CHAPTER VIII.A DELICATE ERRAND
At eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, Princes Street in Edinburgh is a ghost town. It's one of the most cinematic stretches in the world—high-end shops on one side, a deep valley of gardens on the other—but today it was draped in a cold, Scottish mist.
Marcus and Paton sat in the massive dining room of the North British Hotel, perched right above Waverley Station. Through the window, the gray crags of Edinburgh Castle loomed through the haze like a fortress from a different century.
They were on a razor-edged mission. During the restless night on the sleeper train, Marcus had been engineering the play. Sunday was the worst day for a stakeout; the streets were too quiet, and any stranger loitering would stick out like a sore thumb. He needed a "prop."
After breakfast, they grabbed a city map from the porter. Strathnairn Road was out toward the Forth Bridge—a newer, upscale development about a mile from the city center. It was the kind of place where people paid for privacy.
Since it was too early to move, they took a walk down Princes Street. They didn't pass more than twenty people. The city was dormant, the only signs of life being milk delivery trucks and a few guys hawking Sunday papers. Back at the hotel, Marcus headed for the taxi stand. He ignored the older drivers and went straight for a young guy with dark hair and a smirk, who was leaning against his cab cracking jokes.
Marcus beckoned him over. "You want to make some real money this morning?"
The driver, a cautious Scot named McLay, eyed Marcus's expensive suit. "Depends. What kind of trouble are we talking?"
"No trouble. Just a bit of fun—watching someone who doesn't want to be watched."
McLay grinned. Sunday was always slow. "I can watch anybody for the right price."
"You got a pair of overalls in your trunk? Or back at the garage?" Marcus asked.
The driver looked at Marcus's build—he was broader than he looked. "We might have a pair at the shop. You're an 'out-size' though, boss."
"I'll hire you for the day. Start the meter. We'll be at your garage at ten."
Marcus was a master of the "long con." He never let his team—even Paton—know the full scope of his ingenuity until the trap was already sprung. To his friends, he was the ultimate ally; to his enemies, he was a nightmare. He moved his pieces like a grandmaster, and today, the piece was himself.
By 10:30, they were at a grease-stained garage in the Portobello district. Marcus had ditched his designer clothes for a pair of filthy blue overalls borrowed from a mechanic nicknamed "Fatty" Duncan. He smeared engine grease on his hands and across his cheekbone, turning the "Architect" into a common gearhead. He ditched his tie, threw on a beat-up flat cap, and grabbed a heavy bag of tools.
"Here's the move," Marcus told McLay. "You drive Paton to the corner of Strathnairn. He gets out to play the lookout. You pull over right in front of the target house and strip the bonnet. Pretend the engine's blown. Then you call the garage and ask for a mechanic. I'll show up to 'fix' it."
"Got it," McLay laughed. "A breakdown. Nice."
"And keep it quiet," Marcus added, dropping his voice. "We're looking for a couple that skipped town. Divorce stuff."
The driver winked. "Say no more, boss."
Marcus waited at the garage until the call came in. He hitched a ride with an old mechanic named Robbie, who dropped him a few blocks away from the site. Marcus lugged the heavy tool bag the rest of the way, his breath blooming in the cold air.
He turned the corner and saw the "broken-down" taxi. Paton was a block away, puffing on a pipe and looking like a man with nowhere to be.
Marcus dropped the bag with a heavy clank next to McLay. He looked up the street. It was a row of uniform stone houses with those wide bay windows Marcus hated—too many places for a target to hide behind a curtain and watch the street.
"Nobody's moved," McLay whispered, leaning over the engine. "Just a maid taking in the milk. They're sleeping in."
"Let's get to work," Marcus said. "Start unscrewing things. We're gonna be here a while."
For an hour, they played the part. Marcus actually cleaned a few parts, guided by the driver when he didn't know which bolt was which. A beat cop strolled by, asking what the problem was.
"Engine's junk," McLay complained. "I'm sick of this rig."
"Get a tow," the cop advised and kept walking.
Paton drifted by a few minutes later. "I hate feds," he muttered to Marcus. "Even the ones in uniform. They're too nosey."
"Stay cool, Sandy," Marcus said.
Time crawled. Noon passed. Families walked their dogs. The sun finally broke through the mist. Marcus was bent double over the radiator, pretending to struggle with a nut, when his peripheral vision caught movement.
The door of No. 286 opened.
A well-dressed man stepped out. He scanned the street, then started walking toward the taxi. Marcus recognized him instantly. It was Caborn—Joan's husband. He'd shaved his beard, making his sharp, heavy features even more prominent.
Marcus pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead—the signal. Paton, a block away, went on high alert.
Caborn walked right past the taxi, glancing at the "mechanics" with zero suspicion, and headed toward the city center.
"That's him," Marcus exhaled, standing up and stretching his back. "The lead was solid."
"You want me to follow?" McLay asked.
"No, we wait. I want to see if the lady is inside."
An hour later, Caborn came back, walked into the house, and shut the door.
"They'll be eating lunch now," Marcus said. "Let's grab a bite ourselves."
They signaled Paton over.
"Where'd he go, Sandy?" Marcus asked.
"To a house a half-mile away," Paton reported. "Met with three foreigners—look like laborers. I'm gonna need to get a message to London to put a tail on that house, too. I don't like how many players are on the field."
"Stay here and watch the 'wreck,' Sandy. I'll bring you a sandwich," Marcus said. "We need to confirm Joan is in there before we move."
Paton watched them walk away, his hand on the fake jewelry box in his pocket. "I wish I could just knock and deliver this ice," he muttered to himself. "But if she figures out it's a dummy, the whole game is burned."