pleased at their arrival. Both showed their ID, but this was not enough for the soldier. Rebus noted that there was no insignia on his uniform, nothing to identify his nationality, or which branch of the armed services he belonged to. He insisted on taking their badges from them.
“Wait right there,” he ordered, pointing to where they were standing. As he turned away, Rebus did a little soft-shoe shuffle and gave Siobhan a wink. The soldier had disappeared into a huge trailer. Another armed soldier guarded its door.
“I get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Rebus offered.
“Does that make me Toto?”
“Let’s see what’s over there,” Rebus suggested, heading for the canopy. Its roof was a fixed structure of plastic sections, held up by a series of poles. Beneath it sat rows of limousines. Liveried drivers shared cigarettes and stories. Strangest of all, a chef, dressed in white jacket and checkered trousers, and with a toque perched on his head, was cooking what appeared to be omelets. He stood behind a sort of platform, a large red bottle of cooking gas by his side. The food was being dished out on proper plates, with silver cutlery. Tables had been set up for the drivers’ use.
“I heard about this when I was up here with the DCI,” Siobhan said. “Hotel staff are using a back route into the compound, leaving their vehicles in the next field over.”
“I’m assuming they’ve all been vetted,” Rebus said, “which is what’s happening to us right now.” He glanced toward the trailer, then nodded a greeting to one group of drivers. “Omelets all right, lads?” he asked, receiving replies in the affirmative. The chef was awaiting fresh orders.
“One with everything,” Rebus told him, turning toward Siobhan.
“Same,” she said.
The chef got busy with his little plastic containers of cubed ham, sliced mushrooms, chopped peppers. Rebus picked up a knife and fork while he was waiting.
“Bit of a change for you,” he said to the chef. The man just smiled. “All modern conveniences though,” Rebus went on, sounding impressed. “Chemical toilets, hot food, a bit of shelter for when it rains…”
“Half the cars have got TVs,” one of the drivers informed him. “Signal’s not up to much, mind…”
“It’s a hard life,” Rebus commiserated. “Ever allowed inside the trailers?”
The drivers shook their heads. “They’re chock-full of gizmos,” one man offered. “I caught a glimpse. Computers and stuff.”
“That aerial on the roof probably isn’t for Coronation Street then,” Rebus said, pointing. The drivers laughed just as a door opened and the soldier reappeared. He seemed nonplussed that Rebus and Siobhan were no longer where he’d left them. As he marched toward them, Rebus accepted his omelet from the chef and scooped up a mouthful. He was praising the food as the soldier halted in front of him.
“Want some?” Rebus offered, holding out his fork.
“It’s an earful you’ll be getting,” the soldier countered. Rebus turned toward Siobhan.
“Pretty good comeback,” she told him, taking her own plate from the chef.
“DS Clarke is an expert,” Rebus informed the soldier. “We’ll just finish our grub, then hop into one of the Mercedes to watch Columbo…”
“I’m keeping hold of your badges,” the soldier said. “For verification purposes.”
“Looks like we’re stuck here then.”
“Which channel’s Columbo on?” one of the drivers asked. “I like that program.”
“It’ll be in the TV pages,” a colleague offered.
The soldier’s head jerked upward, chin jutting as he watched a heli copter approaching. It was low and deafening. The soldier stepped out from under the canopy to get a better view.
“You have got to be kidding,” Rebus said as the man stiffly saluted the underside of the machine.
“Does it every time,” one of the drivers yelled. Another asked if it might be Bush arriving. Watches were checked. The chef was covering his ingredients, in case flying debris from the downdraft landed in them.
“He’s due around now,” someone surmised.
“I brought Boki in from Prestwick,” another added, going on to explain that this was the name of the president’s dog.
The helicopter had disappeared over a line of trees. They could hear it coming in to land.
“What do the wives do,” Siobhan asked, “while the menfolk are arm wrestling?”
“We can take them on a scenic tour.”
“Or shopping.”
“Or museums and galleries.”
“Whatever they want, that’s what they get. Even if it means shutting roads or clearing the public out of a shop. But they’re also ferrying in some arty types from Edinburgh -writers and painters-to pass the time.”
“And Bono, of course,” another driver added. “Him and Geldof are doing their glad-handing bit later today.”
“Speaking of which…” Siobhan glanced at the time on her cell. “I’ve got the offer of a Final Push ticket.”
“Who from?” Rebus asked, knowing she’d had no luck in the public draw.
“One of the guards in Niddrie. Think we’ll be home in time?”
He just shrugged. “Oh,” he said, “something I meant to tell you.”
“What?”
“I’ve co-opted Ellen Wylie onto the team.”
Siobhan’s look became a glare.
“She knows more about BeastWatch than we do,” Rebus plowed on, failing to make eye contact.
“Yes,” Siobhan said, “a damned sight too much.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning she’s too close to it, John. Think what a defense lawyer would do to her in court!” Siobhan was failing to keep her voice down. “You didn’t think to ask me? I’m the one whose head’s on the block if this all falls apart!”
“She’s just doing admin,” Rebus said, knowing himself how pathetic this sounded. He was saved by the soldier, striding back toward them.
“I need you to state your business,” the man announced crisply.
“Well, I’m in the CID business,” Rebus replied, “as is my colleague here. We’ve been told to meet someone, and this is where it’s hap pening.”
“Which person? Whose orders?”
Rebus tapped the side of his nose. “Hush-hush,” he said in an under tone. The drivers had returned to their own conversation, debating which stars they might be chauffeuring to the Scottish Open on Saturday.
“Not me,” one of them boasted. “I’m doing the run between Glasgow and T in the Park.”
“You’re based in Edinburgh, Inspector,” the soldier was saying. “This is way out of your jurisdiction.”
“We’re investigating a murder,” Rebus hit back.
“Three murders, actually,” Siobhan corrected him.
“And that means no boundaries,” Rebus concluded.
“Except,” the soldier countered, rising onto his toes, “you’ve been ordered to put your inquiry on ice.” He seemed to like the effect his words had on Siobhan in particular.
“Okay, so you made a phone call,” Rebus told him, not about to be impressed.
“Your chief constable wasn’t very happy.” The soldier was smiling with his eyes. “And neither was he…” Rebus followed the line of his eyes. A Land Rover was bumping its way toward them. The passenger-side window was wide open, Steelforth’s head leaning out from it as though he was straining at some leash.
“Oh, crap,” Siobhan muttered.
“Chin up,” Rebus advised her, “shoulders back.” He was rewarded with another withering look.
The car had screeched to a halt, Steelforth spilling out. “Do you know,” he was yelling, “how many months of training and preparation, weeks of deep cover surveillance…do you know how much of that you’ve just blown to smithereens?”
“Not sure I follow you,” Rebus answered blithely, handing his empty plate back to the chef.
“I think he means Santal,” Siobhan said.
Steelforth glared at her. “Of course I do!”
