"A university man, now?" Blundell muttered, brows twitching upward as he slid behind the wheel. "That's one we didn't expect. What was it you studied?"

"History, as it happens. Military history, mostly."

Blundell's second once-over was even keener than the first. "You'll fit the bill better than we thought, then. Belt yourself in, Captain, and we'll be off. It's a bit of a drive to Stirling and the weather's supposed to worsen toward evening."

That, at least, was no surprise. The Land Rover roared away from the curb with a surprising burst of speed which spoke of careful maintenance to the engine, whatever the condition of the chassis and hinges. Blundell negotiated afternoon rush-hour traffic with ease while the windscreen wipers played a slap-swash melody against the glass. As he made the turning onto the M9 Motorway northwest out of Edinburgh, Blundell said, "The site is well away from town, between Culross and Stirling proper, so make yourself comfortable."

Stirling grimaced. "Right." He eased his leg into a new position.

"There's coffee in the thermos, if you want it," he added, nodding toward a large canister between the seats, along with two plastic cups. "Might warm you up a bit, after that drenching rain."

Given the lack of heat emanating from the Land Rover's vents—simple openings onto the engine block, not a proper heater at all—Stirling poured coffee and gulped it gratefully. Not as satisfying as tea, but warm and chock-full of caffeine, which he needed rather badly.

"Were you posted to Belfast long?" Blundell asked at length.