Skinner's Ordeal

by Quintin Jardine

  Kercheval shook his head sadly. The telly said it was a random assault. Is that true?'

  `More or less. The boss likes to run when he has thinking to do. Last night he just ran into the wrong place.'

  ‘Tch! Terrible. We're used to that sort of thing in London, but I didn't think Edinburgh was like that.'

  Ìt isn't, as a rule. Nor will it get that way. The attack was drug-related; we'll make the best we can of it. We've got the people who attacked Mr Skinner, but there was another guy who ran off. He was the dealer. We're after him, and his supplier. I'm willing to bet that Andy Martin — he's the boss's Deputy — will have their heads on poles in Princes Street before the day's out.'

  `Let's hope so,' said Kercheval. 'I haven't had too many dealings with Bob Skinner through MI5, but I do know that he's very highly regarded by the people at the top.' He paused as a waiter made his way to their table. 'Want me to order?' he asked. The Scots nodded. 'Fine.

  One chicken oyster sauce, one beef black bean, one duck yellow bean, one prawn chow mein, plenty of boiled rice and two large bottles of sparkling mineral, thank you very much.' The waiter's fingers flashed over his pad. He bowed and withdrew, dancing expertly through the tight-packed tables.

  `The people at the top, you said.' Brian Mackie leaned across the table, looking quickly around him for prying eyes, but spotting none. 'Who are they, exactly?'

  Kercheval beamed at him indulgently. 'My dear chap, we live in the age of openness.

  You're Special Branch, you should know that we're all in the phone book now, more or less.'

  The DCI shook his head. He paused as the waiter uncapped a litre bottle of Ashbourne sparkling mineral and poured three glasses. 'No, Cyril,' he said as the young man left, 'I meant higher up the tree than that. In Special Branch, I report to Bob Skinner, period. To whom does your Director General report?'

  The MI5 officer took a sip from his glass. 'Interesting question. I suppose it depends upon the issue. In theory, it's the Prime Minister, as Head of the Security Services, but in practice we're monitored by a committee of Permanent Secretaries; Home, Foreign Office, Defence and Cabinet Office.'

  Ànd how about them? Who oversees the committee? Is it the Prime Minister alone?'

  Ìn theory, again, yes it is. But in practice, he'll normally listen to the views of his most senior colleagues.

  Mackie nodded. 'That's more or less what I assumed. So, when it comes to that final group, the core team of Ministers, who scrutinises them? By definition, they're in possession of the most sensitive information in the country, so whose task is it to ensure that none of them are security risks?'

  Kercheval looked at him long and hard. 'Skinner did brief you well, didn't he? The answer is that the task devolves back upon the Security Service. Upon me, actually.'

  Mackie was about to react to the admission when their waiter, and another wound through the throng, bearing their lunch order, plus the obligatory pot of Chinese tea. 'Let's enjoy lunch,' said the Londoner as the dishes were laid out on a warming tray. Ìt rather deserves it.'

  Mario McGuire looked at him gratefully. He had missed most of a night's sleep, and breakfast. He attacked the selection of dishes methodically, showing that his Italian descent was no constraint on his aptitude with chopsticks. Cyril Kercheval's confidence in the quality of the kitchen was well founded. They ate in virtual silence for almost fifteen minutes, until all the plates before them were cleared.

  `Right,' said Kercheval at last. 'Back to business, and no more sparring. What do you want?'

  Mackie leaned back in his chair, until his head touched the wall behind him. 'Do you have a file on Colin Davey?'

  Ì might have. Was he the target?'

  `He might have been. Might we see your file?'

  Ì'll have to ask. I'll have to go to the DG, and I'm certain that the DG will have to consult the PM.'

  `We understand. When he does that, could you make sure that he tells the Prime Minister that the request comes directly from Bob Skinner?'

  `That'll help, will it?' There was a very slight edge of sarcasm in the question.

  Ìt should do,' snapped Mackie testily. 'Big Bob saved his life once.'

  Kercheval blinked hard. 'Indeed. Then I'll make sure he knows who's asking.'

  'How long will you need?'

  'Give me till tomorrow. In which case, when shall we three meet again?'

  "You name it'

  If you say so. In that case, there's a splendid Italian place in Wardour Street ..

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Arrow slipped into the Intensive Care Unit, and closed door quietly behind him.

  `Sarah,' he whispered.

  She looked over her shoulder. Seeing him, she beckoned him towards her with her left hand. The other lay on the bed cover, grasping tight to her husband, as if she were holding him with her. He lay on his back, with his eyes closed. A thick tube led from his mouth into a ventilator; its steady rhythmic pumping was the only sound to be heard.

  There was an empty chair alongside Sarah. As Adam sat down, he looked around. There were three other beds in the Unit, each of them occupied by a single male patient, wired to a green-screened monitor, and everything and everyone was under the observation of a central nurses' station.

  Ì didn't expect to see you,' she said in a dull, flat, exhausted voice.

  Ì 'ad to come,' said Arrow. 'To see Andy, to brief him on what's been happening in London.'

  Àren't DCI Donaldson and Neil down there? Couldn't they have done that?'

  He smiled at her gently. 'Course they could, but I wanted to come anyway, didn't I. How's he doing?'

  She glanced up at the monitor. 'He's still in shock, but pulse is beginning to stabilise. It was weak and reedy when the brought him out of surgery, after they'd done all they could in there. Lung and brain functions aren't a problem — so far, at least. It's the arterial damage that's the danger. If they've been able to repair it properly, and stop the bleeding, then his body will recover from the shock, his heart-rate will slow down and his condition will stabilise.

  Ìf they haven't, then . . . then he'll . .

  Arrow took her free hand and gave it a squeeze. 'Don't say that. This is the big fella, remember. The toughest guy I've ever met. He'll pull through.'

  She looked at him, then leaned down, touching her forehead to his shoulder. 'The surgeon wasn't prepared to say that. Adam, you're SAS, you know the score as well as I do. With that wound most people would have died in the ambulance. Even the strongest can be brought down.'

  `Yes,' he said. 'But some people just have that bit extra. Like 'im. And that bit don't show.

  Surgeons can't spot it just by looking at your insides.' He glanced up at the screens. 'How long till he does stabilise?'

  Ìt'll be about forty-eight hours until we can start to relax. They'll keep him under for that long, and on the ventilator. After that, if everything's okay they can let him start to come round and allow his system to take over. But until then, that pulse-line up there is a single, weak thread, and he's hanging by it.'

  He squeezed her hand again. 'He will hang on, though. And, hard as it is to find anything positive in all this, once he's over the worst, at least he'll be forced to take a rest. I might as well tell you I was worried about him. When I saw him after the accident, then when I spoke to him yesterday, there was something about him. He seemed strained.'

  Sarah looked at the little man. 'He's barely slept since the accident, you know. When he has dropped off, he's been having nightmares.

  Arrow nodded. 'That fits. I've seen those signs before; you find them in someone running on an empty tank. There's a name for it in the Army. We call it combat fatigue.' He paused Ànd talking about fatigue, shouldn't you get some rest?'

  She shook her head. 'How would I do that, Adam? I'm here for the duration, for as long as it takes. Alex, and Tracey, the nanny, will look after Jazz. When this big hoss comes round, the first thing he sees is going to be me, sat right here! And if I
ain't wearing any make-up, and if I do have bags under my eyes, well that'll be just too damn bad!'

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘Is Mr Bob coming today?'

  Mark was wearing his Police Cadet cap, tilted back on his head at a rakish angle, balanced carefully but still precariously.

  Alison Higgins shook her head. Not today, Mark, I'm afraid. Not for a wee while. Off you go and play now.' The child turned and began to climb the stairs slowly, one hand on his hat.

  Ìt's awful, isn't it?' said Leona McGrath, as Higgins slung her coat on the antique mirrored stand in the hall, fluffing her hair back into place. Will he be okay?'

  The Superintendent looked at her and shrugged, as they walked into the living room where Marshall Elliot stood, with his back to the fire. She nodded him a quick 'Hello.'

  `His poor wife,' said Leona. 'I feel so sorry for her. When they told me about Roly, it was a huge shock, certainly, but that was it. In that instant, my life had changed but at least I knew it. But there she is, poor Mrs Skinner, not knowing whether he'll live or not. I couldn't stand being in that sort of limbo.'

  Ìt's not Mrs: it's Dr Skinner.'

  ‘God makes it worst, means they won't be able to tell her anything but the plain truth’

  `Doctor or not, Sarah would raise hell if they tried to kid her on: said Higgins. 'She's a tough lady. She'll survive even if he doesn't. She's good for the boss, you know. He used to be a very private guy, until she came along. She brought him out of himself, made him more demonstrative. He laughs more than he used to, and he just dotes on the new baby.

  Ìf he dies, Sarah won't just fade away. She'll see it as her duty to make sure that no one ever forgets him.'

  Leona McGrath stood by the doorway to the conservator and stared out at the greenery arranged around the Cane furniture.

  `Yes,' she said at last. 'That's very well put. That's what I’ve been coming to realise too.'

  FORTY-NINE

  ‘Thank you for the data on Agent Robin, sir,' Arrow said respectfully to Joe Doherty. 'I've passed it on to the appropriate people.

  There was no humour in the room, only concern, but Arrow, Doherty, Andy Martin and Merle Gower all knew that it had to be business as usual.

  `What did you think of it?'

  Ìt had a familiar ring to it.'

  A thin smile flicked Doherty's lips. 'That means you had it before the Agency, doesn't it?

  Did you give it to them?' Arrow nodded.

  The sallow-faced American glowered at his country-woman. `Those devious bastards at Langley! The SIS gave them information and they fed it into the NSC as their own work, all to show how clever they are and protect their funding. I tell you Merle, that organisation of yours is in deep shit when I get back to the States.'

  Arrow's face betrayed nothing, but he was surprised. He had assumed that Gower was FBI. He wondered if the Foreign Office knew that the Americans had slipped a Company representative into the UK.

  Àdam,' said Doherty, 'I am embarrassed. They will pay for that also. Do you have a lead on Robin, as yet?'

  The soldier was impassive. 'You know how big an organisation our civil service is. And that's all we were given to go on; Robin is a civil servant. No department, grade, age, gender, or anything else. But there is an operation in place. The appropriate people are looking into it now.'

  Ànd the "appropriate" people would be?' snapped Gower, so testily that Doherty flashed her a warning glance.

  Arrow was unruffled. The SIS uncovered the existence of Robin and the Iraqi network by means which they are not prepared to discuss with anyone, even with you, Agent Gower, They're our foreign Intelligence gatherers. Internal security, as you should know, is usually the job of MI5. I believe that the investigating team may have a line to Robin, but I can't say more than that.'

  `Why not?' Gower snapped again, unintimidated by Doherty.

  At last, Arrow's grip on his temper slipped. 'Because it's a secure operation and we don't want it bloody well compromised, okay?' he shouted.

  The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Doherty overrode her. 'Is there a possibility that Robin is our man?'

  Ìt's too early to say with certainty,' said Arrow, recovering his composure, 'but I'm told that's unlikely, unless he's part of a team. Even then, it's doubtful.'

  `The main thing is, Adam,' said Andy Martin, 'that you have Robin in hand.' Unusually, he was wearing spectacles. Without the extra green tint of his contact lenses, his eyes looked bloodshot and lustreless.

  Àye, that's right.'

  `So of our fancied outside candidates,' said Doherty, 'that just leaves General Yahic. What should we do about him, do we think, colleagues? What's the CIA view, Merle?'

  Her eyes burned in her dusky face. 'As I understand it, sir, the prevailing view in the Agency is that we should take him out.'

  'Bloody clever that would be,' said Arrow, his voice heavy with irony. 'We'd learn a lot if we did that.'

  ‘Yeah,' said Doherty. 'That is not the NSC's preferred option, merle. No, people, we have a great deal of devolved authority in this room. I propose that we should each take time to consider what practical steps we can take to determine whether or not Yahic was involved in the bombing.'

  'In my experience,' said Arrow, 'the best way would be to invite him for a chat and to ask

  'im!'

  Fifty

  ‘All rise.'

  The Court Officer's stentorian voice boomed out, as the red robed Judge pushed himself out of his chair. As one, accused, counsel, clerks and the few spectators in the public gallery obeyed his command. Among the last group was Neil Mcllhenney, seated in the back row and out of sight of the defence benches to all but a very tall barrister on tiptoe.

  He and Donaldson had shared the duty during the day, one in the gallery, one in the unmarked car which they had borrowed from the Ministry of Defence pool. Periodically, they had called Edinburgh to check on Skinner's condition.

  Mcllhenney had sat through the opening stages of Ariadne Tucker's final speech to the jury . . . the one which she had been preparing on her husband's last night alive . . . and had been professionally impressed. Without, admittedly, having had the benefit of any of the evidence, he would have been prepared to acquit her client, an Anglo-Greek businessman accused of twenty-seven different swindles involving commercial and residential property and high value motor cars.

  She had still been going strong at three-thirty, at which point the thoughtful Judge, who had begun the day with kind words to the recently bereaved senior for the defence, had decided, again in deference to the strain under which he imagined her to be suffering, that he would call a halt and send everyone home early; everyone, that was, save the accused.

  Thank Christ for that!' Mcllhenney had muttered under his breath. As a young white-gloved Constable flanking a prisoner in the dock in the High Court in Edinburgh, he had once fallen asleep halfway through a prosecution summing-up. The incident had come close to ending his career and the memory of it would live with him for ever.

  As the jury filed out, the heavily built Sergeant glanced idly around the public gallery.

  There were four people in the front row, three middle-aged women and a younger man, all peering down into the well of the court. As the policeman looked on, one of the women, fat, swarthy and fifty-something with hair dyed black, waved down at the accused and blew him a kiss.

  In the row behind, a Japanese couple stood to attention, holding on to Harrods carriers; sightseeing in the Old Bairrey, McIlhenney guessed. Suddenly, to his astonishment, the man plunged into his bag, took out a small video camcorder and began to film the court, unobserved by any of the attendants.

  He looked around the rest of the gallery as he turned to leave. Three people were filing out

  — court groupies, he assumed — but in the back row a tall man stood in a brown Army uniform, gazing down into the court as if making eye contact with someone. Mcllhenney thought back. He was fairly certain that the man had not been
in court when he and Donaldson had last changed shift, and equally sure that he had not seen him enter. A good copper to the last, he took, as routine, a mental snapshot of the man's face and filed it away. He had barely done so when the officer turned on his heel, stepped into the aisle, and sprinted up the stairway and out of the court.

  Their Cavalier was parked in the street outside. It was a touch conspicuous, even for a Vauxhall, Mcllhenney thought, but as their quarry peeled off the road to the bridge and veered round, to head westwards along the Victoria Embankment.

  Donaldson kept position close behind the taxi; normally he ‘d have preferred to keep more space between them, but amid the heavy flow of vehicles, he had little option. They carried on in formation along the length of the Embankment, until as they closed on Westminster Bridge the cabby, giving more warning this time, signalled a right turn, towards Parliament Square. The policemen were almost trapped by a red light, but made it through safely, then picked up pace to match the taxi as it accelerated to catch the next set on green. 'This is magic,' said Mcllhenney, as they swung round the green with St Margaret's on their left.

  `She can't be going home,' said Donaldson. If she had been she'd have headed along Millbank.'

  `Chances are she's going to the bloody hairdresser,' laughed the Sergeant, as Donaldson allowed the cab to pull ahead in the lighter traffic of Victoria Street.

  Almost at once, his supposition was proved wide of the mark. Indicator and brake lights came on in the same second as the cab drew to a sudden halt. 'Take a left, quick,' said Mcllhenney. Donaldson had already seen the turning and swung the Cavalier into the side street. As they took the corner, the Sergeant stared back along the pavement. He caught a glimpse of Ariadne stepping from the taxi, and as she did so, of a man moving forward from a doorway to greet her. There was enough daylight left for him to see that he was wearing a brown Army uniform.