‘Will you also please let the Press Bureau know that if they have any calls about this, they should say that an incident has occurred in the MacEwan Hall and that details will be released as soon as possible. Clear?’ The Superintendent nodded. ‘Good, get under way.’
Skinner took his slim two-way radio from his pocket and pulled out the aerial. ‘Blue One to HQ. Patch through to Blue Three please.’
The line clicked. Maggie Rose’s confident voice sounded through the small speaker. ‘Blue Three acknowledges. Over.’
‘Blue Three, listen closely. Your package has been damaged and will not now be delivered. Your companions are ordered to return to their digs, their leader to join me here. Understood? Over.’
There was a short pause. ‘That is understood. Companions will be so ordered. But be advised, Blue One, their leader is not here, only his deputy. Over.’
Where is the bastard, then? Skinner thought to himself. To Maggie Rose he said, ‘Message received and acknowledged. Please ask local group leader to organise his own transport.’
Skinner then dropped the code. ‘You should be aware that Mario has had an accident. He is badly hurt but he’ll be okay. You are authorised to go to ERI. Leave your oppo to supervise shut-down of your location, and to advise its management. Over.’
There was a longer pause this time. ‘Blue Three acknowledges. You confirm that this location is no longer relevant, yes? Over.’
‘That is correct. Brief your colleague and get along there. Blue One over and out.’
Skinner flicked the transmitter off, then had second thoughts.
He called Headquarters again. ‘Blue One. Please raise the Chief by telephone and patch me through. Over.’
A minute later the connection was made. Proud came on line. ‘Chief, just listen, no questions. I’m on site at our main event. We have a worst case scenario. Please get here fast.’
‘I’m on my way.’ The line went dead. Skinner put away his radio and looked around the auditorium. The uniformed superintendent had taken control efficiently. The crowd had calmed down considerably, and were seated in small groups. Detectives had begun to gather statements. Police stood around the four corpses.
Skinner summoned over the Scottish Office information man. ‘Michael, once a few more CID boys arrive, I’ll detail a couple to clear your people and get them out of here. But I still don’t want the news released until the Foreign Office has had a chance to act on it.’ He checked his watch It was three minutes past ten. The Press Association man can be processed first and let go, if he guarantees not to file copy before 10.45.’
Licorish nodded. ‘Fair enough. You won’t be able to keep it tight any longer than that anyway. Your man’s gone to the Royal with gunshot wounds. You know what that place is like.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Skinner shook his head. ‘Christ, what a bloody night! You try to plan for every possibility, but there’s no way you can. If a determined fanatic with a gun has luck on his side ...’ His voice trailed off for a second, then snapped back to normal.
He called the superintendent over and told him that the next detectives to arrive on the scene should take statements from the media. Then he turned back to Michael Licorish. ‘Right, let’s talk to the photographers and the TV guys.’
The press were gathered in a group between the two television cameras They included two stills photographers.
‘Did you two get any pictures of the action?’ Skinner asked.
The taller of the two shrugged his shoulders. ‘I might have. When it all started, I ducked. But I stuck my camera up, held my finger down, and let the motor-drive run out the film. I won’t know until I process it.’
He looked at the other photographer, who nodded. ‘I did the same, but I doubt if I got anything. Denis is a lot taller than me, and I ducked bloody low, I’ll tell you!’
‘Let’s see what you have, then,’ said Skinner. ‘You two grab a CID man, tell him I sent you. Give him your names and office numbers, tell him you didn’t see anything, then get back to your darkrooms and process those films. But send any stuff you have back up to me by midnight. Fair enough?’
‘Fair enough, Mr Skinner,’ the taller and older man replied for both. They set off in search of a detective.
Skinner turned next to the television crews. ‘What about you gentlemen? Do you have anything in there?’ He gestured towards the cameras, As he did so, he realised for the first time that the strong blue television lights were still switched on.
‘Turn those things off, someone.’ Two lighting engineers threw all the switches. The Hall seemed suddenly dingy, and much cooler.
‘We can take a look right now,’ said one of the cameramen. ‘I had a fair view from this position.’ The cameras were set a few yards back from floor level, two or three feet above the head height of the passageway that had recently become a shooting gallery.
‘Ray here was a bit naughty, of course. As usual he took his camera off its fixed position. He was right behind you lot when the shit started to fly.’
The other cameraman looked sheepish. Skinner threw him a mock glare. ‘I’ll let you off with a yellow card this time ... if you’ve got some decent footage. Let’s have a look — but on my own, if you don’t mind.’
One of the technicians plugged a cable into the back of Ray’s camera, which had now been returned to its tripod. He linked it with a monitor and checked the battery levels at each end of the line. The cameraman rewound his cassette at high speed, as the technician switched on the monitor.
The first pictures, taken as the camera was balanced on the man’s shoulder, were shaky, but soon they steadied. Skinner found himself watching a side view of the procession as it snaked its way out of the Hall. A dark shadow moved across in front of the lens, blacking out the screen for a second. That was probably me, he thought.
The angle of view changed as the cameraman stepped out into the passageway, looking almost directly towards the door. Skinner saw Deirdre O’Farrell step away to the right, to allow her guests to depart, her Reeboks contrasting garishly with the bulky robes of her office.
And there he was.
Fazal the assassin.
The fusillade began.
The burr of the Uzi sounded louder through the monitor’s speaker, and Fazal’s cry in Arabic was almost completely drowned out.
Even as he watched the shooting start, Skinner saw himself, staring intently up into the crowd to the right, then reaching into his open jacket for his Browning.
He made himself concentrate on the main action. He saw David McKnight as he crumpled and fell to the floor, his talent, his charisma and his life all snuffed out in a second.
He saw Mario McGuire leap across in front of Al-Saddi, then slump backwards as the bullets hit him.
And then three things seemed to happen simultaneously.
He saw himself snap off two shots towards his target in the audience.
He saw the President’s head jerk back as it was devastated by the bullet.
He saw Fazal begin his dance of death as Martin and Mackie, stand ing up in the face of the Uzi, concentrated their return fire upon him.
And he saw something else.
‘Stop!’ Skinner shouted. The cameraman was startled, but after a second the image froze. ‘Rewind, please.’ The picture zipped back. ‘Stop. Now forward again, please, but frame by frame, if you can do that.’
Again he viewed the trilogy of death, but this time in slow motion. Almost simultaneous, but not quite.
His shots seeming slow and deliberate this time.
Mario McGuire taking his hits, and going backwards like a man beginning a complicated high-board dive. A fine red spray from his back, below the right shoulder, as one of the bullets exited.