When Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire arrived at Mr Kong's, on the fringe of colourful Chinatown, Cyril Kercheval was waiting outside.
`Wouldn't you know it,' he said, as soon as the introductions were over. 'This place is closed today. But no worry, I've booked us a table next door.' The two Scots looked askance at his choice, a narrow establishment whose customers were jammed together around a range of tables of varying sizes. The place seemed more like a greasy chopsticks cafe than a restaurant.
`Don't let appearances fool you,' said Kercheval. 'It has a huge menu, and the food's all terrific.'
`Fine,' said Mackie, 'but is it secure?'
The MI5 man roared with laughter at the question. This fellow is archetypal, thought the DCI. Around fifty, with a significant beer-gut, he wore a trenchcoat over a crumpled suit, and a stained MCC tie.
`Could hardly be more secure, dear boy. The Yuppies only come here at night.
Lunchtimes, it's full of Chinese, and for most of them English is very much a second language. This is one of the most discreet meeting places in London, but to make you happier, I've booked a table away in the far corner.'
As he opened the door and held it for the two policemen, the sound boomed out to meet them, a sing-song blend of unrecognisable speech. They eased their way to their table through a central aisle which was barely wide enough to allow them to pass. They hung their overcoats on pegs on a side wall and took their seats. Three thick menus awaited them, one at each place.
As they sat down, Kercheval's mood and manner changed. `Listen, chaps, I was appalled to hear about our friend Skinner. What's the latest on his condition?'
McGuire looked across at him, grim-faced. 'Touch and go,' he said. 'My wife's his PA, so I went to the hospital with her. He was in surgery for four hours while they stabilised him, and repaired the damage. He was stabbed through the base of the right lung. The surgeon said that wouldn't have been life-threatening on its own, but the knife nicked an artery as well. There was massive bleeding in the chest cavity: they had to give him six pints of blood, apparently. He was in Intensive Care when I left the Royal, sedated and hooked up to a ventilator. They say that it'll be dodgy for the next forty-eight hours.'
Kercheval shook his head sadly. The telly said it was a random assault. Is that true?'
`More or less. The boss likes to run when he has thinking to do. Last night he just ran into the wrong place.'
‘Tch! Terrible. We're used to that sort of thing in London, but I didn't think Edinburgh was like that.'
It isn't, as a rule. Nor will it get that way. The attack was drug-related; we'll make the best we can of it. We've got the people who attacked Mr Skinner, but there was another guy who ran off. He was the dealer. We're after him, and his supplier. I'm willing to bet that Andy Martin — he's the boss's Deputy — will have their heads on poles in Princes Street before the day's out.'
`Let's hope so,' said Kercheval. 'I haven't had too many dealings with Bob Skinner through MI5, but I do know that he's very highly regarded by the people at the top.' He paused as a waiter made his way to their table. 'Want me to order?' he asked. The Scots nodded. 'Fine.
One chicken oyster sauce, one beef black bean, one duck yellow bean, one prawn chow mein, plenty of boiled rice and two large bottles of sparkling mineral, thank you very much.' The waiter's fingers flashed over his pad. He bowed and withdrew, dancing expertly through the tight-packed tables.
`The people at the top, you said.' Brian Mackie leaned across the table, looking quickly around him for prying eyes, but spotting none. 'Who are they, exactly?'
Kercheval beamed at him indulgently. 'My dear chap, we live in the age of openness.
You're Special Branch, you should know that we're all in the phone book now, more or less.'
The DCI shook his head. He paused as the waiter uncapped a litre bottle of Ashbourne sparkling mineral and poured three glasses. 'No, Cyril,' he said as the young man left, 'I meant higher up the tree than that. In Special Branch, I report to Bob Skinner, period. To whom does your Director General report?'
The MI5 officer took a sip from his glass. 'Interesting question. I suppose it depends upon the issue. In theory, it's the Prime Minister, as Head of the Security Services, but in practice we're monitored by a committee of Permanent Secretaries; Home, Foreign Office, Defence and Cabinet Office.'
And how about them? Who oversees the committee? Is it the Prime Minister alone?'
In theory, again, yes it is. But in practice, he'll normally listen to the views of his most senior colleagues.
Mackie nodded. 'That's more or less what I assumed. So, when it comes to that final group, the core team of Ministers, who scrutinises them? By definition, they're in possession of the most sensitive information in the country, so whose task is it to ensure that none of them are security risks?'
Kercheval looked at him long and hard. 'Skinner did brief you well, didn't he? The answer is that the task devolves back upon the Security Service. Upon me, actually.'
Mackie was about to react to the admission when their waiter, and another wound through the throng, bearing their lunch order, plus the obligatory pot of Chinese tea. 'Let's enjoy lunch,' said the Londoner as the dishes were laid out on a warming tray. It rather deserves it.'
Mario McGuire looked at him gratefully. He had missed most of a night's sleep, and breakfast. He attacked the selection of dishes methodically, showing that his Italian descent was no constraint on his aptitude with chopsticks. Cyril Kercheval's confidence in the quality of the kitchen was well founded. They ate in virtual silence for almost fifteen minutes, until all the plates before them were cleared.
`Right,' said Kercheval at last. 'Back to business, and no more sparring. What do you want?'
Mackie leaned back in his chair, until his head touched the wall behind him. 'Do you have a file on Colin Davey?'
I might have. Was he the target?'
`He might have been. Might we see your file?'
I'll have to ask. I'll have to go to the DG, and I'm certain that the DG will have to consult the PM.'
`We understand. When he does that, could you make sure that he tells the Prime Minister that the request comes directly from Bob Skinner?'
`That'll help, will it?' There was a very slight edge of sarcasm in the question.
It should do,' snapped Mackie testily. 'Big Bob saved his life once.'
Kercheval blinked hard. 'Indeed. Then I'll make sure he knows who's asking.'
'How long will you need?'
'Give me till tomorrow. In which case, when shall we three meet again?'
"You name it'
If you say so. In that case, there's a splendid Italian place in Wardour Street..