Quintin Jardine: Gallery Whispers

'Oh,' the man's soothing tone was that of a professional deflector.

'I'm not sure if I can raise him at this time. Can I put you through to the duty officer?'

'No, thank you. Now listen to me carefully. I am on a secure line and I need to speak to the DG, now; don't try to fob me off with anyone else, and don't put someone on the line pretending to be him either, for I know him. He can be reached at all times, as you and I are both aware, so connect me now.'

The 'or else' seemed to hang in the air, unspoken but understood.

'I'll try his car, sir. Hold on for a moment, please.'

The moment seemed like an hour, but eventually there was a click.

'Yes?' said a calm plummy voice, one that he recognised. 'What can I do for you, Bob?' In the background. Skinner heard the noise of traffic.

'You can pull out all the stops, sir. Bum the line to your opposite number in South Africa and find out all you can about the other members ofHencke van Roost's platoon. In particular, I need to know about a man, tall, dark-haired, who may have had an Australian connection and whose name may have been Wayne Ventnor, although, like Hawkins, he could have been called something else then.' He recited his mobile number. 'Call me back on that as soon as you have anything. I'll be on the move.'

'But what about security?'

'Bugger security,' Skinner snapped. He glanced at his watch.

'You've got twenty-one minutes. After that, I'm either going to embarrass myself before the whole nicking world, or something very bad is going to happen!'

Stevie Steele stood at the doorway of Number Six Charlotte Square, looking out into the street. Since the last round of games which the city's traffic managers had played with a confused motoring public it had always been quiet outside the official residence of the Secretary of State for Scotland, but on this momentous morning in the city it was almost ghostly. The usual fleet of maroon-coloured buses were operating; Steele saw two of them dropping off passengers on the far side of the square. But there were no cars, no delivery vans, no crashhelmeted cycle couriers, and very few pedestrians.

Other than the public transport the only vehicles in the Square were two black Jaguars parked outside the magnificent grey-sandstone terrace, two police cars front and rear, and four motorcycles. They stood on the other side of the street, three of their riders waiting beside them, their crash helmets in their hands.

The young sergeant flexed his shoulders, trying to work his firearm into a more comfortable position beneath his jacket, feeling its weight in the holster strapped to his ribcage, feeling his heart thumping slightly, his pulse raised by the tension of his onerous duty. He had done close protection work before for visiting VIPs, but this was different; this was big time; the biggest. He looked down at his dark jacket, at the sun glinting on the small gold eagle badge in his lapel.

He checked his watch: sixteen minutes to nine, one minute to go.

The radio in his hand gave a small bleep; and a voice spoke from it.

Steele recognised ACC Elder, even although he sounded strained.

'Charlotte Square acknowledge.'

The sergeant pressed a button. 'Sir.'

'Delay departure by two minutes, sergeant,' said Elder. 'The Russians are late leaving the Caley. Tell the outriders not to get too close if you come up behind them in Lothian Road.'

'Understood, sir.' He looked at the senior outrider, a sergeant, who was standing beside him. 'Did you get that?'

'Aye,' the man replied. 'No sweat. I'll get ma cowboys saddled up.'

He headed down the steps and across the street, black boots shining as his signalled to his men to mount their cycles. Steele counted off the minutes, then the seconds. At exactly thirteen minutes to nine on his synchronised watch he pressed the bell on the door-jamb of Number Six, then stood aside and waited. A few seconds later the heavy door swung open and the Prime Minister stepped out, flanked by his two permanent bodyguards. He gave the young sergeant a watered down version of his world-famous smile, and jogged down the steps.

Dr Bruce Anderson, the Secretary of State for Scotland, followed in his wake, Brian Mackie by his side and his Civil Service private secretary, briefcase in hand bringing up the rear. 'Okay, Stevie,' said the Superintendent as they headed for the second Jaguar. 'Everything seems peaceful. Let's deliver our client.'

A small crowd of people stood on the pavement in Morrison Street, opposite the entrance to the Edinburgh International Conference Centre. Apart from the Scottish Office minders, and two uniformed police officers, they were all journalists, not accredited to enter the conference itself, but given secondary passes to allow them limited access to the arrival.

They stood in professional, dispassionate silence as the President of the United States stepped out of his armour-plated car under the Centre's decorative canopy, watching as he was greeted by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, gold chain glinting, by Chief Constable Sir James Proud, silver braid shining, and by the American Consul General, in a dark lounge suit.

Andy Martin was waiting in the foyer as the group moved inside: the world's most powerful man shook his hand as the Consul General introduced him, gave him a drawled, 'Good morning and thank you,' and moved on.

The chief superintendent had never seen the President in the flesh before. On the basis of the documentaries he had watched on television and the studies he had read of his ascent to power, he had always wondered how the man had reached the world's most powerful office.

Close to he began to understand: there was a presence about him, an aura which was almost visible, and which had been lacking in all of the other world figures who had walked past him previously that morning, even the formidable Chinese and French leaders.

As he gazed after him, the President walked through the security archway — the metal detector having been turned off for that moment, to ensure that his belt buckle did not set it off — smiled and waved briefly over his shoulder to the police and officials gathered in the entrance.

'Two more to go, sir,' said Mario McGuire as he stepped alongside Martin. 'The Russian and our PM.'

'Don't forget the Secretary of State.'

'Easily done,' the inspector grunted, as they stepped closer to the entrance. 'D'you remember the saying about that old Prime Minister.

What was it? "An empty car drew up outside Number Ten and Mr Attlee got out." That could have been told about Anderson.'

The Head of CID laughed. 'You've been spending too much time with the Deputy Chief Constable. That's how he feels about all politicians these days. If someone told him there was a bomb in here, I reckon he'd clear out the civilians and lock the leaders in.'

As he spoke, McGuire nudged his elbow, and gestured towards the group across the street. 'There's a friend of yours over there.'

Martin's eye followed his pointing finger. Estelle Lawrence stood among the group of journalists, waving at them with a slightly uncertain smile. He grinned and gave her a brief wave in return.

'Here, sir,' the inspector muttered, 'you dropped us right in it last night, bringing that one back to the table and having us all pretend we were catering contractors. Christ, when Maggie said she was in charge of dishwashing…' He shook his head, laughing softly to himself.

'After we all left, did you manage to stick to your ten o'clock curfew?'

'Oh aye, no problem. I might have trouble tonight, though. I'm picking Estelle up at nine from her hotel.'

McGuire pointed across the street once more. 'I'm not so sure about that. See who she's talking to?'