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Page 42.
Scene 18. Tissy Gets A Tam O'Shanter
 From Agrigento in Sicily, Louis Cartouche and his beautiful Belgian handler flew on another of BLUM's small, five-seat Hondajets to Edinburgh, Scotland via a refueling stop at Lisbon's enormous Portela Airport. As before, a Korean in a dark suit flew along—not as a keeper, but as a body guard. His name was Mr. Kim, as he introduced himself amid gestures.
The young lady's name was Tissy—a name that reminded Louis of expensive Swiss or Austrian jewelry stores, and the clear-eyed 19th Century French painter Tissot. She was a Walloon, or French Belgian, of the unhappy province of Wallonia whose citizens had struggled for many generations to separate and perhaps join France. She was from Thionville, and her family name was Fître (so she claimed).
Miss Tissy Fître had been warming Louis Cartouche's bed for a week now. She clung to his side like a wife—without the drawbacks of marriage, bitching, dissatisfaction, and all the rest of the psychoses that he saw as having prevented his meeting a suitable mate before. Tissy was opaque on this point, actually, causing Cartouche a pinprick of discomfort in his soul. He was already in love with her, but he feared that she was playing him for some reason ordained by Dr. Night. Louis was so smitten with her that he threw caution to the winds. He was nearly twice her age—but if she were faking it, she must be a world-class, Oscar-deserving actress. She clung to Cartouche as a grape clings to its vine.
During the journey, Louis and Tissy held hands as they watched sunny skies with distant cumulus pillows drift by. They looked down over the ocean, where sunlight twinkled in a million waves that seemed small from a mile up, but probably made for rough sailing if you were in a yacht or fishing boat. Tissy wore a wheat-colored sweater with appropriately Scottish looking rolled collar, a stylishly tilted tam-o'shanter, and a tartan skirt in green and red intersecting weaves on earth tones. She wore nylons and oxblood tassel loafers. Her large, pale-blue eyes and blonde hair fit in well with the butterscotch smoothness of her skin, her airbrushed nose, and faintly pinked lips.
Mr. Kim sat in a bubble of his own, nodding or smiling when Louis glanced at him, otherwise looking out the window.
"Are you having a good flight?" came the dry voice of Dr. Night. The connection was audio-only, with the usual Black Umbrella logo on the screen before them.
"Very nice," they both said.
"You will shortly be reunited with your baby, Pollux, which we have exported from Global Anaconda's clutches in the Laval Technopolis of Montreal."
"How did you do that?" Louis asked with genuine astonishment.
"No, no," said Dr. Night calmingly. "You have enough to worry about without wondering how our operations are carried out. Need to know, Mr. Cartouche, that's the guideline, and you do not need to know why or how—only what, and when. I find that the best policy for the well-rewarded and contented employee is a sense of faith that we know what we are doing, trust and confidence that we will make you continue to feel happy, and a sense of belonging so you will give Black Umbrella your utmost. It's a concept pioneered by the post-World War II West German army—Innere Führung, they call it even today, Inner Leadership—a total divorce from the Hitler and Kaiser eras. Back in those days, officers and NCOs shouted at the men. It was outer commanding. If a man did not obey, or if he broke and ran in battle, the officers and NCOs standing behind him would shoot him and kill him. It was one of the original reasons why such leaders carried side-arms. The soldiers were more afraid of their superiors than of the enemy. We run a totally different sort of ship."
"Very interesting," Louis said sincerely while squeezing Tissy's hand. "Thank you for the always illuminating and reassuring information."
"I will communicate further when you are reunited with your invention. Meanwhile, Monsieur Cartouche, by all means enjoy the enviable state of bliss in which you find yourself, with my hearty approval."
Tissy let Louis clutch her hands, and made an opaque, unreadable face. There was fire in her eyes.
After a four hour flight, the plane landed on a private, corporate runway at Edinburgh's busy international airport near Turnhouse.
It was a partially sunny day with occasional showers. The tarmac was puddled. The rest of the journey would not be blessed with such pleasant weather—although the company of Tissy would make anything bearable. Louis held her close to him. She was a head shorter, and snuggled her soft body against his.
Mr. Kim stood behind them, holding a black umbrella, like the black-suited butler.
They did not have long to wait. A black TX4 Fairways shuttle taxi took them to a smaller runway off in the distance. A green and white, Canadian-made DeHavilland Twin Otter stood waiting—the venerable twin-engine propeller plane that served as the world's puddle jumper.
Louis and Tissy crossed a concrete apron, climbed up a matching yellow and green air ladder, and climbed inside the plane. Mr. Kim came along, and sat behind them.
Two pilots in dark raincoats and black chauffeur caps waved and nodded from the cockpit. The plane could seat up to 19 passengers without the need for a flight attendant. The ceiling inside seemed barely high enough for a person to stand up under it.
Four older men and two women, all Scots, climbed on board. They wore raincoats and hats. Two carried umbrellas. They ranged in age from about fifty to seventy—confident, subdued, settled in life—and conversed among each other in familiar tones with many in-jokes.
One of them, a white-haired man with heavily wrinkled and sun-reddened skin, sat beside Louis. "How are you today?" he boomed.
"We are doing just fine."
"French?"
"Canadian. My lady friend is Belgian."
"Oh, it's nice to see some foreign blood out here in the wilds." The man's Scottish accent had a Goidhealach lilt. "Been on this leg before?"
"First time."
"You're in for a treat."
"Why is that?"
"We are going to Barra, in the Outer Hebrides." Without being asked, he unfolded a well-worn little map over his knees to show Louis and Tissy. Mr. Kim looked over their shoulders. "Here," the Scot said. He pointed to a long chain of islands, some quite large, off the northwest coast of Scotland, which itself constitutes a peninsula on the north side of the large island of Britain. The Outer Hebrides consisted of about fifteen populated islands strung in a north-south chain, plus at least fifty tiny islands abandoned but for nesting sea birds. "Barra," the man continued, "is the southernmost of the larger islands in the outer chain."
Tissy asked: "How long does it take to get there?"
The man said: "It's about 290 km, or roughly 180 miles from Edinburgh to Barra. These tin cans fly about 180 mph, so a little over an hour should do it. But the interesting thing is about Barra Airport."
"Yes?" Louis asked.
"Barra Island has the only airport in the world with an official schedule of flights based on the tides. That's right. It is the only officially registered airport in the world whose runway is the beach itself. Flights have to be scheduled in and out according to the moon tides, because half the day, the runway is under seawater."
"Isn't the sand soft?" Tissy asked.
"The sand is densely mixed with ancient seashells, so it's quite solid above the tide line."
The plane flew about 1,500 feet above boiling seas, bucking and rolling. Mountainous waves spumed and spat below. Mr. Kim made a desperate gurgling sound behind them. Louis and Tissy looked at Mr. Kim, who appeared to be feeling airsick. His face looked white, and his expression was a grimace.
The Scotsman pulled a barf bag from a holder under the window nearby, and handed it to Mr. Kim. The latter gurgled his thanks and threw himself toward the rear, where he made loud noises into the little sack. He clambered into a little perfunctory toilet in back, where presumably his agonies continued—but silently, to the relief of all.
The puddle jumper lived up to its name. It was a shamelessly utilitarian aircraft, with a plume of dirty oil fanning out down the wing behind each engine. But it was robust, and powerful, as it roared above the waves.
The plane puttered in a long curve and settled down to a landing on the broad, crescent beach. White houses nestled amid green, rocky hills in the distance. The beach was more flat than steep. The flatter a beach, the broader its intertidal zone—and here, the airstrip.
The pilots in their caps and black raincoats hustled around the cargo hatch outside, throwing bags around and pulling out several that belonged to Louis, Tissy, and Mr. Kim. These bags they left on the sand while they locked up the cargo hatch, shook hands all around, and climbed back on board.
The Scots stayed on board. They were neighbors heading home from a weekend spree in the big city, with dinners and theaters and shopping. Now they would continue north along the chain of islands on the outer banks—South Uist, Benbecula, North Uist, South Harris, and ultimately their home on the 'big island' of Lewis-and-Harris. From there, after refueling, the Twin Otter would loop back toward Edinburgh. Nice people, they all waved goodbye.
Louis, Tissy, and Mr. Kim stood alone on the beach after the plane left. Wooden markers at the ends—with attached red, blinking signal lights—were almost the only sign of the beach's double duty. On the coast road just up the beach, a small control tower and terminal restaurant held watch. As the plane taxied down the beach, its black rubber wheels threw up a fine spray of water from the tightly packed sand. The plane lifted after a short run and buzzed away into a calm, sunny sky.
A white Mercedes drove down the beach to meet Louis and Tissy. A big, pale man drove.
The driver swung around so he could holler out the window in a Scottish accent. "Right on time, I see. Hop in. I'll get your luggage. Name's Lysander. I work for the BLUM Corporation. We only just took over here."
Minutes later, the car with its four occupants tooled south along the coastal road, A888, which circled the island.
"The main town here is Castlebay," Lysander explained. "Nice sunny day, eh? In a good year, the weather stays fairly mild into early autumn."
To Louis, the area still looked foreboding. He'd grown up just a few degrees of latitude south of Newfoundland, and knew that blue look of distant mountain ranges that almost seemed to have a bit of the polar winter trapped in them year around, like the Laurentian Mountains north of Quebec City. At the moment, he almost wished he were back under Mediterranean skies on the volcanic and fertile soil of Sicily.
"Barra is about 60 square kilometers or 23 square miles and shaped a bit like a swimming sea turtle, eight miles long and five miles wide. The airport's on the north end, toward Barra Sound, just across from the bigger island of South Uist. A network of ferries connects all these islands. We've got to drive to the south end of Barra, where we'll find the largest settlement, the village of Castlebay, with a population of just over 1,000 persons."
Cartouche wondered how trustworthy this man was. "Who do you work for, Lysander?"
The driver leaned a brawny arm over the seat, while keeping a ham hand on the wheel. "Sergeant Major, SAS, retired. Now fully employed by the BLUM Corporation."
"You understand then…?"
"I understand what I need to understand," Lysander said. "I'll pass on a bit of advice. Tight lips at all times, get it?"
"Yes," Tissy said, and Louis said: "Understood."
The car came around a curve among low mountains that formed a rocky, greenish band around a blue-water bay. Nestled in the foothills all around were white houses. Sea gulls shrieked overhead. "Here's Castlebay, named after that old English tax collecting fort out there on the water." Lysander pulled over on the A888 a few minutes so they could look over the scenic bay, with its houses and castle. A large ferry was just churning out to sea, making its rounds of the island ports.
About a hundred yards offshore —300 feet or 90 meters—was a squarish stone fort nestled tightly on every available square inch of a small islet in the bay. The water glittered, dark blue, with white gulls and gray pelicans bobbing comfortably on its wavelets. What whitecaps one saw were caused by pleasant sailing winds—and there were four colorful triangles on the water just then, leaning with the air as they tacked back and forth.
"That's Kisimul Castle down there," Lysander explained. "Has its own freshwater wells, believe it or not, because it’s situated on sheer, deep granite tied to the mainland. For thousands of years, the Outer Hebrides were inhabited by Iron Age chiefs and their clans. Scottish lairds had their stronghold on the little islet centuries earlier during the Dark Ages. It was the perfect place for the Elizabethan British, when they took over the region in the 1500s. The Scottish mainland went Protestant, but the islands here stayed Catholic, like Ireland. There was no love lost, I assure you. The British built an impregnable tax collection center on Kisimul."
"Does anyone live there now?" Tissy asked.
"No, it's owned by the government. They do archeological research when there is funding. Every day, depending on the season, one or two tourist boats cross over for a jaunt. Most of the time, the castle sits there empty and brooding."
"And that is the place we are going to?" Tissy asked. "My employer said so."
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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