Quintin Jardine - Lethal Intent

'Acknowledged. I'll call you when he's secured.' He put the microphone back in its slot below the instrument panel and stared out into the night. 'How close are we?' he asked the pilot.

'See those lights up ahead, sir? That's it. We're less than five minutes away.'

'Good. When we get there I need you to put us down as close to St Salvator's College as possible. Do you know the town?'

'Yes, but it's dark, sir,' the young lieutenant shouted back. 'Without proper lighting the safest place for me to land would be on the golf course.'

'I'm bothered about someone else's safety, not ours. If it's clear of students I want you to set us down right in the middle of St Salvator's quadrangle.'

'I'll try, sir, but no promises.'

The lights of St Andrews shone ever clearer, made brighter by the blanket of snow that still lay on the ground. As the aircraft swung over the town, Skinner could make out the shape of South Street, then Market Street and, furthest away, North Street, their objective.

'I can't get into the grounds, sir,' the pilot shouted. 'There are a lot of people down there.'

'In that case, set us down in the middle of North Street, but don't cut your engine. I want you to wait, ready to lift off immediately when your next passenger gets here.' He twisted round in his seat to face McIlhenney, Mackenzie and the four infantrymen. 'It's begun on the ground,' he shouted at them. 'We won't know what the situation is until we see it, but remember this, all of you: our only objective is to make the Prince safe and get him out of there. You've all studied photographs of Naim Latifi, the Ramadani brothers and Peter Bassam: if you see any one of them, put him down unless he's clearly unarmed and offering no resistance.'

'You mean shoot them, sir?' All of Mackenzie's customary flippancy had evaporated; even in the surreal light within the cabin, it was clear that his face was ghostly white.

Skinner stared at him. 'Bandit,' he asked, 'are you up for this? You can stay in the chopper if you want, and it will never be held against you. The same goes for you, Neil. You guys have got kids, after all.'

'So have you,' said McIlhenney, tersely. 'And the young man in the college, he's someone's kid as well.'

The DCC looked out of the window to the side. The pilot had taken him at his word: he had switched on his searchlight and was setting the aircraft down in the middle of North Street, next to the university chapel with its tall illuminated tower. The wheels were barely on the ground before Skinner jumped out, the Glock big in his hand and shining silver in the night.

As the pilot had said, they were not alone. A stream of young people were pouring out of Butts Wynd into the thoroughfare. They were running for their lives, and one or two were screaming. Some were bleeding, but the DCC reasoned that if they were mobile they could be cared for later.

'With me,' he ordered, then led his small force in the direction from which the crowd had come, round the corner of the chapel and into St Salvator's quadrangle.

The scene that greeted them was one of total chaos. More students rushed past them, barely noticing their presence. A few were not running; they lay on the ground, ominously still. He looked across the snow-covered grass to the college itself. He had been there once before, when he and Sarah, as guests at a Fife police summer event in the nearby Younger Hall, had been given overnight accommodation.

The doorway that they had used on that occasion no longer existed. It had been blown apart, and only a great gaping hole remained. Another blast had hit the facade of the old building further along. 'Missiles,' Skinner shouted at McIlhenney. 'The protection-squad guys would have secured the building when they got the alert. They just blasted their way in.'

A tall young student rushed towards them, intent on escape. The DCC grabbed him, halting his flight. 'Where is the Prince's suite?' he yelled. The terrified boy gazed at him, shock in his eyes, but the policeman had no time for sympathy. 'Where?' he roared again.

'One floor up, to the left.' Skinner set him free to run into the night. He turned to his six companions. 'You four,' he said to the soldiers. 'You've got carbines, so you're best in the open, I want two of you here to take down any of the targets if they get past us and try to escape this way, and the other two in The Scores, the street behind, covering the back. Neil, Bandit, we're going in.' As two of the infantrymen raced off across the lawn, and the others took position, the three police officers ran towards the newly carved entrance.

The building was ablaze with light: it had not occurred to the attackers to try to cut the power, or they had been completely confident of the effect of their ferocious assault. The trio sprinted inside, each covering the others' backs. The flood of fleeing students had subsided, and the entrance hall was empty… of the living, at any rate. A few must have been in the hall when the missile hit, three, Skinner reckoned, although he could not be certain. The bodies of two uniformed police officers, a chief inspector and a female constable lay at the foot of the stairs. They had each been shot at least a dozen times.

'Automatic weapons,' said the DCC, 'keep yourselves close to the ground, boys, and for Christ's sake, shoot first if you have to.' He led the way up the stairs, moving fast and silently.

At his heels, McIlhenney prayed silently, and thought of Lou and the children. He was aware that Mackenzie, by his side, was trembling; but he was pressing on nonetheless, defying his fear.

They reached the top of the stairs, which opened out on to a corridor; they had turned back upon themselves, and so if the student's direction was correct, the Prince's suite would be on their right. A doorway opposite offered some shelter: Skinner tensed himself and dived towards it, trusting that he still had the speed to beat an Albanian's trigger finger and a hail of bullets.

But none came: the corridor was eerily quiet. Taking his life in his hands once more, he stepped out of the doorway, braced and ready to fire.

Outside a door at the end, two figures, another constable and a man in a suit, lay still on the floor. The DCC ran towards them, beckoning his colleagues to follow. The man in plain clothes wore a small gold badge in his lapel, the sign of a protection officer; his right hand still clutched a pistol, loosely. He had been shot several times in the chest and head, and he was beyond help. Skinner felt the gun in his hand; it was warm, as if it had been fired.

The police officer was still alive: he had wounds in his right arm, shoulder and his upper chest, but he was not bleeding profusely, and he was conscious. 'You'll make it,' said Skinner, quietly. 'What's your name?'

'PC Alan McManus.'

'I'm Bob Skinner, from Edinburgh. How many years on the job, Alan?'

'Fourteen, sir.'

'All of them quiet till tonight, I'll bet. Tell me what I need to know.'

'They took him, sir,' the wounded officer replied, weakly and painfully. 'The other protection officer's in the suite; I think he's dead.'

'He is,' McIlhenney murmured. 'Just inside the door.'

'Where did they go?'

'Down the fire escape: there's a door over there that leads to it.'

'How many?'

'Three, but one was wounded.' PC McManus groaned. 'This man here got off a shot before they opened fire.'

'Okay. You just lie quiet now.' Skinner looked at Mackenzie and took pity on him. 'Bandit, you stay here: make him comfortable and make sure that the emergency services get to him as fast as possible.' He turned to McIlhenney. 'Neil, let's get after them. From Sean's map we have to assume that they're heading for the Sea Life Centre. We've heard no shots from outside, so they must have gone before our two soldiers got into position. But if one's wounded that might slow them down.'