by Ian Rankin
Sunday 14 June
There was a big meeting at the Queen Elizabeth II Conference Centre. Central London was deserted except for the tourists, the security people, and some of the 2,500 media representatives who would cover the summit. Before the meeting, there was a photo session. Most of the security people, for obvious reasons, didn’t want to become involved in the photo shoot, which seemed to suit the Home Secretary just fine. Jonathan Barker had been Home Secretary for just under a year, his political career having been steady rather than meteoric. There had been a rough few months at the beginning, with calls for his resignation after several prison escapes, a mainland terrorist attack, and a police scandal. But for the moment he could do little wrong, his second wife, Marion, having died two months back. She had been a tireless worker for charity, especially children’s charities, as all the obituaries had pointed out. And it was as if some of her polish had rubbed off on her handsome widower. Watching the photo opportunity take its course, Elder smiled. Only one of the obituaries had mentioned Marion Barker’s crankier side, her belief in spiritualism. And no one had mentioned how she’d been Barker’s secretary while he’d still been married to his first wife. There had been gossip about that at the time. Then the first wife had died, and slowly, without unseemly haste, Marion and Jonathan had begun to appear together in public.
It wasn’t even close to a scandal. Nothing of the sort. Yet Elder wondered how significantly it had slowed Barker’s political progress. He wondered as he watched the Home Secretary smiling again, this time shaking hands with yet another dignitary. They all stood in a line off-camera, all the people who still had to have their photo taken. They preened, straightened ties, flicked a stray hair back behind an ear. They were all men. An underling gave them instructions, sending them on their way when each photo was taken. It was a real production line. And all for half a dozen photographers. The media wasn’t really interested, not yet. The real scrum would begin when the summit got underway. This was a day of dress rehearsals and final checks. That was why the Home Secretary was on the scene, to give a very public thumbs-up to the security arrangements.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ the underling said at last to the photographers, who had already turned away and were winding back rolls of film, chatting in huddles. Elder stood in another huddle, a huddle of security chiefs. Trilling was there, and was in whispered conversation with an American. There were two Germans, a tall and dapper Frenchman, a Canadian, and many more... a real United Nations of secret agents and policemen. Elder had been introduced to them all, but they were names to him, little more. They were simply in his way.
But then he, of course, shouldn’t be here at all. Joyce had only sent him because there was no one else available at such short notice. Her fury the previous evening had been tempered only by the arrival of her chauffeur. She’d still managed to make known her views. Elder was not to speak to Barclay ‘under any circumstances’. In fact, he wasn’t to do anything at all. But then she’d remembered this meeting...
The Home Secretary, sweeping back his hair as he walked, was approaching. His underling was telling him something, to which Jonathan Barker did not appear to be listening. He stuck out a hand towards Trilling.
‘Commander, nice to see you.’ They shook hands. Barker smiled and half-nodded towards Elder, as if to say ‘I know you’, when in fact he couldn’t even be sure of Elder’s nationality.
‘Mr Elder,’ explained the underling, ‘is here as Mrs Parry’s representative.’
‘Ah,’ said Barker, nodding and frowning at the same time. ‘Thought I didn’t see her.’ His tone, to Elder’s ears, was slightly ominous.
‘Mrs Parry sends her apologies,’ said Elder. ‘Something came up last night, very last-minute, very important.’
Barker looked as though he might have something to say about this, but he was already being introduced to the Canadian, to the Germans... Elder had to give the underling his due: the guy knew all the names and faces. Trilling’s voice was a peppermint murmur beside him.
‘What’s Joyce up to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Barker didn’t sound too pleased.’
Elder nodded slowly. Not too pleased at all... Well, he wasn’t in such a good mood himself. If Barker wanted to pick a fight, that was fine by Elder. He’d spent a sleepless night in his room, a piece of paper by his telephone. On the paper was a note of Barclay’s phone number in Germany. Joyce had warned him not to speak to Barclay. And hadn’t Barclay let himself in for it? Elder had requested that no calls be put through to his room.
But this morning he’d cracked. He’d placed a call to the Gasthof Hirschen, only to be informed that Herr Barclay had already checked out. Well, that was that.
‘If you’ll come this way, gentlemen,’ said the Home Secretary, taking charge. Introductions over, they were on their way into the Conference Centre proper.
‘First stop,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘screening unit.’ They had stopped in front of a doorway the edges of which were thick metal, painted bright orange. Two guards stood this side of the doorway, two the other. This was the start of the tour which, conducted by the Home Secretary, was supposed to reassure everyone that the security precautions were, well, more than adequate. Elder believed it; he knew they were more than adequate. He still wasn’t impressed.
‘Anyone entering has to pass through this metal detector. It’s a special design, extremely accurate, not yet, I believe, in place in any airports due to the costs involved. Cost has not been a factor at this summit. But before even this, a body search takes place. Nothing too distracting or disruptive, and of course the heads of state will not be subject to this particular search.’ A smile. ‘We think we can trust them.’ There were a few laughs, Trilling’s amongst them. ‘Any baggage is checked by hand and by a hand-held detector, before being passed through this X-ray machine.’ Barker patted the machine itself. ‘Again, it’s British-designed and British-built and it’s more sophisticated than similar devices found in airports. An inbuilt computer, for example, points out anomalies to the operator. Now, can I ask you all to submit to a search then walk, one at a time, through the doorway?’
‘What happens if two people pass through at the same time?’ questioned an American voice.
‘They’re sent back,’ answered the underling quickly. ‘The scanner won’t accept two people. They both go back, just in case one has passed something to the other. Then they walk back through the detector individually.’
The Home Secretary beamed. ‘Any more questions?’ There were none. ‘Then I suggest we proceed.’
The tour was brisk, but Elder noticed that the underling had to field more questions than was comfortable. The Home Secretary, it seemed, had not been properly briefed; or if he had, he’d not remembered it. Well, this was only PR after all. It wasn’t important.
They saw the hall where the nine-nation summit itself would take place; the interpreters’ boxes; the rest-rooms; the smaller, more intimate conference rooms; the ‘suites’ which had been set aside for the individual delegations - all with computer terminals, photocopying machines, fax machines; the toilets; the press facilities; the monitoring room. There was even a small gymnasium. They passed technicians who were busy checking for listening devices. A policeman dressed clumsily in a suit wandered past them reining in a sniffer-dog on a leash. Cleaners seemed to be re-cleaning every spotless surface in the place, and behind them came more technicians checking for more unwanted devices.
‘Tremendously impressive, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ said the Home Secretary. There were nods, mumbled agreement. The Home Secretary, it seemed to Elder, like most politicians equated effort with success. The more you did to secure a place, the more secure it became. Elder didn’t agree. Elder didn’t agree at all. The more sophisticated the security, the more loopholes it contained; the more people were involved, the greater the possible access for a stranger; and the more you relied on technology ... Well, the word ‘relied’ g
ave it away, didn’t it? You shouldn’t have to rely on anything. They only needed to take such huge precautions in the first place because central London had been chosen as the location for the summit. And the reason London had been chosen had little to do with security and everything to do with prestige.
Elder would have chosen an isolated castle, or the top of Ben Nevis, or an underground bunker. But that would never do. These were statesmen. They didn’t hide away, not at summits. Summits were events; media events, the pictures beamed around the world, photo opportunities and sound-bites of the grandest kind. No statesman wanted to hide from all that good publicity. Summits would soon be run by ad agencies.
The tour was winding up. It had taken a little over an hour and a half. Drinks and canapes were being provided in another part of the building, outside the ‘secure zone’.
‘I’m sorry I can’t stay,’ said Barker. ‘I hope you’ll understand that my schedule is busier even than usual.’ He managed by tone and intonation to turn this into a joke of sorts, so that no one minded that they were being shuffled off to a hot little room somewhere. Not Trilling and Elder, though: they were tagged by the underling and told to come with the Home Secretary. Another underling escorted the larger group away from the scene. There were backwards glances from a few of the men. They looked like they would prefer to stay with Barker, Trilling and Elder.
‘This way, please,’ said the underling.
They followed the route they’d just come until they reached one of the small conference rooms. It contained a round table, eight chairs, and a water-cooler, which looked newly installed. The Home Secretary drank two beakerfuls of spring water before sitting down. Three men were already seated at the table: a senior armed forces commander whom Elder recognised straight away, a representative from the SAS, and an Intelligence officer. The Home Secretary shook hands with them, then motioned for Trilling and Elder to be seated. The underling remained standing till last.
‘Right,’ said Jonathan Barker, looking towards Trilling, ‘now what’s all this about a Dutchman?’
‘Mr Elder found the connection.’
‘Then Mr Elder can tell me.’
So Elder explained about the intelligence which had come from the Netherlands, while the Home Secretary nodded, his eyes making a tour of the other men round the table, as though ensuring that they were paying attention. They were certainly paying attention. The underling, whom Elder had expected to take notes with a fountain pen, unfolded a small case, turning it into a laptop computer. He tapped away at the keys while Elder spoke, like the stenographer in some courtroom drama.
Barker was staring at Elder. ‘And Witch?’
‘A female assassin, sir. Known to be in this country. The summit would seem a likely target of her attentions.’
‘How does she operate as a rule?’
‘At close range.’ The question, which had surprised Elder, was a fair one and also astute.
‘Then we’ve no problems,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘She’s not going to get within spitting distance of anyone attending the summit.’
‘We can’t know that for sure, sir,’ countered Elder. ‘And besides, while the available evidence points to close range, there are plenty of possible hits she’s made at longer range: bombs, shootings ...’
‘Well then, Mr Elder, perhaps you can suggest possible ways of tightening up security?’
All eyes were on him. A couple of hours ago he would have taken up the gauntlet. He would have revelled in pointing out all the mistakes. But they were basic mistakes - such as choice of location, for example - and couldn’t be changed at this late stage. So he shrugged. The gauntlet remained on the ground.
‘I’ve been over the security arrangements with some of Commander Trilling’s men. We haven’t made any recommendations.’
‘Yes,’ said Barker, ‘but that’s rather an ambiguous answer, Mr Elder, isn’t it? You may not have made any recommendations, but did you see any flaws?’
Elder swallowed. ‘No, sir,’ he said.
Barker seemed satisfied. ‘Thank you, Mr Elder. Mrs Parry sees flaws.’
Elder’s heart sank. He’d walked straight into a trap. The underling was handing the Home Secretary a sheet of paper.
‘She thinks,’ Barker went on acidly, ‘in retrospect that London was a poor choice of location for the summit. She feels security is difficult to maintain in a city of ten million inhabitants.’ He placed the sheet of paper on the table. Elder saw that it was a letter of sorts, a memo. He’d guess, by Barker’s pique, that it had been sent to the Prime Minister direct, bypassing Barker himself.
‘I have to agree with Mrs Parry,’ Trilling said quietly, ‘that London is far from ideal from a purely security point of view.’
‘Well, it’s a bit bloody late to tell us now, isn’t it?’ said the Home Secretary coldly. ‘It looks to me, from where I’m sitting, as though MI5 and Special Branch are attempting to cover their arses in the event that an assassination attempt does take place, and maybe even, God forbid, succeeds. That smacks to me of panic and impotence. Panic and impotence, Commander.’ His eyes found Elder’s. ‘Panic and impotence, Mr Elder.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Parry is only pointing out—’
‘Why isn’t she here today?’ The Home Secretary’s voice had risen enough for his underling to glance up. ‘I’ll tell you why, Mr Elder, because she didn’t have the guts to face me on this. So she sent you instead. And who are you, Mr Elder?’ The finger pointing at him was long and thick with a gleaming, manicured nail. ‘You’re in retirement. You’re in London on a consultancy basis. What the hell is going on in Joyce Parry’s department, that’s what I’d like to know? And believe me, I intend asking her.’
‘What Mrs Parry means,’ said Elder, ‘is that you can’t cordon off central London. The IRA learned that a long time ago. You can’t be secure in London.’
‘This assassin, though, she’s not IRA, is she?’
‘She doesn’t belong to a group.’
‘People hire her?’
‘Sometimes, not always. Look, people like Witch don’t want peace. They’re not the types to sit in hotel rooms and around conference tables. Look at Hamas in Pales-tine - the PLO were getting too much like the establishment. Witch is a one-woman splinter group.’
‘Then what is her ideal?’
Elder smiled. ‘People keep asking me that. Why does she have to have one?’ He paused, aware that Trilling’s foot was touching his beneath the table. It was a warning. It was telling him not to explode.
Barker sat for a few moments in silence, his face implacable. His voice when he spoke again was cool, not quite objective.
‘We’re going to go through the security arrangements again. Step by step. Don’t bother looking at your watches because we’ll be in this room as long as it takes.’ He slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He began to roll up his shirtsleeves. ‘Sandwiches will be brought in, as will tea and soft drinks. There’s water available whenever required. You may know that the Foreign Secretary has urgent business in the Middle East, so I’m going to be attending more of his bloody summit than was the intention. This being the case, I don’t want any fuck-ups.’ He paused, glancing from man to man to man. ‘So, gentlemen ... perhaps we’d better begin?’
Elder looked down at the table. He knew that several pairs of accusing eyes were on him. The Army, the SAS, Intelligence. Stuck in here because of his department, because of a letter sent by his boss. Elder knew why Joyce had written the letter. She’d written it because, having checked security at the Conference Centre and beyond, having read Greenleaf’s impressive report on the security arrangements, Elder had warned her to. He just hadn’t expected she would take his advice.
‘Let’s cover ourselves,’ had been his exact words. ‘Let’s cover ourselves from criticism.’
Yet now he felt naked as the day he’d been born.
Herr Grunner of the Burgwede Maximum Security Prison was far too p
olite a man to tell the two young people in front of him that their request for an interview with Wolfgang Bandorff had upset his whole weekend. His wife and he had been due to visit their son in Geneva. The son was a physicist and worked at the huge CERN project beneath the Swiss-French border. Herr Grunner knew that the letters CERN stood for Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucleaire. He also knew that ‘nucleaire’ in this case had nothing to do with nuclear bombs or anything military. The people on the project were scientists, and they were trying to probe the secrets of particle physics - hence ‘nucleaire’, the nucleus. The proud parents had been taken before on a tour of the CERN complex, their heads dizzied by the size and complexity of the underground machines. But, though Herr Grunner had listened closely to Fritz’s explanations, he hadn’t really understood much of anything. So this trip was to be pleasure only: a trip to the mountains, a few meals, a chance to meet Fritz’s Swiss ladyfriend Cristel.
And now he’d had to make telephone calls, to explain matters to his wife. The trip was put back until the following weekend. Herr Grunner’s wife was not at all amused. Which was perhaps why he had brooded on the visit to his prison by a member of the French internal security agency, accompanied by a member of British internal security. It was curious after all, wasn’t it? Curious that those two countries’ very adequate external intelligence agencies shouldn’t be involved. Curious enough certainly to merit a call to his country’s own internal security agency, the BfV.
Still, when Mademoiselle Herault and Mr Barclay arrived, Herr Grunner was polite, obliging, deferential. They had to take tea in his office while he told them something of the prison’s history. Not that he wanted to keep them from their appointment, you understand; this was a matter of courtesy alone, and the young couple seemed to acknowledge this.
