'Yes. The police. Authority. Maybe that's what it's all about.'
He turned back to the group. 'But that's irrelevant for now.
Today we've got to be fully on guard against another terrorist attack. That's our job. Fringe Sunday presents a big target, and so far that's the pattern they've followed. Big, attention-grabbing events.
'There are four official entrances to Holyrood Park. We'll have uniformed officers guarding them all, and there will be plenty others among the crowds. The sight of all those flat hats might have a deterrent effect! But just in case it doesn't, I want you there, too, all of you armed and ready to react in whatever way seems necessary. You will all wear sunglasses, and one of these' he held up a small small lapel pin in the shape of a golden lion 'so that if there is trouble, the uniforms will be able to tell the difference between the terrorists and the good guys. If we have action, and you SAS people get involved, then please leave the scene as soon as it's over. We don't want any of you identified by anyone. I take that very seriously. The uniformed detachment, all ninety-five of them, arc being given their briefing separately for that very reason.
'By the way, people, the uniformed detachment is led by the Chief. The deputy and the other two ACCs will be there, too. I want you to know that the Command Suite is leading from the front on this one.' He looked around the room once more. 'Any questions?'
No one answered.
'Good. Let's go.' The group began to break up. 'And, heyl'
Twenty faces turned back towards him. He was grinning.
'Be careful out there!'
58
As Skinner was heading for the exit, he was stopped by the ChiefConstable's staff officer, a uniformed superintendent.
'Sorry, sir, but before you leave, could you please call Mr Doherty. He's in his office. He said you would know who he is.'
'Thanks, Malcolm.'
Skinner sprinted up the stairs to his office, and punched in Joe Doherty's number on the secure line.
'Joe? What can I do for you?'
'Just listen, that's all. I have a story to tell you, about Giminez and your friend Macdairmid, the patsy. I've found out who was I behind it all.'
Skinner sensed that Doherty was spinning out the suspense.
Joe, come on, for fuck's sake. I've got a crisis here.'
The FBI man laughed. 'So have some cousins of mine. OK, I'll get to the point. It's the CIA. They've been running Giminez.'
'What!'
'Yeah. To be exact it's one man. A crazy hawk at Langley called Goodman. It seems that at some point during the last administration, the President was being given an interdepartmental briefing on the drugs problem, and he made some sort of throwaway remark, along the lines of: "If someone would just go away and come up with a miracle cure for all this, what a goddamned hero he'd be." A bit like your Henry II wishing to berid of that turbulent priest of his. So Goodman's at the meeting, and his crazy little mind starts to work. He figures, "We'll never kill all the Colombians and the Burmese, or torch all their crops.
So what we have to do is discredit their product."
"The health agencies all over the world have been saying it fof: years: "If you touch smack or coke you will die, eventually." to an addict that just ain't true. We've had a boom in the di market, and in all the other crime that runs alongside it.
Goodman figures that what he's got to do is make the u believe: "If you touch heroin or smack you will die… now! No second chance." Then he does some more thinking and comes up with Giminez. The CIA have been running him for years, doing all sorts of things that we won't go into. Goodman tells him what he wants, Giminez says: "OK, gimme da money, I do it. But it'll take time." Goodman siphons off dough from a big CIA slush fund.
Giminez drops out of sight, and stays in deep cover for years.
What he's been doing is one, he's been building up supplies of horse and coke; two, putting some of the world's finest illicit chemists to work in making them lethal; and three, and most recently, setting up relationships with dealers around the world, like your MP friend, all of them greedy and in the market for cheap supplies. Say, Bob. Being an MP, that's pretty good cover, eh?
"The final stage of the plan, and it's a beauty, I have to say, is that Giminez, through his network, feeds the marks a little good stuff to whet their appetites, and get the street excited, then drops the bomb with the big shipment. End result is, dead users all around the world, stories leaked to the press, mass panic, and everyone too scared to touch the stuff, like ever again.'
Time was ebbing away, but Skinner was fascinated. 'So how did you get on to Goodman?'
'I passed the name Giminez on to Langley. They found the slush money, traced the payment to Goodman, and used all means necessary to make him talk.'
'So how do they stop it?'
'God knows. Maybe they can't. Goodman doesn't know names, or even how many Macdairmids there are, and the CIA can't get to Giminez anyway. He's operating blind. Broke contact with Goodman long ago. All the CIA can do now is put the word out on the street, and tell the Colombians about Giminez in the hope that they can stop him. But maybe they won't do that either.
Because, goddamn it, crazy Goodman's crazy idea could actually work. I did hear that the DBA can't figure out whether to give you a medal for uncovering this whole operation, or put a contract out on you! 'Meantime, Interpol has started to log reports from Hamburg of dozens of coke users – some of them top people – suddenly winding up dead all over the city. And somehow I doubt if that'll be the last we hear of Giminez and his special deliveries. Hope your crisis up in Scotland turns out to be a damn sight easier to solve!'
59
Skinner's mind whirled with the consequences of Doherty's story, as he headed off towards Holyrood Park in his BMW, on the heels of his squad.
The Park is, in a sense, the biggest back garden in Scotland.
Within its grounds, behind a high grey wall, stands the Palace of Holyroodhouse, modest in size but rich in history. Four centuries ago, as the machinations of the court of the doomed Mary, Queen of Scots tore her country apart, it was a place of intrigue and murder. Today it stands largely unchanged, as the official residence in Scotland of her heirs and successors, and as a venue for great gatherings of heads of government. Though Holyrood is a Royal Park in status, in practice it is one of Edinburgh's favourite and largest public open spaces, covering well over a square mile of greenlands, with three small lochs which provide lodgings for dozens of swans, geese and ducks, with 1 literally thrown in – a constant supply of food from children! and tourists. '
Holyrood Park is dominated by Arthur's Seat, an extinct volcano from whose vantage point the legendary king is said to have overlooked the first dwellings of what was to become thef beautiful city of Edinburgh. Dark Age overtones continue to cling" to the ancient hill. As he looked up at it in the fine August morning sunshine. Skinner recalled with a tug at his heart another morning twenty years earlier, when he had walked with his first wife Myra, the baby Alexis cradled in her arms, to the summit,! with dozens of other parents, to wash in the midsummer morning dew. He closed his eyes for a moment, and could see again the clear vision of Myra gently dabbing her baby's face, and saying softly, "There. That'll guard her beauty for life.' She had beei right in her prediction for Alex. But, sadly, life had not been longJ for Myra.
Skinner tore himself back to the present and surveyed the Royal Park. It was stiH well short of midday, but thousands of people were there already, congregating on the flatter grassland around the palace and beyond towards the park wall, and the grey tenements of Royal Park Terrace. At intervals, flat-backed lorries and other temporary staging had been set up to provide venues for impromptu performances by Fringe players. He noted with approval the numbers of police caps which could be seen in the crowd. Occasionally, he saw casually dressed figures, looking around observantly through their sunglasses, and caught the glint of gold on their chests.