Skinner's festival

73

Andy Martin picked himself up from the wet tarmac, without even a thought of dusting himself off. When he heard Skinner's first alert, he had jerked bolt upright in his seat, and a voice inside him had screamed silently. For a second he had almost sprinted from; the Prime Minister's side, off through the Gardens and into the night, to Lothian Road, the Filmhouse and Julia.

But then the second alert had come, and Skinner's frantic command. He had acted instinctively, and had ensured that the Jaguar and its passengers had made it to safety. Now he looked around him, and listened carefully. On the stage a percussionist was banging away, either lost in the score or refusing to believe what had happened. Daniel Greenspan stood in his spotlight, his baton by his side, staring into the darkness.

Martin re-holstered his pistol and took out his radio. He switched channels to call the operations room at fettes. 'Find whoever can arrange it, and get as much light as we can in here.

For a start, have someone turn on the lights in Princes Street. And get me any news you can of Filmhouse.' I A second later, he found that his first instruction had been anticipated by the stage manager of the Ross Theatre. Above the stage a row of floodlights flickered into life, illuminating the i audience. Martin moved forward fearfully, into a world of death and desolation, unable to block out the fear that it might be the same where his Julia was.

There was carnage indeed in the Ross Theatre, "nd yet he soon saw it might have been worse. He looked around first for McGuire and Mcllhenney, and to his great relief spotted them both, still huge in their jackets and helmets, shepherding uninjured spectators away from the scene.

And then Adam Arrow was by his side. 'God, Andy, I've never seen anything like this. What do you hear on that radio of yours?' Once again the accent had vanished. Three attacks one after the other. First Filmhousc, then the3 238 Balmoral – both bombs, from the sound of it – then here. We were attacked by missiles fired from the Mound. One missed. The other hit over there by the looks of it.'

'Sidewinders, I imagine. In that case we were lucky.'

'Not all of us, though.'

They had reached the heart of the missile's devastation. Neither could be sure how many had died, but a circle of twelve metal seats lay tangled and bloody under the floodlights, with broken bodies twisted among them. Around this immediate circle, perhaps two dozen people sat stunned and disbelieving. Some were bleeding, and several held their ears as if deafened. The silence was that of a mourning parlour. It had a power of its own, one which seemed almost to hold at bay the growing clamour from Princes Street, and the howling of sirens as police, fire crews and ambulances raced to their different destinations.

The soldier and the detective began to direct the men at their disposal to the care of the casualties, to render first-aid to those who were bleeding, and to confirm, as far as they were able, that none of the walking wounded was seriously hurt.

When he was satisfied that everyone was in good hands, Martin called across to McGuire. 'Mario, you're in charge here now. I've got to check out Filmhouse.'

As he sprinted into the night, he glanced up at the Half-Moon Battery. Standing at its edge, framed in light, he caught sight of a silhouette unmistakable even in its overcoat.

'Thank Christ for the boss tonight,' he muttered sincerely. 'But what's he doing up there still?'