Riot shields, dog handlers, mounted police.
A twin-engined Chinook helicopter scything the air overhead.
Flames licking from an American flag.
A sit-down protest stretching the full width of the roadway. As officers started breaking it up, Archie gunned the bike toward the gap and squeezed through. If Siobhan’s knuckles hadn’t been rigid and numb with cold, she might have eased her grip on him long enough to offer a pat on the back. The earpiece was telling her that Stirling railway station might reopen shortly, but anarchists could be using the line as a shortcut to Gleneagles. She remembered that the hotel boasted its own railway station; doubted anyone would be using it today. There was better news from Edinburgh, where torrential rain had dampened the demonstrators’ spirits.
Archie turned his head toward her. “Scottish weather!” he yelled. “What would we do without it?”
The Forth Road Bridge was operating with minimal disruption, and early road blocks on Quality Street and Corstorphine Road had been cleared. Archie slowed to negotiate another blockade, Siobhan taking the opportunity to wipe drizzle from her visor with the sleeve of her jacket. As they signaled to turn off the highway, another, smaller helicopter seemed to be following their progress. Archie brought his bike to a stop.
“End of the line,” he said. They hadn’t quite reached the town’s boundary, but she could see he was right. Ahead of them, past a police cordon, flew a sea of flags and banners. Chants, whistles, and jeers.
Bush, Blair, CIA, how many kids did you kill today? Same chant she’d heard at the naming of the dead.
George Bush, we know you, your daddy was a killer, too. Okay, so that was a new one.
Siobhan eased herself from the pillion, handed over the helmet, and thanked Archie. He grinned at her.
“Won’t get too many days as exciting as this,” he said, turning the bike around. Speeding off, he gave her a wave. Siobhan waved back, some of the feeling returning to her fingers. A red-faced cop bounded up to her. She already had her ID open.
“Which only makes you more of a bloody idiot,” he barked. You look like one of them.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of the stalled demonstration. “They see you behind our lines, they’ll think that’s where they belong, too. So either make yourself scarce or get suited up.”
“You’re forgetting,” she told him, “there is a third way.” And with a smile she walked up to the police line, squeezed between two of the black-clad figures, and ducked under their riot shields. She was now in the front line of demonstrators. The red-faced officer looked aghast.
“Show your badges!” a protester was calling out to the police rank. Siobhan stared at the cop immediately in front of her. The thing he was wearing looked almost like coveralls. The letters ZH were painted in white on his helmet above the visor. She tried to remember if any of the squad from Princes Street Gardens boasted the same insignia. All she could remember was XS.
Police excess.
Sweat was running down both sides of the officer’s face, but he seemed composed. Orders and encouragement were being called down the police line:
“Keep it tight!”
“Easy, lads.”
“Move it back!”
There was an element of agreed orchestration to the pushing on both sides. One of the demonstrators seemed to be in control, calling out that the march was official and the police were now in breach of all agreements. He could not, he said, be responsible for the consequences. Throughout, he held a cell phone to his ear, while news photographers stood on tiptoe, cameras held aloft, to capture some of the drama.
Siobhan started backpedaling, then shuffled sideways until she was on the edge of the proceedings. From this vantage point, she started scanning the crowd for any sign of Santal. There was a teenager next to her, with bad teeth and a shaved head. When he started yelling abuse, the accent sounded local. His jacket flapped open at one point, and Siobhan caught a glimpse of something tucked into his waistband.
Something not unlike a knife.
He had his cell phone out, using it to capture snippets of video, sending them to his buddies. Siobhan looked around. No way she could alert the police officers. If they waded in to arrest him, all hell would break loose. Instead, she squeezed in behind him, waiting for the right moment. When a chant broke out and hands rose into the air, she seized her chance. Grabbed his arm and wrenched it around his back, pressing forward so he was sent down onto his knees. Her free hand went to his waist, removed the knife, then pushed him hard so he fell on all fours. She moved backward briskly through the crowd, tossing the knife over a low wall into shrubbery. Melted into the crowd and raised her own arms into the air, clapping along. His face was purple with anger as he elbowed his way through the throng in front of her, seeking out his attacker.
He wasn’t going to find her.
Siobhan almost allowed herself a smile, but knew her own search might well prove every bit as fruitless as his. And meantime she was in the middle of a demonstration, one that could at any moment turn into a riot.
I’d kill for a Starbucks latte, she thought.
Wrong place, and very definitely the wrong time.
Mairie was in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel. The elevator door opened and she saw the man in the blue silk suit appear. She got up from her chair, and he walked toward her, holding out his hand.
“Mr. Kamweze?” she asked.
He gave a bow of confirmation, and she returned his handshake.
“Good of you to see me on short notice,” Mairie said, trying not to sound too gushing. Her phone call had been just that: the cub reporter, overawed to be talking to such a senior figure in African politics…and could he possibly spare five minutes to help with a profile she was doing?
The pose was no longer necessary; he was right there in front of her. All the same, she didn’t want him bolting just yet.
“Tea?” he suggested, leading the way to the Palm Court.
“I love your suit,” she said as he drew out her chair for her. She smoothed her skirt beneath her as she sat. Joseph Kamweze seemed to enjoy the view.
“Thank you,” he said, sliding onto the banquette opposite her.
“Is it designer?”
“Purchased in Singapore, on my way back from a delegation to Canberra. Really rather inexpensive…” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But let’s keep that to ourselves.” He gave a huge grin, showing one gold tooth at the back of his mouth.
“Well, I want to thank you again for seeing me.” Mairie was reaching into her bag for notebook and pen. She also had a little digital recorder, and she asked him if he would mind.
“That will be dependent on your questions,” he said with another grin. The waitress arrived and he ordered Lapsang souchong for both of them. Mairie hated the stuff but kept her mouth shut.
“You must let me pay,” she told him. He waved the offer aside.
“It is of no consequence.”
Mairie raised an eyebrow. She was still busying herself with the tools of her trade when she asked her next question.
“Your trip’s being funded by Pennen Industries?”
The grin disappeared; the eyes hardened. “I beg your pardon?”
She tried for a look of unsullied naivete. “Just wondered who was paying for your stay here.”
“What is it you want?” The voice was chilled. His hands brushed the edge of the table, the fingertips running along it.
Mairie made a show of consulting her notes. “You are part of the Kenyan trade delegation, Mr. Kamweze. What exactly is it that you’re looking for from the G8?” She checked that the recorder was running and placed it on the table between them. Joseph Kamweze seemed thrown by the sheer ordinariness of the question.
“Debt relief is crucial to Africa ’s rebirth,” he recited. “Chancellor Brown has indicated that some of Kenya ’s neighbors-” He broke off, unable to keep going. “Why are you here? Is Henderson even your real name? I’m a fool for not asking to see your identification.”
“I’ve got it right here.” Mairie began to rummage through her bag.
“Why did you mention Richard Pennen?” Kamweze interrupted.
She blinked at him. “I didn’t.”
