‘You need to get details of a numbered account in a small private bank without anyone knowing you've done it?'
`That's right, Maggie, and I need them today if possible. See to it, will you.
Maggie Rose shook her red locks and smiled. 'Too tall an order for me, sir. I think I'll have to decline.'
`I was afraid you would. Looks like I'll have to get on my Superman cape. And I'm knackered after yesterday, too. Okay, Mags, sit down and learn something. What I'm going to do is cheat a bit and call in the resources of my other job.'
The young inspector nodded and sat down. By virtue of his `other job' as part-time Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland, Skinner was recognised as a senior member of a service which, while it had become less 'secret' over the years, could still call on facilities and cut corners in a way of which no police force could dream. Now, he picked up a black scrambled telephone on his desk and punched in a short-coded number. The telephonist answered with a number, not a name.
`Morning. This is Skinner in Scotland. I know it's Saturday, but is Angie Dickson in? Good. Let me speak to her, please.'
The extension rang twice, before a bubbly voice answered: `Dickson.'
`Ms Dickson? This is Bob Skinner, the Five man in Scotland.
`Good morning, Mr Skinner. How can I help you?'
`By showing off your skills. Remember the lecture you gave at that seminar in Yorkshire last winter? "Armchair Spying" you called it. I found it fascinating, but I have to admit I was sceptical at times. Can you really do all those things?'
`Sure. Given a fair wind, I can do everything I told you. I even managed to hack into the CIA last week. We thought they were holding out on us over a deal in the Middle East. We were right. Now the negotiations have taken a whole new turn, and the Americans can't figure out why.'
Skinner laughed. 'Then what I've got for you should be plain sailing. I'm involved in an international investigation. It's a police matter rather than a security job, but something's come up which calls for skills that simply don't exist in that network. I need to know details of a numbered account in a small private bank in Monaco, called Sneyder et Fils. But I have to tap in with absolute secrecy, and leave no trace. You said in Yorkshire that you can do that.'
`That's right, I can, in theory. Assuming that Mr Sneyder and his son have computerised records and a modem in their system.'
`Yes,' said Skinner, 'that's the chance I'm taking. But I'm pretty certain they will have, though, for transferring credit. What do you need, to get in?'
`Nothing other than the number of the modem. Once I've got that, I'll squirt my little gizmo down the line, and it will persuade Sneyder's system to cough up its access code. Once I'm in, I can go where I like, get what I'm after, and get out again. Then another little gizmo will persuade their computer not to log the search — and that's that.'
`So will you do it?'
Natch. Anything for a brother officer. What's the account number?'
Skinner dug a small piece of paper from his pocket. `C 159480'
‘Got it. Leave it with me. I'll be quick as I can. I'll get you all the info I can. Balance, account owners, signatories — all that sort of stuff.'
`That's the game. When will you be able to do it?' `Right now, I should think.'
`Although it's Saturday?'
`Yes. If they have a system, it'll be accessible to receive electronic transfers even when the bank is closed.'
`How long'll it take?'
`Will you be there all morning?'
‘For you, as long as it takes.' He gave her his direct number. `Thanks in advance.'
He replaced the receiver. 'There you are, Maggie. Did you pick up enough from one side of the conversation?'
`Yes, sir, I get it. I'm going to have to start calling you God. You surely move in mysterious ways!'
Skinner snorted. ‘Hmph, d'you think God's got an intray as big as that one?' He pointed to the small mountain of files, memos and letters heaped on the big desk, close to his left hand. 'If I was the Almighty, you'd see a miracle done right here and now and that lot'd disappear. I take it this is what's left after you've filtered out the nonessential stuff.'
`That's right, sir. I spared you as much as I could. I even farmed some of the punter correspondence out to Alan Royston, and told him to sign himself "Head of Public Affairs" instead of Media Relations Manager.'
`Hope he doesn't come after me for a rise! Right, then. Let's get to it.'
His hand was almost on a memo, balanced precariously on top of the heap, when there was a knock on the door and Brian Mackie burst into the room. 'Can I have a minute, sir?' The thin detective could barely contain his smile. Even the top of his head, which during the previous few months had moved beyond its balding phase and now could be described only as dome-like, shone red with excitement.
`You can have as many minutes as you need, Brian. Grab yourself a coffee.'
Mackie filled a mug from the pot in the corner, then took a seat beside Maggie Rose. He was still smiling. 'Took a detour on the way in, this morning, boss. I dropped into Dalmahoy Golf and Country Club, just for a look around. I went into the club-house. I found a bloody great notice-board covered with competition charts and results. One of them was the club foursomes. Mr Norrie Monklands is doing very well this year. He's in the semi-finals. Know who his partner is?'
Mackie's grin broadened, until it infected Skinner. A smile spread across his face.
'So tell me, Brian. You've earned the pleasure.'
`Only Mr P. Ainscow, that's all. D'you think there's more than one?'
Behind his desk, Skinner punched the air with his right fist. 'You — pardon my French, Maggie — fucking beauty! The whole thing fits. Vaudan, buyer; Monklands, courier; Ainscow, distributor. We've got them by the jewels. We follow Monklands home, let Ainscow make his contacts, and there won't be a court in Edinburgh that's big enough to hold all the drug-dealing bastards we'll pull in. Too bad for Monklands and Ainscow. Somehow, I don't see them making the foursomes final!'