wouldn't give in. So now I'm just hanging around the fringes, doing
colour pieces for my newspaper in Jo'burg, and hoping for some sort
of a scoop.'
The barman turned his attention to Andy, who shouted his order
over the hubbub. 'And a pint of Guinness, on top of that,' he added, then gave the little reporter his most dazzling smile. 'What's your
name?' he asked.
'Estelle. Estelle Lawrence.'
'I'm Andy. You stick with me, Estelle,' he murmured, 'and you
never know what you might come up with.'
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95
Bob Skinner worked hard, played hard and exercised hard. He liked to
go to bed tired and ready for a sound, peaceful sleep, for he was wary
of dreams; there had been too many bad ones in the past.
There had been the weeks after Myra's death, when he had wakened
every night after an hour or so, lathered in sweat from a nightmare of
vague darkness and corruption. There had been the hours after his
life-threatening stabbing when he had drifted in a fog of recalled
glimpses of days so awful that his mind had taken refuge in amnesia.
There had been other moments too, secret times in his career, from
which people would still return on occasion to visit him.
Then there was her. He was almost certain that he would never see
her again, and he did his best not to think of her during his waking
hours, yet at night, even with Sarah by his side, she had crept through
his defences once or twice into his dreams. And in those dreams he
was afraid other; for he knew that she had the advantage of him in the
pure implacable hatred that she felt for him.
Now, as he lay in the early hours of the morning, a watcher would
have seen him toss and turn, yet it was none of his old foes who
troubled his sleep. Instead he saw repeated flashes of the face of
Wayne Ventnor: visions of him lifting his friend Crombie into bed, with K-aren Neville, suffocating in her unfeasibly large breasts,
swinging from a ladder, oily and perspiring, on his off-shore rig,
standing in a jungle clearing holding in each hand, by the hair, a
severed human head ...
He sat bolt upright in bed in the same instant that he awoke, eyes
wide, cold sweat on his forehead. Hawkins? he thought. But no,
Hawkins was dead; and anyway, when he had seen the Australian in
the auditorium, there had been no trace left of the limp which had
caught Karen Neville's eye at the outset of their relationship.
Calming himself, he put himself back into his dream, a form of
self-hypnosis which he had learned from an expert, and he realised at
once what it had shown him. No, it was unfeasible, he told himself at
once. He liked Karen Neville; his mind was probably projecting
subliminal jealousy of the Australian. But then he looked at his
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sleeping wife and dismissed that notion. In times of crisis. Bob Skinner
lived by his instincts: indeed they had saved his life. This was
something that had to be checked.
In the dark, he glanced at the luminous clock by his side. It
showed five minutes before seven, too early to call Mcllhenney.
Silently he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Sarah, and stepped
into the bathroom. He shaved and showered slowly and deliberately,
remembering the pressure under which he, Andy and the rest of the
team were operating, looking after the world's leaders, with their
rival phalanxes of armed guards, telling himself that such circumstances
play tricks with the mind, but failing utterly to drive away
his concern.
Sarah was awake when he came out of the bathroom. 'You're early,'
she mumbled, hazily, tousled hair hanging over her left eye, reminding
him of... no, she was Sarah, God's gift to him, no one else. 'Couldn't
you sleep? Were you worrying about the conference today?'
'No,' he laughed, trying to make himself sound light-hearted. 'I
slept like a log. Too well, that's the problem.'
'That's good, that's good,' she said, nodding to herself as he began
to dress, and swinging quickly out of bed. 'Be a love, will you, when
you're dressed, and make me some brown bread toast and piccalilli.'
'You what?'
'I fancy it, that's all,' she answered, matter-of-fact. 'But first, since
it's morning, I think I might as well be sick.' She headed quickly for
the bathroom door.
He was used to the ritual, and although the sudden craving had him
mildly surprised, he did as she asked. Just as he replaced the piccalilli
jar in the fridge, she came into the kitchen, carrying a bleary-eyed
Jazz. She looked at what was waiting for her on the plate. 'Oahh!' she
moaned. 'I don't think I fancy that now. But thanks anyway.'
Bob looked at the kitchen clock; it was twenty to eight. He picked
up the phone and dialled his assistant. Mcllhenney sounded weary as
he answered. 'Neil, hello. 'S'me. Sorry to dig you up so early, but
how are you placed to go into the office? There's something needs
handling, quick.'
The sergeant hesitated. 'The thing is, boss, Olive's not too well this
morning. She's had a bit of a reaction to those platelets they gave her.'
'No problem,' said Skinner at once. 'I'll just leave a bit earlier, and
do it myself, before I go up to the EICC. If I put the foot down I could
probably be there as fast as you anyway. You look after Olive. I'll
swear Ruthie in as a deputy; she can hold the fort in everyone's
absence.'
'Thanks,' the sergeant grunted. 'Listen, boss, there's something
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else. Last night, I got a result. But I want to play it out myself. Is that
okay?'
'Right now, Neil,' the DCC replied, 'anything would be okay. Do
what you think best. If you need any help, just let me know.'
He hung up, finished his coffee, kissed Sarah and Jazz goodbye,
then rushed towards the door, ruffling Mark's hair on the way as his
older son put in his first appearance of the morning.
Normally, he drove sedately in to Fettes, but when he had to, he
could make the BMW fly. He overtook at least a dozen cars on the
single carriageway between Gullane and Longniddry, tore down the
Al at close on a hundred miles per hour, then took every shortcut
and rat-run across town that he could think of, until he arrived at
headquarters. 'Eight twenty-five,' he muttered, glancing at the car
clock just before he switched off. 'Not bad.' He strode purposefully
into the building, nodding only briefly to the men on the door, then ran upstairs.
In the corner of his office behind his chair, bolted to the floor, there
stood a small safe. The combination was his mother's birthday. He
spun the dial three times, listening for the clicks, then opened it, and
took out a slim folder, with one word written on the outside.
'Hawkins.'
Impatiently he flicked through the photographs and photofits, until
he found the awful image ofHencke Van Roost with his trophies, one
in each hand. He had been right; Wayne Ventnor looked nothing like
the South African assassin. He breathed a sigh of relief.
But there were other men in the shot, behind the
ir leader. There
were six of them, in fact. Two were black, one stood no more than five
feet three, two were balding; but the sixth was tall, and dark-haired.
He was clean-shaven, and looked to be around the same age as Van
Roost. Only the central figure in the photograph was fully in focus;
all of the figures were blurred. The sixth man could have been Ventnor,
but even with his sharp eyesight. Skinner was uncertain.
He took a magnifying glass from his drawer, held it over the scene
and studied the figure as closely as he could. 'Look at the eyes,' he
whispered to himself. 'It's the eyes that give them away.' As he said
the words he thought of Hawkins burned to a crisp in tangled wreckage
in a Polish field. 'No it's not,' he corrected himself. 'It's the teeth.'
Suddenly a kaleidoscope of images and possibilities whirled in his
brain. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk, and dialled a
number. The duty telephonist at the offices ofMI5 answered circumspectly,
with a voice which the policeman did not recognise.
'This is Skinner in Scotland,' he said. 'I need to speak to the
Director General, urgently.'
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'Oh,' the man's soothing tone was that of a professional deflector.
'I'm not sure if I can raise him at this time. Can I put you through to
the duty officer?'
'No, thank you. Now listen to me carefully. I am on a secure line
and I need to speak to the DG, now; don't try to fob me off with
anyone else, and don't put someone on the line pretending to be him
either, for I know him. He can be reached at all times, as you and I are
both aware, so connect me now.'
The 'or else' seemed to hang in the air, unspoken but understood.
'I'll try his car, sir. Hold on for a moment, please.'
The moment seemed like an hour, but eventually there was a click.
'Yes?' said a calm plummy voice, one that he recognised. 'What can I
do for you, Bob?' In the background. Skinner heard the noise of
traffic.
'You can pull out all the stops, sir. Bum the line to your opposite number in South Africa and find out all you can about the other
members ofHencke van Roost's platoon. In particular, I need to know
about a man, tall, dark-haired, who may have had an Australian
connection and whose name may have been Wayne Ventnor, although,
like Hawkins, he could have been called something else then.' He
recited his mobile number. 'Call me back on that as soon as you have
anything. I'll be on the move.'
'But what about security?'
'Bugger security,' Skinner snapped. He glanced at his watch.
'You've got twenty-one minutes. After that, I'm either going to
embarrass myself before the whole nicking world, or something very
bad is going to happen!'
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96
Stevie Steele stood at the doorway of Number Six Charlotte Square,
looking out into the street. Since the last round of games which the
city's traffic managers had played with a confused motoring public it
had always been quiet outside the official residence of the Secretary
of State for Scotland, but on this momentous morning in the city it
was almost ghostly. The usual fleet of maroon-coloured buses were
operating; Steele saw two of them dropping off passengers on the far
side of the square. But there were no cars, no delivery vans, no crash-
helmeted cycle couriers, and very few pedestrians.
Other than the public transport the only vehicles in the Square were
two black Jaguars parked outside the magnificent grey-sandstone
terrace, two police cars front and rear, and four motorcycles. They
stood on the other side of the street, three of their riders waiting
beside them, their crash helmets in their hands.
The young sergeant flexed his shoulders, trying to work his firearm
into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket, feeling its weight
in the holster strapped to his ribcage, feeling his heart thumping
slightly, his pulse raised by the tension of his onerous duty. He had
done close protection work before for visiting VIPs, but this was
different; this was big time; the biggest. He looked down at his dark
jacket, at the sun glinting on the small gold eagle badge in his lapel.
He checked his watch: sixteen minutes to nine, one minute to go.
The radio in his hand gave a small bleep; and a voice spoke from it.
Steele recognised ACC Elder, even although he sounded strained.
'Charlotte Square acknowledge.'
The sergeant pressed a button. 'Sir.'
'Delay departure by two minutes, sergeant,' said Elder. 'The
Russians are late leaving the Caley. Tell the outriders not to get too
close if you come up behind them in Lothian Road.'
'Understood, sir.' He looked at the senior outrider, a sergeant, who
was standing beside him. 'Did you get that?'
'Aye,' the man replied. 'No sweat. I'll get ma cowboys saddled up.'
He headed down the steps and across the street, black boots shining as
his signalled to his men to mount their cycles. Steele counted off the
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minutes, then the seconds. At exactly thirteen minutes to nine on his
synchronised watch he pressed the bell on the door-jamb of Number
Six, then stood aside and waited. A few seconds later the heavy door
swung open and the Prime Minister stepped out, flanked by his two
permanent bodyguards. He gave the young sergeant a watered down
version of his world-famous smile, and jogged down the steps.
Dr Bruce Anderson, the Secretary of State for Scotland, followed
in his wake, Brian Mackie by his side and his Civil Service private
secretary, briefcase in hand bringing up the rear. 'Okay, Stevie,' said
the Superintendent as they headed for the second Jaguar. 'Everything
seems peaceful. Let's deliver our client.'
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97
A small crowd of people stood on the pavement in Morrison Street,
opposite the entrance to the Edinburgh International Conference
Centre. Apart from the Scottish Office minders, and two uniformed
police officers, they were all journalists, not accredited to enter the
conference itself, but given secondary passes to allow them limited
access to the arrival.
They stood in professional, dispassionate silence as the President
of the United States stepped out of his armour-plated car under the
Centre's decorative canopy, watching as he was greeted by the Lord
Provost of Edinburgh, gold chain glinting, by Chief Constable Sir
James Proud, silver braid shining, and by the American Consul
General, in a dark lounge suit.
Andy Martin was waiting in the foyer as the group moved inside:
the world's most powerful man shook his hand as the Consul General
introduced him, gave him a drawled, 'Good morning and thank you,'
and moved on.
The chief superintendent had never seen the President in the flesh
before. On the basis of the documentaries he had watched on television
and the studies he had read of his ascent to power, he had always
wondered how the man had reached the world's most powerful office.
Close to he began to understand: there
was a presence about him, an
aura which was almost visible, and which had been lacking in all of
the other world figures who had walked past him previously that
morning, even the formidable Chinese and French leaders.
As he gazed after him, the President walked through the security
archway - the metal detector having been turned off for that moment,
to ensure that his belt buckle did not set it off - smiled and waved
briefly over his shoulder to the police and officials gathered in the
entrance.
'Two more to go, sir,' said Mario McGuire as he stepped alongside
Martin. 'The Russian and our PM.'
'Don't forget the Secretary of State.'
'Easily done,' the inspector grunted, as they stepped closer to the
entrance. 'D'you remember the saying about that old Prime Minister.
292
What was it? "An empty car drew up outside Number Ten and Mr
Attlee got out." That could have been told about Anderson.'
The Head of CID laughed. 'You've been spending too much time
with the Deputy Chief Constable. That's how he feels about all
politicians these days. If someone told him there was a bomb in here,
I reckon he'd clear out the civilians and lock the leaders in.'
As he spoke, McGuire nudged his elbow, and gestured towards the
group across the street. 'There's a friend of yours over there.'
Martin's eye followed his pointing finger. Estelle Lawrence stood
among the group of journalists, waving at them with a slightly
uncertain smile. He grinned and gave her a brief wave in return.
'Here, sir,' the inspector muttered, 'you dropped us right in it last
night, bringing that one back to the table and having us all pretend we
were catering contractors. Christ, when Maggie said she was in charge
of dishwashing . ..' He shook his head, laughing softly to himself.
'After we all left, did you manage to stick to your ten o'clock
curfew?'
'Oh aye, no problem. I might have trouble tonight, though. I'm
picking Estelle up at nine from her hotel.'
McGuire pointed across the street once more. 'I'm not so sure
about that. See who she's talking to?'
The Head of CID looked back at the journalists and saw Estelle
deep in conversation with John Tough, a local news reporter whom
they both knew well. Suddenly her expression changed; she shot them
both a venomous glare.
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