'They're all here: fourteen in all. Five in and around Glasgow, six in Edinburgh, one in Haddington, one in Stirling, and one in Dundee. Only five of them are employed full-time on the staff of newspapers. The rest are a mixture of freelances, mostly writers and researchers, but two describe themselves as television producers.'
Skinner pointed to a name in the lower half of the list. 'Aye, and that one's our number-one target.'
Martin followed his finger. 'Mr Frazer Pagett. Yes, I agree.
Christ, he'd take the huff if we didn't feel his collar. He'd take it as a slur on his reputation as an investigative journalist if he didn't get a visit from us.'
Skinner shook his head. 'No,' he said vehemently. 'That's just what he's not going to get. I want him watched. I want his phone tapped. In fact, I want taps on everyone on that list.'
'Don't we need Ballantyne's signature to do that, boss?'
'We've got it already. That piece of paper he signed yesterday gives me authority to do as I think fit. And I think fit now to start telephone surveillance on all the people mentioned here. The half of them probably believe they're being tapped all the time, anyway. As far as Mr Pagett's concerned, we're going to let him sit on it for a few days. Listen to him, look at him, and just see if he says or does anything funny. He's the only guy on your list that I take seriously. The others are just unscrupulous reporters, or nutters. We'll give all of them the courtesy of a visit right away.
Word of that'll get back to Mr Pagett, and it'll make him nervous.
When we finally do go to see him, I want him as jumpy as possible.'
Martin closed the yellow folder. 'I'll need your written authority for Telecom to set up the phone taps.'
'No, we're not going to Use them. There's a guy in Scottish Office: Mel Christian, Director of Telecommunications. Here's his home number.' Skinner scribbled on a memo pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Martin. 'Call him right away. Use my name. Tell him it's a Beta operation. That'll get his attention. Tell him what you need and he'll make it ha-'
He was cut short by the trembling tone of his mobile phone. He took it from his pocket and pressed the ''receive' button. 'Hello.'
'Bob. It's Alan B. Can you come to St Andrew's House, right away. I've had another.'
17
The three flags hanging limp on their poles seemed to emphasise the Sunday morning quiet, making the massive grey stone building look for all the world like an abandoned fortress.
Skinner pulled the BMW into a parking space opposite the tall brass-bound double entrance doors, one of which was slightly ajar. Across Regent Road, the morning sun, as it rose skywards, shone brightly on the foliage of Calton Hill, but the foyer of St Andrews House – which was north-facing – was in shade.
His eyes took a second or two to adjust to the gloom as he stepped into the big entrance hall, which was made even darker than usual by the closed outer doors. He waved his pass at the security guard on duty in his booth.
'Morning, John.'
'Morning, Mr Skinner.'
As he crossed the hall he noted that the alert board had been changed from the low-grade of the previous day to the yellow state which he had ordered. He stepped into the waiting lift and pressed the button marked 5.
Arnold Shields, Ballantyne's Private Secretary, was working at his desk in the Secretary of State's outer office. Another man sat in a chair in the corner, reading avidly the sports section of Scotland on Sunday. Skinner had taken three paces into the room before the man looked up. Recognition flooded his face. In the same instant, he dropped the newspaper and sat bolt upright.
For a second, Skinner fixed the man with a glare. Then he turned to Shields. The Private Secretary was tall, thin and dapper.
He was also sharp, perceptive and destined for high office, as were all those who were appointed to his important post. Sunday morning or not, he was dressed in a dark single-breasted suit, striped shirt, collar and tie. He was a reserved man, with an unfailing formality of manner which added to his overall air of aloofness. He did not mix socially with colleagues, and none knew anything of his private life. Although he was respected universally, he was regarded, just as universally, as standoffish, and was disliked by his colleagues as a result.
Skinner knew more about Shields than any of the man's office peers. He and Martin had handled the meticulous vetting to which Shields had been subjected before being offered the Private Secretary post. They had discovered without difficulty that he was a practising homosexual, and had a stable, twelve-year-old relationship with a partner in the Glasgow office of an international accountancy practice. After considering their course of action for some days. Skinner and Martin had taken the unusual step of talking over the situation with Shields and his friend. They had been persuaded by the discussion that, although the relationship was private, it was not secret, and that it could not possibly lay either man open to blackmail. Skinner had approved the appointment, keeping the information he had uncovered entirely under wraps.
Shields rose from his chair and extended his hand, as Skinner approached his desk.
'Mr Skinner. Good morning. The Secretary of State is expecting you. Go right in.'
Ballantyne was working his way through a pile of correspondence as Skinner entered. 'Sit down over there. Bob. I won't be a moment. Read that in the meantime.' He pushed a brown envelope across the desk. 'It was handed to the doorman at the Caledonian Hotel at nine o'clock. Motorcyclist again, but no courier's livery this time. This one just wore denims and a crashhelmet. The manager of the Caley sent the letter straight along here.'
There was a faint catch in the Secretary of State's voice. Skinner studied him closely, as he worked. The tension of the previous day showed in his face once more, as he scrawled his signature across a letter. He cast it, in its folder, on to the pile in his out-tray, then picked up another, barely reading it before signing. Skinner thought that the man looked strung-out and nervous. Was that all down to this the terror threat, or could some of it be due to that designer blonde, Carlie, he mused.
He looked down at the envelope which Ballantyne had handed to him. It was the twin of the previous day's, addressed in the same way, with a white label. He drew out the letter and read.
To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland. 88 From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.
The failure of the media to report yesterday's demonstration, or to publish our letter leads us to conclude that you and your colleagues in the Government of the occupying power have secured their silence by coercion.
Clearly we cannot allow this situation to continue. If your censorship is not lifted by 1:00 pm today, and if, by that time, yesterday's statement of our demands has not been broadcast on radio and television, we will take further stem action to force you to accede. No warning of that action will be given, and full responsibility for its consequences will rest entirely with you.
Skinner sank into a chair by the window and read the letter through once again. As he was finishing, Ballantyne put the last of the green folders, its letter signed, in his out-tray. He rose from behind the desk and crossed the room, to sit in a facing chair.
'What d'you think, Bob? What'll they do? 'I don't know, Alan. If I did, I'd stop them from doing it, and that would be that.'
'Well, what can do?' There was a note of frustration in the Secretary of State's voice.
'Maybe we should do what they ask. We've bought some time, and used it as best we could. Our plans are made, and even now they're being put into action. We can't keep this genie in the bottle for ever, so we might as well thank the media for their cooperation and tell them they're free to run the letter.'