Gallery Whispers

98

Skinner thumped the steering wheel in frustration, 'and swore loudly as the stolid, uniformed sergeant held up a big, gloved hand. He had already been stopped by two other officers, either ignoring, or ignorant of the call from Control that the DCC's car was to be waved through all barriers.

He sounded his horn, but the man simply turned his back on him.

The DCC jumped out to rend him limb from limb, but as he approached the main entrance of the Caledonian Hotel came into his line of vision. The Russian convoy was just pulling out, a black Rolls Royce limousine with full escort.

'Sergeant,' he barked, 'clear out of the way once they've gone.' The man turned, gulped as he recognised the angry figure behind him, and stepped aside.

Sliding back behind the wheel of the BMW, Skinner moved off heading for Lothian Road, only to see the Prime Minister's convoy swing out of Charlotte Square at speed, cutting across in front of him.

He swore again, but knew that patience was now his only option, and so he pulled in behind the rear outriders as they swept past the great hotel, heading for the EICC. One of the bikers dropped back, and took up position alongside his window, peering into the car from under the visor of his crash hat, recognising and acknowledging him with the wave of a gauntlet.

He was snarling with frustration as the cars in front slowed almost to walking pace, marking time, he realised, to allow the elderly Russian President to make his ponderous entrance first, but at last, they turned right into Lothian Road, the one-way system irrelevant under Jim Elder's movement plan. He looked at the car clock: six minutes to nine.

He swung violently into the car park, narrowly missing the young constable who moved momentarily to block his path, but sensibly stepped backwards, out of the way, drew to a halt in the first available space, jumped out of the car and moved quickly to catch up with the Prime Minister's party. He was twenty yards short of the great glass entrance when the phone in his pocket sounded its urgent signal.

Stopping in his tracks and snatching it from his pocket, he pressed the green button and held it to his ear. 'Yes,' he snapped.

The DG's calm plummy tone was gone. 'Your man Ventnor,' he said tersely. 'Is he on your patch?'

'Right in the middle of it.'

'In that case you have a major problem. You were right, he was in van Roost's jungle group. He was his second in command, in fact, and it was he who saved his life when he took his leg wound. He's halfAustralian, half-Afrikaner, and he's an explosives expert. D'you remember the Asian Head of State who was blown out of the sky in one ofHawkins'jobs?'

'Yes.'

'Well, the intelligence community suspected that he had help in making the bomb, but they never worked out who. You may have come up with the answer. My hypothesis is that when Hawkins was killed Ventnor was brought in as a replacement.'

'That's a contradiction. It would mean that Hawkins wasn't after Walesa, he was on this job all along. Therefore he wasn't in Poland and he isn't fucking dead. He's here, and he's posing as an adviser to the Iranian delegation.'

'But he was identified,' the DG protested.

'By his teeth alone! Somehow they've faked that. My guess is that his paymaster for this job came up with a body, and put a dentist to work on the lower jaw; who knows, maybe they used Hawkins' own teeth. When they found the stiff in the plane the top of his head was gone, so the dental identification was only partial.'

Even against the background street noise, the detective heard the gasp from the other end of the line. 'You have to stop the conference, Skinner,' the DG shouted. 'You have to clear the hall before there's a massacre.'

'It's probably too late for that. The Prime Minister's just gone inside; the plan is that he goes straight into the hall, up on to the stage with our Secretary of State, and at that point the event is declared open. As far as I know, Hawkins and Ventnor are in there now.

'Look, if you're right and we're dealing with a bomb, they ain't going to blow themselves up. The whole place was checked by snifter dogs first thing this morning. If there is a device in there, the clever bastards have taken it in with them, and I think I know how.'

'What do you mean?'

'I think Hawkins is sitting on it. The best chance we've got is if we can arrest them right now, and take them by surprise in the process so they don't have a chance to trigger the thing and take us all out with them.'

'Do you have to arrest them?'

Skinner knew exactly what the man was saying. 'Don't be daft,' he retorted. 'This event's being broadcast live. I can't shoot two guys on world-wide television.' He cut off the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and began to run.

The uniformed inspector in charge of the detail at the entrance saw him approach, and saw the look on his face. 'Where's Andy Martin?' the DCC called out.

'In the foyer last I saw, sir.'

The DCC sped into the auditorium. As he dived through the metal detector archway it buzzed loudly. The two civilian security guards who were manning did not recognise him and together, they moved to stop him. There was no time for explanations; first one, then the other, went down, winded by short disabling blows. He left them gasping and ran into the wide passageway which encircled the main auditorium.

To his relief, Martin and McGuire were standing in the main doorway. They had their backs to him and were looking into the hall.

Beyond them stood the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State. If I can stop them, he thought. He moved towards them, but too late. As he reached the door, the two politicians set off down the shallow sloping centre aisle, and as they did, the assembly rose to its feet in spontaneous acclamation.

Skinner grabbed Martin by the arm and hauled him out into the passageway. 'Andy,' he gasped, breathing hard, as he looked at his astonished friend. 'Problem. Big-time problem.' McGuire spun round also at the sound and stared anxiously at the DCC.

'Wayne Ventnor, Karen's Australian; he was the sapper in Michael Hawkins' squad of jungle killers. Find him and arrest him, now. Get all the help you can, split up and search the whole place. But don't involve Neville! 'Before you go. The man in the wheelchair, Crombie. Is he in the hall?'

'He should be, sir,' the inspector answered. 'He's with the Iranians in Karen's sector, far side of the left aisle. But why'

'He's Hawkins: it's some disguise, right down to the false teeth maybe, but I'm sure of it. If he's not Michael Hawkins, then my name's Camilla Parker Bowles… and I've never been on a horse in my life.

'Now go on.'

As his two colleagues ran off. Skinner stepped across to the doorway and looked into the hall, down and to his left, but his view was obscured by the assembled politicians and delegates, who were still on their feet clapping the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State onto the stage. Turning, he ran round the passageway, to the next doorway, at the top of the next aisle.

Karen Neville was standing there, unperturbed, looking into the hall. Could she have knownl he wondered for an instant. But no, his ego refused to let him believe that his judgement of a woman could have been so badly wrong once again.

'Dennis Crombie,' he said, ignoring her surprise at his sudden appearance. 'Where is he sitting?'

'About half-way down the aisle, sir, on the left; that's the Iranian position. Israel nearest the gangway, then Ireland, then them, last in the row.'

'Is he there?'

'Yes. I was looking down at him just as everyone got to their feet.'

Skinner felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. 'What's the betting…' he murmured under his breath. He stood on tip-toe, trying to catch a glimpse of the Iranians; among the many tops of heads, he picked out several wound in white cloth, standing in the — area Neville had described.

'How many should there be in the delegation?' he asked.

'Eight, sir. Seven Iranians and Dennis.'

As she spoke the Prime Minister came to the centre of the stage, beaming, nodding and gesturing to the gathering to be seated. Skinner stared down their ranks as they complied, counting the Iranians aloud.

'One, two, three, four, five, six…' Then an empty place; and finally, an empty wheel-chair, on the outside of the row. Neville looked where he looked, saw what he saw. Her hand went to her mouth.

'Oh my G'

'Exactly lass.' Skinner murmured. 'Either there's a faith healer in the house, or your man Crombie's a wrong 'un.

'Now where the hell's he gone? Because he hasn't passed us by.' He looked down into the auditorium. On either side of the stage there were two sets of double exit doors. Those on the left seemed to be swinging very slightly. Beside it were two hard-looking men, both of them wearing little gold badges.

He looked at the woman beside him, and saw shock on her face.

'No time for discussion,' he snapped. 'How did Crombie and Ventnor get here?'

'By car,' she answered, her voice cracking for an instant. 'Dennis got a disabled permit for the Centre car park.'

'You know what their car looks like?'

'Yes.'

'Okay I want you to grab Andy or Mario; the first armed colleague you see, then go and find it. Meanwhile, I'm going to get that wheelchair out of the hall.'

'But why, sir?'

'Because it's a bomb, Karen. Your boyfriend and his pal have been planning all along to blow this place to Kingdom Come. Now go!'

As she turned and sprinted along the passageway, feeling her bolstered side-arm banging against her hip. Skinner stepped briskly down towards the Israeli delegation. Reaching them, he turned in and made his way along to the Iranian position. He recognised the Prime Minister at once from television footage. The man glanced up at him with fleeting curiosity, but then looked back towards the stage, where the British Prime Minister was standing at the lectern, surveying his audience.

'Good morning, my fellow Heads of Government, and good morning, Heads of State,' he began, his voice ringing round the auditorium. 'Good morning Excellencies, and welcome to you all.'

Crombie, or Hawkins ne van Roost, had chosen his moment perfectly.

While everyone in the hall was gazing at the PM, he had simply risen from his chair and quietly slipped away. Only the two or three men behind him could have seen his departure and they had clearly been too preoccupied to have been surprised or alarmed, had they even noticed it.

Skinner stopped by the empty wheelchair, took it by the arms and tested its weight. He could barely lift it. 'Christ, how much explosive has he got packed in here?' he whispered. He crouched down and looked under the seat, between the wheels. Bolted to the steel chassis, he saw a heavy box, one that had not been put there by the chair's maker.

Skinner took his phone from his pocket and was about to dial Martin's number when he paused. He had no idea, he realised, how the bomb might be triggered. For all he knew the microwaves from a cellphone might be enough. For all he knew an arming device might have been activated, causing the device to explode at the slightest movement. For all he knew, Wayne Ventnor might be sitting in the car park at that very moment, his finger on the button of a transmitter which could atomise him and everyone else for yards around.

He bet his life on the third possibility.

Grabbing the wheelchair he kicked off the brake, then pulled it backwards, out into the furthest aisle, and began to roll it down towards the exit beside the stage. The two guards looked at him in surprise as he approached. 'Open the door', he mouthed as he wrestled with the impossibly heavy device, steering an erratic course down the aisle, hoping that they were Americans and would understand him, rather than trigger-happy Russians who might do anything. Uncertain for a moment, the guards looked at each other, then finally, as he was almost upon them, threw the exit open and allowed him to propel the chair through into the corridor, and out of the auditorium.

Behind him, he was dimly aware of the Prime Minister's inspirational tones, as he continued to mesmerise his nation's guests.

He was sweating heavily as he looked ahead, to see another pair of doors twenty yards away, their paintwork heavily scuffed and marked.

Dropping his centre of gravity. Skinner pushed as hard as he could, his legs pumping until he had worked himself up to a run once more.

His mind was a blank as he drove the lethal object at the second doors, sending them flying wide apart as it hit them at speed, and bursting out into a concrete loading bay beyond. Hoping against hope, he looked around and saw only cardboard boxes in which some of the technical equipment had been delivered. Mercifully the area was empty of people.

Giving the chair one last push, he turned and crashed back through the doors, running back along the corridor as fast as his powerful but tiring legs would allow. He had made it half-way to the auditorium doorway when he heard the blast and when the shockwave caught up with him, lifting him bodily then slamming him, senseless, to the ground.