The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “It’s possible. I wasn’t expecting to be tailed, so I wasn’t looking out for him.”

  “But the guy’s ex-SAS; if he was looking to kill you, rest assured, you’d be dead, but you’re only walking wounded. That doesn’t say much about his training, does it?”

  “Maybe he wanted to scare me?”

  “You’re scaring me. There’s been no sign of Wark. I spoke to Davidson earlier and they turned up nothing at his flat. It doesn’t look like he’s been there for a while. Officially you’re the last person that saw him.”

  “In Blackfriars?”

  “No, when you saw him in the southside. We can look into this but it’s going to be difficult to dig anything up. The pub has already told us they don’t have CCTV, while the network was down for two hours so we won’t be able to see him on any of the council cameras.”

  “It’s almost as if it were planned.”

  “You’ve had a shock, Norrie, but there’s no need to be dramatic.”

  “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one that’s been fucking stabbed.”

  “Calm down. I’m on your side. All I’m saying is we’ve not got much to go on. We’ve got statements from the people in the pub but they were distracted by the power cut.”

  Both men were thinking along similar lines. If Ian Wark and his associates were capable of bombing a civilian parade, they wouldn’t flinch from trying to knock out utilities.

  “Do you know how the power cut happened?”

  “Are you asking if it was deliberate?”

  Norrie nodded.

  “Scottish Power say it was a faulty relay. The system is designed to protect itself, so after a power surge in one part of town the whole city grid basically switches itself off.”

  “Like a fuse box?”

  “That’s what they tell me, although we don’t know what caused the surge. They’ve identified where the fault originated but they can’t say what caused it.”

  “Is it possible it could have been done deliberately?”

  “Of course it is, but that’s not to say that it was. As far as we know this could have been a chance incident.”

  “I don’t believe that, and neither do you.”

  “I can’t afford to think anything until I have a clearer idea of what happened.”

  “I’m telling you, it was Wark.”

  “Maybe it was, Norrie. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  Arbogast left the Royal Infirmary and walked to the car park across the road. He knew Norrie was essentially a logical man and not prone to flights of fancy. But he’d been through a lot in the last couple of weeks, and that was bound to leave a strain. Could he have seen Ian Wark in the pub? The last time the two had seen each other Norrie had tried to confiscate his computer. Norrie had told Wark that he knew the material was on the machine, but did he know who his would be apprehender actually was? Ian had disappeared from the pub and the next place Norrie had gone was Annabelle Strachan’s house. Annabelle Strachan. Arbogast got into the car and set the Sat Nav for Espedair Street in Paisley. He had a growing sense of unease that something bigger was starting to happen, and he feared the worst.

  ***

  The First Minister arrived through the ornate Georgian doors on the east side of Bute House in Edinburgh. Built in 1792 by Robert Adam the building had served as a private home until being taken on by the National Trust. Now branded as the Official Residence of the First Minister, few people would have been able to tell you anything about it. Today it was the scene of a press conference. The room was full, with scribes in the front row, and broadcast journalists taking up the back seats. A number of Government press officers also littered the room, making contact and briefing where needed. There was an expectant hush when the side door opened and the First Minister came in. The cameras were on and the clattering applause of a dozen flash bulbs going off discordantly welcomed the actor to his stage. Sandy Stirrit was in the room. He had managed to set the agenda for the day with his reporting of the Glasgow power cut. His vivid recounting of Norrie’s stabbing was now being followed up by every major outlet. The press call was announced at 9:00am and took place just two hours later. Most people suspected it would be something to do with the George Square attack. Security across the country had become more visible in the preceding fortnight. Police now routinely carried side arms, something that was still alien to most people, but it was something deemed ‘necessary’ due to the ‘current risk’.

  The First Minister had no notes. He stood behind the dark aluminium lectern and paused for a second, looking down at an imagined piece of paper. He knew the speech was being broadcast live.

  “In recent days we have seen the worst that man can do. The scenes in Glasgow’s George Square were an abomination which made a mockery of the lives that have been sacrificed in the name of peace, and to those that chose to honour their memories. Since then Police Scotland has been working tirelessly to bring those people responsible to justice. We do not believe this was the action of a lone bomber, rather a co-ordinated plan by a small organisation that, for whatever reason, has decided to target our security for its own political gain. They will not succeed.

  “I am here today to tell you that we have made a major breakthrough in the case. The investigation is now focusing its attention on a single individual. Hundreds of officers across the country, led by Chief Constable, Graeme Donald, are now closing in on this person and we expect to resolve this case in the very near future.

  “At this time I am not at liberty to divulge any further details, save to say that I am proud of the work being done by our new national force, and for the continued cooperation of the public during this difficult time.”

  He left the room without uttering another word, despite the pleading of the baying press pack. Sandy thought it was a remarkable statement given the circumstances. He phoned into the newsroom and filed a quick radio piece for the midday news. He would need to edit a short package for lunchtime TV and submit copy to the online desk. For now, though, he needed a steer, and thought it would be a good time to try John Arbogast for a chat.

  “Hi, Sandy. I wonder what you’re phoning about.”

  “It was a rather sensational statement. Are you really that close?”

  “No-one was more surprised than me when the First Minister made that statement. I nearly choked on my coffee.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  “It’s not entirely wrong.”

  “He wouldn’t put himself on the line like that if he thought this wasn’t going to pan out.”

  “So where do you think he got the information?”

  “Graeme Donald?”

  “And why would he want to look good for our mighty leader?”

  “Because his job depends on it?”

  “So if there were a healthy lead what would you do?”

  “Suggest we were close? But I still don’t think I’d go public.”

  “Who do you think will be eating the shit sandwich here if this guy isn’t caught?”

  “So you’re looking for a man?”

  “Do you think my head buttons up the back, Sandy?”

  “What’s the latest with the terror group?”

  “As far as we know it doesn’t even exist.”

  “The evidence would suggest otherwise.”

  “What you know about the evidence, with all due respect, is negligible.”

  “I was in the pub last night not long after Norrie got stabbed.”

  “I heard.”

  “He was pretty bad in there, John. He was saying a lot of things. A few names for instance.”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone, “He said he’d seen someone called Wark,” still no sound, “and I got to thinking about some of the things that have been happening. All that business with the police emails being hacked. There’s also a rumour doing the rounds that there’s some pretty compromising material of you.”

  “C’mon, Sandy, I don’t have time f
or this.”

  “That website with the emails was run by a guy called Ian Wark.”

  “How would you know that? The site’s not even UK registered.”

  “I see, so there is a connection. Look I’ve been around for a while now, John. I’ve met most of the hacks on the scene and I’ve been introduced to most of the independents, the home based cyber journalists. I met Wark at an independence rally. He didn’t really take to me. Said I was peddling mainstream crap and wouldn’t know the truth if it slapped me in the face.”

  “You’re going to need to get to the point here.”

  “His name was Ian Wark. He was a cyber nat with very radical views. Not unlike the kind of thing I saw on Jock Smith’s video. I’m assuming this could be the guy you’re looking for?”

  “You know I can’t confirm that.”

  “But you’re not denying it.”

  “This is too important to fuck about with Sandy.”

  “Has a warrant been issued for his arrest? You don’t need to say anything but if you say nothing that will be enough.”

  The mobile went dead. Sandy phoned the news desk with an update which was going to dramatically change the tone of the coverage.

  37

  The conversation had left Arbogast agitated. He had better not use that. He won’t use that, he knows the problems it will cause me. If I was him, what would I do with that information? He’s going to use it. Arbogast put the car in first gear and pulled out into Blythswood Square. He heard the horn before he saw the car. A dull crunch meant he had been hit. The look on the other driver’s face said he wasn’t happy.

  “What are you thinking about?” The driver was red-faced and angry at Arbogast’s window, “I could have been killed.”

  “I doubt that, you were only doing about 10 miles an hour and I must have been doing less than five,” Arbogast got out of the car to look at the damage. The Lexus had a smashed rear headlight, while the bumper was quite badly cracked. The other driver was in a Landrover Discovery. He looked hard at the car but could see nothing wrong with it at all. Typical.

  “You’ve scratched that.”

  “Where?”

  “And come to think of it my neck’s sore. I think you’ve given me whiplash. I’m calling the Police.”

  “I am the Police.”

  “Of course you are,” Arbogast showed him his warrant card which seemed to calm him down. They were outside Pitt Street so he called for an officer. Details were exchanged. He was now behind schedule. The young officer had warned him he shouldn’t drive with a smashed light but Arbogast had to get going. He needed to speak to Annabelle. Accelerating down the M8 he got stuck in traffic about two miles out of Paisley. It was 4:30pm so he turned on the radio for Newsdrive. They were talking about whether or not the country would remain in the EU if Scotland voted for independence. After the report ended there was a pause. Arbogast could hear the quiet rumble of a keyboard being battered in the background. The presenter started to say something but stopped. A few seconds later he tried again, this time with greater certainty.

  “Some breaking news coming in now – we understand there has been a significant development in the George Square terror investigation. Police Scotland is said to have launched a national search in connection with the case. Our correspondent, Sandy Stirrit, joins us now, live from George Square.”

  “Thanks Garry. Some two weeks after the explosion and George Square remains closed to the public. White forensic screens shield the interior crime scene to the eyes of the public, while detectives continue to examine evidence. The scenes which unfolded here both sickened the people of Scotland and also focused public attention on a single issue – whoever is responsible has to be caught. Today we understand that Police Scotland have made a major breakthrough and are currently trying to locate a single man. We understand this man to be one Ian Wark,” Arbogast swore as he listened, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel, “Wark was a 32 year old ex-SAS veteran who had served in Iraq in the aftermath of 9-11. More recently he had turned his attention to campaigning journalism. We understand he currently acts as editor to the Newsnational website, and as one of the so-called cyber nats, has been vocal in his criticism of the United Kingdom, while calling for direct action to force Scotland to opt for independence.”

  The presenter broke in at this point, “And what can you tell us about where the investigation is heading?”

  “Details are sketchy at the moment. We don’t yet have a picture of the suspect. I would have to stress that at this time we believe an arrest warrant has not yet been issued but that Police Scotland are urgently looking to find this man. However sources close to this investigation have told me that they believe the man to be armed and dangerous. He had close ties to Jock Smith, the alleged bomber, and may – due to his military past – pose a risk both to himself and to those around him.”

  Arbogast heard a car horn. About 100 metres of empty road had opened up in front of him. He had been focusing so closely on the report that he had forgotten where he was and had slowed down to a crawl in the fast lane. You bastard, Sandy; you total bastard. Don’t you know what this will mean for me? He put the car in third gear and promptly stalled. The car behind him beeped loud and long. Arbogast screamed out in the car. He could feel his face go red, tears of rage boiled under the skin. When he calmed down the cars behind him had started to merge with traffic in the middle lane. Drivers looked across, but glanced away quickly when they saw his face. By the time he had regained his focus the report was over. The traffic presenter was warning of slow moving traffic on the M8. Arbogast laughed bitterly, and drove on towards Espedair Street.

  Graeme Donald looked in at Norrie lying in his private room from the hospital corridor. He thought he looked old – past it. Looking at the grapes he had bought he shook his head and threw them in a nearby bin. Knocking on the door he entered without being asked. Norrie looked surprised to see him.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “I’ll bet you weren’t.”

  “What do you want?”

  “They said you might die.”

  “So you thought you’d come and twist the knife a little deeper?”

  “Don’t be like that. You had your chance.”

  “It certainly seems like you have the ear of certain people.”

  “It helps to have friends at times like these.”

  “I’ve got plenty of friends. What’s more I know you’re appointment reeks of nepotism. They wanted you in. I don’t know why given your record, but congratulations.”

  “Face the facts Norrie. Regardless of what happens next I’ll always be the first Chief Constable of Police Scotland. No-one will remember your name.”

  “You might be the first, but the second could come along at any minute.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’re finished, and you know it. But believe it or not, I’m not here to gloat. I’m here to give you a warning.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I’m told you’ve been doing a bit of digging on behalf of John Arbogast,” Norrie moved to speak but Graeme held his hands up, “Don’t deny it. It seems you’ve been carrying out your own investigation into this case, and what’s more, you’ve been holding back evidence. Given the case we’re talking about that’s not going to look good for you. You might never recover.”

  “Where’s this going?”

  “This is going no-where. You’ve got absolutely nothing left to say. I’ve got evidence on you. I know who you’ve been seeing. What you’ve been saying. If there’s any more of it you’ll be wishing this guy had done the job properly. I don’t need to say anymore to you because, frankly, it’s none of your business, but if your name pops up again in relation to this case you’ll see how thorough I can be.”

  Norrie sat back in his bed, he was staring at the clipboard attached to the steel frame. “Do you understand?” Norrie nodded but Graeme was enjoying his power trip, “Speak to me when I ask you a questio
n.”

  “I understand.”

  “You better had.”

  The front door of Annabelle’s close was open when Arbogast arrived. He stopped to look at the lock and noticed the casing for the bolt was pushed out. It was a flimsy lock. Pulling the door to, he pushed hard at the handle and it opened without giving much resistance; not a good sign. Climbing the stairs Arbogast could see something was wrong before he reached the flat. The door was slightly ajar. He could see inside the flat, with the street lights outside clearly visible through the living room window. He knocked, but he knew no-one would answer. Prodding the door, he guided it open, looking in and checking for movement. There was nothing. He switched on the light and saw someone had beaten him to it. The flat had been turned upside down. There was no sign of Annabelle. Walking through the kitchen Arbogast stopped. Something had caught his eye. He scanned the wall, backwards and forwards several times before he saw it, a small yellow envelope with his name on it was pinned to the message board. He opened it to find a one word message.

  Goodbye.

  38

  Norrie Smith looked up from his hospital bed and saw a familiar face outside the door. He couldn’t place the name at first but he was certain he knew her. She had blonde, wet looking hair, which she wore in tight ringlets. Through the window he could see she was wearing a stone coloured Macintosh coat. It looked like she had been caught in the rain. The woman was waiting outside; hovering, reluctant to come in. He caught her eye and smiled –finally she came through.

  “Hi Norrie, you don’t mind me calling on you do you?”

  “Not at all, but my mind’s been shot these last few days, and I just can’t place your name – I know you from work, though, don’t I?

  “That’s right. I’m Sarah Meechan from the IT department. I did quite a lot of work on your floor when we upgraded the PCs.”

  “I remember; what brings you here Sarah?”

  “I need to talk to someone. It involves you but I’m not sure you’re going to like what I’ve got to say.”