Gallery Whispers

6

There is nothing especially mysterious about Special Branch. Every police force has such a unit within its organisation, and they link loosely together into a network which is responsible for protecting the public against subversion, terrorism and other threats outside the bounds of run-of-the-mill criminal activity.

Nevertheless, looking at the eight officers, seven men and one woman, who were seated at the conference table as he came into the room, Bob Skinner experienced an unusual sense of personal power, and pride. He was Chief Constable only on a temporary basis, during the absence of Sir James Proud, struck down by a mild heart attack while on holiday in Spain. Sir John Govan, the outgoing Strathclyde Chief, and new security adviser to the Secretary of State, could easily have assumed command of the operation he was about to outline, and yet it was Govan himself who had proposed Skinner for the task.

'Bob has a track record in this type of situation,' he had said. 'The rest of us are pen-pushers by comparison, so let's all of us agree to put our people under his command until this crisis is resolved.'

Skinner and the two men who had accompanied him into the room took their places at the head of the table. As they did so, the eight others looked at them in complete surprise. The DCC scanned their faces. Detective Inspector Mario McGuire, his own Special Branch chief, Superintendent Harry McGuigan from Strathclyde, then Lorraine Morrison, from Tayside, Walter Paton, from Central, Joe Impey from Dumfries and Galloway, Brian Burns from Fife, Andrew Macintosh, from Grampian and lan Evans from Northern, detective inspectors all.

'Good afternoon, people,' he said briskly. 'Welcome to Fettes, and thank you all for getting here promptly.

'I know that in your roles as heads of Special Branch, you maintain regular contact with each other, so wholesale introductions aren't necessary. However, for those of you who don't know my companions, the officer on my right is Detective Chief Superintendent Andy Martin, my Head of CID, and on my left is Detective Sergeant Neil Mcllhenney, my Executive Assistant.

'Mr Martin is here as my deputy in these matters. I'll explain DS Mcllhenney's role later. Now, to business. All of you, even Mario McGuire, my own head of Special Branch, thought that this was going to be an ordinary liaison meeting. It isn't, and for that small deception, I apologise.

'So why the hell are you here? Don't worry, I'm going to tell you, but first, I want to say this. You all work on a confidential basis, and know the importance of keeping your mouths shut. This meeting isn't just confidential, it's Top Secret. Neither its existence nor its subject are to be discussed with anyone, other than members of this group, or with your own Chief Constables. In this instance, all of you are working directly under my command, so that's an order.'

He picked up McGuire's glance. 'Yes, Mario, that applies to you too. I know your wife's a Detective Chief Inspector, but she doesn't need to know about this.'

Skinner looked round the table. 'You'll all remember a couple of years ago, when we had major problems here in Edinburgh with a gang of terrorists at the Festival.' There was a general murmur of confirmation round the table, and a few nods.

'Well this time, we may have something similar on our hands.

'Like all of you,' he continued, 'I'm part of a secret network. Mr Martin, Neil and Mario are aware of this, and now you should be too, if only so that you understand the strength of what we're dealing with here. Sir John Govan may have taken over from me as the Secretary of State's security adviser and good luck to him…' Only Martin and Mcllhenney caught the edge of bitterness in Skinner's tone. '… but that doesn't affect my links with, or my position within, Ml 5.'

He paused, to let his words sink in. 'Last weekend, the Director General had a call from his opposite number in the Secret Intelligence Service. The Cold War may be long behind us, but as we've seen all too often, that doesn't make the world a less dangerous place, or take away the need to gather knowledge of potential threats to our national interests.

'There are some people out there who are potential threats to everyone. They're for hire, and the skill they sell is violence. The media call them international terrorists, but that's too broad a description. Very few of them are motivated by creed or belief; their driving force is large lumps of cash paid into Swiss bank accounts.

They are not street criminals. You won't find them behind any gang murders, not in the States, not here, not in Russia, not anywhere.

'They are what the boys in the CIA really do call wet workers; assassins for hire to take out political and other targets. There are no COO-U 0–7 formal qualifications required, but in fact most of them are ex-special forces.

'All of the major intelligence services have a list of these people.

They know who they are, where they're based, the identities they use, the type of job they handle. There's a database in Langley which lists them all, and which even shows their operational records. We have partial access to it.' He smiled, softly. 'Partial, because the CIA is understandably shy about even us getting to know which projects they've sponsored themselves.

'As far as possible, these subjects are kept under constant observation by the Western Intelligence services, who in this instance at least pool resources and information. But they're good, these folk; they're aware of that, and whenever they've got something cooking, they simply drop out of sight, to reappear, maybe somewhere else, maybe under another name once the job's done. These patterns of movement actually give a good picture of who was behind what. They also give the intelligence community a clear idea when a project is under way.'

Skinner looked round the table. 'That's what's happened here,' he said. 'The message which Ml 6 passed to Five a few days ago, concerned the disappearance of one Michael Hawkins from surveillance in Cape Town.' He looked around the table once more.

'Michael Hawkins is the current identity of a man formerly known, during his service with the South African army, as Hencke van Roost.

Using a variety of names, other than those, he has completed projects for the intelligence services of five different countries, and for at least six political or fundamentalist organisations.

'His credits include the assassination by bomb, a few years back, of an Asian Head of State, a shooting in Dublin which was thought to be gang-related but which in fact was carried out for political reasons, and the elimination of a very high-profile international public figure … Guess who?… in which the official verdict was accidental death.

'When one of these people goes to ground, then naturally enough the intelligence services want to know why… unless one of them already knows, in which case the word is passed discreetly to the sponsor's friends.

'When Hawkins slipped his surveillance it took everyone by surprise. The first thought was that he had a role in the recent US Embassy bombings in Africa, and was running for his life, or indeed that he might already have lost it. But the US scotched that one. The Osama bin Laden terror group did have a specialist adviser in those incidents, but he was taken out in the initial missile strike on Afghanistan.

'The Americans, however, did volunteer information from one of their people, a woman who they had infiltrated into Hawkins' close circle… that's their description; you work out what it means. This was quite a gesture on their part, since they've had to pull that agent out of South Africa altogether, now that she's been exposed.

'She gave them one clue, that was all. The only thing Hawkins said when she asked him where he was going.

'He told her "I'm flying north for the winter".' Skinner paused.

'For the winter, he said. That could be significant.'

'I appreciate, lady and gentlemen, that it could also mean anything, and as I speak the search for Hawkins is going on all over Europe, and in the US. However there is a strong possibility that he might be coming here. I'll explain that later. For now…' He turned to Mcllhenney. 'Neil, if you would.'

The big sergeant stood and walked to the far end of the table, where a slide projector stood. 'Old-fashioned technology,' Skinner apologised, as his assistant flicked off the conference room lights and switched on the projector. On the portable screen opposite a face appeared; a young man, in his early twenties, with reddish blond hair, staring seriously at the camera.

'This is Hencke van Roost,' said the DCC, 'as he looked when he enlisted in the South African Army at the age of twenty-three. Before he signed on he completed an engineering degree at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He comes from a wealthy family, does our man. His father, who died a few years back, was a rancher and wine producer.'

Mcllhenney pressed the button of the remote changer and the carousel turned, revealing a second photograph. 'He's still van Roost in this one,' Skinner continued, 'four years into his army service. By now he's a captain in Special Forces. This was taken on an operation in Namibia. The CIA agent copied it.' The man was bare chested, wearing only green shorts, socks, and heavy boots. His hair was bleached even more fair than it had been in the earlier image and he was smiling. A sub-machine gun was slung over his shoulder and three black men lay, sprawled awkwardly in death, at his feet.

He nodded to his assistant, who moved on to the next slide. 'She copied this one too,' he said, as the watchers gasped. The South African's grin was even wider. Again he was bare-chested, his muscles standing out impressively in the sunlight as he stood, flanked by his fellow soldiers. There was a machete stuck in his belt, and in each hand he held, by the hair, a glassy-eyed, mouth agape, severed white human head.

'The CIA managed to identify those two, believe it or not. They were Americans, hired by the Namibian insurgents. Every time van Roost's unit captured a mercenary, that was how they dealt with them.

They were known in every southern African battle zone as the Headhunters.'

Skinner paused. 'The platoon didn't only work abroad. The Government used them to foment tribal violence in the townships. It was even suggested that van Roost invented the necklace.' Lorraine Morrison shot him a puzzled look.

'You don't know about that fashion accessory. Inspector? It involves filling a car tyre with petrol, hanging it round some poor bugger's neck and setting it alight. It was common practice in the townships for a while, and some say our man Hencke came up with the idea.'

He nodded to Mcllhenney once more, and a fourth photograph appeared on the screen. It could have been a different person. This time the smile was gentle, perfectly civilised and framed by a thin moustache, while the well-groomed hair was darker, more noticeably red. The man wore an expensively cut blazer, and his gold-rimmed glasses made him look studious.

'During his eventful army career,' continued Skinner, 'van Roost, not unnaturally, made many enemies. So, after five years, when his tour was almost completed, the top brass did him a favour. They reported him killed in action in Namibia, brought back an unrecognisable body, and had a funeral. A few months later, Mr Michael Hawkins, whom you see there, returned from an extensive spell in the US, and set up in practice in Cape Town as a consultant civil engineer.

'His firm has done pretty well in the twelve years since then.

Initially it was given a leg-up with a few Government contracts, but it built up pretty quickly a list of significant private sector clients, in South Africa and abroad. Today it has a staff of twenty… although there's a vacancy since the CIA pulled their woman out.'

The DCC paused as Mcllhenney turned off the projector, switched on the lights and resumed his seat. 'He did other things for the former South African regime too,' he went on. 'Ten years ago he paid a business visit to the US, to advise the government on an office purchase in Chicago. While he was there, Samuel Tshabala, the leader in exile of a radical black faction, was killed; shot by a sniper as he got into his car in San Francisco.

'This was very embarrassing for the Americans; the guy had been under their protection, and more than a few people in Africa accused them of setting him up. So the FBI and the CIA, in a rare show of cooperation, threw everything at it. Eventually, the Bureau discovered that Mr Michael Hawkins had entered the country ten days before the hit, but had never left. They also discovered that one Peter Veivers, South African national, had left the country through Los Angeles Airport on the day after, although when they checked, they found no record of his ever having entered.

'They placed Veivers in a hotel in San Francisco, where he had stayed for seven days, checking out on the morning of the shooting.

By sheer chance, the Drug Enforcement Agency had been staking out the same hotel during Veivers' time there, waiting for a crowd of Colombians, and were able to give the Bureau a piece of good quality video footage of their man, far better than they had taken from the house security cameras.

'They handed over to the CIA at that point. Now as it happened, the Agency had been very interested in the late Hencke van Roost. He had killed a couple of their people in Namibia… the very two you saw a few minutes ago, in fact… so they were very pleased when they heard he was dead. They had his picture on file from his MIT days, and from South African press coverage of his alleged death, so they made the connection quickly. Then they had a look at Mr Michael Hawkins, back at work in Cape Town, and put the whole story together.

'There was some talk of terminating him, there and then, but in the end they did something much more sensible. They recruited him.

Michael Hawkins was blackmailed into handling sticky jobs for the Agency, and that really was the start of it.'

Skinner leaned back. 'Okay,' he said, 'I've been talking for long enough. Any questions so far?'

DI Morrison raised a hand. 'If he worked for the CIA, why did they have to plant someone in his office?'

'Because he doesn't work for them alone; he works for virtually anyone, and he doesn't ask Agency approval before he takes on a job.'

The DCC grinned. 'They might think they do, but the CIA don't actually run the'world. The Tshabala affair left them with egg on their faces, and so did the Asian assassination I mentioned earlier; that man was a client too. So they put their spy in Hawkins' camp as a sort of early warning system.'

Mario McGuire raised a hand. 'How many aliases does the guy use, sir?'

'Every time he goes under,' Skinner replied, 'he does it under a new name, and he switches to another after the job's done.'

Mcllhenney shifted his massive frame in his seat. 'Can I ask a question, boss?'

'Of course. You're not just here to work the projector.'

'Why does the present South African government tolerate someone like this? 'Because chances are he's worked for them too, in the past. No one knows for sure who set up Tshabala, but the CIA were fairly certain that the ANC were involved. That suspicion, was more or less confirmed when the murder was taken off the agenda of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

'The awful truth is that people like Hawkins are useful, very useful, for a time at least. They're very good at what they do, and they don't have links to anyone.'

'So what are we to do with this guy if we catch him? Stick him on a plane to South Africa and let him carry on in business?'

Skinner glanced at Andy Martin, looked around the room, then back at Mcllhenney. 'Not this time, Neil. No one ties my hands, not in my own country or anywhere else. If Mr Hawkins is coming here on a project, then if we can, we will stop him… with whatever force is appropriate. If, by ill luck, he succeeds in his objective, we'll do our damnedest to make sure he doesn't leave Scotland. But if he does, he'll be hunted down.

'I have a free hand in this. As I said, people like Hawkins are useful, for a time. This man's time is up. Wherever else he goes after this, it won't be back to Cape Town.'

'The big question, though, Mr Skinner,' said Superintendent Harry McGuigan. 'Why would he come to Scotland?'

'If we knew that for sure, we could plan very specifically. But we can make some pretty decent guesses, and one that's really informed.'

'Political?' asked McGuigan.

'Almost certainly. This guy only works for governments and their opponents.' The DCC leaned back in his chair, stretching his long lean body. 'What political target in Scotland would be important enough to justify the hiring of a very expensive international assassin to take him out? 'Let's begin with the obvious: there are currently five members of the British Cabinet from Scottish constituencies. As of now they're all on round-the-clock protection, but realistically, only two stand out as potential targets… the Defence Secretary and the Foreign Secretary.

'Ministry of Defence security have been given overall responsibility for protecting those two. That makes me happy, since my friend Adam Arrow will be in command of that end, and he's a bit special. I'm pretty confident that if either of those two men is Hawkins' target, his chances of success are poor.

'Other possibilities? A member of the Royal Family?' He shook his head. 'I don't believe that one for a minute. Okay, maybe a splinter Irish nationalist group might like to kill a British Royal; but those boys would want to do the job themselves. I can't see them hiring in outside talent. Nevertheless, that angle isn't being ruled out. All Roya visits in Scotland have been quietly cancelled, until the threat is eliminated.

'No, the intelligent guess has to be that if Hawkins is coming to Scotland on a contract, in line with his cryptic remark to his CIA girlfriend, then his target is a VIP visitor, rather than a Scot. And that's where this gets really worrying; because here's where I get round to the informed supposition I mentioned earlier.

'It hasn't been announced yet, but in a couple of months' time, in December, there will be a special meeting of world Heads of Government and Finance Ministers, to consider the effect of the international response to the continuing global economic crisis. It's an initiative by our own Prime Minister, who as you'll have noticed, likes to cultivate his image on the international stage.

'Where?' He looked around the table at eight frowning faces.

'You've guessed it, people. Right here in Bonnie Scotland, in the Edinburgh International Conference Centre, to be precise. The USA, Germany, France, Russia, the People's Republic of China, Japan, Canada, Italy, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, and many others, have been invited to attend.

'Until now, the only people who have known about this meeting have been the people involved, and their immediate advisers. The main players agreed the timing and venue at the last G8 meeting.

EICC don't even know yet that they're hosting it. So if Michael Hawkins' trip to Scotland is related to that, it points to someone on the invitation list having ordered a hit on someone else.

'Now that might be a bad omen for international relations, but it's a secondary issue for me. I don't need to remind you that a few years back a visiting Head of State was assassinated right here in Edinburgh.

The argument that he was better off dead cuts no ice with me: he was done on my patch. I swore then that such a thing would never happen again. It won't.

'I've been told that we don't need to worry about protection in this case; that will be the job of the military, advised by Sir John Govan.

I don't envy Jock his task. The army's security approach is usually based on deterrence. Hawkins won't be scared off by any number of soldiers. He's clever, he's resourceful and as far as anyone knows he has never failed. All he needs is one opening and the President of the United States, or Russia, or our Prime Minister… Christ, maybe more than one of them… can kiss their arse goodbye.'

The DCC smiled, calmly. 'Lady and gentlemen,' he said, 'we are going to prevent that. If Michael van Roost Hawkins is in Scotland, we are going to find him. If he has yet to arrive we are going to try to nab him at his port of entry. You and your officers all have no other task but this. Each of you will report progress to me, through Detective Sergeant Mcllhenney, on a daily basis. Any instructions Neil may give you, will be with my full authority.

'Watch the airports, of course, but let's proceed on the assumption that he's here already. Your starting point will be to check all landing cards completed by non-EU nationals on entry to the UK. You will receive full co-operation, if necessary, from your opposite numbers in police forces in England and Wales. Remember that they do not need to know what this is all about, nor should they.

'It's quite possible that Hawkins will be travelling on a false EU passport, and in that case there will be no landing card. So hotel checks are important too. He may have rented accommodation; speak to all the letting agencies in your areas. Of course, when you go to check the properties, indeed whenever there's a chance you could come face to face with this bloke, you will be armed. That's not a suggestion; it's an order.'

Skinner picked up a number of sealed envelopes which he had brought with him into the room and handed them round. 'These are some photofit treatments of Hawkins prepared by the people in Ml 5.

They're based on the last photograph you saw and they show how he might look in a variety of disguises.

'One thing he can't hide though. Van Roost took a bullet in the right leg towards the end of his army days, and he's walked with a limp ever since.

'As well as the prints you'll also find in those envelopes, DS Mcllhenney's office and home phone numbers, plus my own and Mr Martin's.'

'Why would he come here so far ahead of the meeting, sir?' asked DI Burns, from Fife.

'Planning, Inspector. Planning. This man is meticulous in everything he does. If someone attending this conference is his target then his track record says that he'll come here weeks in advance, to check out the cityscape, to work out the best positions for an attempt and to prepare his means of escape. This man is not a martyr; his aim will be to complete his contract and fade into the background.'

'What do we do if we find him, boss?' McGuire spoke quietly, but his voice was loaded with meaning.

'Keep him under observation if you can,' said Skinner, 'and send for me. Try not to confront him, but if you have to, and he as much as looks at you the wrong way, put a bullet in him.'

'What, you mean in his good leg, sir?' said DI Impey, from Dumfries and Galloway, srriling along the table.

Poker-faced, the DCC turned and looked at the man, freezing his grin. 'No, Inspector.' He ground the words out, slowly. 'I mean right between the bloody eyes. If he has to, this man will kill you stone dead, then take your head as a trophy.' With a nod around the table, and a final glare at Impey, he stood up, bringing the briefing to a close, and strode out of the room, followed by Mcllhenney, leaving Martin to see the visitors on their way.

'I don't fancy that Dumfries bloke, boss,' said the sergeant as they walked along the Command Corridor.

The neither, Neil. Give him a hard time when he makes his daily reports. Question him; keep him on his toes. Make sure he's checking the ferry terminals on his patch. Hawkins could come in from Ireland.'

'I'll do that, sir.' As the two men stepped into the Chief Constable's office. Skinner looked at his assistant.

'Neil,' he asked, abruptly, 'what's up?'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'You know bloody well what I mean. First Andy, now you. You've got something on your mind. I know this job can be boring at times.

Do you want a move back to the action?'

Mcllhenney's great shoulders sagged, and he seemed to slump into himself. 'I'm sorry if I've been letting anything show, boss,' he said.

'That's not my way.

'Aye,' he admitted, 'something's up. But it's got nothing to do with the job. It's Olive. She's ill and she knows it, yet she won't do anything about it. She's scared, boss, and oh by Christ, so am I.'

'I see,' said Skinner quietly. 'Sit down man, and tell me about it.

Maybe there's something I can do to help.'.