Dream Thing

Over the years Wylings had played with them to amuse himself in different ways, and occasionally obliged them to throw some government contracts to the family concerns. It kept Wylings wealthy without requiring him to actually get involved in the business of business; he wouldn’t allow his noble hands to become sullied with corporate ink.

When he was in his thirties, his friends in government helped him engineer a little public awareness. An American shipment of food supplies was lost while en route to Africa to aid starving victims of intertribal war. Wylings had one of his companies reroute a shipment of foodstuffs from its intended destination in Rio de Janeiro to Africa. Included in the shipment were seed corn and tents, and the small, displaced Nairobi tribe loudly proclaimed that Wylings had single-handedly ended their famine and saved their people from extinction.

For this well-publicized act of selflessness, Wylings received his knighthood at an exceptionally young age. No one ever bothered to really investigate the loss of the original American food shipment Likewise, there were no questions asked about the shipment of food, tents and seed corn that Wylings’s scrap-steel-hauling division just happened to have on hand at the fortuitous moment.

Wylings always played his cards well. He knew how to make the system work. Without any real effort on his own part, he had become one of the most respected and influential back-room players in the British government.

All at once, the jitters came and bit him. His brow broke out with a sudden sweat, and Wylings lowered the crystal glass to the surface of the bar, where it rattled noisily for a moment. Wylings mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief, monogrammed in gold thread. His eyes darted around, but there was no one around. No barman on duty at this time of the night. Members served themselves after 2:00 a.m. Nobody else in residence.

Wylings breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes, when he wasn’t careful, the little rodent of nervousness darted out of its hole and crawled into the open before he could give it a good swift kick. Wylings prayed that no one would ever see his jitters.

Two hundred years ago, his great-great-grandsire was exactly the same kind of man, but the nature of those times meant that he could make great contributions to society and to the good of England. Now, such a man was only an outcast and a throwback.

It all came to a head far earlier than Wylings had even dreamed of. In fact, he had to cut short his next afternoon of tennis when he got the news of the brewing altercation in London.

“This is the scene on Downing Street where angry Scotsmen are gathering by the hundreds to protest the new law that was rammed through Parliament this afternoon. The law prohibits the wearing of kilts or tartan colors anywhere within the United Kingdom and is effective immediately. This was the scene in Parliament today.”

The television in the locker room showed a Scottish member of Parliament attempting to speak. He was red-faced with anger, shouting to be heard, and still the heckling drowned him out. All Wylings heard was something about the new law being “patently illegal.”

“Put on some trousers, you bleeding fairy!” responded someone in the crowd.

By evening the protests in London came to a head. After issuing a warning and giving all kilt wearers within London city limits a three-hour grace period to change their attire in accord with the new laws, they began making arrests.

Wylings watched with Dolan, Sykes and a close- knit group of like-minded patriots at the club.

The BBC anchor followed the protest coverage from locale to locale. At one point, he announced, “We’re getting reports of violent resistance being offered by the kilt-wearing criminals …”

That nearly brought the house down. Wylings and his mates had their heartiest laugh in many a day.

“Whoever heard of a violent Scotsman!”

“Outside of thrashing the beer girl at the football match, you mean!”

They sobered up when the BBC mobile camera began broadcasting evidence of the Scots fighting back.

Chapter 8

Sir Frederick Cottingsharm had the disease. It was like some sort of global plague that came and infected a person and made the person extremely moody. The events of the past few hours made it clear that Scotland was seeing a major outbreak—brought to a head with the help of British prodding.

Fred Cottingsharm was snarling when he saw Sir James Wylings standing on his doorstep. They were old acquaintances. They played golf. But the disease made Fred Cottingsharm into a Brit-hating isolationist Scot, just like all the maniacs raising hell in London.

“Fred, thank goodness I reached you before you left,” Wylings said.

“What do you want, British?”

“We’re not enemies, Fred,” Wylings said, then lowered his voice. “I’m on your side.”

“What do you mean, British?”

Wylings leaned in close and said in a quiet voice, “I’ve got Scottish blood, Fred. And a Scottish heart.”