A question broke into his thoughts.
'Mr Ballantyne. Dave Bassett, TNI Bureau Chief, London. I'd like to ask about the reference to an ultimatum in the second communique. I have information that this relates to a warning given to you this morning that – and I quote my source – "stern action" would be taken unless you lifted the news blackout by midday.'
'Who told you that?' Ballantyne snapped back.
'That doesn't matter. If it is true, what was the point in holding out?'
The Secretary of State stared at Bassett. As Ballantyne replied, Skinner felt him shaking beside him.
'Yes it is true that we received such a communication. Mr Skinner was involved in our decision. Perhaps he can best explain our thinking.'
There was a faint smile of acknowledgement on Skinner's face as he glanced towards Ballantyne, but his eyes, locking on the other man's for a fraction of a second, said something completely different.
'Thank you. Secretary of State. Mr Bassett, all I can say to you is that we took a view at the time. I don't believe that our decision led to this unfortunate lady's murder. I am quite certain that it was planned all along, and it's quite clear that she was chosen as a victim who would attract the maximum international attention. You'll agree with that. I think.'
Bassett nodded.
'These are ruthless, evil people,' Skinner went on. 'We've had only a little over twenty-four hours to weigh them up, but it seems clear to me already that they are not operating on any spur-of-themoment basis, and that they are well resourced both in terms of equipment and manpower. Yesterday's atrocity and today's were both well planned. The bomb used a sophisticated and fairly rare type of explosive, one that hasn't been encountered before in the UK. We believe that two or three people were involved in Miss Guillaum's murder, and that one of them may have been a woman. We have to assume that what has happened so far is part of a longer-term strategy. My officers and I have to try to anticipate each move as far as we can, and aim, at the same time, to make the city as safe as we can.'
John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh reporter, and an old friend of Skinner's, raised a hand. 'Bob, can you tell us something about the precautions you're taking?'
'Some of them are obvious. For example, we're sealing up litter bins and welding down underground access covers. All traffic cones will be taken off the streets so that no one can leave anything nasty under them. On-street parking by private motorists, other than residents displaying valid permits, will be banned in the city centre. We're setting up temporary car parks and running shuttle bus services free of charge. Our press officer will issue details of locations as you leave, and they'll be published in tomorrow's Scotsman and Evening News. We're putting other things in place as well, but I'm not going to talk about them.'
Bassett broke in again. 'Mr Skinner, can the public really have faith in your guarantee of safety, as just expressed by Mr Ballantyne? It didn't do Hilary Guillaum much good, did it?'
Skinner glared at the fat man, as he sat sweating in his shortsleeved shirt. It was a look which said: 'Don't challenge me, friend. Don't push, it could be dangerous.' Even in the superheated hall, he felt an alien coldness spread over him. He was under fire again. This time there were words, not bullets, but the intent was as hostile, nonetheless.
Bassett picked up the warning in the eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was noticeably more circumspect. 'I mean aren't these people fanatics, and can you protect one hundred per cent against types like that?'
Skinner stared at him for a few seconds more, then slowly shook his head. 'No. No, I don't think they are fanatics. A fanatic is a person suffering from an excess of zeal. Look it up in your Consise Oxford. I don't see that here. Nothing these "Fighters for an Independent Scotland" – ' his voice was tinged with scorn ' – have said leads me to believe that they are willing to fight to the death, at least not their own. They make bold statements about sacrifice, but only sacrifice by others. You won't find any of them charging into a hail of gunfire. People like that can be dealt with. The other sort, the true fanatics, are always likely to do damage simply because they don't expect to walk away.'
He looked away from Bassett and directly towards the bank of television cameras. 'I cannot say to the public that there is no risk.
Of course there is. The plain fact is that this city and all of its people are now under terrorist attack. But I can say three things.
First, these people will not succeed. Second, each of us can help knock them on the head by looking out for, and reporting to the police, anything that looks at all suspicious. Third, it isn't a matter of just making them go away. These are murderous louts who have killed two people, and who are going to pay for it.
That's my promise, to you and to them.'
Like Ballantyne before him, but instinctively, he too paused and looked directly at the cameras.
'We're all in this together, and the world is watching us. So let's stand up to these terrorists, let's smoke them out, and let's have justice for Danny Baker, for Hilary Guillam, and for us all.'
He held his gaze on the cameras for several seconds. And then something happened; something quite unexpected and quite unique. John Hunter first, then a second, then three more journalists began to applaud, all of them Scots, and all of them long in the media tooth.
Taken aback and embarrassed. Skinner rose from the table, motioned Ballantyne and Licorish to their feet, and led them from the hall.
'Good on you. Bob,' Hunter called out just before the swingdoor closed behind them.
Skinner led Ballantyne up a short flight of stairs. Licorish remained behind in the corridor to cope with the media as they left, and to answer any remaining questions.
At the top of the stairs. Skinner opened the door to the command corridor with his pass key, and held it open for Ballantyne. It had no sooner closed behind them than the Secretary of State turned on him.
'Nice speech. Bob.' His voice was laden with sarcasm. 'I didn't realise you were a politician too!'
The other man was there inside him again, so swiftly that Skinner could not keep him bottled up. It was as if someone else, not he, grabbed Ballantyne by the throat and slammed him against the wall. And for his part, Ballantyne, raised to his tiptoes and beginning to purple, saw the menace in Skinner's unfamiliar expression and heard the threat in his cold, hard, quiet voice.
'You set me up in there, mister. You put your miserable politician's hide first, and everything else second, you chickenhearted little bastard. "It's all down to Skinner." That's what you were saying to those people. "If it goes wrong, it's his fault.
Hilary Guillaum? Don't look at me. I'd have done as they asked and gone public. Ask Skinner about it. Anything else goes wrong, blame him." I'd thought more of you than that, but now I know better. You're the sort who would lay down the life of his best friend to save his own, aren't you, Alan. Without a second fucking thought. When the shit hits the fan. we know where to find you: hiding under the table, keeping your nice suit clean.
When this is over, pal, you can get yourself a new security adviser.
Until then do not, repeat do not, fuck me about again!'
24
'Come on. Bob. Snap out of it. The girls'll be back in a minute.'
'Eh, what? Oh, sorry, Andy. I was somewhere else.'
'You still mad at Ballantyne?'
'What makes you think I ever was?'
'Come off it. I was watching you when he put you on the spot back there.'
'Nah. That was no problem. Here they are. Let's go.'
He stood up and led the way out of the Filmhouse bar, to meet his wife and Julia Shahor as they emerged from the ladies' room.