Stay of Execution

85

Bob Skinner was beginning to hate his office. He felt trapped in it, a prisoner behind a desk, when all his instincts told him he should be out there doing something, joining his officers in combing the city for any trace of the two people who posed such a threat to its most famous son.

Every one of them, and every officer in the neighbouring Strathclyde force, had been given the Aurelia Middlemass photograph and a copy of the photofit of her partner’s most recent image, drawn up by his lab assistant at the university. It was something that had to be done, but the DCC knew within himself that it would be useless. Experienced, resourceful people like these would have changed their appearance for their return to Edinburgh. They would have a plan for gaining admission to Murrayfield, one that did not involve the stupid risk of climbing fences. For all that was being done, for all his desire to help in its doing, he knew within himself that they would have to be taken in or at the stadium.

He had grabbed some badly needed sleep in McIlhenney’s spare bedroom, six hours of it before Neil had wakened him at eight, an hour later than he had asked. Once he was dressed he had called home. Sarah had gone, Trish had told him, off to an early job in Edinburgh, but he had spoken to Mark and James Andrew, promising both boys that his whole weekend would be theirs, doubting that their mother would want any of it.

He looked out of his window. The weather forecasters had been correct: the day was mild and sunny, out of place for November, but welcome for the events it would see.

The telephone rang to interrupt his brooding; his direct line, Sarah perhaps, calling to roast him. He picked it up with that expectation. ‘Hello, Bob.’ Aileen de Marco’s sunny voice shone some welcome light into his morning.

‘Hi, Minister,’ he replied. ‘Ready for the big event?’

‘My brother is. Forty-two years old and he’s like a kid. He phoned me ten minutes ago; I’ve never heard him so excited. Is everything okay?’

‘Work-wise or home-wise?’

‘Both, although the second’s none of my business.’

‘As it happens, things have been better on both fronts. The investigation of the New York policeman’s murder has taken a nasty turn that I can’t discuss over the phone. As for the other, Sarah and I are barely speaking now. Somehow we seem to have lost contact with each other.’

‘Can’t you just sit down and talk about it?’ asked Aileen, sympathetically.

His sigh was almost a moan. ‘That would involve both of us listening as well. I don’t know if either of us is capable of that any more. We may have hurt each other too much in the past year or so. We’ve both had crises in our lives, but hers was worse than mine, and I have to admit to getting my priorities wrong when it came to supporting her.’

‘How about just saying “sorry”? I don’t believe you’d ever deliberately hurt someone you love. Your wife must know that too, in her heart.’

She heard him hesitate. ‘It may go a little deeper than that,’ he told her.

‘You mean you. .’

‘No.’›

‘Ahh, you mean she. .’

‘We’ve neither of us been paragons, Aileen.’

‘Did she say anything when you got home on Wednesday night. . or yesterday morning, rather?’

‘I slept in the spare room. It seems that’s what I do these days.’

‘You could have slept with me.’

‘To tell you the God’s truth I wish I had.’

‘The bad part of me agrees with you. The good part reckons you did the right thing.’

‘No, we did,’ he chuckled, ‘or didn’t, as the case may be. Tabloids be damned, I couldn’t have a casual thing with you, Aileen.’

‘You couldn’t with anyone; you’re too serious a guy.’

‘A bit like you?’

‘I suppose. There’s something there, though, isn’t there? Between you and me?’

‘Don’t doubt it.’ He paused, then his tone turned brisk. ‘But I have to put it all aside for now. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do, love, and maybe a lot of decisions to make, but before any of that I have to focus on the present. My personal problems are irrelevant beside the task of getting our VIPs through today in one piece.’

‘Does that include me?’ she asked.

Suddenly he felt himself shudder. ‘I find it odd to think of you in that context, but you’re right; it does.’

‘Make sure you do, then. Will I see you at Murrayfield?’

‘I’ll be there. You concentrate on enjoying the day, and I’ll concentrate on making sure that you can. ’Bye.’

He put down the direct phone and buzzed McGurk on his intercom. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes, son, then come on in. I want to do some brainstorming.’

He spun his chair down and turned to his computer. There had been no personal e-mails that morning, but he had left it switched on. He hit the search button on his keyboard and entered one word on the bar: ‘Congo’. He found himself offered a series of options, but they were all fairly recent history; even the CIA World Factbook, one of his favourite source websites, told him nothing about the events of forty years before. Finally he turned to Encarta, an encyclopedia that he had bought and installed but rarely used. The entry was comprehensive: the Democratic Republic of the Congo, formerly the Republic of Zaïre, and before that, a Belgian colony. The names were from his boyhood, Tshombe, Lumumba and Kasavubu, although Mobutu had a more familiar ring. There had been independence, there had been chaos, there had been civil war, there had been assassinations; but there was little or no information about Belgian involvement.

He buzzed McGurk again. ‘Jack, before you come in, I want you to get someone on the blower for me: Lieutenant Colonel Pierre Winters of Belgian military security. Ask him to call me on my secure line.’

He went back to his computer and began keying names into the search engine. Moise Tshombe, the leader of the breakaway province of Katanga immediately after independence and later prime minister of the reunited country, had eventually fled, and had died, or been murdered, in jail in Algiers after being taken from a hijacked aircraft. Joseph Kasavubu had been a puppet president for the first five years of the country’s existence until Mobutu had decided to oust him. Patrice Lumumba, the first prime minister of the new Congo, Marxist hero of the independence movement, had been betrayed, overthrown and eventually handed over to Tshombe and his enemies in Katanga, where he had been assassinated. Skinner was reading an account of his death with growing interest when his secure telephone rang.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Skinner?’ asked Pierre Winters, with an air of weary tolerance.

‘Auguste Malou was a young officer in the Congo in the early 1960s,’ he said.

Instantly, the Belgian was rattled. ‘Who told you that? Not Malou, I’ll bet.’

‘Why so sure? Is he still under active orders not to talk about it?’

‘You are still wasting your time and mine, sir. These are internal Belgian matters, and I will not discuss them. If you persist. .’

The DCC’s temper was triggered. ‘If I persist, pal, you’ll wish I hadn’t.’ Sheer instinct made him fire a name at Winters. ‘Patrice Lumumba,’ he barked.

The phone in Brussels was slammed down so fast that it was as if it had become red-hot in the lieutenant colonel’s hand. Skinner smiled in satisfaction. ‘Gotcha,’ he muttered. ‘But,’ he added aloud, ‘what the fuck does it have to do with this situation?’

He called McGurk into his office and poured them both coffee. ‘Brainstorming, boss?’ the sergeant asked.

‘Like you’ve never known it.’ He waved McGurk into the seat on the other side of his desk and checked his watch: it was nineteen minutes before ten. ‘The Pope arrives in Murrayfield in just under two hours,’ he said. ‘We’ve got two al Qaeda terrorists out there trying to crash the party. Willie Haggerty, Brian, Neil, and a small army are there trying to keep them out; their chances of getting through are about one in ten, but these are bright, resourceful and determined people. Let’s assume the worst, that they manage it. What are they going to do?’

‘Shoot the Pope? Or the Prime Minister? Or both?’

Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Funny that nobody ever talks about shooting Tommy Murtagh. Our First Minister would probably be very indignant if he realised that. No, Jack, if they were going to shoot anyone they’d have to use arrows. They won’t get a firearm in there, and they won’t get explosives in either.’

‘Could they have planted them at Sunday’s international?’

‘The place has been swept five times since then; if they’d planted a toothpick it would have been found.’

Skinner pulled Pringle’s folder across to him. ‘We’ve got two unsolved mysteries on our hands, Sergeant: that one,’ he slapped it, ‘and this one. There is no sign that they’re connected, but a quarter of a century as a copper tells me that they are. If I’m right, the answer’s in here; we’re so fucking stretched at the moment just doing the protection job, that you and I are the only guys left to try and find it.’ He split the pile of papers into two and handed half across the desk. ‘Let’s get to it.’

‘What are we looking for, boss?’

‘If I knew that I’d point you at it. We’re looking for something that’s wrong. We’re looking for something that’s out of place. We’re looking for something that proves that Hanno wasn’t just killed by a drunk driver, and that Lebeau wasn’t an unlucky victim of a random lunatic who gets it off by spiking toothpaste tubes with poison. We’re looking for a lie.’

He picked up the first paper from his half of the folder’s contents. It was an interview with the bus driver, Maurice Roger, conducted in Haddington, after the police team had become aware of Hanno’s death. He reckoned that he had probably been the only sober man in the club when Hanno was killed. He remembered that the veteran bandsman had been on top of his form, entranced by the range of ales on offer and determined to try every one. . at least once. . but he had not seen him leave.

It was the first of ten almost identical statements that he read in succession. A common theme ran through them; until his death, Philippe Hanno had been having the time of his life. He had been seen in conversation with Lebeau, with young Roelants, with Willi Schmidt, and, animatedly, with the barmaid. . Philippe still travelled in hope, his colleagues agreed, even if his days of expectation were behind him.

He turned to a series of statements sent up from Hull by the investigating officers there. The second was by the barmaid in question, Mrs Doreen Silk, aged fifty-three, of nineteen Clarindel Drive, Kingston upon Hull. ‘He was a nice man,’ she had recalled. ‘He had that look in his eye, too, as if he fancied himself a bit. I’ve seen worse, I have to admit.’ Who knows? thought Skinner. If Philippe had lived. . The last time she had spoken to him that evening, he had asked her for cigarettes. ‘Gauloises,’ he had specified. ‘You know, the blue packet.’ She had told him that they only sold British fags; he had shrugged his shoulders and turned away. She remembered that he had gone over to the bus driver, spoken to him briefly and headed for the door.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Skinner, aloud.

‘You got something, boss?’ asked McGurk.

‘The bus driver. He said he never saw Hanno leave. .’

‘That’s right. I interviewed him.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Thirty-something, dark-skinned; could have been North African origin, or Asian.’

‘Did you see the bus?’

‘Eh?’

‘Have you ever seen the Belgians’ bus?’

McGurk frowned for a moment, then his eyes brightened. ‘Yes, I have; I’m sure of it. When we went to Haddington to interview them there was a bus there. A big brown thing with “Autotours Duvalier de Bruxelles” written up the side.’

‘Shit. Who’ve we got available?’ The DCC thought for a moment, then dialled Ruth Pye. ‘You busy?’ he asked.

‘It doesn’t sound like it,’ his secretary replied. ‘What is it?’

‘I want you to trace a company for me.’ He repeated the name on the bus, checking the spelling with the sergeant. ‘How’s your French, Ruthie, if you have to use it?’

‘Parfait.’

‘C’est bon. Call them and tell them you want the details of the driver who’s with the Bastogne Drummers. Spin them a story; tell them that he’s been reported for speeding by a punter and we need to check him out.’

He left her to her task and went back into the interviews. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘He’s out of fags, he can’t get his brand in the bar, so he gets the keys off the driver and goes across to get some. That’s what Malou told Dan Pringle. So why’s the driver coy about it?’

‘He’s out of what?’ exclaimed McGurk. He took a slim folder from his pile and thrust it at Skinner. ‘Read this.’

The DCC took it from him: it was labelled ‘Post-mortem Report; M. Philippe Hanno’, and dated. He looked at the opening paragraphs.

The subject is a male in his early sixties, reportedly struck and killed by a speeding vehicle. The body showed multiple signs of trauma, notably to the legs, the cervical vertebrae and the skull, all of which were fractured.

At the time of his death, the subject was in generally fair physical condition. He was overweight, although not obese, and the liver was slightly enlarged. However, the heart was healthy and normal and the lungs were in exceptionally good condition for a man of this age, with no sign whatsoever of damage. Clearly, as was confirmed by an examination of his fingers, the subject was a non-smoker.

Skinner’s eyes widened. ‘He was a non-smoker? Yet Malou said he went across to the bus for fags! Fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Jack, have you got the Hull police report there?’

McGurk flicked though his documents. ‘Yes, boss.’

‘Is his property listed? Contents of his pockets?’

He scanned his eyes down the single sheet. ‘Forty Gauloises; crushed but recognisable.’

‘Malou smokes bloody Gauloises! I see it now; he sent him for them. He set him up to be killed, and I’ll bet you the driver was in on it. And if he set up Hanno, he did the same to Lebeau. Someone gave him the poisoned toothpaste, and he put it in with his kit. Or. .’

His eyes fixed on McGurk. ‘Who else was billeted at the farmhouse besides Malou and Lebeau? It was a big place. There were more than two people there, I know.’

Before the sergeant could answer, Skinner’s direct line rang. He seemed to rip it out of its cradle. ‘Yes?’

‘Bob. .’ His wife’s voice sounded strained.

‘Not now, Sarah; later, but not now!’ As he hung up on her, his internal phone buzzed. He took a deep breath then pressed the hands-free button. ‘Ruth,’ he said calmly.

‘I spoke to them, sir. The driver’s name is Albert Berenger, he’s fifty-one and his wife is really pissed off with him because he hasn’t called her since he left. They’ve sent him three text messages telling him to phone her and get her off their backs, but he still hasn’t. They ask if we can make sure he does. . please.’

Skinner whistled. ‘I think she’s going to have a long wait on her hands, Ruthie. Thanks.’ He switched off the phone.

‘He’s a phoney,’ he said to McGurk, ‘and I can see the tie-up.’ He recalled his secretary. ‘Get me Lieutenant Colonel Winters in Brussels back. You’ll find his number on Jack’s desk. On this line, I’ve got no more time for fannying about.’

‘The bus driver, sir,’ the sergeant murmured, once he had Skinner’s attention. ‘He and three of the musketeers were billeted there with Malou and Lebeau.’

The silence between them as they waited was the kind that seemed to magnify every other noise in the room. The quiet hiss of the coffee filter sounded like a steam whistle. The background buzz of the traffic outside became a military convoy passing beneath the window. When McGurk sucked his teeth, Skinner glared at him. And then the phone rang like a klaxon.

‘Sir,’ Winters’s voice was as icy as his name, ‘I am growing tired.’

‘Listen to me, please,’ said the Scot. ‘I don’t care what great state secret Malou’s mixed up in that you can’t let slip. I don’t think this has anything to do with that. I need your co-operation or two very famous lives could be at risk. I want you to get me some answers, more or less instantly. First, what are Malou’s present family circumstances?’

‘I can tell you that myself. When you asked about him I had his file updated. He is widowed, and he has a daughter. She is divorced, and has two daughters. They live with him in a suburb of Brussels.’

‘What age are the kids?’

‘Six and nine.’

‘Oh, shit! Right, find this out, at once. Have the children been at school since the Drummers left for Scotland? If the answer is no, then pick half a dozen of your best undercover police or special troops and get them to his house as fast as you can. You will have to be very careful about what you do there, though. The strongest man’s weakest point is his family, and it could be that Malou’s is under threat.’

‘Under threat from whom?’

‘Al Qaeda, or a linked organisation. There are two of them on the loose here, after the Pope and our prime minister.’

‘Then say no more,’ the soldier told him, ‘but stay by your telephone. I will check on the children and take it from there.’

‘There’s one other thing I need to know. Did the band of the First Guides Regiment provide replacements for Hanno and Lebeau?’

‘Okay, I’ll find that out.’

‘Thanks, Colonel. I have to go to deal with this, but my assistant, Jack McGurk, will wait by the phone. You can tell him everything. He has my complete trust.’

As he ended the call, he rose to his feet. ‘What if the kids are okay, boss?’ asked the sergeant.

‘In that case I assume that Malou’s a terrorist, and he goes the same way as the rest. But they won’t be okay.’

‘Then what if they’ve been taken somewhere else?’

‘That could be tragic, but they’ll be at home, held prisoner. Why take the risk of moving them and having someone see it?’

‘But what are they planning to do? We still don’t know that.’

Bob Skinner laughed; he actually laughed. ‘I do. It’s fucking obvious, when you weave all the threads together. We’re a couple of days off the date, Jack, but. . remember, remember, the fifth of November.’ He headed for the door. ‘Get me on my mobile when Winters calls back, and ask him to contact me direct with any news about Malou’s family.’

‘I’ll do all that. Anything else?’

‘Keep your fingers crossed. I’m still short of one piece of inspiration.’

He rushed downstairs to his car, turned on the engine and slotted his cell phone into the hands-free holder. As he moved off he dialled McIlhenney. ‘What’s happening there, Neil?’ he asked.

‘The crowd are all in place, but there’s no sign of our two.’

‘Where are the Belgians?’

‘In the entertainers’ marquee, as far as I know.’

‘Make sure. Count them. Then find their bus driver, wherever he is. He’s a plant.’

‘What do I do with him when I spot him?’

‘Who have you got there you can trust?’

‘Stevie’s here, like you asked, and Maggie, as the two of our people who’ve actually seen the woman.’

‘Keep them looking out for her, then. Ask Adam to lend you one of his plain-clothes soldiers. Are you armed?’

‘Yup.’

‘Then arrest the bus driver as soon as you locate him, but without letting Malou see you, or any of the band for that matter. And, most important, don’t let him communicate with anyone.’

‘If he’s a plant, why not let him run and hope he leads us to them?’

‘Too risky. I want him out of the way. When’s the papal convoy due there?’

‘Fifteen minutes, maybe a bit more; they’ve just left the infirmary. The VIPs take the stand in ten and the bands march in as soon as the Pope’s in the arena.’

‘If I’m not there in time, stop the Belgians. In the meantime, I know the army has a bomb team there just in case. Have them gather outside the tent.’

‘Repeat?’

‘Don’t let the Belgians out of the marquee. Bomb squad to wait outside.’

Skinner hit the red button on the phone and put his foot down; he roared up towards Queensferry Road, swung into it on an orange light and headed past Stewart’s-Melville College. He had just turned left at the roundabout when a call came in. ‘Sir?’ McGurk’s raised voice filled the car.

‘Speak, Jack.’

‘Colonel Malou’s daughter phoned their school the day after the band left for Scotland. She said that both girls had chicken-pox. No other kids have it. As for the bandsmen, neither the First Guides band nor any other military unit sent replacements for Hanno and Lebeau.’

A smile crossed Skinner’s face. ‘Thank you, son. Has Winters got my number?’

‘Yes. He said to tell you that an anti-terrorist squad will be at Malou’s apartment block within ten minutes. They’ll be dressed as firemen and the cover story will be that there’s a gas leak. It’s a ploy they’ve rehearsed but never used.’

‘Let’s hope they get it right first time.’ He turned right at a set of traffic lights and raced along Ravelston Dykes Road. Suddenly the traffic was heavy; the diversions put in place for the rally were taking their toll. He overtook a line of traffic, blind, and swept down Murrayfield Terrace, waving his warrant card as he approached the barrier at the foot. The officers on duty recognised him instantly and waved him through.

He drove as fast as he dared along the approach road to the stadium until he drew to a halt on the grass, in front of a big tent that had been set up behind the north grandstand. At its entrance, he saw Neil McIlhenney waiting, beside two soldiers in uniform. One was an officer; Skinner recognised him as Major ‘Gammy’ Legge, a bomb-disposal veteran of Ireland, the Gulf and other less famous conflicts.

‘Bob,’ the soldier exclaimed, as he approached, ‘what’s the panic?’

‘No panic. Just stick around and you’ll see.’ He turned to McIlhenney. ‘Have you got the driver?’

‘No problem. We went to his bus, and found him taking a knapsack out of the boot. He was getting ready to run.’

‘Did he give you any trouble?’

‘Nothing that having a Glock pointed at him didn’t sort out fast. There’s a secure room at the back of the west stand, not far from the shop. It’s a cell, really, but the SRU doesn’t like the word. The soldier who helped me lift him is standing guard at the door.’

‘Does Adam Arrow know he’s there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Willie Haggerty?’

‘Him too. We didn’t make a fuss, though.’

‘That’s fine.’ He saw Legge’s eyebrows rise at the mention of the first name; he knew who Arrow was. ‘Come, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk to the bandleader.’ The soldiers made to follow but he stopped them. ‘Not you guys, not yet. I’ll give you a shout.’

As he led McIlhenney into the marquee, he was aware of a commotion behind him and of the sound of growing excitement in the stadium, and he guessed that the Pope’s approaching convoy had been picked up by the television cameras and was being shown on the giant screens inside the ground. The great assembly of kilted pipers near the entrance had come to the same conclusion; they were stirring themselves as the two policemen pressed through their ranks.

Skinner was smiling as he approached Malou. It was forced, for he read the look on the old colonel’s face, the mixture of uncertainty and fear that he had seen on so many guilty men before. The bandsmen and the scarlet-clad musketeers were getting to their feet behind him, readying themselves to play. The DCC knew the two replacements instinctively. They held bass drum and side-drum respectively. They were younger, fitter-looking, their blue uniforms were newer and they stood slightly apart from the rest. They, too, had a strange look in their eyes. Yes, it was fear, but there was something else, something he had not seen before and could not describe even to himself.

Still he made sure. ‘Those two?’ he asked, still smiling.

The old man was trembling, but he gave a tiny nod.

‘Neil,’ Skinner murmured, ‘show.’

The inspector’s hand slipped inside his jacket, and reappeared holding a pistol.

‘Even if you don’t speak English,’ the DCC exclaimed, as they stepped up to the pair, ‘you’ll understand gun, I take it. Face down, arms stretched out.’ One of them understood exactly; he did as he had been told. The other looked around wildly, then leaped at Skinner. He jumped into a short right-handed punch to the temple, and dropped like a stone.

The big policeman looked round towards the entrance. The Belgians and the pipers were staring at the scene, many of them open-mouthed. ‘Panic over,’ he shouted. ‘You guys near the door: there are two soldiers outside. Tell them they can come in.’ He turned back to Malou. The old man seemed to have shrunk into his uniform, his hands were covering his face, and his shoulders were heaving.

Skinner stepped close and put his hands on his shoulders. ‘I know what you did,’ he said, ‘and why. They gave you a choice; your old friend or all your family. I don’t blame you, and neither will he.’

‘But my children,’ Malou wailed, as forty thousand young voices cheered the arrival of Pope John the Twenty-fifth in the great Murrayfield bowl, ‘they’re as good as dead. You’ve killed them.’

‘Have patience, Colonel. And have faith too. Nobody’s going to die today.’

‘What the hell is going on, Bob?’ Major Legge’s voice boomed over his shoulder.

Skinner smiled and pointed to the discarded drums of the two men on the ground. ‘Your guys have swept this place every day for a week. There’s not a chance of anyone getting any modern high explosive in here. But what about the old-fashioned stuff, if you could get enough in?’ He glanced at the musketeer platoon, and their antique weapons. ‘What makes those things go bang?’

‘Gunpowder?’ Legge exclaimed. ‘They were planning to use gunpowder?’ He took a big red knife from his pocket, knelt beside the side-drum, slashed a great X across its skin, then peeled it apart. It was full of a black, sulphurous material. ‘They were planning to use gunpowder!’

‘That’s right. And we more or less helped them bring it in. I would empty those pretty quickly if I were you. I reckon you’ll find a couple of incendiary triggers inside, ready to be detonated remotely whenever the Pope and the Prime Minister were close enough to the carriers.’

‘Stand back, then,’ said the soldier, ‘and don’t light any matches.’ He upended the side-drum, and lifted it up, pouring the black powder on to the ground. He repeated the process with the much larger bass drum, then sifted through the residue with his gloved hands until he emerged, triumphantly, with two small packages wrapped in brown paper. ‘I wish they were all that simple,’ he exclaimed. He handed them to his assistant. ‘Take these away and do something to them, Corporal,’ he ordered, ‘then get one of the lads in here with a water-based fire extinguisher to damp this lot down. It’s useless when it’s wet,’ he explained. ‘The drums are waterproof, of course, which makes it such a bloody good idea.’

‘Enough to do the job?’ asked Skinner.

‘That amount? Anyone within yards, old boy. This was a real suicide mission, no mistake.’

As he spoke, the DCC’s cell phone sounded. Legge winced. ‘Take it away from the powder, please, Bob. Just in case.’

Skinner walked to the other end of the tent before he answered the call. ‘This is Winters,’ said a voice in his ear. ‘The children and their mother are safe; the terrorists who held them prisoner are dead. Three of them. How about your end?’

‘I’ve got three live ones; there are still two to go.’

‘How is Malou?’

‘Terrified. I’ll put him out of his misery in a moment.’

He thanked Winters, then called Willie Haggerty. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘In the command centre.’

‘Brian?’

‘He’s outside. Where are you?’

‘In the band marquee.’

‘Where are the fucking bands?’ the Glaswegian demanded. ‘The Pope’s here. They should be marching in.’

‘Relax. They will be. I want two armed officers here now to take two prisoners into custody. They’ve to cuff them, strip them, and put them with the other bloke. But quietly, Willie. The threat’s over, but I want the other two.’

He turned to the pipe-major; the man was highly agitated. ‘Okay,’ he told him quietly. ‘Line them up, and march them in.’

‘Sah,’ the man barked, with huge relief.

‘But one thing,’ Skinner added. ‘None of your guys saw anything in here. You’re all military; anyone who leaks anything about this will be court-martialled and that is a promise you can rely on.’

He walked to the back of the tent. McIlhenney stood, motionless, his gun on the two men on the ground. The thirty-four remaining bandsmen and musketeers stood in bewildered groups, while their leader sat disconsolately on the remains of the booby-trapped side-drum. He looked up as Skinner approached. ‘What now?’ he asked, weakly.

‘Your daughter and her children are safe, Colonel.’ He saw the old man’s face light up, and the tears spring to his eyes once more. ‘So go and do what you were invited here to do. You can tell me the whole story afterwards, but now, you go and play for Father Gibb.’

He left Malou to organise his men; they were stunned, but they were stolid and they would play and march as best they could. He returned to McIlhenney and waited until the armed escorts arrived to take the prisoners away, watching as two soldiers turned the black pile on the ground to sludge. ‘So what. .’ the DI began, but he was interrupted as Skinner’s phone sounded again.

‘Boss?’ It was Mario McGuire and he sounded anxious. ‘Am I on time?’

‘So far.’

‘It’s taken a while, but I’ve got a result. First, no newspaper, website or broadcast station anywhere reported the fact that Colin Mawhinney was staying in the Malmaison. Second, I’ve been through the list of all the journalists that Alan Royston’s accredited for this visit. As you can imagine, there’s quite a bunch with the telly people and everything, but there are two of them who stand out; a photographer called Geoffrey Bailey, and a news reporter called Verena Cookson. They’re listed as working out of the London office of a news agency with its head office in Venezuela. That’s an accommodation address, but the thing that makes them really different is that three years ago Bailey and Cookson were working for a South African newspaper on a story in Angola when they stepped not just on one landmine but on a cluster of three strapped together. If that’s them, they’ve been reassembled.’

‘Photographs?’

‘He’s bearded with glasses, and I can place him. He was the photographer at the press briefing who asked Colin at the beginning where he was staying. You couldn’t tell her from Eve, though. . or maybe even from Adam. She looks weird: she’s got short silver jaggy hair, no eyebrows at all, wears blue glasses, has studs through both nostrils and her bottom lip, and three or four rings in each ear.’

‘In other words she doesn’t look a bit like a corporate banker?’

‘Not like any I’ve ever seen.’

‘Thank you, Superintendent. Your late friend Colin owes you one.’

Skinner clicked an end to the call, then found the media-relations manager’s number in his phonebook. ‘Alan, it’s Bob Skinner. Where are the press at this moment?’

‘Telly’s on the fixed platform, up in the stand, with two free cameras out on the ground. The photographers are in rows just to the side of the tunnel and the reporters are behind them. I can see them now.’

‘Two names: Bailey and Cookson. Are they there?’

‘Yes. She’s sat directly behind him, in fact; they’re in the seats next to the aisle. He’s got the usual enormous camera and she’s got a pocket recorder, for all the good that’ll do her. She won’t get that close. Bob,’ Royston asked, ‘do you know when the action’s going to start? Everyone’s getting fidgety.’

‘Tell them one of the pipers fainted with the excitement, but that he’s okay now. Neil and I are on our way there. One thing; whatever happens, you do not let anyone leave. Who’s the nearest senior officer?’

‘Brian. He’s ten yards away.’

‘Good. Tell him. Nobody leaves.’ He replaced his phone and turned to McIlhenney. ‘Come on.’ He led him, running, out of the tent.

The massed bands were in their ranks outside, inflating their pipes, almost ready to march. Skinner raced up to the lead pipe-major. ‘Two more minutes,’ he said. ‘Then go. It’s important. Wait two minutes.’

Leaving them behind, the two policemen ran from the gateway to the ground, round the curve where north stand became west. ‘This way,’ said Skinner, still breathing easily as he led the way up a flight of stairs to the first level. He looked along towards the centre of the stand and saw Maggie Rose in her uniform, standing by an entrance door, looking out into the ground. Somewhere in the background he heard the skirl of pipes, and the buzz of forty thousand children turn once more to cheers. He ran towards her. ‘Press? Where?’ he called out, his breath coming harder now.

She pointed to her right. ‘Next stairway and down.’ Skinner and McIlhenney sprinted on, the DCC wishing that he had asked for an extra minute.

He saw her as soon as he turned into the entrance, her back to him, silver hair, spiked up, seated to the left of the aisle, in the second row from the front, behind a burly man. He paused, gathering himself, and allowing McIlhenney a few seconds to recover. ‘I’ll take him,’ he gasped, ‘you take her. Get the recorder, I’ll get his camera; pound to a pinch of pig-shit that’s where they’ve hidden the transmitters to detonate the bombs. I don’t want those triggers going off in any soldier’s hands, and when they see their boys are missing. .’

‘Christ, no,’ the inspector muttered. ‘But I’ll take him. He’s bigger and I’ve got the gun.’

‘Deal.’

They slipped quietly down the stairway as the last of the long parade of pipers made their way into the stadium. They reached their targets just as the first flash of blue appeared in the gateway, as the colonel, diminutive in the distance, but marching straight-backed, led the Bastogne Drummers into the stadium.

Skinner was close enough to hear her exclamation as she realised that the front rank was two men short. He slipped down beside her and snatched the small device from her hand. The man in front turned, in time to look into the barrel of the Glock, as McIlhenney grabbed his camera with his free left hand.

‘Show’s over,’ Skinner exclaimed, above the noise. He yanked the woman quickly out of her seat and pulled her towards the stairway, as McIlhenney motioned her companion to follow. He was glancing behind when she slammed a stiletto heel into the instep of his right foot. The pain was momentary but intense, loosening his grip for long enough for her to twist free and run up the stairs.

Maggie Rose seemed to step out of the shadows, to catch her in the doorway, spin her round and slam her, face first, into the wall, as hard as she could. The DCC whistled. ‘Who the hell’s been annoying you this morning?’ he asked, as he limped up the stairs.

The incident was barely noticed, so intent was the crowd on the scene outside. McIlhenney held Bailey’s arm twisted up behind his back, as Rose restrained the woman who had been Cookson for the day; together they forced them out on to the concourse. As they did so, Chief Superintendent Mackie appeared, with Alan Royston by his side.

‘The last two for the lock-up,’ said Skinner, ‘but keep them separate from the rest. They’re very special.’

‘There’s another holding cell,’ Mackie told him. ‘Beside the command centre. I’ll put them in there.’

‘You do that. Strip-search them, put them in restraints, then lock them up. Put a police officer on the door, armed but with weapon concealed.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Alan, if anyone asks you about this, tell them, for now, that we thought she looked odd, and that we were concerned that they’d slipped in among the press contingent, so we had them out of there as a precaution. When they’ve been questioned and charged, we’ll release a full statement.’ He turned away. ‘Okay, get on with it; I’ll see you after.’

‘After what?’ asked Rose.

‘After the rally, of course. This is a uniform-section show; officially, I’m not on duty here. I’m going to watch.’

And watch Bob Skinner did, as the pipers piped, the dancers danced, the singers sang, as the Bastogne Drummers played and marched their finest, as the musketeers fired their ear-splitting gunpowder salute and as Auguste Malou came face to face with his old friend Father Gibb, for the first time in forty years.

He listened too, as Pope John the Twenty-fifth preached reconciliation and peace to a gathering of forty thousand, of many faiths and of none, to a generation with the youth and optimism, Skinner found himself hoping, to hear what he was saying and to put his teaching into practice.

And then it was over. The white-robed figure said his goodbyes to the Prime Minister and his wife, to the First Minister and Mrs Murtagh, and to the Lord and Lady Provost, then climbed back inside his bullet-proof, armour-plated bubble for the journey back to Rome. The DCC caught Gio Rossi’s eye as he climbed into the car behind; he gave him a large thumbs-up sign, both hands clenched together in the gesture. Jack Russell saw it too, as he shepherded the prime ministerial couple into their Jaguar, and returned it with a smile and a quick wave.

As the convoy pulled out, Skinner made his way down to the ground, intercepting Aileen de Marco as she and her brother walked from the field.

‘Is all well, then,’ she asked, once she had introduced the two men, ‘here at least?’

He smiled. ‘Here at least.’

‘You look really pleased with yourself,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is there something the Justice Minister should know?’

Why not? he thought, and ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Do you want to come for a walk?’

‘Sounds intriguing. How can I refuse?’ She turned to her brother. ‘Peter, you follow Tommy and his wife, the LP, the chief constable and everybody into the reception; we’ll be along in a minute. Where to?’ she asked Skinner.

‘Up to the top level. I’ll show you the command centre, and let you look through a peephole at a couple of special guests of ours. I think they’re going to become very famous in the months to come. . if they can ever figure out what to call them.’

‘My God, you’ve made arrests?’

‘Let’s not talk here. Come on.’ He led her inside and up the first of several flights of stairs. The last of the young people and their escorts were leaving the stadium; they passed them and kept on climbing until they reached the highest point of the west stand, the command centre from which everything could be seen, either through binoculars or on a series of monitors, each showing feed from a different security camera.

He opened the door and ushered her inside: Willie Haggerty, Brian Mackie, Maggie Rose and Neil McIlhenney all turned as they entered. She greeted the three men, whom she had met before, and smiled at Rose as the DCC introduced them. As she shook her hand she noticed that her knuckles were grazed.

‘Where’s Royston?’ Skinner asked McIlhenney, as Haggerty began to explain the working of the centre to the minister.

‘Down in the press room. There have been no questions that I know of, and I asked him to let me know if any came up. I guess all the hacks must have been watching the parade when we lifted them.’

‘Sounds like it.’ The DCC grinned. ‘Were they not the slickest four arrests you’ve ever made?’

‘I have to say that you cut it a bit fine, boss, but apart from that, yes, they were pretty smooth. If only we could tell people.’

‘Right enough.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better go. I have to take Aileen down to the SRU reception, and I promised her a look at the rogues’ gallery.’

‘Mmm,’ McIlhenney murmured. ‘Aileen, is it?’

‘Knock it off,’ said Skinner. There was a hint of sharpness in his voice that took his friend by surprise. ‘Where’s the holding cell?’

‘Round the corner to your left.’

‘Thanks.’ He paused. ‘Indeed, thanks for everything, mate.’ He called to the minister, prising her away from ACC Haggerty, who was being more solicitous than he had ever seen him, and leading her outside and to the left, as McIlhenney had directed.

They turned the corner, and saw a man, a few yards away. He was in plain clothes, with a small golden eagle lapel badge, and he was smoking. Behind him, a door lay ajar. His mouth dropped open as he recognised Skinner, and he came to attention when he saw the look on his face, crushing his cigarette underfoot.

‘What the hell’s going on here, Sergeant?’ the DCC barked. ‘And where the hell are the prisoners?’

‘Major Arrow took them, sir,’ the man stammered, ‘about five minutes ago. He said you wanted them all together, ready for the van to take them to Saughton Prison.’

Skinner took in a quick breath. ‘Did he indeed? Then you go and find DI McIlhenney. He’s in the command centre. Don’t speak to anyone else, just him, but tell him I want both of you outside the cell downstairs in three minutes, tops. And tell him this. .’ He leaned over and whispered in the man’s ear.

As he headed for the stairs, he was aware that the minister was on his heels. ‘Aileen, please go back in there and ask Maggie to show you where the reception is.’

‘Not a chance. I want to know what’s happening here.’

He was about to order her back to the command centre, when he paused. ‘Maybe you should, at that,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on.’

He led her down the stairs as fast as she could go in her high heels. Half-way down she stopped, ripped off her shoes, then ran after him carrying them.

The corridor leading to the tunnel was deserted as they turned into it, save for one man, standing impassively in front of a solid door, with a small peep-hole but no handle. He seemed to broaden out as Skinner and the minister stopped in front of him, as if he was trying to fill as much of the doorway as he could. He wore twill slacks and a roomy sports jacket; it was unbuttoned.

‘You can’t go in there, sir,’ he said, in clipped tones that spoke of an authority other than the police.

The DCC held up his warrant card. ‘I’m going in there, soldier, I promise you.’

‘No, sir.’ He flicked his shoulder so that his jacket opened a little, showing the pistol holstered beneath it.

Skinner moved faster than Aileen could have imagined, so fast that it was over before her involuntary gasp escaped her. The fingers of his left hand stabbed stiff and straight into the man’s stomach, and then, in the same movement, his left forearm came up and under his throat, slamming him back against the door. When his right hand came into view it was holding the gun, and its barrel was jammed against the soldier’s temple.

‘Adam!’ he called out. ‘Open this fucking door or I’ll use this guy’s skull to batter it down. And don’t do anything in there.’

He waited. ‘No kidding, Adam,’ he called out again, banging the soldier’s head lightly against the black-painted steel to emphasise the point.

Finally, the door opened. As it did, Skinner hurled his prisoner inside, sending him tumbling into a corner, where he lay, still winded by the earlier blow, then he and the minister followed him into the cell. He kicked the door closed behind them.

The DCC breathed a loud sigh of relief. Five figures, four men and a woman, were on the floor, with their backs to him. They were in their underwear and they were handcuffed, but they were all on their knees and they were all still alive. He looked at Arrow, and saw the silenced pistol in his hand. Then he glanced down at the gun he held, and dropped it on the floor.

‘No,’ he said quietly.

‘Bob,’ said the major, ‘I’ve got orders. I have to.’

‘You have to execute five people?’

‘Do you know what’ll happen if they make it to court?’

‘Yes, and it’s my job to get them there.’

‘And my orders are to see that they don’t. . at any cost.’

Skinner smiled. ‘Man, how long have we been friends?’

‘Ages.’

‘So are you saying you’d shoot me too, and this lady here, who happens to be the Scottish Justice Minister, just to make these disappear? If you do, then as soon as you open that door you’ll go down yourself. McIlhenney’ll be outside by now and he has his orders too. If you walk out before me, it’ll be the last step you take.’

‘Then they’ll say I was an al Qaeda plant myself,’ Arrow replied, ‘and that my job was to make sure nobody talked. Bob, please get out of here.’

Skinner shook his head. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘But why not? Fuck me, you’ve dropped people yourself; we both know that.’

‘I made a promise, Adam, that nobody would be harmed today.’

‘Who did you promise?’

‘Father Gibb.’

‘Who the hell’s Father Gibb?’

‘A billion or so people know him as Pope John the Twenty-f ifth.’

As Arrow stared up at him, Skinner felt Aileen take his hand and squeeze it. He felt her body tremble as she moved close behind him.

And then the little soldier smiled. He unscrewed the silencer from his pistol, slipped it into his pocket and reholstered the weapon.

‘I guess his orders outrank mine,’ he whispered, and blessed himself with the sign of the cross.