Gallery Whispers

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 crashhelmeted 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 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.'