He had bought the fifteenth-century castle a decade ago, when it was little more than a dilapidated ruin, then had it gutted and rebuilt. The single rugged exterior wall on which he now stood was one of the few remaining parts of the original structure and still bore the scars of English cannonballs. Bathed by light blue floodlights, the broad front wall kept the castle looking medieval, ominous, and strong.
The new buildings behind the blue wall contained improvements that had never been dreamed of by the ancient stonemasons, such as electricity, flush toilets, and central heating. Corporate executives on a business retreat required ultimate comfort.
Cornwell had retired from the British Special Air Services as a colonel, then became a successful industrialist and a visionary designer of military hardware. He and his wife, Lady Patricia, lived in one private wing of the Scottish estate and left the rest to be operated as a commercial venture, for he would not allow his money to sit idle.
A WIDE LANE OF flickering torches led from the gatehouse to the area in which the limousines would arrive, and off to the left the helipad was aglow with a blinking strobe light flashing upward from the center. Security had never been tighter. Still, he felt as though he was holding a brittle piece of history in his palms, and he was worried. The slightest unexpected incident could ruin everything. He took another sip of warm Scotch and the whisky teased a burn down his throat. He placed his glass on the thick flat stone of the saw-toothed battlement and straightened his tuxedo.