Quintin Jardine: Gallery Whispers

The Head of CID looked back at the journalists and saw Estelle deep in conversation with John Tough, a local news reporter whom they both knew well. Suddenly her expression changed; she shot them both a venomous glare.

'Know what?' said the Special Branch commander. 'I think us two catering contractors have just been dropped right in the soup.'

Skinner thumped the steering wheel in frustration, 'and swore loudly as the stolid, uniformed sergeant held up a big, gloved hand. He had already been stopped by two other officers, either ignoring, or ignorant of the call from Control that the DCC's car was to be waved through all barriers.

He sounded his horn, but the man simply turned his back on him.

The DCC jumped out to rend him limb from limb, but as he approached the main entrance of the Caledonian Hotel came into his line of vision. The Russian convoy was just pulling out, a black Rolls Royce limousine with full escort.

'Sergeant,' he barked, 'clear out of the way once they've gone.' The man turned, gulped as he recognised the angry figure behind him, and stepped aside.

Sliding back behind the wheel of the BMW, Skinner moved off heading for Lothian Road, only to see the Prime Minister's convoy swing out of Charlotte Square at speed, cutting across in front of him.

He swore again, but knew that patience was now his only option, and so he pulled in behind the rear outriders as they swept past the great hotel, heading for the EICC. One of the bikers dropped back, and took up position alongside his window, peering into the car from under the visor of his crash hat, recognising and acknowledging him with the wave of a gauntlet.

He was snarling with frustration as the cars in front slowed almost to walking pace, marking time, he realised, to allow the elderly Russian President to make his ponderous entrance first, but at last, they turned right into Lothian Road, the one-way system irrelevant under Jim Elder's movement plan. He looked at the car clock: six minutes to nine.

He swung violently into the car park, narrowly missing the young constable who moved momentarily to block his path, but sensibly stepped backwards, out of the way, drew to a halt in the first available space, jumped out of the car and moved quickly to catch up with the Prime Minister's party. He was twenty yards short of the great glass entrance when the phone in his pocket sounded its urgent signal.

Stopping in his tracks and snatching it from his pocket, he pressed the green button and held it to his ear. 'Yes,' he snapped.

The DG's calm plummy tone was gone. 'Your man Ventnor,' he said tersely. 'Is he on your patch?'

'Right in the middle of it.'

'In that case you have a major problem. You were right, he was in van Roost's jungle group. He was his second in command, in fact, and it was he who saved his life when he took his leg wound. He's halfAustralian, half-Afrikaner, and he's an explosives expert. D'you remember the Asian Head of State who was blown out of the sky in one ofHawkins'jobs?'

'Yes.'

'Well, the intelligence community suspected that he had help in making the bomb, but they never worked out who. You may have come up with the answer. My hypothesis is that when Hawkins was killed Ventnor was brought in as a replacement.'

'That's a contradiction. It would mean that Hawkins wasn't after Walesa, he was on this job all along. Therefore he wasn't in Poland and he isn't fucking dead. He's here, and he's posing as an adviser to the Iranian delegation.'

'But he was identified,' the DG protested.

'By his teeth alone! Somehow they've faked that. My guess is that his paymaster for this job came up with a body, and put a dentist to work on the lower jaw; who knows, maybe they used Hawkins' own teeth. When they found the stiff in the plane the top of his head was gone, so the dental identification was only partial.'

Even against the background street noise, the detective heard the gasp from the other end of the line. 'You have to stop the conference, Skinner,' the DG shouted. 'You have to clear the hall before there's a massacre.'

'It's probably too late for that. The Prime Minister's just gone inside; the plan is that he goes straight into the hall, up on to the stage with our Secretary of State, and at that point the event is declared open. As far as I know, Hawkins and Ventnor are in there now.

'Look, if you're right and we're dealing with a bomb, they ain't going to blow themselves up. The whole place was checked by snifter dogs first thing this morning. If there is a device in there, the clever bastards have taken it in with them, and I think I know how.'

'What do you mean?'

'I think Hawkins is sitting on it. The best chance we've got is if we can arrest them right now, and take them by surprise in the process so they don't have a chance to trigger the thing and take us all out with them.'

'Do you have to arrest them?'

Skinner knew exactly what the man was saying. 'Don't be daft,' he retorted. 'This event's being broadcast live. I can't shoot two guys on world-wide television.' He cut off the call, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and began to run.

The uniformed inspector in charge of the detail at the entrance saw him approach, and saw the look on his face. 'Where's Andy Martin?' the DCC called out.

'In the foyer last I saw, sir.'

The DCC sped into the auditorium. As he dived through the metal detector archway it buzzed loudly. The two civilian security guards who were manning did not recognise him and together, they moved to stop him. There was no time for explanations; first one, then the other, went down, winded by short disabling blows. He left them gasping and ran into the wide passageway which encircled the main auditorium.

To his relief, Martin and McGuire were standing in the main doorway. They had their backs to him and were looking into the hall.

Beyond them stood the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State. If I can stop them, he thought. He moved towards them, but too late. As he reached the door, the two politicians set off down the shallow sloping centre aisle, and as they did, the assembly rose to its feet in spontaneous acclamation.

Skinner grabbed Martin by the arm and hauled him out into the passageway. 'Andy,' he gasped, breathing hard, as he looked at his astonished friend. 'Problem. Big-time problem.' McGuire spun round also at the sound and stared anxiously at the DCC.

'Wayne Ventnor, Karen's Australian; he was the sapper in Michael Hawkins' squad of jungle killers. Find him and arrest him, now. Get all the help you can, split up and search the whole place. But don't involve Neville! 'Before you go. The man in the wheelchair, Crombie. Is he in the hall?'

'He should be, sir,' the inspector answered. 'He's with the Iranians in Karen's sector, far side of the left aisle. But why'

'He's Hawkins: it's some disguise, right down to the false teeth maybe, but I'm sure of it. If he's not Michael Hawkins, then my name's Camilla Parker Bowles… and I've never been on a horse in my life.

'Now go on.'

As his two colleagues ran off. Skinner stepped across to the doorway and looked into the hall, down and to his left, but his view was obscured by the assembled politicians and delegates, who were still on their feet clapping the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State onto the stage. Turning, he ran round the passageway, to the next doorway, at the top of the next aisle.

Karen Neville was standing there, unperturbed, looking into the hall. Could she have knownl he wondered for an instant. But no, his ego refused to let him believe that his judgement of a woman could have been so badly wrong once again.

'Dennis Crombie,' he said, ignoring her surprise at his sudden appearance. 'Where is he sitting?'

'About half-way down the aisle, sir, on the left; that's the Iranian position. Israel nearest the gangway, then Ireland, then them, last in the row.'