word.
Anyone?'
The room hung with tension, but no one spoke.
'OK, but my offer stays open. For what it's worth, I think a constant police presence would be a greater irritant for you than the risk justifies. But there are some simple precautions which you should take all the same.'
He reached into his case and produced two bundles of small volumes, one bound in blue, the other in russet brown. He handed a copy of both to each of the directors.
'These two wee books contain advice on security procedures.
The blue one relates to office security, tells you how to look out for suspect parcels in the mail – stuff like that. The brown one deals with personal security, tells you the bad habits to cut out like going to work every day at the same time, by the same route.
It tells you how to search your car, and what to do if you think you're being watched. That last bit's quite important. If any of you do believe that you're being followed, don't just try to scare the suspect off by shouting 'Murder! Polis!' Only do that if you feel you're in imminent danger. What you should do is stay in a crowd, if you can, and try to find some unobtrusive way to let us know about your situation. Do you all have mobile telephones?
Yes? Well you'll find a telephone number written in the brown book. Short-code that into your phones. In a real emergency, all you'll need to do is punch in that one number and you'll be straight through to my office. Remember, we don't just want to frighten these people off. We want to catch them, and keep them – for a hell of a long time.'
He closed his briefcase, snapped the locks shut, and spun the combination wheels. 'That's all I have to say. Sir?'
Skinner took his cue. 'So that's the situation, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry you've been handed this extra worry, but, hate it as we may, we're all involved in this crisis. If anybody has any questions, we'll deal with them now. And if anybody wants to ask us, or tell us, anything privately, we'll deal with it here too.'
Julia Shahor's slim hand crept up tentatively, like a child at school. 'Could I have a word with Mr Martin in private?'
'Sure. Would the two of you like to step out into the corridor?'
The policeman held open the door for the Film Festival director, then closed it behind them. Outside she turned to face him, her cheeks slightly flushed.
'What can I do for you, Miss Shahor?'
'Julia, please.'
'OK. What can I do for you, Julia?' He looked into her eyes and had to stop himself from adding, '… and if I can, I will.' She really had very attractive dark brown eyes. And, even under the Jesus dress, all the rest looked in fair working order, too.
Well, Mr Martin…'
'Andy. please.'
'Well, Andy, I heard what you said in there about no exceptions. But, you see, we've got this mega star coming. You know-'
'Yeah, sure, what'sher-name.'
'That's right, her. Well, I'm just afraid that if we ask her to apply for a pass, that… well, you know her reputation – that she'll just tell us to take a flying you-know-what. That's what she's said to be like.'
Martin almost laughed out loud, but restricted himself to what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He gazed deep into the brown eyes. 'I hear you, Julia, but I just can't make any exceptions. I'll tell you what I can do, though. Since she's so high-profile, I can bend the rules a bit. How would it be if you and I went to her hotel, and processed her there ourselves? And you have a back entrance, she can sign in there on the night.'
'Andy, that'd be great. The only thing is, whenever she makes an appearance like this, she wants to pose out front. She'll never agree to sign in at the back door.'
'She will if the alternative could be a high-velocity round between the eyes. Tell you what, why don't I come up and check out the venue myself?'
'Would you really? That'd be great. Can you come up tonight, maybe? We're screening the European premiere of the new Costner movie as our launch event. You could look things over, then stay on for the film – as my guest, or course.'
'I'd like that. And I'll even leave this thing behind in the office.'
He tapped the gun under his left arm.
She laughed. 'Terrific. Just ask for me at the door. Better come about 7:30. The film starts at 8:15.'
She waved over her shoulder as she walked away. Martin stood gazing after her, until the door opened and the other five Festival directors emerged, followed by Skinner.
Martin was still smiling as he and his chief went back into the room together. He poured them both coffee from one of the Thermos jugs.
'What's the grin for?' said Skinner, accepting a cup. 'Christ, you haven't bloody scored with Crystal Tipps there, have you, Andy? See you, boy, you'd shag Desert Orchid if you could catch it. If I ever find out that you talk in your sleep, I'll have to think again about you as head of Special Branch.'
Martin's grin was suddenly a little forced. 'You can say that, Bob, but since you put me in this job, I haven't been able to keep a girlfriend for more than two months at a stretch. They say it's because they never know where I am.'
Skinner laughed out loud. 'Bollocks! It's because they do know where you are. You're usually with some other female! Come on, let's get moving. I've got to get ready for Alex's show. And you've got to fix up these Scottish Office people for tomorrow, then get home and take your ginseng and Vitamin E. You wouldn't want to go limp on wee Julia.'
12
Dropped off by Skinner at Fettes Avenue, Martin entered the building by the back door and trotted up the stairs from the basement level to his office.
He was pleased to see that, save for Barry Macgregor, who was manning the telephones, the Special Branch suite was empty. It was 6:20 pm, and it was Saturday, but he knew this meant, not that everyone has finished for the night, but that the inspection of the chosen venues was already well under way. Sitting down behind his desk, he read the ex-directory telephone number which Skinner had written down for him on the back of a business card, then picked up his secure telephone and punched it in.
A clipped, slightly cautious voice answered. 'Hello, Michael Licorish.'
Andy Martin had met the Head of the Scottish Office Information Directorate on a few occasions, and had seen him in action in one or two high-pressure situations. Licorish had impressed Martin each time as an unflappable, no-nonsense performer, who could keep his media people under control, out of respect as well as his authority, and at times when others would be running for the nearest exit. He had been deputy director in those days, waiting patiently for his crusty old military predecessor to complete his last few months.
'Michael, hi. Andy Martin here. Special Branch. Remember me?'
The responding voice lost its cautious edge. 'Hah. I should forget? What can I do for you, Andy?'
'I take it that you'll have heard by now, the real story of our socalled gas explosion in Princes Street today.'
'Mm. I know all about it. Secretary of State briefed me this afternoon. Told me about the warning letter, too. And about Bob Skinner's anti-terrorist unit. Seems a strong reaction for this S of S, between you and me.'
'Needed though, as it's turned out.' Martin described Skinner's encounter with the motorcyclist.
'Jesus, Andy. S of S didn't tell me that.'
'He doesn't know. It happened after Bob had left him. Now you appreciate how serious this is, I hope you
