The newcomer had a friendly, inquisitive smile, and receding gingery, close-cropped hair. He wore a Harris tweed jacket, unusually heavy for August, a check shirt, and grey trousers. His black shoes were polished to a high shine.
'Hello, Bob, 's good to see you again.' There was a twinkle in his eyes as he stretched a hand upwards towards Skinner. The accent was unmistakably North of England, Lancashire or hereabouts, Martin guessed.
Skinner shook the outstretched hand and returned the smile.
'Adam, good to see you, too. Glad you're here, although I didn't expect you to make it so fast.'
'You kiddin'? I was in fookin' Belfast. You get a chance to get clear of that place, you don't hang about. Natives are fookin' restless over there just now. Whatever you've got here, it'll be a fookin' holiday by comparison.'
Skinner smiled grimly. 'Hope that's the way it turns out, mate.'
He turned to Martin. 'Andy, this is Captain Adam Arrow, Military Intelligence. Special Air Services, counter-terrorist adviser.You name it, he's the lot. He and I met at that security seminar I went to last month. Adam. Meet Andy Martin, DCI Special Branch. He might only look like a lad, but he's been there, done that.'
'That's enough for me,' said Arrow.
The two shook hands, and Martin was suddenly aware that the little man was immensely strong.
Arrow turned back towards Skinner. 'OK, Bob, so why have I been pulled out of t' fookin' frying-pan? All that the Five woman said was that you'd asked for me as a specialist.'
Skinner waved him over to a chair. 'Sit yourself down, and I'll tell you.'
Quickly but comprehensively, he briefed Arrow on the crisis, describing the Waverley Market bomb, Ballantyne's letter, his own encounter with the motorcycle gunman, and finally even Martin's late-night tussle.
'Like as not, Andy's incident had nothing to do with all this, but he's not so sure.'
Martin cut in: 'Let's just say I'm taking no chances.'
Arrow nodded his round head vigorously. 'Quite right. As Bob says, it's a long shot, but it's best to keep an eye on the lass. If it were connected, they might just have another go. Unless you identified y'self. Didn't shout "Stop in t' name of the law", or owt like that, did you?'
Martin grinned. "No. I did shout something when that chain stopped the door, but it wasn't anything like that.'
Arrow nodded. Then he looked up at Skinner. 'Tell you one thing already. Bob. Nowt to do wi' Ireland, this lot.'
'Why so sure?' Skinner asked.
Loads of reasons. Your average Paddy, whatever side he's on, wouldn't write it all down, then nail it to Secretary of State's fookin' door. It'd be telephone warning every time. Then there's t' tone of yon letter. It's ponderous. Pretentious almost. This bastard is a new hand at the game. He's feeling very important or at least he's trying to make us think he is. Then there's your biker. Irish wouldn't do anything so fookin' stupid as to shoot at a civilian. And you didn't shout "Police", either. Most of all, our intelligence is pretty good when it comes to things like this. We're good at monitoring their contacts wi' other organisations. I reckon if they'd been in touch with anyone over here, there's a fair chance our guys'd have stumbled on it. No – no Irish link 'ere.
This is a new lot, and that's a big problem.'
Why so big?' said Martin, quizzically.
"Cos it means we know fook-all about 'em, that's why. No established behaviour pattern. In Ireland we know how the lookers think. Gives us whatever edge we have. Lets us guess what they're likely to do. We don't always guess right. But when we do, and we're in the right place, then they can get out the black gloves, beret, tricolour – or the Union Jack; we don't play favourites and the hearse.' Arrow's small bright eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to not much above a whisper. "Cos they'll fookin' need 'em.'
He looked sharply across at Martin. 'This lot's starting from scratch. That'll make it harder for us. What have you done so far on the security side. Bob?'
'As much as I could in, what…' Skinner looked at his slim gold wristwatch. '… less than twenty-four hours.'
He described the steps which had been taken, the security checks, the pass system.
'All that's in place. My people are coming in this morning to finish writing up security reports on each of the higher-risk venues. We've designated about two dozen of them. Once I've looked through them, I'll be able to judge how I'm off for manpower.' His glance at Arrow held a question in it. 'If I decide I'm a bit light, and need some extra cover for special places, how are your lot placed just now?'
The little man paused, as if he was deciding how frankly he could answer such a direct question. Then, with an imperceptible nod, he said: 'I think we could give you some help. We've got quite a few over in Ireland at the moment. Then there's others up to no fookin' good in the Middle East. There's a few bastards out there we're going to get even with, and one in particular. We lost some guys in the Gulf War, and we haven't forgotten them.'
Suddenly the eyes lost all their jollity, as his mind turned over a bitter memory. 'We never forget things like that. We've nailed a few of the guys responsible already, but there's more to get yet.
That lot think it's Mossad.' He chuckled – a quiet sound which chilled Martin to the bone. 'But it ain't. Fookin' pussies, Mossad are, compared wi' our lot when someone upsets us.'
He looked up at Skinner, and the genial smile returned. 'Still an' all, I reckon the CO could sort out a dozen or so good lads for you. You'd have to ask through the politicians, mind you.'
Skinner nodded. 'I know – 'and I probably will. Meantime there are some things we can do in-house. Andy's pulled a list of odd-ball journalists from the SB files, the sort of guys whose names pop up in criminal investigations, or who are known to make heavy use of criminal sources. There's about a dozen of them, and they've all still to be interviewed. As well as that, I'm expecting a report that I asked Five to do for me last night. It's on its way up now, by courier.'
Arrow raised his eyebrows. 'Too hot for fax or telex, then.'
'Mm.' Skinner nodded. 'Tell you what, Adam. Are you checked in anywhere yet?'
'No. I'm stoppin' at Redford, wherever that is.'
'I'll get someone to show you. In fact, we'll give you the grand tour, while we're at it. Let's see, who was the early-shift guy out there again?' I He pressed a buzzer on Martin's desk. A few seconds later his question was answered, as Mario McGuire appeared in the doorway.
"Sir?'
'Morning, Mario.' Skinner introduced Arrow to the big darkhaired detective. 'Captain Arrow's new in town. Sergeant. It's your first time here, Adam, isn't it?'
The little man nodded.
'Mario,' said Skinner, 'I'd like you to give Captain Arrow a run-around. Take him out to Redford Barracks first, to drop off his kit. Then show him Festival Edinburgh. Let him get a feel of the place, show him some of the venues: the Usher Hall, Lyceum, Assembly Hall, places like that. Take a look at the Pleasance.
Grab some lunch there, maybe, and I'll see you both back here around two. Is that okay with you, Adam?'
'First-rate. There a bar at this Pleasance place, then? I'll be fookin' gaspin' by then, I reckon. Looks like I'm out of the fryin'pan in Belfast and into the fookin' fire here, right enough.'
The two men, one large, one little, left the room, looking incongruous side-by-side. Yet, as they left, Martin found himself thinking that, of the two, big, hard and powerful as McGuire was, if forced to make the choice he would rather tackle three Mario McGuires, than a single Adam Arrow.
As the door closed behind them, Skinner turned back to Martin.
'OK, Andy. Let's have a look at that list ofjournos.'
From a secure cabinet which he opened with a key, Martin produced a yellow folder. Coming to stand beside Skinner, he laid it on the desk and opened it to show a list of names in alphabetical order.
'They're all here: fourteen in all. Five in and around Glasgow, six in Edinburgh, one in Haddington, one in Stirling, and one in Dun
dee. Only five of them are employed full-time on the staff of newspapers. The rest are a mixture of freelances, mostly writers and researchers, but two describe themselves as television producers.'
Skinner pointed to a name in the lower half of the list. 'Aye, and that one's our number-one target.'
Martin followed his finger. 'Mr Frazer Pagett. Yes, I agree.
Christ, he'd take the huff if we didn't feel his collar. He'd take it as a slur on his reputation as an investigative journalist if he didn't get a visit from us.'
Skinner shook his head. 'No,' he said vehemently. 'That's just what he's not going to get. I want him watched. I want his phone tapped. In fact, I want taps on everyone on that list.'
'Don't we need Ballantyne's signature to do that, boss?'
'We've got it already. That piece of paper he signed yesterday gives me authority to do as I think fit. And I think fit now to start telephone surveillance on all the people mentioned here. The half of them probably believe they're being tapped all the time, anyway. As far as Mr Pagett's concerned, we're going to let him sit on it for a few days. Listen to him, look at him, and just see if he says or does anything funny. He's the only guy on your list that I take seriously. The others are just unscrupulous reporters, or nutters. We'll give all of them the courtesy of a visit right away.
Word of that'll get back to Mr Pagett, and it'll make him nervous.
When we finally do go to see him, I want him as jumpy as possible.'
Martin closed the yellow folder. 'I'll need your written authority for Telecom to set up the phone taps.'
'No, we're not going to Use them. There's a guy in Scottish Office: Mel Christian, Director of Telecommunications. Here's his home number.' Skinner scribbled on a memo pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Martin. 'Call him right away. Use my name. Tell him it's a Beta operation. That'll get his attention. Tell him what you need and he'll make it ha-'
He was cut short by the trembling tone of his mobile phone. He took it from his pocket and pressed the ''receive' button. 'Hello.'
'Bob. It's Alan B. Can you come to St Andrew's House, right away. I've had another.'
17
The three flags hanging limp on their poles seemed to emphasise the Sunday morning quiet, making the massive grey stone building look for all the world like an abandoned fortress.
Skinner pulled the BMW into a parking space opposite the tall brass-bound double entrance doors, one of which was slightly ajar. Across Regent Road, the morning sun, as it rose skywards, shone brightly on the foliage of Calton Hill, but the foyer of St Andrews House – which was north-facing – was in shade.
His eyes took a second or two to adjust to the gloom as he stepped into the big entrance hall, which was made even darker than usual by the closed outer doors. He waved his pass at the security guard on duty in his booth.
'Morning, John.'
'Morning, Mr Skinner.'
As he crossed the hall he noted that the alert board had been changed from the low-grade of the previous day to the yellow state which he had ordered. He stepped into the waiting lift and pressed the button marked 5.
Arnold Shields, Ballantyne's Private Secretary, was working at his desk in the Secretary of State's outer office. Another man sat in a chair in the corner, reading avidly the sports section of Scotland on Sunday. Skinner had taken three paces into the room before the man looked up. Recognition flooded his face. In the same instant, he dropped the newspaper and sat bolt upright.
For a second, Skinner fixed the man with a glare. Then he turned to Shields. The Private Secretary was tall, thin and dapper.
He was also sharp, perceptive and destined for high office, as were all those who were appointed to his important post. Sunday morning or not, he was dressed in a dark single-breasted suit, striped shirt, collar and tie. He was a reserved man, with an unfailing formality of manner which added to his overall air of aloofness. He did not mix socially with colleagues, and none knew anything of his private life. Although he was respected universally, he was regarded, just as universally, as standoffish, and was disliked by his colleagues as a result.
Skinner knew more about Shields than any of the man's office peers. He and Martin had handled the meticulous vetting to which Shields had been subjected before being offered the Private Secretary post. They had discovered without difficulty that he was a practising homosexual, and had a stable, twelve-year-old relationship with a partner in the Glasgow office of an international accountancy practice. After considering their course of action for some days. Skinner and Martin had taken the unusual step of talking over the situation with Shields and his friend. They had been persuaded by the discussion that, although the relationship was private, it was not secret, and that it could not possibly lay either man open to blackmail. Skinner had approved the appointment, keeping the information he had uncovered entirely under wraps.
Shields rose from his chair and extended his hand, as Skinner approached his desk.
'Mr Skinner. Good morning. The Secretary of State is expecting you. Go right in.'
Ballantyne was working his way through a pile of correspondence as Skinner entered. 'Sit down over there. Bob. I won't be a moment. Read that in the meantime.' He pushed a brown envelope across the desk. 'It was handed to the doorman at the Caledonian Hotel at nine o'clock. Motorcyclist again, but no courier's livery this time. This one just wore denims and a crashhelmet. The manager of the Caley sent the letter straight along here.'
There was a faint catch in the Secretary of State's voice. Skinner studied him closely, as he worked. The tension of the previous day showed in his face once more, as he scrawled his signature across a letter. He cast it, in its folder, on to the pile in his out-tray, then picked up another, barely reading it before signing. Skinner thought that the man looked strung-out and nervous. Was that all down to this the terror threat, or could some of it be due to that designer blonde, Carlie, he mused.
He looked down at the envelope which Ballantyne had handed to him. It was the twin of the previous day's, addressed in the same way, with a white label. He drew out the letter and read.
To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland. 88 From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.
The failure of the media to report yesterday's demonstration, or to publish our letter leads us to conclude that you and your colleagues in the Government of the occupying power have secured their silence by coercion.
Clearly we cannot allow this situation to continue. If your censorship is not lifted by 1:00 pm today, and if, by that time, yesterday's statement of our demands has not been broadcast on radio and television, we will take further stem action to force you to accede. No warning of that action will be given, and full responsibility for its consequences will rest entirely with you.
Skinner sank into a chair by the window and read the letter through once again. As he was finishing, Ballantyne put the last of the green folders, its letter signed, in his out-tray. He rose from behind the desk and crossed the room, to sit in a facing chair.
'What d'you think, Bob? What'll they do? 'I don't know, Alan. If I did, I'd stop them from doing it, and that would be that.'
'Well, what can do?' There was a note of frustration in the Secretary of State's voice.
'Maybe we should do what they ask. We've bought some time, and used it as best we could. Our plans are made, and even now they're being put into action. We can't keep this genie in the bottle for ever, so we might as well thank the media for their cooperation and tell them they're free to run the letter.'
'Absolutely not!' Ballantyne's tone was suddenly strident.
Skinner was alarmed to detect hysteria lurking not far below the surface.
'We can't do that. I won't do that! It would be a surrender to terrorism. And the Prime Minister would never countenance it. I spoke to him last night. He's quite resolute.'
Skinner shook his head. "That's inspiring news. Look, Alan, there's no surrender about it. You w
ere gung-ho yesterday, and that was right, but it doesn't do to be tough just for the sake of it.
Sometimes you've got to use this.' As he spoke he tapped the side of his head. 'You can't believe, surely, that we can keep the truth from the public for ever. What's the point, anyway? As I said, we've bought our time and used it wisely, by putting in extra security everywhere. That'll start to show soon. Give it a day or two, three at the most, and the public will begin to figure out that yesterday's bang wasn't any gas explosion. And, listen, these bastards are right about one thing. We have coerced the bloody media! We did it for a purpose, and now we've achieved it, we should thank them for their co-operation and let them go ahead.'
Ballantyne jumped from his seat. 'No!' he shouted. 'It's a matter of principle.'
Skinner stood too. He glared down at the man, and when he answered, his voice was raised also. 'I've had a taste of politicians' principles in my time. Secretary of State, and I've noticed that they have a nasty tendency to get innocent people killed. Do you think this outfit are kidding? "Stern action to force you to accede." Whatever that means, it's a direct threat.'
'You seem to forget they've threatened more action, come what may – unless we hand them the keys to the kingdom, that is.'
Skinner slapped the walnut-panelled wall in frustration. 'I don't forget that at all, but there's no sense in pushing them into more violence, when we've nothing immediate to gain.'
Although still shaking, Ballantyne had recovered at least some of his composure. 'I'm sorry. Bob. I am adamant. The Government must stand its ground. We take the decisions; your job is to protect. That's what I expect you, and your people, to do.'
Skinner glowered at him, making no effort to hide the flame of I his anger. 'I hope you realise you could be signing some poor sod's death warrant. Not your own, though; you're safe enough. As for our job, we're already doing it. But since you're making it difficult for us, you can come up with some extra resources. I want some SAS people up here. You can quote the Prime Minister's resolve, to get the OK from MOD. A dozen will do me.
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