Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

The little soldier's sigh sounded full of despair; it gave Skinner no comfort. 'I don't have any specialists, mate. I was with the Secretary of State at Hereford yesterday, and it was virtually empty. The whole world's on fire, and the SAS is fully deployed putting it out. If you want boys in uniform, I'll get them to you, but they won't be trained for that stuff.'

'Can you alert the protection squad?'

'I'll alert the Palace. But, Bob, from what you say, this thing, whatever it is, could go down any time. An instant military operation isn't practical; the police will have to deal with it themselves.'

At his words, a great wave of dread swept over Skinner, and he felt the tension burn within him. 'Adam, if we're right about this, the stakes are higher than anything I've ever faced. I don't know if we can handle it'

'Mate,' the old Arrow's voice came down the line, 'I've seen you in action. I don't think there's anything you can't fookin' handle.'

'Thanks for your confidence,' the DCC said, ironically.

'I'd rather you were on this than anyone else. I'll run down that number for you. Is there anything else I can do?'

'First get me an exact location; I need to know precisely where he is. Also, could you get me a chopper? We need to get to St Andrews as fast as we can. I'll alert the Fife force, but it'll take them time to get an armed team out there.'

'I can do that: there's one on standby at Redford Barracks. I'll put a detachment of soldiers in it too. Give me a location.'

'My headquarters building. It can land on the football field. It'll take me fifteen minutes to get back there.'

'How many passengers?'

'There'll be three of us.'

'No problem. Do you want firearms?'

'We'll take our own: we're familiar with them.'

'Let's hope you don't have to use them. I'll be in touch.'

'I hate helicopters,' said a voice from behind him. He turned to see McIlhenney and Mackenzie, the latter wearing a mournful expression.

'Who likes them? But there are worse places you could be. For example, you could be locked up in Glasgow. Strathclyde Police are after you two for blowing up Bajram and his cousins.' He headed for the door. 'Come on, there's no time to lose: we've got to get airborne as soon as we can. The future of more things than you can imagine could be in our hands.'

Normally, Andy Martin was a patient man, but as five o'clock approached, he found himself beginning to fret. The contact he had made in the General Register Office in Southport had promised him that he would have the information he sought before the day was out, but time was wearing thin.

He was on the point of making a wake-up call when his direct line rang. He snatched it up.

'Bet you thought I was never going to get back to you, Mr Martin,' said an amiable voice.

'That's not a bet I'm going to take, Mr Donald.' He chuckled. The two men had never met, but when Martin had identified himself to the GRO switchboard, he had been put through to the office of the Deputy Registrar General, who had introduced himself as Rex Donald.

He had expected that he might have some difficulty in persuading him to do a search of the English birth, death and marriage registers, but he had found him more than willing to help. Donald had explained that it was policy to co-operate with official requests from the police and other departments, and that he was not hindered by the Data Protection Act.

When Martin had given him the name of the person whose birth he wanted traced, he had listened for a reaction, but had picked up none. He had smiled to himself, wondering how Tommy Murtagh would have taken the knowledge that a high-ranking English civil servant had never heard, apparently, of Scotland's top politician.

'Has your search been successful?' he asked.

'The birth one has, in triplicate,' Donald told him. 'I've found three male children born thirty-six years ago and named Thomas Murtagh. However, only one of them has a mother called Rachel.'

'And the father?' asked Martin, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

'That information is not on the register. Rachel Murtagh was the mother's maiden name.'

'I see. Where was the birth registered?'

'In the city of York, where the mother lived. Obviously, since the mother was single, your second request, for details of her marriage, fell by the wayside. However, I had some additional checking done, just to make sure, and I can tell you that she did not enter into any subsequent union, not in England at any rate. Finally, there is no record of anyone named George Murtagh dying in the year you mention. Is all that helpful?'

'Very. Thank you, Mr Donald.'

'May I ask, Mr Martin, out of sheer, naked curiosity, what's behind your enquiries? Is it a fraud?'

The police officer grinned. 'You could put it that way,' he replied. 'Some people might see it as a very big fraud indeed.'

He hung up, musing over what he had been told. So the story of the motor mechanic's tragic death, the one that Diana Meikle had believed, was a fabrication, and the First Minister's official biography was a lie.

He found himself thinking about the man's sad family background and of his long-gone sister, whose birth certificate, as a Scottish check had revealed, had also been lacking in information on her paternity. How much light could she shed on her brother's world? Suddenly, he found himself thinking about the Herbert Groves Charitable Trust.

He picked up the phone again and called an old friend of his, someone who went all the way back to his Special Branch days. 'Excellent,' he murmured, as the phone was answered.

'Veronica Hacking.'

'Hi, Ronnie. It's Andy Martin. How's the Inland Revenue these days?'

Although the sports field was at the back of the building, and out of sight from his room, Skinner knew from the roar that penetrated the thick windows that the helicopter had arrived.

As he stood behind his desk, phone in hand, waiting to be put through to the Chief Constable of Fife, he adjusted the hip holster containing the Glock pistol that he had signed out from the store. A voice sounded in his ear. 'I have Mr Tallent for you now, sir.'

'Thanks.'

'Bob, what's the panic?' The Fife chief sounded slightly annoyed. 'We've got a medal presentation on here, and I've just been hauled out of it. This had better be good, or else.'

Skinner never reacted well to threats, not even from one of the few senior officers he had within the Scottish force. 'Shut up and listen, Clarence,' he barked. 'I'm calling to advise you that two of my officers and I are heading into your territory in hot pursuit of four suspects whom we have reason to believe may be planning something very big in St Andrews.'

'Terrorists?'

'More like mercenaries: Albanian gangsters, heavily armed. We believe they're heading for St Salvator's, which leads us to suspect the worst. Do you have an armed response unit in the area?'

'In St Andrews? Of course not.'

'How long will it take you to put a team together and get them there?'

'I reckon I can do it in an hour,' said the now compliant chief constable.

'We'll be there before them. I have a chopper on the ground outside, with a small military detachment. When we get there, and your people arrive, I want them operating under my command. We know what the opposition looks like; they don't.'

'That's agreed. I'll be with them.'

'Thanks. What strength do you have there at the moment?' asked Skinner.

'I've got a uniformed station, with a chief inspector in charge.'

'Okay, I'd like you to have someone go to the college, alert the protection officers and let them know I'm on the way.'

'I'll do that. What's your plan?'

'I'm going to fly there, secure the subject and send him in the same chopper to a place of safety, then wait for the arrival of the Albanians. They've left this area, so I believe that to be imminent.'