Authors: Quintin Jardine
'how's the new job, then? I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to wish you luck before you went.'
The thin sallow face relaxed in a grin. 'No one did. One day I was in my hutch in the Square, and the next I was in DC. The job is daunting. I should think there's some comparison with your own role as Security Adviser in Scotland, but . .
The DCC nodded, and took a swig from his mug. 'Sure, multiplied by a factor of around two hundred, I should think. What ground do you cover?'
`Shit, you name it, the President's liable to throw it at us. Anything that can loosely be called a threat to America's security lands on our desks.'
`So how come you're involved in this thing? I can tell you now that your national security is not an issue here.'
Doherty grinned mischievously. 'Don't you believe it. Our Chief Executive takes the view that his re-election is a matter of national security. So he's ordered the NSC to conduct a high profile international investigation of the murder of Secretary Massey. He's been on the hot line to your Prime Minister asking for his co-operation. So here I am.
`Have you got a note from Teacher?'
`Believe it or not, I have.' Doherty delved into his briefcase and produced a white envelope, of about A4 size. He handed it across to Skinner, who opened it, full of curiosity, and drew out its contents. As he looked at it, Doherty and Gower saw his eyes widen.
The White House crest caught his attention at once. His eyes swept to the foot of the page and saw the clear signature of the President of the United States. Only then did he read the letter. It was short and succinct, advising the reader that Mr Doherty was on a personal mission from the White House, and requiring, not seeking co-operation with him.
The policeman handed it back, with a smile. 'Can I have a photocopy?' he asked. ‘for my memoirs.'
The American smiled. 'Sure you can. Is that gorgeous, leggy secretary of yours about?'
Ìt's Sunday, Joe remember? I can work a photocopier, though. Have you got anything else in that bag of any relevance to the investigation?'
Doherty nodded. 'Merle told you, I think, about the Iraqi network which the CIA tapped into. I have a report on it, and on the UK end.'
Does it give any clue as to who Agent Robin is?'
`Nope, not even what gender. The file copy which came to us says only that he or she is a civil servant, and was recruited on campus as a student, by an Iraqi Intelligence Agent.'
`How old is the information?'
`Pretty fresh.'
`Merle said that Robin had been activated just recently.'
Doherty nodded. 'That's true. But there seems to be a pattern. They never have two agents running at once. The man we caught, Eagle, was active a couple of years back, Mouse in France last year, Hawk in Germany four years ago. Robin was the last of the sleepers and the pattern indicates that he will have been activated by now; our analysts believe that the Iraqis will have been keeping him until he had reached the right level in your civil service before switching him on. Unless of course your people have stumbled upon the Robin's nest and eliminated him without telling anyone.'
`Come on, Joe, we wouldn't do that.'
The little American laughed. 'Bob. You can put your hand on your heart and tell me that?
And I took you for an honest man.'
Skinner changed the subject. The banter was coming too close to home. 'What are you going to do with that file?'
Ì'm going to feed it into the investigation. You're in charge, so that means it's all yours, for what it's worth.' He paused. 'So, what have you got? Merle filled me in on your briefing yesterday. Any developments since then?'
Quickly, Skinner described the bomb team's findings, and explained the direction in which his investigation was heading. `These Red Boxes are pretty secure items. Yet somewhere along the line this one was booby-trapped. So the obvious conclusion is that this was an inside job, but possibly linked to an outside agency. This rogue Serbian General and Agent Robin both sound like likely candidates.
Ì'm expecting a preliminary report from Chief Inspector Donaldson some time this afternoon. Maybe after that we'll be able to wrap it up quick, and your President can grab some credit in time for his election.
`Don't hold your breath, though. In my experience, the obvious conclusion is usually wide of the mark!'
FORTY-ONE
Alison Higgins smiled down at her godson as he sat at the desk in his bedroom, staring intently at the monitor of his computer.
Mark was a highly intelligent little boy, and with his gifts came a tendency to be more serious than his contemporaries. Where they would have been playing with the latest blood and thunder video game, he was exploring the marvellous world of Leonardo da Vinci on an interactive CD-ROM package which Alison had given him as a sixth birthday present.
She noted with some concern that he had selected the section which described the great inventor's designs for flying machines, but he seemed unconcerned as he appraised an animation of a pedal-powered wing. 'It's like a hang-glider, Auntie Alison, isn't it?' he said.
`That's right, Mark, it is, and Leonardo designed it five hundred years ago.'
`What happened to it? Did it crash?'
A tremor flicked at her stomach. She framed her reply carefully. 'It's only a design, Mark.
There's no record of it ever being built, or ever flying. But if Leonardo had built it, I'm sure that it would have worked. He was a genius.'
What's that? A genie, like in Aladdin?'
She laughed. 'No, not quite. A genius is someone who's very, very clever.'
`Like my dad is?'
She winced inwardly at his use of the present tense, and at the awkwardness of his question. The late Roland McGrath had been called many things in his abbreviated lifetime, but genius was a description that had never been applied to him.
'Your daddy was a very clever man, Mark, that's right, but in a different way from Leonardo. Your dad was very good at looking after people, the people who voted for him, and very good as a Minister.'
The Ministry comes in Red Boxes, doesn't it?'
Alison shook her head. 'No, not quite. The Ministry is a big organisation, like the police.
It's run by people like Mr Hardy and your dad: all the papers that the different parts of the Ministry send to them are delivered in Red Boxes.'
Mark looked up at her, with a faint pathetic light of hope shining in his eyes. 'Is my daddy at the Ministry just now?'
She knelt beside him and took his hand. On the monitor screen the pilot of da Vinci's powered wing was pedalling rhythmically.
`No, love,' she said. 'Like I told you, your daddy's gone to be with Jesus.'
`But why did he go?'
`He didn't have any choice in the matter. None of us do, when it's our time.'
The child's chin trembled. 'But I want him. I want my daddy!' He gulped in a great breath of air. It emerged in a long, rending wail, which exploded into violent heaving sobs.
Alison gathered him to her and hugged him, rocking him in her arms.
Ì know you do, my love, but it just can't be any more. You've just got to be the best boy you can be for your mummy. She needs you to be strong for her. You can do that.' She felt his head nod against her chest.
`Here's something you can do. I did it when my dad went to be with Jesus. At night, when you go to bed and Mummy puts out the light, close your eyes tight and think of your daddy. Make a picture of him in your mind.' She rubbed his head. 'He'll be real in there.
You try it and see if he isn't. Will you do that?'
`Yes,' said Mark softly.
She kissed the top of his head, and ruffled his hair. 'There's my good boy. Now let's dry those eyes before Mummy sees you. That would upset her and we don't want that.'
She released him from her hug. Picking a paper handkerchief from a box on the desk she wiped his face and nose. 'There you are. Good as new.' She stood up. 'Go on back to Leonardo. See if you can do the puzzle.'
He looked at her, reproachfully. 'Auntie Alison! I did the puzzle weeks ago!'
She laughed. 'Well, see if you can do it again, then. Maybe the gremlins have been in and changed it.'
He looked at her with that special pity which bright children reserve for ignorance in adults. 'Auntie Alison, there are no gremlins. And once I've done something I always remember it.'
It was true. Since the age of two, Mark's remarkable memory had been in evidence, and had been a talking point for all of his parents' friends.
Leaving him to his educational play, she went downstairs to the living room where Leona McGrath was watching a political magazine programme on television. 'Come and see this,'
she said. 'They're discussing the accident, and what it means for the Government. They're saying that if they lose Roly's seat, and Cohn Davey's it could be all up for them.'
Is that likely?' asked Higgins.
Her friend looked at her and hunched her shoulders in a ”who knows”?' gesture. 'Davey had a rural seat, with a majority of twenty-three thousand. Even we should hold that. But our seat's a different matter, with such a small majority. I know that Roly and Marsh were pessimistic about our prospects at the General Election.'
Ah, but Mr Elliot told Bob Skinner that he thought that in the circumstances of the by-election, the right candidate would hold it.'
Did he indeed,' said the little widow, intrigued. 'I wonder who he had in mind.'
FORTY-TWO
Skinner had just refilled the coffee mugs when his scrambled direct line rang. He stepped across to the desk and picked it up. `Yes?'
DCI Donaldson, sir. I'm calling from Captain Arrow's office in Whitehall.'
`Hello, Dave. I've been expecting your report. Look, I've got company here, Mr Doherty and Ms Gower, so I'm going to switch to hands free.' He pushed a button on the receiver and replaced the handset. 'Right, how's it going down there?'
Donaldson's voice boomed tinnily around the room. Ìnteresting, sir. We've satisfied ourselves that the Red Box was clean when Maurice Noble took it home with him.'
`That doesn't really surprise me. Go on to the interesting bits.'
`Right, for a start, Maurice Noble's colleagues say that he was showing signs of depression. This was related to the excessive hours that Mr Davey made his staff work, and to his belief that his wife was having an affair.'
`Have you spoken to the wife?'
`Just left her, sir.'
`What did she have to say? You did put it to her, didn't you?'
Òf course, boss. We asked her directly. She didn't admit anything.'
`But you have room for doubt?'
`Substantial.
Òkay. Is Adam there?'
`Yes, sir. I'll put him on.'
Skinner picked up the receiver, cutting out the loudspeak. Àdam, I think maybe we should put a tail on Mrs Noble. Do y agree?'
Too right. I've put a tap on her phone already.'
Ìs that authorised?'
Ì've fookin' authorised it.'
`Fine, if you can do that. Now I want you to use Donaldson and McIlhenney for the tail.
They're both good guys, and I trust them. While they're keeping the lady in their sights, I'd like you to do something else for me. It sounds as if we have to consider suicide by Noble as a possibility here. I want you to go back into his past and find out whether he had the skill to make an explosive device.'
Òkay,' said Arrow. 'From memory, there was nothing to indicate that, but I'll take a look.
Maybe he 'ad a Boys' Own Chemistry set when he was a lad. Anything else?'
`Yeah. Let's cover all the angles. If the Red Box spent the night at Chez Noble, I'd like to have the place checked for any sign of an illicit entry while they were asleep. Ask Dave Donaldson to arrange to borrow a Scene of Crime Squad from the Met.'
`Right, I'll do that.'
`Good,' said Skinner. 'Now, Joe Doherty has with him the American file on Agent Robin.
I've got Brian Mackie flying down there tomorrow. I'll ask him to give it to you.'
`You can if you like,' said Arrow, 'but it ain't news to me. M16 found out about Robin before the Yanks did. The CIA obviously didn't tell the NSC, but it were our lot that tipped them off! Don't worry about Agent Robin, Bob. We've got an operation in place in that respect, and I'm pretty certain that Robin isn’t the person we're after! The best thing we can do is follow the leads we ‘ave, and keep an eye out for traces of General Yahic.'
Skinner said cautiously. 'I'll go with your judgement on that. Good luck.'
‘cheers mate. I'll keep in touch.' Arrow hesitated. 'One thing though, Bob. Are you all right?'
`Me! Of course. Why?'
"Cos from where I'm listening, you sound absolutely knackered!'
FORTY-THREE
Bob Skinner lay in the dark. It was 2.30 a.m., and he was afraid.
He lay alert, listening to his wife's soft breathing, because he was afraid to fall asleep, afraid of another dream visit to those muddy acres, afraid of the horror but also of the reality of his vision of the night before.
He knew with a great certainty that the nightmare was not over, only interrupted. He could remember none of the detail, only the horror, but he was certain that if he yielded to his sandy, heavy eyes, he would be back in its midst, not screaming awake this time, but moving on towards something in the darkness, something that he knew was there, something frightful, something awful. He was afraid too that even his wakeful state would not be a defence for ever, and that soon the final recollection would break through the wall in his consciousness which he had built against it, and kept cemented firm.
He slipped out of bed, moved noiselessly over to his wardrobe and found running shorts, a sweat-shirt and trainers. Rather than stumble about in the bedroom and risk waking Sarah, he stepped out to the landing and clothed himself, then tiptoed downstairs and let himself out into the street. He locked the door behind him, zipped his keys into a pocket in his shirt, and trotted towards the road, running across the lawn and leaping over the corner of the gravel to maintain his silent escape.
Had he looked back, he would have seen Sarah at the bedroom window watching him anxiously as he loped into the night, down Fairyhouse Avenue.