Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

'Is he there?'

'Yes. I was looking down at him just as everyone got to their feet.'

Skinner felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. 'What's the betting…' he murmured under his breath. He stood on tip-toe, trying to catch a glimpse of the Iranians; among the many tops of heads, he picked out several wound in white cloth, standing in the — area Neville had described.

'How many should there be in the delegation?' he asked.

'Eight, sir. Seven Iranians and Dennis.'

As she spoke the Prime Minister came to the centre of the stage, beaming, nodding and gesturing to the gathering to be seated. Skinner stared down their ranks as they complied, counting the Iranians aloud.

'One, two, three, four, five, six…' Then an empty place; and finally, an empty wheel-chair, on the outside of the row. Neville looked where he looked, saw what he saw. Her hand went to her mouth.

'Oh my G'

'Exactly lass.' Skinner murmured. 'Either there's a faith healer in the house, or your man Crombie's a wrong 'un.

'Now where the hell's he gone? Because he hasn't passed us by.' He looked down into the auditorium. On either side of the stage there were two sets of double exit doors. Those on the left seemed to be swinging very slightly. Beside it were two hard-looking men, both of them wearing little gold badges.

He looked at the woman beside him, and saw shock on her face.

'No time for discussion,' he snapped. 'How did Crombie and Ventnor get here?'

'By car,' she answered, her voice cracking for an instant. 'Dennis got a disabled permit for the Centre car park.'

'You know what their car looks like?'

'Yes.'

'Okay I want you to grab Andy or Mario; the first armed colleague you see, then go and find it. Meanwhile, I'm going to get that wheelchair out of the hall.'

'But why, sir?'

'Because it's a bomb, Karen. Your boyfriend and his pal have been planning all along to blow this place to Kingdom Come. Now go!'

As she turned and sprinted along the passageway, feeling her bolstered side-arm banging against her hip. Skinner stepped briskly down towards the Israeli delegation. Reaching them, he turned in and made his way along to the Iranian position. He recognised the Prime Minister at once from television footage. The man glanced up at him with fleeting curiosity, but then looked back towards the stage, where the British Prime Minister was standing at the lectern, surveying his audience.

'Good morning, my fellow Heads of Government, and good morning, Heads of State,' he began, his voice ringing round the auditorium. 'Good morning Excellencies, and welcome to you all.'

Crombie, or Hawkins ne van Roost, had chosen his moment perfectly.

While everyone in the hall was gazing at the PM, he had simply risen from his chair and quietly slipped away. Only the two or three men behind him could have seen his departure and they had clearly been too preoccupied to have been surprised or alarmed, had they even noticed it.

Skinner stopped by the empty wheelchair, took it by the arms and tested its weight. He could barely lift it. 'Christ, how much explosive has he got packed in here?' he whispered. He crouched down and looked under the seat, between the wheels. Bolted to the steel chassis, he saw a heavy box, one that had not been put there by the chair's maker.

Skinner took his phone from his pocket and was about to dial Martin's number when he paused. He had no idea, he realised, how the bomb might be triggered. For all he knew the microwaves from a cellphone might be enough. For all he knew an arming device might have been activated, causing the device to explode at the slightest movement. For all he knew, Wayne Ventnor might be sitting in the car park at that very moment, his finger on the button of a transmitter which could atomise him and everyone else for yards around.

He bet his life on the third possibility.

Grabbing the wheelchair he kicked off the brake, then pulled it backwards, out into the furthest aisle, and began to roll it down towards the exit beside the stage. The two guards looked at him in surprise as he approached. 'Open the door', he mouthed as he wrestled with the impossibly heavy device, steering an erratic course down the aisle, hoping that they were Americans and would understand him, rather than trigger-happy Russians who might do anything. Uncertain for a moment, the guards looked at each other, then finally, as he was almost upon them, threw the exit open and allowed him to propel the chair through into the corridor, and out of the auditorium.

Behind him, he was dimly aware of the Prime Minister's inspirational tones, as he continued to mesmerise his nation's guests.

He was sweating heavily as he looked ahead, to see another pair of doors twenty yards away, their paintwork heavily scuffed and marked.

Dropping his centre of gravity. Skinner pushed as hard as he could, his legs pumping until he had worked himself up to a run once more.

His mind was a blank as he drove the lethal object at the second doors, sending them flying wide apart as it hit them at speed, and bursting out into a concrete loading bay beyond. Hoping against hope, he looked around and saw only cardboard boxes in which some of the technical equipment had been delivered. Mercifully the area was empty of people.

Giving the chair one last push, he turned and crashed back through the doors, running back along the corridor as fast as his powerful but tiring legs would allow. He had made it half-way to the auditorium doorway when he heard the blast and when the shockwave caught up with him, lifting him bodily then slamming him, senseless, to the ground.

Karen was racked by sobs as she burst out into 'the foyer. As she fought them back, and wiped the tears from her eyes, she saw Inspector Jack Good, the officer on duty at the door, staring across at her. The two security men sat on the ground beside him, but she had no time to think anything of it.

'Has anyone gone out of here?' she demanded.

'I don't know,' Good replied. 'I've been looking after these people.

What's up anyway? Mr Skinner came tearing in here a few minutes back, these two tried to stop him and he just laid them out.'

She ignored him and called across to the two constables who were flanking the door. 'You two, have you seen anyone leave?'

The taller of the men, on the right of the entrance door, looked over his shoulder. 'Three guys went out of here a couple o' minutes back,' he said. 'A well-dressed bloke with a beard, another fella, scruffy like; both of them big chaps, and an Arab guy wi' a turban thing on his heid. Ah asked them if they'd had enough; the scruffy bloke said "Just about". They went along there.' He pointed to his left.

Neville turned back to the Inspector. 'Find Mr Martin, or DI McGuire,' she ordered. 'Tell them the targets have gone to the car park, and that I'm off in pursuit.' He looked after her, bewildered, as she ran through the doorway, and out into the street.

The Centre car park was by no means full, but it was busy nonetheless, most of the spaces taken up by suppliers' vans and staff cars. She looked over the low wall as she approached the gateway, but saw no sign ofVentnor or Hawkins. The constable whom Skinner had almost run over was still at his post. 'Three men, recently?' she gasped.

He understood. 'Away over there, at the back,' he said, pointing to the furthest corner of the park, tucked behind the east wing of the Centre.

She nodded and ran down the roadway, scanning the rows of vehicles, realising how difficult it is to spot a single car among dozens of production-line clones. At last she caught a glimpse of a metallic green roof, and a flash of white material. A second later the soft 'clunk' of a closing door reached her ears.

Drawing her pistol, she stepped into the rank of parked cars; holding it in both hands, arms outstretched. As she approached the green vehicle she saw that the bays on either side were vacant. 'Wayne,' she shouted, almost a scream, as she reached it. 'All of you! Get out of that fucking car!'