MacFarlane shrugged: "some loons on the ferry, larking about - everybody on Barra thinks we're a couple of superannuated 60s rock-stars with more money than sense, wallowing in nostalgia, preening our femina like lady ostriches, whaddaya call them? hens I suppose, listening to our greatest shits on repeat and gawping like grinagogs at our haydays when our old band's on one of those Top of the Pops reruns, nobody knows our real names, it's just a coincidence," but Doubleday snarled back: "it's pelagic or aerial, gotta be one or the other, you reckon? either a small sub out there on the Minch, watching us through the periscope, or somewhere above, a spy-drone, controlled from Barra, one of those old cotts up the hill, video transmitted back there, what's the range? can't be too far, he stared directly up, narrowing his eyes, catching a tiny glint, a barest reflection: "we've slipped-up somewhere, what? how? probably never know, but. . . . .fuckit, Par, run, weave, and giving MacFarlane a push to start, started running as fast as he could, they both were, over the rocks, up the short slope, feet pounding on the grass, round the south side of the Black House, heading for the back door, when the bullets raked up the turf behind them, MacFarlane flinging himself at the door and falling though, Doubleday crashing on top of him, kicking the door shut, and the sound of shots striking the steel, made to look like the traditional, panelled wood but infinitely safer when you are wanted by someone—plenty of someones—and they lay panting in the dark lobby: "definately a drone, then," said Dominic, hauling Sir Parlane to his feet, then leading the way down the stairs, "but that doesn't rule out the submarine either, better than a cottage, no names, no pack-drill, enough sea to disappear into, plenty of deep-water lochans to be able to surface, launch or retrieve your spy. . . . .hell, it's a fuckin assassination drone!" he threw a few switches and steel shutters slid over the windows, above and below ground, "we'd better sit tight just now—we can keep an eye on the whole island on the monitors—but it's good that we dug the tunnel, they'll think we're trapped here and they don't have to rush, well, neither do we, hey, you're shaking, Par, here's a drop of the Pure, best cure after a shock like that," and as MacFarlane swallowed his in one gulp and poured himself another, he snarled: "trying to kill us? evil fuckin bastards! with a drone? sneaky fuckin bastards!" and Doubleday raised his own glass: "never spoke a truer word, Par, sneaky fucking bastards is what they are, whoever they are!"