toughness, and underdog fighting spirit.
Dean arrived at the appointed time, found a booth, and ordered a pint of ale while he waited. The reason for choosing this place was clear. It was packed with men—women were a rarity at these kinds of working-class pubs—who didn’t give a shit and were too drunk to remember even if they did.
His contact was a few minutes late, but the transaction was completed before his glass was empty. The kid—these guys seemed to be getting younger every time—made his living by not asking questions, and once Dean had assured himself of the quality, there was no reason to stick around.
Now that he had what he needed, there was no reason forhimto stick around. He could set up his new bank account online. He recalled Annie’s mention of the e-mail from her bank. He’d been too pissed about the tattoo and her accessing her e-mail to think about it. It didn’t seem significant, but he texted the LC to have Kate check it out anyway. He wasn’t going to leave any stone unturned.
He was almost back at his hotel when his phone vibrated with a return text. He pulled it out and looked at the one-word response: Belfast.
Shit. Dean had his marching orders. He knew what he had to do. Even if every instinct in his body fought against it.
He went inside and loaded up.
•••
Annie had become a minor celebrity among the Stornoway activist community, as she found out when she arrived at camp and was immediately surrounded.
It wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted, but her fellow protesters were so genuinely horrified by everything she’d gone through and supportive that she patiently answered their questions and retold the story a couple of times.
The biggest welcome—and biggest surprise—was the hug from Marie. As part of the graduate student group that had traveled with Julien from America, she and Sergio had been questioned by the police extensively. But like Annie, the two Italian grad students had both been completely in the dark about what Julien, Jean Paul, and Claude really intended. Marie’s connection to the group had been a short-lived romance with Claude that had fizzled into friendship and a shared interest in the environment. She and her cousin Sergio—a fellow grad student—had been completely shocked by Julien’s and Claude’s connection to OPF.
It was oddly comforting to know that Annie hadn’t been the only one duped, and the two women bonded as they joined the group making signs for the big event that was taking place that weekend. According to Marie, she’d heard they hoped tohave nearly five hundred people in town by then. The camp had already doubled in size since she left last Saturday.
God, had it only been five days?
So much had changed.
Martin, the director of a big marine conservation group here in the UK who was kind of serving as head honcho of the camp, asked her if she would be willing to give a few TV interviews to help get publicity for the event.
The aging English hippie bore an uncanny resemblance to the ice-cream guru Ben—or was it Jerry?—with his beard and curly brown hair that receded in a wide path to the back of his head.
He must have read her hesitation. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I think it could really help raise awareness. The media are trying to portray us as a bunch of crazy terrorists, but when people see you...” He shrugged. “I think it will put a positive spin on the story. We don’t want to do anything illegal—we just want to get our message across. I know a little about your research. Maybe you could try to slip that in as well.”
He was right. Talking about it was the last thing she wanted to do—especially on TV. Nothing like telling the whole world you were an idiot.
“Could I think about it?” she asked.
“Sure. Take all the time you need as long as it’s by tomorrow—and I’m going to keep trying to convince you in the interim.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
He started to walk away, but then turned back. “Hey, do you dive?”
She nodded.
“A few of us are headed to theStassawreck on Harris later this afternoon. We have room for one more if you are interested. Marie is going.”
“I’m a novice,” Marie said. “Julien told me you were some kind of expert.”
Her thoughts immediately went to her Texan SEAL. “I’m not a professional—more of an enthusiast.”
