'Before any of you ask me, I'll tell you that we are taking this letter at face value. We believe that the people behind this atrocity are serious. We don't know the first thing about them yet, but we do know that anyone who can lay hands on a pound or two of Semtex is unlikely to be a one-hit wonder. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, we have to believe that the Festival events for which you are responsible are now all under threat. More than that, while I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, we have to assume, for safety's sake, that each of you could be a target.'
He studied each face in turn. The expressions ranged from the incredulity of Ray Starkey to the serenity of Julia Shahor. As Skinner had expected, the first to speak was Archie McPhee.
The colonel's eyes seemed to gleam with memories of conflict as he asked softly: 'What would you like us to do about it. Bob?'
'I'd like all six of you to co-operate with us, but, Archie, I'd like you to do a wee bit more than that. The Tattoo isn't run by the army, but it is military in nature, and it does take place at what is in fact an army base – the Castle. I'd like you yourself to take on responsibility for extra security. Pull in soldiers from Craigiehall if you have to. You won't have any difficulty getting them. I can promise you that. At the moment I'm considering whether I need help from other quarters for the wider task. Is that okay with you?'
'Certainly!' said McPhee emphatically, 'Thanks. Now, everyone else, the first thing to say is that we do not believe that we should, nor do we even believe that we could call off any or all of your Festivals in response to this threat. And that isn't just a police view. It's a decision of the Secretary of State. So Mr Martin and I have two tasks. First, we have to take steps to protect all the Festival events, organisers, performers, and audiences, as best we can. Then, having done that, we must make it all unnecessary by catching these terrorists and putting them away. I have already set up a team to tackle both those jobs.'
He described the instructions which he had issued earlier to his own team.
'When my officers make their security checks, they'll do so discreetly. I don't want to cause any more public concern than is necessary. At the moment, that lettter's between you, us, and some very co-operative newspaper editors. We've secured a news blackout on it, otherwise you'd have heard about it before now. I would ask you to assist my people in every way, as they assess each of our priority venues. If they need specific help or information, please let them have it without question. If any curious managers ask you what that was all about, the party line is that it is routine procedure. Please stick to that.'
Skinner look around and smiled. 'OK so far? Good. That's what we're doing about the buildings. Now for the people – and this is where you're asked to give us the greatest help. As part of the security operation we need to ensure that each participant can be identified, and also that we know when they're on site. That means a pass system for everyone who is performing at every Festival event, front or back stage, primadonna or call-boy.'
There was a collective cry of protest from five of the six directors. Only Archie McPhee stayed relaxed, sprawled comfortably back on his sofa. The Military Tattoo had operated its own pass system since its inception.
'You can't mean everyone!' said Harriet Nelson.
'That's impossible!' said David Leroy.
'I do, Ms Nelson – and it isn't, Mr Leroy.' He looked across at Martin. 'Andy, explain how we'll go about it.'
Martin waited until he was sure that he had the full attention of every one of the six. He flashed a wide smile at Julia Shahor, who responded with a small one of her own.
'As Mr Skinner has said, it's important that we are able to check people's identity and that we know precisely when they're in their venues. God forbid, but we could have another incident like today's, or an arson attack, or even just a warning that we take seriously enough to act upon – and if this threat becomes public knowledge we could have every drunk and nutter under the sun calling in hoaxes. If anything like that were to happen, we'd have to clear the place in question totally, and account for everyone supposedly there. Ticket stubs would tell us how many people are in the audience, but we need a pass system for the performers.
Agreed?'
His last word was a statement rather that a question. Martin sat forward on his chair, accidentally swinging his bolstered pistol into full sight. His vivid green eyes were intense as they scanned the three sofas. Five heads nodded. Even Colonel McPhee sat up straight.
'Good. Now let me tell you how we'll do it. These passes needn't be photographic. They'll be credit-card style, and they'll be signed on the back by the holder, in the presence of the issuing officer, when they're allocated. We'll use experienced Scottish Office personnel to process the applications and issue passes on the spot. They'll be based in your various offices. So what we'd like you to do, as soon as you all get back to your offices is to organise a circular to every performing company that's here so far. It should advise them that the fire safety officer has demanded that, in the light of new regulations, all performers and crew will have to carry passes and show them whenever they enter their venues. Here's a draft for you to work on.'
He delved into his briefcase, produced a handful of copy letters, and handed them round.
"This asks everyone involved to report to whichever Festival Office is appropriate, between four and seven o'clock tomorrow evening, and to take with them some form of personal identification.'
Jay Hands broke in. 'What if they don't possess any?'
'We won't actually turn anyone down on those grounds, but I think you'll find that nowadays everybody carries something with their signature on it. We'll put experienced people into your offices to do the job. It'll be painless, I promise you – no worse than the queue at the building society on the last Friday of the month.'
He grinned at the six directors. Julia Shahor smiled back; the rest reacted with an assortment of grunts and snorts.
'Of course, you and all of your staff will require passes, too.
Even you, Colonel McPhee, in case you need to go backstage at any other event.'
The colonel acknowledged with the faintest nod of his head.
Harriet Nelson voiced again her earlier concern. No exceptions at all?'
Martin shook his head. 'Ms Nelson, if the Royal Ballet had the ghosts of Fonteyn and Nureyev appearing in Swan Lake, I'd want them to have passes. There are no exemptions when it comes to security. Even the Prime Minister has to carry a pass for the House of Commons.' He looked around the room once more.
'Your circulars should make it clear that, as from Monday, anyone without a pass just doesn't get in. So that this daily signing-in routine isn't a burden with the larger companies, we'll put our own plain-clothes people in to look after it. The smaller groups should be able to handle that end themselves.'
Martin picked up his briefcase again, and lifted the lid. 'As Mr Skinner said earlier, we have to consider every foreseeable threat, however remote it might seem. For example, these terrorists may decide that it's easier to target individuals than venues. You're all prominent people, and we have to keep you safe. If any of you want round-the-clock police protection, just ask and you'll have it. In my view, that's not necessary, but just say the word.
Anyone?'
The room hung with tension, but no one spoke.
'OK, but my offer stays open. For what it's worth, I think a constant police presence would be a greater irritant for you than the risk justifies. But there are some simple precautions which you should take all the same.'
He reached into his case and produced two bundles of small volumes, one bound in blue, the other in russet brown. He handed a copy of both to each of the directors.
"These two wee books contain advice on security procedures.
The blue one relates to office security, tells you how to look out for suspect parcels in the mail – stuff like that. The brown one deals with personal security, tells you the bad habits to cut out like going to work every day at
the same time, by the same route.
It tells you how to search your car, and what to do if you think you're being watched. That last bit's quite important. If any of you do believe that you're being followed, don't just try to scare the suspect off by shouting "Murder! Polis!" Only do that if you feel you're in imminent danger. What you should do is stay in a crowd, if you can, and try to find some unobtrusive way to let us know about your situation. Do you all have mobile telephones?
Yes? Well you'll find a telephone number written in the brown book. Short-code that into your phones. In a real emergency, all you'll need to do is punch in that one number and you'll be straight through to my office. Remember, we don't just want to frighten these people off. We want to catch them, and keep them – for a hell of a long time.'
He closed his briefcase, snapped the locks shut, and spun the combination wheels. 'That's all I have to say. Sir?'
Skinner took his cue. 'So that's the situation, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry you've been handed this extra worry, but, hate it as we may, we're all involved in this crisis. If anybody has any questions, we'll deal with them now. And if anybody wants to ask us, or tell us, anything privately, we'll deal with it here too.'
Julia Shahor's slim hand crept up tentatively, like a child at school. 'Could I have a word with Mr Martin in private?'
'Sure. Would the two of you like to step out into the corridor?'
The policeman held open the door for the Film Festival director, then closed it behind them. Outside she turned to face him, her cheeks slightly flushed.
'What can I do for you, Miss Shahor?'
'Julia, please.'
'OK. What can I do for you, Julia?' He looked into her eyes and had to stop himself from adding, '… and if I can, I will.' She really had very attractive dark brown eyes. And, even under the Jesus dress, all the rest looked in fair working order, too.
Well, Mr Martin…'
'Andy. please.'
'Well, Andy, I heard what you said in there about no exceptions. But, you see, we've got this mega star coming. You know-'
'Yeah, sure, what'sher-name.'
'That's right, her. Well, I'm just afraid that if we ask her to apply for a pass, that… well, you know her reputation – that she'll just tell us to take a flying you-know-what. That's what she's said to be like.'
Martin almost laughed out loud, but restricted himself to what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He gazed deep into the brown eyes. 'I hear you, Julia, but I just can't make any exceptions. I'll tell you what I can do, though. Since she's so high-profile, I can bend the rules a bit. How would it be if you and I went to her hotel, and processed her there ourselves? And you have a back entrance, she can sign in there on the night.'
'Andy, that'd be great. The only thing is, whenever she makes an appearance like this, she wants to pose out front. She'll never agree to sign in at the back door.'
'She will if the alternative could be a high-velocity round between the eyes. Tell you what, why don't I come up and check out the venue myself?'
'Would you really? That'd be great. Can you come up tonight, maybe? We're screening the European premiere of the new Costner movie as our launch event. You could look things over, then stay on for the film – as my guest, or course.'
'I'd like that. And I'll even leave this thing behind in the office.'
He tapped the gun under his left arm.
She laughed. 'Terrific. Just ask for me at the door. Better come about 7:30. The film starts at 8:15.'
She waved over her shoulder as she walked away. Martin stood gazing after her, until the door opened and the other five Festival directors emerged, followed by Skinner.
Martin was still smiling as he and his chief went back into the room together. He poured them both coffee from one of the Thermos jugs.
'What's the grin for?' said Skinner, accepting a cup. 'Christ, you haven't bloody scored with Crystal Tipps there, have you, Andy? See you, boy, you'd shag Desert Orchid if you could catch it. If I ever find out that you talk in your sleep, I'll have to think again about you as head of Special Branch.'
Martin's grin was suddenly a little forced. 'You can say that, Bob, but since you put me in this job, I haven't been able to keep a girlfriend for more than two months at a stretch. They say it's because they never know where I am.'
Skinner laughed out loud. 'Bollocks! It's because they do know where you are. You're usually with some other female! Come on, let's get moving. I've got to get ready for Alex's show. And you've got to fix up these Scottish Office people for tomorrow, then get home and take your ginseng and Vitamin E. You wouldn't want to go limp on wee Julia.'
12
Dropped off by Skinner at Fettes Avenue, Martin entered the building by the back door and trotted up the stairs from the basement level to his office.
He was pleased to see that, save for Barry Macgregor, who was manning the telephones, the Special Branch suite was empty. It was 6:20 pm, and it was Saturday, but he knew this meant, not that everyone has finished for the night, but that the inspection of the chosen venues was already well under way. Sitting down behind his desk, he read the ex-directory telephone number which Skinner had written down for him on the back of a business card, then picked up his secure telephone and punched it in.
A clipped, slightly cautious voice answered. 'Hello, Michael Licorish.'
Andy Martin had met the Head of the Scottish Office Information Directorate on a few occasions, and had seen him in action in one or two high-pressure situations. Licorish had impressed Martin each time as an unflappable, no-nonsense performer, who could keep his media people under control, out of respect as well as his authority, and at times when others would be running for the nearest exit. He had been deputy director in those days, waiting patiently for his crusty old military predecessor to complete his last few months.
'Michael, hi. Andy Martin here. Special Branch. Remember me?'
The responding voice lost its cautious edge. 'Hah. I should forget? What can I do for you, Andy?'
'I take it that you'll have heard by now, the real story of our socalled gas explosion in Princes Street today.'
'Mm. I know all about it. Secretary of State briefed me this afternoon. Told me about the warning letter, too. And about Bob Skinner's anti-terrorist unit. Seems a strong reaction for this S of S, between you and me.'
'Needed though, as it's turned out.' Martin described Skinner's encounter with the motorcyclist.
'Jesus, Andy. S of S didn't tell me that.'
'He doesn't know. It happened after Bob had left him. Now you appreciate how serious this is, I hope you won't quibble over what I'm going to ask you for.'
Martin explained the plan for a pass system, and all of the reasons for it.
'We're going to have to process a hell of a lot of people very quickly, so the sooner we can get started, the happier I'll be. My outfit is having the registration forms printed overnight, and the passes too. What I'd like you to do is to provide us with suitable staff to handle the accreditation at the Festival office venues, from tomorrow evening onwards. I could put police personnel in to do it, but your people are properly experienced in this sort of thing.
They'll handle it faster, and the performers won't get prickly the way some people do when they have to deal with us.
'What d'you say?'
'I say yes, if you'll pick up any overtime tab.' •Done.'
'Right. How many will you need?'
'Tomorrow, six good people. Two each at the Festival and Fringe offices, and one at each of the Jazz, and Film festivals. The television thing doesn't start for another week. After that, their job will be continuous at least up to the third weekend, with completely new companies and solo performers coming in all the time. But we'll drawn up a rota of registration times at all the offices. That'll let you run it with two people at the most – maybe only one.'
'That sounds fair. I'll line my people up. I'll use my tour escorts; they're smooth talkers. And my publicity section peo
ple; they do this sort of thing on royal visits. Where will you want them, and when?'
'Ask them all to report to Fettes at 2:30 tomorrow, and to ask for DI Brian Mackie. We'll brief them then, and allocate them around the offices.'
'You've got it.' There was a pause. 'Here, does this mean that we get to meet that glamour girl, her with the… If it does, I might come along myself!'
'Nice one, Michael, but I've put myself down for that painful task.'
'That sounds like corruption to me, Andy! See you.' The line clicked dead.
Martin grinned. Suddenly he thought again of Julia Shahor, her black hair, her pale, heart-stopping face and her dark brown eyes.
He snorted. 'Crystal Tipps, indeed! Shag Desert Orchid, indeed!
Ginseng and Vitamin E, indeed! Giving away your own secrets, Bob?'
13
Skinner raised a hand in farewell to Martin, as he dropped him at the Camngton Road entrance to police headquarters.
He pulled the BMW away from the kerb, its steel sunroof fully open. The day was beginning to cool, but the August evening sun still blazed from the west in a cloudless sky. Looking down as he reached for the on-button of the radiocassette, his eye was caught by the rip in the knee of his denims, and in the same instant his mind swept back to Charlotte Square, replaying the incident with the motorcyclist.
Analysing the incident as he drove the short distance home, several things struck Skinner in succession. The first was the sheer speed of his own reaction to the threat. He had known instinctively that the man was pulling a gun, even before he had seen its barrel. The second was that he had felt no fear. Twice in his life, now, he had been exposed to direct gunfire, and on neither occasion had he been afraid. Was it simply that there had been no time for the luxury of terror, or was the answer somewhere deeper inside him, more complex and more sinister? Was he a man who actually courted and enjoyed danger? Was there even in him a touch of the psychopath?
He cast his mind back through his career, recalling the many criminal psychopaths who had crossed his path over the years.
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