Skinner was astonished by this, as he knew the man rarely drank alcohol in any form.
Ballantyne turned at the sound of the closing of the door. 'Bob, am I glad to see you. Want a drink?'
Skinner shook his head. 'Too early for me, Alan.' The too, as a rule, but when you hear what I have to tell you, you'll understand why. First things first, tell me about this explosion. Everything you know or suspect. Don't worry about anyone walking in on us. There's no staff here today, and I've told Carlie not to disturb us.'
Ballantyne led the way over to two finely carved, tightly upholstered armchairs at the far end of the room. They sat down, facing each other. Skinner leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and looked the Secretary of State in the eye.
'Well, first of all, there was no warning, no tip-off, no chance to clear the place. Whoever planted that bomb meant for it to go off, and didn't care a bit about casualties. Mind you, I don't think that it was meant particularly to cause injury. It was placed in a corner of the tent, and the lad who was killed – a poor wee bugger called Danny Baker – was just unlucky. He was standing right next to the thing when it went off. It blew him to bits, and hurt quite a few other people, but none of the survivors seems to have been critically injured. The boy's body probably shielded the rest of them. We don't know for sure, but the army people think it was some Semtex device. So it wouldn't have been very big, and could have been stashed in anything: a biscuit tin, or any container like that. Something took the top of the boy Baker's head off; it could have been the lid.'
5
As Ballantyne winced at the thought. Skinner went on. 'So, despite the recklessness, I think that this was meant as some sort of demonstration. The objective could have been just to bring down the tent and attract public attention. But it's the why that beats me. As for who our somebody might be, I've looked at all the obvious candidates, and I don't fancy any of them. There've been no hints from the intelligence networks of anything cooking, so it looks like either a random nutter or a completely new setup.
It's the Semtex that worries me most of all. You don't steal that stuff from construction sites. Anybody who can get his hands on Semtex is either tied into an international terror group, or has serious cash at his disposal. I wish to God I knew which it is.
'The thing that surprises me, Alan, is that we haven't had a call yet. I'd have expected whoever did this to have been in touch by now, identifying himself, telling us what it's all about, and making some specific demands. But so far, there's been nothing at all.'
Ballantyne leaned back in his chair. 'That's where you're wrong. Bob,' he said softly.
Skinner's eyebrows rose. The Secretary of State, normally laidback and self-assured, seemed as tense as the mainspring of an over-wound watch.
Ballantyne jumped up and strode across the room to a fine Georgian writing table. He picked up a brown A4 manila envelope and walked back towards Skinner, thrusting it before him.
'There you are. Take a look at this. It was handed in at St Andrews House by a motorcyclist half an hour ago. The security staff checked that I was here, then sent it along to me. Read it, man.'
Skinner took the envelope from Ballantyne, noticing that the man's hand was trembling. A white address label was stuck precisely in the centre.
The words on it were neatly typed:
Alan Ballantyne, MP
St Andrew's House
Edinburgh
To be opened by Addressee only.
In contrast to the neatness of the label, the envelope itself had been ripped open crudely. Skinner prised its sides apart with two Fingers, and saw inside a single sheet of white paper. Taking it by one corner he withdrew it carefully and laid it on the open palm of his left hand. He looked at it for a moment then began to read.
To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.
From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
By now you will have learned of the demonstration staged earlier today by the true representatives of the people of Scotland, for the benefit and enlightenment of you and your colleagues in the government of the occupying power. Be in no doubt that this was only a small token of the resources which are available to us, and it is no more than a first warning.
Our demands are simple and clear. Your Westminster Parliament will agree at once to take steps to annul the fraudulent Treaty of Union, and to restore full power and authority to the Estates of Scotland, through its properly elected Parliament. We have been compelled to take this stern action by the intransigence of your government, and by the collaboration of the so-called opposition panics, in denying Scotland its birthright.
Today's operation should be interpreted as a declaration of intent. At the moment of writing this communique, we cannot know whether it will be completed without casualties.
But if people have been killed or injured, they should be seen as martyrs to the Scottish cause. The same will be true of those others who will be called upon to sacrifice themselves if you do not yield to our demands.
The Edinburgh International Festival has been chosen as the stage for our drama. We hope that this will be a play in one act only, but unless Scotland's independence is restored at once, there will be further scenes, escalating in their violence until you, the oppressors, are forced to submit.
Scotland deserves that the whole world should see her regain her freedom. With this in mind the contents of this letter are being released simultaneously to the media. Future communiques from us, should they be necessary, will use the code word Arbroath to demonstrate their authenticity.'
Skinner pursed his lips and whistled softly. He glanced up at Ballantyne. 'Wordy bastard this one, is he not. Lovely turn of phrase. Poor Danny'd be chuffed to know he's joined the great honour roll of martyrdom.' He paused and looked at the note again. 'What have you done about the bit on the end?'
Ballantyne looked puzzled. 'What do you mean?'
'Come on, Alan. Get a grip. What have you done about the press?'
'Nothing so far. Do you take this thing seriously?'
Skinner pointed to his right foot. 'See that stain on my shoe?
That's blood. Too effing right I take it seriously.' He took out his mobile telephone and punched in a number. 'Andy? It's Bob.
Listen, I need you to act fast. The Secretary of State's had a letter claiming responsibility for our bomb. They say they've put it out to the press, too, but they don't say how. Chances are they'll issue it by hand or by telephone. I don't think they'd be daft enough to use a fax. Get hold of Alan Royston, our Press Officer, whatever golf course he's on, and tell him to get his arse into the office.
While he's doing that, you put out a holding statement on the explosion via our Mercury distribution network. Don't say much, just that the cause is being investigated. Then tell Royston to field all incoming calls. And while you're at it, tell DCC McGuinness that's the SB party line and that he's to stick to it. Better still, he's to say nothing at all.'
'Will he take that from me?'
'He'll take it from me. Use my name. Once that statement has gone out, I want you to stop all other coverage. Use your duty staff, and get them calling round all the media. If anyone hasn't received the letter yet, then tell them about it. Whatever the case, say that we hope it's a crank, but that we need a complete news blackout on it while we study the contents, run forensic tests, and so on. They can say that they're calling on my behalf, with the full authority of the Security Service, and that D-notice procedures apply. If any editor refuses to co-operate, arrest him, and let me know.';
Skinner heard Martin gasp at the other end of the line.
'That's a bit beyond D-notice procedure, boss. We can't just lift an editor because he won't do what we ask. We don't have the-
Skinner cut him off short. 'Andy, I don't think you'll need to go that far, but if you do, you'll find that the Secretary of State has just given me the authority I need. That covers it. Now don't waste any time. Get on with it. As soon as that's
under way, here are a few other things that'll need doing. First locate all the Scottish Office ministers, plus the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General, and give them all Special Branch armed close protection. Then get round all the police forces in Scotland and advise them that all public buildings, police stations, the lot, should upgrade their alert status to one level short of the maximum.'
He cut the line and turned to Ballantyne. 'Did you hear that, Secretary of State? I need you to sign a piece of paper.'
'Don't I need Downing Street approval?'
'You've got more power than you realise, Alan. You should read the new Act. The Home Secretary in England and you here in Scotland have the right to take certain actions on the advice of the Security Service, and to tell Downing Street afterwards. Well, thanks to you, I'm the Security Service, and I'm giving you that advice now. There's no such thing as an anti-terrorist branch in Scotland. But if we have grown our own proves after all these years, you're going to have to put one together quickly. The faster we move, the better the chance of killing the beast at birth, and it'll be easier if we can control the flow of information.'
Skinner looked Ballantyne straight in the eye, and the Secretary of State returned his gaze. He looked full of doubt, but' slowly nodded his head.
'OK, Bob. You're on. If you take the letter that seriously, I'll back you that far. Set up your anti-terrorist squad. You're in command. You can have your emergency power to control the media. All I ask is that, before you use it, you remember that I'd like to be re-elected in a couple of years time! What else do you need? Tanks?'
Skinner grinned. 'Naw. Air cover'll be enough! I'll pick my own team. Mostly they'll be people I know and trust. I'd like to bring in someone with Irish experience. I'll expect full cooperation from other forces where necessary, but I've got no worries on that score. Have your Private Office call every chief constable to a briefing in St Andrews House tomorrow morning, and I'll tell them what's going on. I have a local problem in that McGuinness is standing in for Jimmy Proud. I'd appreciate it if you would call him yourself and tell him politely to keep out of my hair. I don't want any nonsense from that quarter.'
His composure completely restored, Ballantyne nodded his head vigorously. 'You'll have all that. I'll call my.PPS now, and I'll have the Solicitor's Office draw up that paper and get it here for signature today. That way, if you do have to jail the Controller of BBC Scotland, at least you'll be doing it legally! You are certain that this wasn't just a gas explosion, aren't you?'
Skinner shook his head. 'Alan, if that was a gas explosion, then I'll never use my cooker again.' Then quite suddenly, his expression changed. His grey eyes had lost their warmth. 'Look, I'd love to be wrong, but I'm not. Like it or not, you've got some big decisions to make, my friend. For what it's worth, here's how I see them.
'Do you, could you, close down the Festival? No way! It's too big and it's too late. Everyone's here, tickets are sold, and the shows start tonight. Do you warn the public? I'd say not at this stage. It'd be too easy to start a panic; and we would for sure frighten off thousands of-visitors. It could just be that all our friends are aiming to do is to disrupt the Festival, for now at least.
If we let them do it that easily, then we're in real long-term trouble. That letter gives us nothing solid to go on. All we can do is hunt these people as best we can, and hope we get lucky. But, chances are, the next move is theirs. We, all of us, have got to live with that probability.'
He paused, looking hard at Ballantyne. Then he said, 'That's policeman's advice. Secretary of State, and for a reason I'll teli you shortly, it's the most honest you're ever likely to receive. It's not a political judgement; that's your arena. But these are decisions that need to be taken now.'
Ballantyne returned his gaze. He had respected Bob Skinner from the beginning of their relationship, but now he began to understand the very strange thing that Sir James Proud, imposing and unimpeachable as ever in full uniform, had said as they had discussed Skinner's appointment. 'Bob is the son I never had.
He's clever and intuitive as a detective. He's strict but fair as a commander. He's charming and generous as a man. Yet inside all that, there lives also the most fearsome human being I know. I hope you never have to encounter that side of him.'
Looking into Skinner's eyes, Ballantyne felt, for the very first time, the faint chill of something else in the man, something very hard and formidable, and perceived at last an inkling of what Proud had meant. He had never sought to learn in detail the circumstances which had led up to Hugh Fulton's resignation, although he knew that something had caused bad blood between him and Skinner. Now he realised with certainly that Fulton had been mortally afraid of his successor. Suddenly and irrationally, Ballantyne was glad that he did not know why.
He forced himself to consider the choice he had to make, the choice which Skinner had set out for him. There could be only one decision.
'The show goes on. Warn the Directors of the various Festivals if you consider it necessary, but no one else. Keep this thing under wraps for as long as you can. Issue a further statement through your press office, saying that you are still looking into the causes of the explosion, but at the moment it looks like a gas leak of some sort. Pick your team and use whatever time the news blackout buys you as best you can. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
Skinner nodded. 'Very good. Minister,' he said, formal for the first time. 'That's -how it will be. Now I'll tell you just how objective my advice was. If this lot are going to start blowing up the Festival, as they threaten, then that makes my daughter a target. She's performing in a play on the Fringe. It could have been her lying in that tent today, and when I find these characters, I'll go just as hard as if it had been her. Meanwhile, I'm on the spot. Do I tell Alex to pull out, without telling her why, or do I cfollow your orders to the letter, and keep my mouth shut, letting her run the same risk as the rest?'
'For God's sake. Bob. Of course you must get her out of it!'
'Thanks, Alan, but that has to be my choice to make. It won't be an easy one. There are so many what ifs. The best answer is just to catch these bastards before this thing gets any bigger. I'm off to do that now.'
He picked up the letter and its envelope and made for the door, but stopped just before he reached it.
'Oh, Alan, here's a piece of non-police advice. You could find photographers hanging around here today. If Carlie might be a problem in some newspaper picture, best not let that happen, eh.'
'Thanks, Bob. Point taken.'
6
Skinner was deep in thought as he slid the BMW into St Coime Street. On impulse he indicated to the left and drove up the, cobbled slope of Glenfinlas Street, turning left at the top into;
Charlotte Square.
As usual, all of the parking bays in the Square were occupied.
Scores of cars, and not a few camper vans, bearing German, French and Belgian registration plates, were nosed in on the angle, facing the gardens in the centre, their tails pointing back towards the one-way traffic as it circulated clockwise. The space on the, outer side of the wide street, normally kept clear by yellow lines, was mostly full, the vigilance of Edinburgh's redoubtable traffic wardens being relaxed on Saturday afternoons. However, there was a vacant slot only a few yards from Glenfinlas Street, just outside the head office of one of Scotland's largest public companies. Skinner reversed the BMW in, switched off the engine and sat looking thoughtfully at the pavement across the street from the Secretary of State's front door.
With its fund managers, its surveyors and its few remaining lawyers on the golf course rather than at work in their offices, Charlotte Square was usually one of the quietest spots in central Edinburgh on Saturday afternoons. Occasionally, special weekend events were held in its gardens, on the grass among the trees, around the oxidised bronze equestrian statuary on its marble plinth. Two years before, an age ago to Skinner, this green space had been covered with marquees serving as the venue of the biennial Edinburgh Book Festi
val. But, for this year at least, the Festival was being staged in different surroundings, in the City's newly opened international conference centre. Now, as Skinner looked across the expanse of grass, he saw only a few recumbent sunbathers enjoying the warmth of the August day. He scanned the pavement opposite Number 6. Its surface was m raised above the level of roadway by four cobbled steps, and so he could observe the pedestrians clearly. He saw two elderly grey- haired ladies, wearing shapeless hats and coats even in flaming August, their backs to him, walking slowly in step, with the same rolling gait. "Afternoon tea in the Roxburghe, I'll bet,' he murmured to himself, smiling at this enduring tradition among the aged well-to-do of Edinburgh. As Skinner watched them, the two old ladies drew alongside and passed a bulky, bearded figure who was leaning against the railings, idly adjusting the camera which hung on a strap round his neck.
'Denis,' he said aloud, recognising one of the city's best-known news photographers.
He was on the point of climbing out of his car to talk to the man, when suddenly his eye was caught by a motorcyclist astride his vehicle in one of the parking bays on the corner: a tall figure, in black leathers, with a metallic blue crash helmet. He wore the livery of one of Edinburgh's many motorcycle delivery companies. That's odd, thought Skinner. Why the hell was a bike courier at work on a Saturday? And if he was supposed to be working, why the hell was he sitting on his arse in Charlotte Square, doing bugger all?
Deciding to postpone his chat with Denis the photographer, he settled back into the driver's seat of the BMW, keeping as inconspicuous as any good detective should be. The leather gear made it difficult to judge the man's age, but Skinner knew that most of Edinburgh's delivery riders were in their early twenties, and his build and bearing seemed to bear this out. The courier held a folded newspaper in his left hand and gave the appearance of studying it intently. But Skinner noticed that, every so often, he would glance along the street – looking in the same direction as Denis the photographer – towards the Secretary of State's front door.
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