turbulent priest of his. So Goodman's at the meeting, and his crazy little mind starts to work. He figures, 'We'll never kill all the Colombians and the Burmese, or torch all their crops.
So what we have to do is discredit their product.'
'The health agencies all over the world have been saying it fof: years: 'If you touch smack or coke you will die, eventually.' to an addict that just ain't true. We've had a boom in the di market, and in all the other crime that runs alongside it.
Goodman figures that what he's got to do is make the u believe: 'If you touch heroin or smack you will die… now! No second chance.' Then he does some more thinking and comes up with Giminez. The CIA have been running him for years, doing all sorts of things that we won't go into. Goodman tells him what he wants, Giminez says: 'OK, gimme da money, I do it. But it'll take time.' Goodman siphons off dough from a big CIA slush fund.
Giminez drops out of sight, and stays in deep cover for years.
What he's been doing is one, he's been building up supplies of horse and coke; two, putting some of the world's finest illicit chemists to work in making them lethal; and three, and most recently, setting up relationships with dealers around the world, like your MP friend, all of them greedy and in the market for cheap supplies. Say, Bob. Being an MP, that's pretty good cover, eh?
'The final stage of the plan, and it's a beauty, I have to say, is that Giminez, through his network, feeds the marks a little good stuff to whet their appetites, and get the street excited, then drops the bomb with the big shipment. End result is, dead users all around the world, stories leaked to the press, mass panic, and everyone too scared to touch the stuff, like ever again.'
Time was ebbing away, but Skinner was fascinated. 'So how did you get on to Goodman?'
'I passed the name Giminez on to Langley. They found the slush money, traced the payment to Goodman, and used all means necessary to make him talk.'
'So how do they stop it?'
'God knows. Maybe they can't. Goodman doesn't know names, or even how many Macdairmids there are, and the CIA can't get to Giminez anyway. He's operating blind. Broke contact with Goodman long ago. All the CIA can do now is put the word out on the street, and tell the Colombians about Giminez in the hope that they can stop him. But maybe they won't do that either.
Because, goddamn it, crazy Goodman's crazy idea could actually work. I did hear that the DBA can't figure out whether to give you a medal for uncovering this whole operation, or put a contract out on you! 'Meantime, Interpol has started to log reports from Hamburg of dozens of coke users – some of them top people – suddenly winding up dead all over the city. And somehow I doubt if that'll be the last we hear of Giminez and his special deliveries. Hope your crisis up in Scotland turns out to be a damn sight easier to solve!'
59
Skinner's mind whirled with the consequences of Doherty's story, as he headed off towards Holyrood Park in his BMW, on the heels of his squad.
The Park is, in a sense, the biggest back garden in Scotland.
Within its grounds, behind a high grey wall, stands the Palace of Holyroodhouse, modest in size but rich in history. Four centuries ago, as the machinations of the court of the doomed Mary, Queen of Scots tore her country apart, it was a place of intrigue and murder. Today it stands largely unchanged, as the official residence in Scotland of her heirs and successors, and as a venue for great gatherings of heads of government. Though Holyrood is a Royal Park in status, in practice it is one of Edinburgh's favourite and largest public open spaces, covering well over a square mile of greenlands, with three small lochs which provide lodgings for dozens of swans, geese and ducks, with 1 literally thrown in – a constant supply of food from children! and tourists. '
Holyrood Park is dominated by Arthur's Seat, an extinct volcano from whose vantage point the legendary king is said to have overlooked the first dwellings of what was to become thef beautiful city of Edinburgh. Dark Age overtones continue to cling' to the ancient hill. As he looked up at it in the fine August morning sunshine. Skinner recalled with a tug at his heart another morning twenty years earlier, when he had walked with his first wife Myra, the baby Alexis cradled in her arms, to the summit,! with dozens of other parents, to wash in the midsummer morning dew. He closed his eyes for a moment, and could see again the clear vision of Myra gently dabbing her baby's face, and saying softly, 'There. That'll guard her beauty for life.' She had beei right in her prediction for Alex. But, sadly, life had not been longJ for Myra.
Skinner tore himself back to the present and surveyed the Royal Park. It was stiH well short of midday, but thousands of people were there already, congregating on the flatter grassland around the palace and beyond towards the park wall, and the grey tenements of Royal Park Terrace. At intervals, flat-backed lorries and other temporary staging had been set up to provide venues for impromptu performances by Fringe players. He noted with approval the numbers of police caps which could be seen in the crowd. Occasionally, he saw casually dressed figures, looking around observantly through their sunglasses, and caught the glint of gold on their chests.
The first performers arrived just after midday: a student revue from Oxford University. They set out their props on one of the lorry stages and soon gathered a crowd as they began to perform snatches of their show, involving the audience whenever they ;ould. Gradually, more and more spectators and more and more layers filled the Park, until by 2:00 pm it was thronged with happy folk, singing, playing and laughing in the sunshine. The only people there who could not relax were Skinner's plainclothes team, the SAS soldiers, and the ninety-five policemen and policewomen in uniform, who continued to mingle with the crowd.
He was standing with Sarah, some way off, when it happened.
A few minutes earlier, a wide circle had opened amid the crowd, perhaps one hundred and fifty yards across. A motorcycle had roared into life, then another, then a third, and a fourth.
'It's Le Cirque Mobile,' Sarah cried. 'Let's have a look.'
But he had held her back, seeing no easy way through the thick crowd. So Sarah had stretched on tip-toe, catching only glimpses of the riders' lightweight helmets, and occasionally the clown make-up on their faces, as they bucked and twisted their bikes in wheelies, or left the ground in acrobatic leaps.
Skinner was looking away when he heard the first screams, and Sarah grasped his arm tightly. He looked round, to see the wide circle of spectators burst apart as one of the riders revved his bike and roared through them, steering with his left hand alone. The bike carved a swathe amid the diving people as it ploughed through the panicking crowd. It headed straight towards a wide platform stage, on which a group of dancers were performing, dressed in a colourful folk costume. One by one, they stopped and stared as the cyclist roared towards them. They could only look on, frozen with shock, as he threw the object which he held aloft in his free right hand.
The grenade exploded in mid-air, among the dancers. Bodies flew everywhere, and a fine red mist seemed to hang in the air for a second or two.
As the screaming erupted and escalated, Skinner, running now towards the scene, saw the motorcyclist veer away from the makeshift stage, pulling a squat, ugly gun from his jacket. There was something about his movement, about the way he handled his bike, which made Bob certain that this was the same man who had shot at him in Charlotte Square. But this time he was carrying an automatic machine-pistol. As he roared through the scattering crowd towards the Meadowbank gateway, he sprayed fire from right to left and back again. To his horror. Skinner saw young Barry Macgregor go tumbling backwards, gun in hand, blood spraying from his throat.
And then the man had broken through the last of the crowd.
The bike accelerated towards the exit, the rider steering now with both hands. He had thrown the gun, spent, on the grass behind him.
It was a hell of a shot, they all agreed later. Brian Mackie fired only once. Technically, Skinner might have rebuked him for failing first to call out, identifying himself as an armed police officer, but in the circumstances he decided to let this pass.
The rider's back arched and his arms flew wide, as the bullet cut through his spine. He seemed to rise out of the saddle, and to hang, cruciform, in mid-air for a second, before falling, almost gracefully, on to his back. At
