But the rest is up to us. Boss?'
'Thanks, Andy.' Skinner took the floor again. 'Right. First, I'll state the obvious: that which you're all thinking. We don't have anything like enough polismen and women to give proper protection to all those venues. And, in any event, the game plan is to keep this whole business from becoming public knowledge for the moment at least. But, within these four secure walls, I'll tell you frankly that I don't think we've a snowball's chance of doing that for too long. If this lot are as determined and resourceful as I think they are, they'll soon find a way to force us to go public on their threatening letter. In the meantime heavy police presence at all the Festival events, even if it were possible, would be counter productive, as it could only alarm and annoy the public.
'No, what we must do is plan on the assumption that any future incidents will involve high-profile targets. Therefore, we're going to concentrate on the biggest venues. The news blackout on that letter will buy us maybe a day or two, so let's put that time to good use. In an hour from now, Mr Martin and I are meeting allot the Festival directors, save one, in the George Hotel. We're going to tell them what's happening and what we're doing about it. Then we're going to swear them to secrecy for as long as we say so. I am operating – and, therefore, so are you lot on my team – with the benefit of certain extra powers afforded me by the Secretary of State. If anybody plays silly buggers with us, we can, as a very last resort, bang them inside. We've only had one problem so far with the guy Neidermeyer from TNI, that Mr Martin just mentioned. All our own people are toeing the line, and so will the Festival directors. The reason I'm going to brief them is because you'll need their co-operation. I want you lot, starting this evening, to recce all the major venues, and then check in here tomorrow morning with reports on how each one can be protected effectively with the minimum visible strength. I'm not using uniforms, if I can help it. If this crowd do start taking pot shots at Festival events, then our boys and girls would be sitting targets in their blue suits and funny hats.
'Brian, I want you to give everyone here a list of the venues.
Cover all the Official Festival venues: that's the Usher Hall, Lyceum, King's, Empire and Playhouse, at least. Cover Filmhouse, and the telly Festival venue, too. Cover all multiple centres, where they've got more than one theatre; that's places like the Assembly Rooms and the Pleasance. Oh, and cover the Traverse. Remember, that's part of Saltire Court, and our friends may decide that a building named after our Scottish national flag would make a prime target. I want your reports to include details of all entrances and exits at each place. By that I mean public, performers' and vehicle entrances. Produce for each hall and theatre a security plan. If you think we need to shut a few entrances and slow the normal flow in and out, don't be afraid to make that recommendation. As long as we can empty a place in a hurry, if we need to, it doesn't matter to me how long it takes to fill it. Bear in mind too that, by Tuesday at the latest, all performers and stagehands will have passes, and will need to show them on their way into the building.'
Sarah spoke for the first time. Skinner sensed her striving to appear as formal with him as she could, to stake out no special position within the team. 'Won't that involve thousands of people? And will the photo-booth machines be able to cope?'
He nodded. 'Sure, we'll have to issue thousands of passes. But I'm going to second the Scottish Office Information staff to do the processing. And the passes won't be photographic. They'll be credit-card style with a signature on the back. We'll make every applicant sign their pass in the presence of the issuing officer, and then we'll make them sign in and out of their venue every day. But come on, doctor, tell me. What's the real reason for the passes?'
Sarah felt as if everyone in the room was watching her. A frown-line appeared suddenly above her nose, emphasising her concentration on his question. Then, just as suddenly, her face lit up.
'It's all about the application forms. You want every performer or stagehand to fill in an application form.'
Skinner was pleased at her perception, but kept it to himself. 'Right, They fill in the application form. Then Mr Plod feeds the details into his great big computer, and if his great big computer is any bloody good at all, out pop all the nasty secrets. Unless we turn up a very nasty secret indeed, something like a convicted paedophile giving a one-man show for kids in the back of a Transit, we do nothing precipitate, but we keep a very close watch on all the odd-bods, to see where we get led.'
Skinner switched his gaze to Macgregor. 'What else do we do, Barry?'
The young detective beamed with pleasure. 'Hotels, sir.
Everyone checking into a hotel is asked to fill up a registration form. We just expand them a bit, if necessary. Then, every day, we collect copies of all the completed forms and stick them through the computer as well.'
That's the game, son. And what do we get out of all that?
Probably sweet FA, but we do it anyway. And, just like with all the other routine precautions we're taking, we hope that God's luck's on our side.'
He paused to look around the room, fixing his eyes on each member of the team in turn. When he spoke again, it was in a gentler tone.
'OK, my good people. Go out there and do your very best and, as usual, that'll be good enough for me. But, as you do it, keep this thought in your minds. I saw that poor boy today. I know in my heart that this one will get even nastier than today before it gets better. We've got other people's lives in our hands here. Let's not let them slip. While you're at it, look out for yourselves, too. I love you all, as friends as well as colleagues, and I don't want any mishaps. Go to it. This is a no-leave job, so I'll see you all tomorrow morning.'
10
'Andy,' said Skinner, and nodded for Martin to follow as he headed for the door.
They left the room, Sarah following on their heels and waving goodbye to the rest of the team as she closed the door behind her.
Bob paused in the corridor and turned towards her. 'Sorry, love, Andy and I have a few things to do. No need for you to hang around here any longer. What you could do for me when you get home, though, is look at your copy of their letter – which I see you did not shred before you left the room.'
'Uh-oh, my first blooper.' Sarah turned a shade of pink. •And hopefully, your last. Still, let's put it to advantage. Read it carefully, study the language, the style, anything in particular that strikes you, and see if you can come up with some sort of a psychological profile of the author.'
'Yes, boss!'
'And, once you've done that, burn it!'
She nodded. 'Yes, sir, will do. See you later. We will get to Alex's play, won't we?'
'No problem. I'll rest easier if I've taken a bloody good look at that venue myself, anyway. I'll be home for 7:30, latest. We can eat after the show, so book us a table somewhere, eh?'
He started off towards Martin, who stood waiting at the end of the corridor, but she held him back with a gentle tug at his sleeve.
'Bob. In there, earlier on, I had the impression that Andy was going to say something important, but you shut him up. Was it something that you didn't want the whole team to hear – or just me?'
He looked at her wide-eyed. 'Don't know what you're on about, love. When did I ever chop Andy off in public – and before you lower ranks, too?'
The unmasked doubt in her expression countered the wide-eyed innocence in his. 'Skinner, you are being evasive. We h'' discuss this later.' Her tone left no room for doubt.
"Nothing to discuss. But I'll see you.' He strode off to join Martin.
As soon as they were out of sight, the big ACC cuffed the Head of Special Branch lightly around the ear. 'Dropped me in it there, mate, haven't you. Don't tell me you weren't on the point of chipping into my briefing with a homily about gun-toting motorcycle messengers in Charlotte Square. Christ, if I hadn't been looking at you at the time! There are things you need to break to the wife in private – if you choose to break them at all.
Now I've go
t no choice!'
Martin wore a guilty look that was rarely seen. 'Sorry, boss. I just didn't think.'
Skinner considered his point made. 'It's OK, son. I chose to bring Sarah into the team, so it's half my fault for putting you in the situation, anyway. There's another side to it, though, and a good reason not to tell the team about my wee bit of excitation.
These Apache Couriers are all over town. I'd hate to think of what might happen if next week one of them even looked sideways at one of our team while reaching into his jacket. Bang, bang. Dead courier. "Oh, you were only getting a hankie out were you. Sorry about that. Just a wee mistake." No, thank you very much! Not even Proud Jimmy would see the funny side of that one.'
They had reached Skinner's office in the Command Suite.
'Come on in, Andy, and I'll let you halfway in on a state secret. I told you I've already accessed available files on the MI5 computer from my other office, and come up blank?'
Martin nodded. •Well, not all the stuffs on computer. With all these hackers and folk like that, and viruses and so on, the plain fact is that information technology doesn't have the security you need at the very top level – or at the bottom level, depending on how you see these things. There are files still kept on paper, in London, behind a very thick door with a very long combination and a very loud alarm. I'm going to use my secure phone to brief the MIS analysts to look at them all, and prepare me a list of people to be considered. It probably won't be a long list, but I'll bet they'll "ave some entries for us. This will all be stuff I probably haven't n myself. I'll have picked up bits of it now and then, just wee scraps of information, but the total picture is gathered together by ion teams in Head Office.'
He sat down in a chair at the side of his desk and pulled his scrambled telephone to him.
'While I do this, Andy, could you access your SB stuff through my terminal, and run another list for me. Journalists – anyone you've got on file, either here or in branches in the rest of the country. Look at their special interests and their known associates. I fancy we'll want to talk to one or two of them, too, when the moment comes.'
That not a bit of a risk, leaning on journalists?' asked Martin.
'Who said anything about leaning on them? We'll just say we're consulting them; it'll make them feel important. The hack is not yet born who is so hairy-backed and anti-establishment that he doesn't want the polis owing him a favour. You do that, while I make this call. Then we'll get off to the George to scare the shit out of the Festival directors.'
11
The George is not the most imposing of Edinburgh's first-division hotels, but it is one of the best. It is situated on the street from which it takes its name, and its narrow entrance affords clients a greater degree of privacy than its massive rivals at either end of Princes Street. It is possible to slip virtually unobserved into the George, while entry through the wide doors of the Caledonian or the Balmoral, past their liveried and effusive keepers, is always something of a performance.
Skinner and Martin arrived at the hotel in the BMW just after 5:00 pm, finding a parking place with unusual ease, as the Saturday shopping crush had eased off. Martin, who enjoyed special relationships with every hotel manager in the city centre, had asked for a private room for their meeting. He carried a briefcase as they walked into the hotel. Six of the seven Festival directors were waiting for them. Only Trevor Golley of the Book Festival had been unavailable. None of the six had been told in advance that the others would be present. As the two policemen entered the room, the low buzz of conversation stopped, and half a dozen faces turned towards them.
Skinner broke the ice. 'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I must thank you for coming along here at such short notice, and in response to such a mysterious invitation. We appreciate how busy you must be just now, so we won't keep you long.'
Three large Thermos jugs lay on three occasional tables in the centre of the room.
'Everyone all right for coffee, before we begin?' An assortment of grunts and nods came from around the room. 'Right, if you'll each find a seat, I'll explain what all this is about.'
The long room had no windows. It was furnished with three deep and comfortable two-seater sofas and two armchairs. The policemen each took a chair, leaving the sofas for their guests. As the directors sat down. Skinner saw that they seemed to sort themselves unconsciously into natural pairings.
Harriet Nelson, in her second year as director for the 'Official'
Festival, sat on the left-hand sofa, alongside Colonel Archie McPhee, organiser of the Military Tattoo. Even seated, Harriet Nelson was an imposing woman: tall, heavy featured and with a flaming red hair. She had won her spurs in the arts in her late I twenties, as one of the very few leading female orchestral conductors, and had wielded her baton in concert halls around the world for almost two decades. Her appointment as director of the Edinburgh International Festival had been announced by the governing committee as a major coup, which indeed it was.
Colonel McPhee, the Military Tattoo director, was in his own way as imposing as his neighbour on the sofa. Before his retirement from active service, five years earlier, he had been a battalion commander in the Parachute Regiment, and had seen bloody combat in the Falklands. He was in his early fifties, with close-cropped, receding hair, a sharp nose and piercing, perceptive eyes. He was dressed in light slacks and a short-sleeved green shin, an outfit which emphasised an impression of total physical fitness.
The director of the Film Festival, Julia Shahor, sat directly facing Skinner and Martin, next to the one person of the six whom Skinner had not met before, whom he knew therefore to be Ray Starkey. head of the television event. Julia Shahor's shock of very black hair exploded in a natural Afro, framing a small, pale but unforgettably attractive face. She wore a voluminous white robe which covered her from neck to ankles. She was a small woman, the youngest of the six directors by at least seven or eight years, Skinner guessed. She had come to the Film Festival ten months earlier, on a one-year contract, and like Harriet Nelson she had been regarded as a catch for Edinburgh. She was still in her twenties, but already she had built a brilliant career as a screenwriter. It was said that her ambition was to emulate one of her predecessors by using the Festival as the springboard for a career as a movie director in America.
Ray Starkey wore large, yellow-framed spectacles, with lenses which made his eyes seem huge. He was very fat, and dressed incongruously in a pale blue Armani suit, with a grey shirt, yellow braces, and a tie which seemed to have been hand-painted, badly, that same afternoon. Skinner knew that Starkey had come to run the television event after having been a casualty of the 1991 commercial television licence auctions. He had been programme controller with one of the losing franchise-holders and had waited in vain for a year for one of the winners to offer him a contract, before being invited to take up the Festival post.
Finally, seated together on the sofa to the right of the two policemen, were David Leroy, the director of the Fringe, and Jay Hands, his counterpart at the Jazz Festival.
The Edinburgh Festival Fringe enjoys a reputation as one of the great showcases for new-wave theatre and new performing talent.
Many artists now world-famous had made their first impressions upon public consciousness at Edinburgh Fringe productions.
David Leroy's appearance was completely at odds with the avantgarde style of his Festival. While many of his performers found kaftans and sandals de rigueur, the Fringe director could have been taken for a successful big-firm chartered accountant. Even on an August Saturday he wore a blue Austin Reed suit, black Loake shoes, a white shirt with a thin blue stripe, and an Edinburgh Academy Old Boys' tie.
However, Jay Hands, the longest-serving of all the directors, was much more in tune with the image of the grizzled jazzman.
Even seated, he seemed round-shouldered. He was in his late fifties, tall and lean, with a sallow complexion and lank grey hair which looked two months overdue for a trim. He had the tired eyes o
f a man who played with a jazz band several nights a week, then stayed on after the show.
The six directors now sat in waiting, some looking curious, some – Nelson and Hands in particular – showing an edge of annoyance. Skinner smiled his wannest smile. 'For those of you who haven't met us, I'm Bob Skinner, Assistant Chief Constable and head of CID in Edinburgh. It's a matter of public knowledge that I also act as security adviser to the Secretary of State. My colleague here is Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Martin, head of Special Branch in Edinburgh. Some of you may have guessed why we've asked you to meet us.'
Only two reacted in any way. Archie McPhee smiled tightly and nodded. Jay Hands looked puzzled.
'For those of you who don't already know, we have had what we describe in police-speak as "a serious incident", specifically an explosion. It happened at midday today at a Festival hospitality venue in Princes Street. In fact, we now know that it was a bomb attack on the Festival itself.'
He paused. Opposite him, Julia Shahor's eyes seemed to grow impossibly wide.
'Jesus Christ!' whispered Jay Hands.
Skinner went on. 'Shortly after the bang, we received this.
Would you all read it, please.'
He handed his copy of the letter to Harriet Nelson. She scanned it slowly, then, white-faced, handed it to Archie McPhee. By the time Jay Hands had finished studying the letter, and handed it back to Skinner, all six directors looked considerably shaken.
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