Skinner's Festival (3 page)

FOUR

Much of the information held by MI5 is stored on computer.
Skinner had access to it through a modem and a dedicated 'secure’ telephone line. Seated before his terminal in his St Andrews House office, he gained entry to the network by keying in his personal code, a five-letter password known only to him, which was made up of his parents’ initials.
The colour screen lit up, to be filled rapidly by a directory. One by one. Skinner selected all of the most recent intelligence files, then others which had any bearing on UK security or UK
nationals, or which attempted to predict future trends in terrorism. He found a forecast of renewed Irish activity on the mainland in late September through early October, with a flash
that a 'major event’ was planned for the week of the Conservative Party Conference. There was a warning of possible trouble within the Chinese community in the wake of the recent Hong Kong incident. Another file reported that a senior government Minister had become a major security risk because of an active homosexual relationship with a military attaché from a North African embassy. There was a warning posted of the possibility of further Basque nationalist activity against British tourists arriving on flights into Malaga and Alicante airports. But there was nothing – nothing at all – to suggest the likelihood of terrorist attacks in Scotland.

After closing the last file, Skinner stared for a few seconds at the blank screen, then, with a shake of his head, signed out of the network. He picked up his secure telephone and called Andy Martin’s direct-line number, which was also scrambled.
'How’re you getting on? I’ve turned up nothing here.’

“Me neither. One thing I have done, though, is track down the managing director of the firm that sponsored that marquee, some big knitwear outfit or other – to check whether they’ve got
any serious business rivals, or if there are any former employees with a grievance. He’s thinking over the second possibility, but said there’s no chance of the first. He claims he knows all his rivals personally. They’re all in the same golf club. He reckons that alone would rule out any nasties.’

Skinner chuckled. 'Course it would! You can’t play golf with a man, then bomb his business. Just isn’t done! Got any other theories, m’boy?’
Martin exhaled noisily at his end of the line. 'None that are worth a stuff, boss. I’ve checked out the Nats and some of the wilder boys in the home-rule wing of the Labour Party, but there’s absolutely nothing on any of the characters we’ve got on file to suggest that they’d be capable of this. And just suppose there is a Home Ruler out there of a mind to do something stupid, why the hell would he do it in some bloody tent? He’d choose a high-profile target, wouldn’t he? No, my best guess is that it’s linked in some way to the sponsors of that marquee. And that’s all I’ve got.’

Skinner grunted. 'And as far as I’m concerned, you haven’t even got that. OK, Andy. I’m on my way down to Fettes. We’ll need to work out a statement on this, and get it out before the
media start a public panic through lack of solid information. See you shortly.’

Skinner was turning the key of the five-lever Chubb lock to close his office door when his mobile telephone started its trembling call sound. He dug it out of the breast pocket of his shirt and pushed the receive’ button.

'Skinner.’
'Bob, it’s Alan Ballantyne here. I’m at Number 6. Can you get here right away, please.’
Skinner recognised concern, almost alarm in the Secretary of State’s voice, but made an effort to keep his own tone relaxed.
'Sure, Alan. I’m at the House just now. I’ll be with you in five minutes.’
“That’s good. But use the back door, will you. I don’t want anyone to know you’re here!’

FIVE

Skinner’s new BMW was parked in his reserved space in the St Andrews House courtyard, where he and Sarah had left it earlier that day.
As he pulled out of the exit gates held open for him by a security guard, he saw the traffic tailed back from the closed section of Princes Street, so he nipped across the flow and headed eastwards, turning into Regent Terrace. Just three minutes later he pulled off St Colrne Street and up the rising driveway which led into the car park at the rear of Number 6 Charlotte Square. After parking, he called Andy Martin to warn him that he had been delayed, but without telling him exactly where he was. Then he climbed out of the BMW, locked it securely, headed over to the anonymous blue-painted back door, and rang its brass bell.

The official residence of the Secretary of State for Scotland had been gifted to the nation by an aristocratic family, to be used for that special purpose. It is a noble Georgian building in the centre of the terrace extending along the north side of Charlotte Square, Edinburgh’s finest. Unlike Downing Street, there is no ministerial office in Number 6. Its only business function is to serve as a venue for government receptions and official dinner parties.
However, its private apartments are occupied frequently by Scottish Office ministers, particularly those with rural constituencies. Alan Ballantyne was Member of Parliament for a
sprawling seat in the north-east of Scotland. Skinner knew, too, that he had a shaky marriage, and that he used his Edinburgh residence on occasion as a bolt-hole.

The back door was opened by a beautiful woman. She looked to be around thirty, and was dressed in a silk blouse and a perfectly , cut beige skirt. About Sarah’s age. Skinner thought, and he doesn’t have any sisters. Dressed with money, too
. Careful, Alan. careful
.

The blonde’s accent sounded even more expensive than her clothes.

'Mr Skinner?’ He nodded. 'Come away in, you’re expected. I’m Carlie, by the way. A sort of friend of the family.’
She led him up a flight of stairs which ascended to an austere hallway at street level. At the top she turned to him. 'Alan’s waiting for you in the drawing-room. Do you know the way from here?’
Skinner smiled. 'Yes, I’ve been here a few times. Usually get to use the front door, though.’
Carlie returned his grin, and disappeared through a door at the back of the hall. Skinner continued up a second flight of stone stairs. One of the double doors to the drawing-room lay open. He entered and closed it behind him.

The magnificent room extended across the full width of the house. Its original fixtures had all been preserved, and the antique furniture and fittings were in tune with the period of the building itself.
The Secretary of State for Scotland stood leaning with his left forearm on the mantelpiece of the big empty fireplace. His right hand held a heavy crystal glass, in which a peaty liquid swirled.
Skinner was astonished by this, as he knew the man rarely drank alcohol in any form.
Ballantyne turned at the sound of the closing of the door. 'Bob, am I glad to see you. Want a drink?’
Skinner shook his head. 'Too early for me, Alan.’

“Me too, as a rule, but when you hear what I have to tell you, you’ll understand why. First things first, tell me about this explosion. Everything you know or suspect. Don’t worry about
anyone walking in on us. There’s no staff here today, and I’ve told Carlie not to disturb us.’

Ballantyne led the way over to two finely carved, tightly upholstered armchairs at the far end of the room. They sat down, facing each other. Skinner leaned forward, his forearms on his
knees, and looked the Secretary of State in the eye.
'Well, first of all, there was no warning, no tip-off, no chance to clear the place. Whoever planted that bomb meant for it to go off, and didn’t care a bit about casualties. Mind you, I don’t think that it was meant particularly to cause injury. It was placed in a corner of the tent, and the lad who was killed – a poor wee bugger called Danny Baker – was just unlucky. He was standing right next to the thing when it went off. It blew him to bits, and hurt quite a few other people, but none of the survivors seems to have been critically injured. The boy’s body probably shielded the rest of them. We don’t know for sure, but the army people think it was some Semtex device. So it wouldn’t have been very big, and could have been stashed in anything: a biscuit tin, or any container like that. Something took the top of the boy Baker’s head off; it could have been the lid.’

As Ballantyne winced at the thought. Skinner went on. 'So, despite the recklessness, I think that this was meant as some sort of demonstration. The objective could have been just to bring down the tent and attract public attention. But it’s the why that beats me. As for who our somebody might be, I’ve looked at all the obvious candidates, and I don’t fancy any of them. There’ve been no hints from the intelligence networks of anything cooking, so it looks like either a random nutter or a completely new setup.
It’s the Semtex that worries me most of all. You don’t steal that stuff from construction sites. Anybody who can get his hands on Semtex is either tied into an international terror group, or has serious cash at his disposal. I wish to God I knew which it is.

'The thing that surprises me, Alan, is that we haven’t had a call yet. I’d have expected whoever did this to have been in touch by now, identifying himself, telling us what it’s all about, and making some specific demands. But so far, there’s been nothing at all.’
Ballantyne leaned back in his chair. 'That’s where you’re wrong. Bob,’ he said softly.
Skinner’s eyebrows rose. The Secretary of State, normally laid-back and self-assured, seemed as tense as the mainspring of an over-wound watch.
Ballantyne jumped up and strode across the room to a fine Georgian writing table. He picked up a brown A4 manila envelope and walked back towards Skinner, thrusting it before him.
'There you are. Take a look at this. It was handed in at St Andrews House by a motorcyclist half an hour ago. The security staff checked that I was here, then sent it along to me. Read it,
man.’
Skinner took the envelope from Ballantyne, noticing that the man’s hand was trembling. A white address label was stuck precisely in the centre.
The words on it were neatly typed:

Alan Ballantyne, MP
St Andrew’s House
Edinburgh

To be opened by Addressee only.

In contrast to the neatness of the label, the envelope itself had been ripped open crudely. Skinner prised its sides apart with two Fingers, and saw inside a single sheet of white paper. Taking it by one corner he withdrew it carefully and laid it on the open palm of his left hand. He looked at it for a moment then began to read.

To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.
From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.

By now you will have learned of the demonstration staged
earlier today by the true representatives of the people of
Scotland, for the benefit and enlightenment of you and your
colleagues in the government of the occupying power. Be in
no doubt that this was only a small token of the resources
which are available to us, and it is no more than a first
warning.
Our demands are simple and clear. Your Westminster
Parliament will agree at once to take steps to annul the
fraudulent Treaty of Union, and to restore full power and
authority to the Estates of Scotland, through its properly
elected Parliament. We have been compelled to take this
stern action by the intransigence of your government, and by
the collaboration of the so-called opposition panics, in
denying Scotland its birthright.
Today’s operation should be interpreted as a declaration
of intent. At the moment of writing this
communiqué
, we
cannot know whether it will be completed without casualties.
But if people have been killed or injured, they should be seen
as martyrs to the Scottish cause. The same will be true of
those others who will be called upon to sacrifice themselves if
you do not yield to our demands.
The Edinburgh International Festival has been chosen as
the stage for our drama. We hope that this will be a play in
one act only, but unless Scotland’s independence is restored
at once, there will be further scenes, escalating in their
violence until you, the oppressors, are forced to submit.
Scotland deserves that the whole world should see her regain
her freedom. With this in mind the contents of this letter are
being released simultaneously to the media. Future
communiqués
from us, should they be necessary, will use the
code word
Arbroath
to
demonstrate their authenticity.’

Skinner pursed his lips and whistled softly. He glanced up at Ballantyne. 'Wordy bastard this one, is he not. Lovely turn of phrase. Poor Danny’d be chuffed to know he’s joined the great
honour roll of martyrdom.’ He paused and looked at the note again. 'What have you done about the bit on the end?’
Ballantyne looked puzzled. 'What do you mean?’
'Come on, Alan. Get a grip. What have you done about the press?’
'Nothing so far. Do you take this thing seriously?’
Skinner pointed to his right foot. 'See that stain on my shoe?
That’s blood. Too effing right I take it seriously.’

He took out his mobile telephone and punched in a number. 'Andy? It’s Bob.
Listen, I need you to act fast. The Secretary of State’s had a letter claiming responsibility for our bomb. They say they’ve put it out to the press, too, but they don’t say how. Chances are they’ll issue it by hand or by telephone. I don’t think they’d be daft enough to use a fax. Get hold of Alan Royston, our Press Officer, whatever golf course he’s on, and tell him to get his arse into the office.
While he’s doing that, you put out a holding statement on the explosion via our Mercury distribution network. Don’t say much, just that the cause is being investigated. Then tell Royston to field all incoming calls. And while you’re at it, tell DCC McGuinness that’s the SB party line and that he’s to stick to it. Better still, he’s to say nothing at all.’

'Will he take that from me?’
'He’ll take it from me. Use my name. Once that statement has gone out, I want you to stop all other coverage. Use your duty staff, and get them calling round all the media. If anyone hasn’t received the letter yet, then tell them about it. Whatever the case, say that we hope it’s a crank, but that we need a complete news blackout on it while we study the contents, run forensic tests, and so on. They can say that they’re calling on my behalf, with the full
authority of the Security Service, and that D-notice procedures apply. If any editor refuses to co-operate, arrest him, and let me know.’;