There was carnage indeed in the Ross Theatre, "nd yet he soon saw it might have been worse. He looked around first for McGuire and Mcllhenney, and to his great relief spotted them both, still huge in their jackets and helmets, shepherding uninjured spectators away from the scene.
And then Adam Arrow was by his side. 'God, Andy, I've never seen anything like this. What do you hear on that radio of yours?' Once again the accent had vanished. Three attacks one after the other. First Filmhousc, then the3 238 Balmoral – both bombs, from the sound of it – then here. We were attacked by missiles fired from the Mound. One missed. The other hit over there by the looks of it.'
'Sidewinders, I imagine. In that case we were lucky.'
'Not all of us, though.'
They had reached the heart of the missile's devastation. Neither could be sure how many had died, but a circle of twelve metal seats lay tangled and bloody under the floodlights, with broken bodies twisted among them. Around this immediate circle, perhaps two dozen people sat stunned and disbelieving. Some were bleeding, and several held their ears as if deafened. The silence was that of a mourning parlour. It had a power of its own, one which seemed almost to hold at bay the growing clamour from Princes Street, and the howling of sirens as police, fire crews and ambulances raced to their different destinations.
The soldier and the detective began to direct the men at their disposal to the care of the casualties, to render first-aid to those who were bleeding, and to confirm, as far as they were able, that none of the walking wounded was seriously hurt.
When he was satisfied that everyone was in good hands, Martin called across to McGuire. 'Mario, you're in charge here now. I've got to check out Filmhouse.'
As he sprinted into the night, he glanced up at the Half-Moon Battery. Standing at its edge, framed in light, he caught sight of a silhouette unmistakable even in its overcoat.
'Thank Christ for the boss tonight,' he muttered sincerely. 'But what's he doing up there still?'
74
The corporal looked puzzled as he handed Skinner the whistle.
Skinner took it from him with a curt nod.
'Right, you all know me?'
'Sir!' said the corporal, speaking for all six men.; 'Major Ancram will have told you that you are rtow under my, command. What I want you to do is this: throw a guard around the Crown Square – that's the Great Hall, the Queen Anne Barracks, the War Memorial, and the Royal Palace. All the areas below will be empty by now, but there's nothing there that anyone would be after. What you must guard against is anyone or anything that shouldn't be there. The chances are that nothing unusual will happen, but if it does…'
He paused to let his words sink in, then went on. 'If any of you sees anything, and you don't know for sure it's friendly, don't ask I for its name, shoot it. If it turns out to be the regimental mascot, f or the RSM's tart, well, that'll be too bad, but they can both be replaced. Right, Corporal, get your men spread out.' He held up the whistle. 'I know it's old-fashioned, but if I need you, I'll blow this thing. If you hear it, regroup here, by the One O'clock Gun. If any of you need me, chances are I'll have heard you shoot!'
75
But Skinner was wrong.
He was standing by the gun, training his night-glasses on the National Art Gallery, looking for any sign of intruders. For he suddenly felt acutely aware that the building was currently housing an international exhibition of the life's work of Rembrandt. It had been brought to the Edinburgh Festival under the sponsorship of a major insurance company, and it was worth, conservatively, over a hundred million pounds.
'Forget the banks. That's only money,' he said softly to the night, his thoughts gathering speed. 'Anybody with the resources to fund what we've just seen doesn't need money. But what if he wants something else, something unique, just for himself, and will go to any lengths, any cost? There's only one other collection in Edinburgh as valuable as that exhibition, and we're up here guarding that.'
Then he heard the strange sound in the dark, and knew at once, with his detective's instinct, that the National Gallery was not the target – and that his germ of an idea had been right all along.
The Royal Regalia of Scotland are not nearly as famous as their English counterparts in the Tower of London, and they have been admired by far fewer tourists over the years. Indeed, most Scots do not even know they art there. Since the Union of the Kingdoms almost five hundred years ago, only King Charles II, then an exile and outlawed by Cromwell, has been crowned in Scotland. Thus the Honours of Scotland – as they are sometimes called – are, in main, older than the Crown Jewels of England. They are also, in their own way, beyond price. Therefore they are guarded in the most effective manner possible, by the army itself, in the heart of the garrisoned citadel of Edinburgh, which stands impregnable on its rock – unless, in some dire emergency, that garrison were to be flushed out.
Without waiting to discover exactly what that sound in the dark had been, but sensing its meaning anyway. Skinner grabbed his radio and spoke urgently into the open channel.
'Get some back-up here to the Castle. They're after the Crown Jewels! •
76
He stumbled over the body in the dark. The soldier lay face-down, near the Portcullis Gate, at the foot of the Lang Stairs. Skinner turned him over. The heavy clouds reflected the amber light of the city back down to earth, and in that dim glow Skinner could see that the man had been stabbed in the throat. The gurgling sound heard earlier must have been his death rattle, or a last attempt to raise the alarm.
The man had dropped his rifle. Skinner spotted the short, fully automatic weapon lying on the ground. He picked it up without further thought, thankful for his practice sessions with this same firearm on the St Leonards rifle range.
Leaving the dead soldier. Skinner hurried back to his rendezvous point by the One O'clock Gun. He hesitated for a moment about blowing the whistle, with the risk of alerting the intruders, but quickly decided that alerting his own men had priority. So he gave a single sharp blast, and hoped that the raiders would confuse it with the many other varied sounds now floating up to the Castle from the chaos in the city below.
Only three of the other soldiers answered his summons, including the corporal. Skinner glanced at him and held up the whistle, a gesture asking whether he should blow it again.
But the NCO shook his head sadly. 'Naw. They're good lads.
They'd have come if they could.'
With twenty-twenty hindsight. Skinner cursed himself for not commandeering twice as many men, then he addressed the remaining three. 'Look lads, we've got a raiding party in the Castle. They're after the Crown Jewels. I don't know how many there are, but they must be inside the Palace by now. I've already radioed for back-up, but we can't wait that long. If they get what they're after, then get loose out there in the dark, we'll never catch them.
'Corporal, you take one of these two and go round behind the war Memorial to the main entrance to Crown Square. The other will come with me up the Stairs, and in by the side way. And, again ask no questions. You see it, you shoot it!'
The corporal slapped one of his soldiers on the shoulder, and together the pair headed off up a slight incline to the right, hunched in the dark and their rifles held ready. Skinner led the remaining man back past the body of his dead colleague and up to the top of the stone staircase, until it opened on to the topmost level of the Castle. Together they raced across the ground behind the Fore Wall and the Half Moon Battery, and flattened themselves against the side of the Scottish National War Memorial.