unthinkable, we have to use our imagination in ways we’ve never really used it before. We cannot underestimate the determination of those who see us, our institutions, and our people, from our leaders to our very babes in arms, as mortal enemies. I will do everything I can to ensure that those who want to see the Pope get to see him, but there have to be limits. I’d be grateful if you would thank the First Minister and your boss for their interest in us, but I’d be even more grateful if you’d tell them from me not to use the phrase “open access” in public.’
‘And from me,’ Gio Rossi interrupted. He had introduced himself as logistics officer, but the police at the table knew that his real function was security.
‘I’m not in a position to tell them anything, Mr Skinner,’ said Aileen de Marco, quietly. ‘That’s how they want it to be.’
‘Okay, I’ll tell them myself, if I have to. Pope John the Twenty-fifth is indeed the greatest living Scotsman, and it’s my job and the job of my colleagues to see that he stays that way. He’s also among the leading living targets in the world, and probably, because of his style, the most vulnerable. Don’t worry, the public will see him and they’ll hear him, but they’re not going to be touching the hem of his robes. This will be the tightest security operation you have ever seen. Your bosses might get to kiss his ring, but only after they’ve been through the metal detectors.’
The minister smiled. ‘Do you really see them as potential assassins?’
Skinner nodded. ‘Absolutely.’ He did not smile.
‘Oh, come on.’
He leaned further forward. ‘Remember what I was saying about thinking the unthinkable? There’s a scenario: it was found among some al Qaeda papers in Afghanistan, and circulated throughout the intelligence community by the CIA. A deep-cover terrorist gets close to someone in the moments leading up to a major event, someone who’s going to be in proximity to the target. He slips something into his pocket. The explosives available these days mean that it doesn’t need to be very big to do the job. It could be no bigger than a cigarette case, a calculator, or even a fountain pen. Once it’s done, the innocent First Minister, or Mrs First Minister . . . her handbag’s an obvious place to stash a device . . . has become a walking bomb. As soon as he’s next to the target, it’s detonated remotely and, boom, it’s raining sticky bits of President, or Queen, or even bits of you. Get the picture? Everyone is searched.’
‘Even the Pope himself?’ Godfrey Rennie asked, a hint of outrage in his voice.
‘No one will get near his person, but yes, his robes will be searched.’
‘You’re kidding!’ the civil servant protested.
Skinner threw him a long, cold look. ‘And why on earth would I do that?’ he asked quietly. He knew Rennie from crime-prevention committee meetings in St Andrews House, and blamed his nit-picking for their seemingly interminable length.
‘That’s standard practice,’ Monsignor di Matteo interrupted. ‘We take security very seriously, even if that means that we have to do things that in the past would never have occurred to us. His Holiness understands, and leaves such matters entirely in the hands of Signor Rossi and his logistics department.’
‘And their qualifications are . . .?’
The chief constable blinked at Miles Stringfellow’s interruption. He made to reply, but Skinner beat him to the retort. ‘. . . are not to be discussed around this table, sir,’ he snapped. ‘You should know better than to ask a question like that.’
‘Her Majesty’s Foreign Secretary tends to ask whatever questions he likes,’ the man countered. His voice was as smug and unctuous as his smile.
Almost in unison, as if on cue, Willie Haggerty, Neil McIlhenney and Brian Mackie leaned back in their chairs. They were waiting for the DCC to explode, but for once Sir James Proud was able to head off the storm before it burst upon the head of the visitor from Whitehall.
‘That may be so,’ he said calmly, ‘but I think that in this case he would be prepared to receive his reply from Signor Rossi and Monsignor di Matteo in private. So, if you don’t mind, we won’t pursue that line of discussion. However,’ the old chief went on, ‘it might be helpful to us all if you explained the reason for your presence at this meeting. Our friend Mr Munro didn’t go into that when he advised me that you would be joining us.’
Stringfellow ran his fingers through his immaculately groomed hair. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ he exclaimed archly. ‘You could say that I am here to ensure that your natural enthusiasm does not get out of hand, and to represent, and if necessary safeguard, the interest of Her Majesty’s government . . . Ms de Marco’s parent company, as it were . . . in this visit. It should not be forgotten that Pope John the Twenty-fifth is not only the head of the Roman Catholic Church, he is also the head of an independent state, and of its government. As such, this is a state visit. The fact that it’s happening in Scotland is neither here nor there. It’s a matter for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, none of whose responsibilities, as far as I am aware, were devolved under the Scotland Act.’
‘And what does that mean, exactly?’ asked Proud.
‘It means that any proposals you make here are subject to approval by the FCO.’
‘Now wait just a minute!’ Aileen de Marco exclaimed. ‘My department is responsible for policing in Scotland; that is absolutely clear. We don’t report to you or anywhere else.’
‘I repeat, madam,’ Stringfellow replied, ‘that this visit is a British rather than a Scottish matter. We should have oversight and we intend to have it.’
The chief constable tapped the table. ‘Now just hold on there, sir,’ he said, as visibly annoyed as most of his colleagues had ever known him. ‘You seem to have forgotten something. A state visit is a royal event. It’s the Palace that has to be satisfied. As a deputy lord lieutenant for this area, I’m better qualified as a representative of Her Majesty than you are. There’s another thing, too: I’ve policed five state visits during my time as chief constable of this city.’
‘With respect, Sir James, your role is ceremonial and it counts for nothing; and while your previous experience is invaluable, your security plan must still be subject to our oversight.’
‘Excuse me!’ The words were barked from Stringfellow’s left, as the Archbishop of St Andrews and Edinburgh shouldered his way into the argument. James Gainer was six feet tall, and had a neck like a tree-trunk. Any newcomer walking into the room would have taken him for a police officer, rather than a prince of the Church. His appointment to succeed the elevated Cardinal White had taken many non-Catholics by surprise. However, those who could see beyond his unorthodox approach to the priesthood, his rough-and-tumble dynamism and his youth . . . he was forty-four . . . knew the effect they had on thousands of people and knew that he was the outstanding candidate. He had been described as ‘a dangerous choice’ by one conservative cleric, but most saw the wisdom of selecting someone who was radically different from his predecessor.
‘Am I sitting here listening to you guys fighting a turf war over my boss?’ he asked.
Stringfellow looked round; his smile was patronising. ‘That’s rather simplistic, Your Grace. This is a state occasion, and it must be treated with all the ceremony appropriate.’
‘Crap.’ Across the table Lena McElhone let out an audible gasp. ‘This is a man,’ he snapped, ‘an old man at that, coming home to his people. We will look after him, thank you very much; we will protect him and we will deliver him back safe to Rome. I’m the Pope’s representative here, and I’m answerable to him for the success of this visit: not to you or anyone else, only to him; the Bishop of Rome. I know Signor Rossi’s qualifications for the task, and I know Bob Skinner’s as well. But I know sod all about you, my son, and that I don’t like. With all due deference to your master, the Foreign Secretary, the reality of the situation is that unless I’m satisfied with the security arrangements, we don’t have a show. That means that Bob and Gio are in charge. If that’s simplistic, fine.’
The Foreign Office representative drew in a breath and stared frostily at the table-top. Aileen de Marco put her pad and her pen into her briefcase and pushed her chair back from the table. ‘I have to go.’ She looked at the deputy chief constable. ‘Mr Skinner, you’ll copy me into everything?’
‘Yes, Minister.’
She smiled. ‘You make me sound like a TV series; every time someone says that I want to laugh. The name’s Aileen; I’m a New Labour minister, remember. To save time, if you could copy my private office directly, please, rather than through the department.’
Skinner saw Godfrey Rennie’s involuntary frown as she rose, everyone else standing with her.
‘Sure.’ He paused, then nodded towards Stringfellow. ‘Aileen, you do know what all this is about, don’t you?’
