“I’m not sure I understand.” Kamweze’s brow had furrowed.
“The other missions-that little League of Nations I saw you with at Prestonfield-any rumors about Mr. Webster?”
The Kenyan shook his head.
“Tell me, does everyone feel as warmly toward Richard Pennen as you seem to?”
“Again, Inspector, I do not think I-” Kamweze broke off and rose hurriedly to his feet, the chair toppling behind him. “I would like to leave now.”
“Something to hide, Joseph?”
“I feel you have brought me here under false pretenses.”
“We could go back to the real ones-start discussing your little one-man delegation and its fact-finding tour of Edinburgh’s lap-dancing bars.” Rebus leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “These places have cameras, too, Joseph. They’ll have you on tape.”
“Immunity…”
“I’m not talking about charging you with anything, Joseph. I’m talking about the folks back home. I’m assuming you’ve got family in Nairobi…mum and dad, maybe a wife and kids?”
“I want to leave now!” Kamweze slammed a fist down on the table.
“Easy there,” Rebus said, holding up his hands. “Thought we were having a nice wee chat here.”
“Do you wish a diplomatic incident, Inspector?”
“I’m not sure.” Rebus seemed to ponder the notion. “Do you?”
“I am outraged!” Another thump on the table and the Kenyan headed for the door. Rebus did nothing to stop him. Instead, he lit a cigarette and lifted his legs onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. Stretched back and stared at the ceiling. Naturally, Steelforth hadn’t said anything about cameras, and Rebus knew he’d have a hell of a time persuading anyone to hand over the footage. It was owned by the military and sited within the military-strictly out of Rebus’s jurisdiction.
Which wouldn’t stop him raising the issue…
A minute passed before there was a knock at the door and a constable appeared from behind it.
“Our African friend says he wants a car back to the Balmoral.”
“Tell him the walk will do him good,” Rebus ordered. “And warn him about getting thirsty again.”
“Sir?” The constable thought he must have misheard.
“Just tell him.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and one more thing…”
“What?”
“No smoking in here.”
Rebus turned his head and stared the young officer out. When the door had closed, he reached into his trouser pocket for his cell. Pushed the buttons and waited to be connected.
“Mairie?” he said. “Got some information you might be able to find a use for.”
SIDE THREE. No Gods, No Masters
Wednesday, July 6, 2005
16
Most of the G8 leaders touched down at Prestwick Airport, southwest of Glasgow. In all, nearly one hundred and fifty aircraft would land in the course of the day. The leaders, their spouses, and their closest personnel would then be transferred to Gleneagles by helicopter, while fleets of chauffeured cars conveyed other members of the various delegations to their eventual destinations. George Bush’s sniffer dog had its own car. Today was Bush’s fifty-ninth birthday. Jack McConnell, first minister of the Scottish parliament, was on the tarmac to greet the world leaders. There were no visible protests or disruptions.
Not at Prestwick.
But in Stirling, morning TV news showed masked protesters hitting out at cars and vans, smashing the windows of a Burger King, blocking the A9, attacking gas stations. In Edinburgh, demonstrators halted all traffic on Queensferry Road. Lothian Road was lined with police vans, a chain of uniformed officers protecting the Sheraton Hotel and its several hundred delegates. Police horses paraded down streets usually busy with the morning rush hour, but today devoid of traffic. Buses lined the length of Waterloo Place, ready to convey marchers north to Auchterarder. But there were mixed signals, no one very sure that the official route had been sanctioned. The march was off, then on, then off again. Police ordered the bus drivers not to move their vehicles until the situation could be verified one way or the other.
And it was raining; looked like the Final Push concert that evening might be a washout. The musicians and celebrities were at Murrayfield Stadium, busy with sound checks and rehearsals. Bob Geldof was at the Balmoral Hotel, but preparing to visit Gleneagles with his friend Bono, always supposing the various protests would let them through. The queen was on her way north, too, and would host a dinner for the delegates.
The news journalists sounded breathless, wired on doses of caffeine. Siobhan, having spent a night in her car, was getting by on watery coffee from a local baker’s. The other customers had been more interested in the events unfolding on the wall-mounted TV set behind the counter.
“That’s Bannockburn,” one of them had said. “And there’s Springkerse. They’re everywhere!”
“Circle the wagons,” her friend had advised, to a few smiles. The protesters had left Camp Horizon as early as two in the morning, literally catching the police napping.
“Can’t understand how those bloody politicians can tell us this is good for Scotland,” a man in painter’s overalls had muttered, waiting for his bacon roll to arrive. “I’ve got jobs in Dunblane and Crieff today. Christ knows how I’m supposed to get there.”
Back in her car, Siobhan was soon warmed by the heater, though her spine remained creaky, her neck tight. She’d stayed in Stirling because going home would have meant coming back this morning, with the same security rigmarole-maybe even worse. She washed down two aspirin and headed for the A9. She hadn’t made much progress along the two-lane highway when the flashers on a car ahead told her both lanes were at a dead stop. Drivers had emerged from their vehicles to shout at the men and women in clown costumes who were lying in the road, some chained to the central median’s crash barriers. Police were chasing other garish figures through the adjoining fields. Siobhan parked on the hard shoulder and walked to the head of the line, where she showed her ID to the officer in charge.
“I’m supposed to be in Auchterarder,” she told him. He waved his short black baton in the direction of a police motorcycle.
“If Archie’s got a spare helmet, he can have you there in two shakes.”
Archie produced the necessary helmet. “You’re going to be bloody cold on the back, mind,” he warned.
“I’ll just have to snuggle up then, won’t I?”
But as he accelerated away, the word snuggle suddenly didn’t fit. Siobhan was clinging to him for dear life. There was an earpiece inside her helmet, allowing her to listen in on messages from Operation Sorbus. Around five thousand demonstrators were descending on Auchterarder, preparing to march past the gates of the hotel. Futile, Siobhan knew: they’d still be hundreds of yards from the main building, their slogans evaporating on the wind. Inside Gleneagles, the dignitaries would have no scent of any march, any large-scale dissent. Protesters were heading across country from all directions, but the officers on the other side of the security cordon were prepared. Leaving Stirling, Siobhan had noticed fresh graffiti on a fast-food outlet: 10,000 Pharaohs, Six Billion Slaves. She was still trying to work out who was meant to be who…
Archie braked suddenly, tipping her forward so she could see over his shoulder the scene unfolding ahead.
