`Doctor or not, Sarah would raise hell if they tried to kid her on: said Higgins. 'She's a tough lady. She'll survive even if he doesn't. She's good for the boss, you know. He used to be a very private guy, until she came along. She brought him out of himself, made him more demonstrative. He laughs more than he used to, and he just dotes on the new baby.
If he dies, Sarah won't just fade away. She'll see it as her duty to make sure that no one ever forgets him.'
Leona McGrath stood by the doorway to the conservator and stared out at the greenery arranged around the Cane furniture.
`Yes,' she said at last. 'That's very well put. That's what I’ve been coming to realise too.'
FORTY-NINE
‘Thank you for the data on Agent Robin, sir,' Arrow said respectfully to Joe Doherty. 'I've passed it on to the appropriate people.
There was no humour in the room, only concern, but Arrow, Doherty, Andy Martin and Merle Gower all knew that it had to be business as usual.
`What did you think of it?'
It had a familiar ring to it.'
A thin smile flicked Doherty's lips. 'That means you had it before the Agency, doesn't it?
Did you give it to them?' Arrow nodded.
The sallow-faced American glowered at his country-woman. `Those devious bastards at Langley! The SIS gave them information and they fed it into the NSC as their own work, all to show how clever they are and protect their funding. I tell you Merle, that organisation of yours is in deep shit when I get back to the States.'
Arrow's face betrayed nothing, but he was surprised. He had assumed that Gower was FBI. He wondered if the Foreign Office knew that the Americans had slipped a Company representative into the UK.
Adam,' said Doherty, 'I am embarrassed. They will pay for that also. Do you have a lead on Robin, as yet?'
The soldier was impassive. 'You know how big an organisation our civil service is. And that's all we were given to go on; Robin is a civil servant. No department, grade, age, gender, or anything else. But there is an operation in place. The appropriate people are looking into it now.'
And the 'appropriate' people would be?' snapped Gower, so testily that Doherty flashed her a warning glance.
Arrow was unruffled. The SIS uncovered the existence of Robin and the Iraqi network by means which they are not prepared to discuss with anyone, even with you, Agent Gower, They're our foreign Intelligence gatherers. Internal security, as you should know, is usually the job of MI5. I believe that the investigating team may have a line to Robin, but I can't say more than that.'
`Why not?' Gower snapped again, unintimidated by Doherty.
At last, Arrow's grip on his temper slipped. 'Because it's a secure operation and we don't want it bloody well compromised, okay?' he shouted.
The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Doherty overrode her. 'Is there a possibility that Robin is our man?'
It's too early to say with certainty,' said Arrow, recovering his composure, 'but I'm told that's unlikely, unless he's part of a team. Even then, it's doubtful.'
`The main thing is, Adam,' said Andy Martin, 'that you have Robin in hand.' Unusually, he was wearing spectacles. Without the extra green tint of his contact lenses, his eyes looked bloodshot and lustreless.
Aye, that's right.'
`So of our fancied outside candidates,' said Doherty, 'that just leaves General Yahic. What should we do about him, do we think, colleagues? What's the CIA view, Merle?'
Her eyes burned in her dusky face. 'As I understand it, sir, the prevailing view in the Agency is that we should take him out.'
'Bloody clever that would be,' said Arrow, his voice heavy with irony. 'We'd learn a lot if we did that.'
‘Yeah,' said Doherty. 'That is not the NSC's preferred option, merle. No, people, we have a great deal of devolved authority in this room. I propose that we should each take time to consider what practical steps we can take to determine whether or not Yahic was involved in the bombing.'
'In my experience,' said Arrow, 'the best way would be to invite him for a chat and to ask
'im!'
Fifty
‘All rise.'
The Court Officer's stentorian voice boomed out, as the red robed Judge pushed himself out of his chair. As one, accused, counsel, clerks and the few spectators in the public gallery obeyed his command. Among the last group was Neil Mcllhenney, seated in the back row and out of sight of the defence benches to all but a very tall barrister on tiptoe.
He and Donaldson had shared the duty during the day, one in the gallery, one in the unmarked car which they had borrowed from the Ministry of Defence pool. Periodically, they had called Edinburgh to check on Skinner's condition.
Mcllhenney had sat through the opening stages of Ariadne Tucker's final speech to the jury… the one which she had been preparing on her husband's last night alive… and had been professionally impressed. Without, admittedly, having had the benefit of any of the evidence, he would have been prepared to acquit her client, an Anglo-Greek businessman accused of twenty-seven different swindles involving commercial and residential property and high value motor cars.
She had still been going strong at three-thirty, at which point the thoughtful Judge, who had begun the day with kind words to the recently bereaved senior for the defence, had decided, again in deference to the strain under which he imagined her to be suffering, that he would call a halt and send everyone home early; everyone, that was, save the accused.
Thank Christ for that!' Mcllhenney had muttered under his breath. As a young white-gloved Constable flanking a prisoner in the dock in the High Court in Edinburgh, he had once fallen asleep halfway through a prosecution summing-up. The incident had come close to ending his career and the memory of it would live with him for ever.
As the jury filed out, the heavily built Sergeant glanced idly around the public gallery.
There were four people in the front row, three middle-aged women and a younger man, all peering down into the well of the court. As the policeman looked on, one of the women, fat, swarthy and fifty-something with hair dyed black, waved down at the accused and blew him a kiss.
In the row behind, a Japanese couple stood to attention, holding on to Harrods carriers; sightseeing in the Old Bairrey, McIlhenney guessed. Suddenly, to his astonishment, the man plunged into his bag, took out a small video camcorder and began to film the court, unobserved by any of the attendants.
He looked around the rest of the gallery as he turned to leave. Three people were filing out
— court groupies, he assumed — but in the back row a tall man stood in a brown Army uniform, gazing down into the court as if making eye contact with someone. Mcllhenney thought back. He was fairly certain that the man had not been in court when he and Donaldson had last changed shift, and equally sure that he had not seen him enter. A good copper to the last, he took, as routine, a mental snapshot of the man's face and filed it away. He had barely done so when the officer turned on his heel, stepped into the aisle, and sprinted up the stairway and out of the court.
Their Cavalier was parked in the street outside. It was a touch conspicuous, even for a Vauxhall, Mcllhenney thought, but as their quarry peeled off the road to the bridge and veered round, to head westwards along the Victoria Embankment.
Donaldson kept position close behind the taxi; normally he ‘d have preferred to keep more space between them, but amid the heavy flow of vehicles, he had little option. They carried on in formation along the length of the
