17

It took Rebus a good ten minutes to push his way to the front of the throng, Siobhan tucking herself in behind him. With his body pressed to a scratched and scrawled riot shield, Rebus palmed his ID against the see-through reinforced plastic, level with the cop’s eye line.

“Get us out of here,” he mouthed. The cop wasn’t falling for it. Called out instead for his boss to decide. The red-faced officer appeared over the cop’s shoulder, recognized Siobhan straight off. She was trying to look suitably chastened.

The officer gave a sniff, then an order. The cordon of shields opened a fraction, and hands hauled at Rebus and Siobhan. The noise level rose perceptibly on the other side of the line.

“Show them your ID,” the officer ordered. Rebus and Siobhan were happy to oblige. The officer held a megaphone in front of him and let the crowd know no arrests had been made. When he identified Rebus and Siobhan as police detectives, a huge jeer went up. All the same, the situation seemed to be easing.

“I should put you on report for that little escapade,” he told Siobhan.

“We’re murder squad,” Rebus lied fluently. “There was someone we needed to talk to-what else could we do?”

The officer stared at him, but suddenly found himself with more pressing concerns. One of his men had fallen over, and the protesters were aiming to exploit this breach in the barricade. He barked out orders on his megaphone, and Rebus gestured to Siobhan that maybe they should make themselves scarce.

Van doors were opening, more cops spilling out to provide backup on the front line. A medic asked Siobhan if she was okay.

“I’m not injured,” she told him. A small helicopter was sitting on the road, rotor blades turning. Rebus got into a crouch and went to talk to the pilot, then waved Siobhan across.

“He can take us to the field.”

The pilot was nodding from behind mirrored sunglasses. “Not a problem,” he called out in an American accent. Thirty seconds later they were installed, and the machine was rising into the air, whipping up dust and litter below it. Rebus whistled a bit of Wagner-a nod to Apocalypse Now-but Siobhan ignored him. Hard to hear anything, which didn’t stop her asking Rebus what he’d told the pilot. She read his lips as he replied:

Murder squad.

The hotel was a mile to the south. From the sky, it was easy to make out the security fence and the watchtowers. Thousands of acres of deserted hillside, and pockets of demonstrators being corralled by black uniforms.

“I’m not allowed to go near the hotel itself,” the pilot was yelling. “A missile would have us down if I did.”

He sounded serious, and he took a wide arc around the hotel’s security fence. There were lots of temporary structures, probably to shelter the world’s media. Satellite dishes on the tops of anonymous-looking vans. Television, or maybe the secret service. Rebus could make out a track that led from a large white canopy toward the security fence. The field had been reduced to stubble, and someone had spray-painted a giant letter H to let the chopper know where to land. Their flight had taken only a couple of minutes. Rebus shook the pilot’s hand and jumped out, Siobhan following.

“My day for traveling in style,” she mused. “A motorbike brought me up the A9.”

“Siege mentality,” Rebus explained. “This week, it’s us and them as far as this lot are concerned.”

There was a soldier approaching, dressed in combat fatigues and toting a submachine gun. He looked far from pleased at their arrival. Both showed their ID, but this was not enough for the soldier. Rebus noted that there was no insignia on his uniform, nothing to identify his nationality, or which branch of the armed services he belonged to. He insisted on taking their badges from them.

“Wait right there,” he ordered, pointing to where they were standing. As he turned away, Rebus did a little soft-shoe shuffle and gave Siobhan a wink. The soldier had disappeared into a huge trailer. Another armed soldier guarded its door.

“I get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Rebus offered.

“Does that make me Toto?”

“Let’s see what’s over there,” Rebus suggested, heading for the canopy. Its roof was a fixed structure of plastic sections, held up by a series of poles. Beneath it sat rows of limousines. Liveried drivers shared cigarettes and stories. Strangest of all, a chef, dressed in white jacket and checkered trousers, and with a toque perched on his head, was cooking what appeared to be omelets. He stood behind a sort of platform, a large red bottle of cooking gas by his side. The food was being dished out on proper plates, with silver cutlery. Tables had been set up for the drivers’ use.

“I heard about this when I was up here with the DCI,” Siobhan said. “Hotel staff are using a back route into the compound, leaving their vehicles in the next field over.”

“I’m assuming they’ve all been vetted,” Rebus said, “which is what’s happening to us right now.” He glanced toward the trailer, then nodded a greeting to one group of drivers. “Omelets all right, lads?” he asked, receiving replies in the affirmative. The chef was awaiting fresh orders.

“One with everything,” Rebus told him, turning toward Siobhan.

“Same,” she said.

The chef got busy with his little plastic containers of cubed ham, sliced mushrooms, chopped peppers. Rebus picked up a knife and fork while he was waiting.

“Bit of a change for you,” he said to the chef. The man just smiled. “All modern conveniences though,” Rebus went on, sounding impressed. “Chemical toilets, hot food, a bit of shelter for when it rains…”

“Half the cars have got TVs,” one of the drivers informed him. “Signal’s not up to much, mind…”

“It’s a hard life,” Rebus commiserated. “Ever allowed inside the trailers?”

The drivers shook their heads. “They’re chock-full of gizmos,” one man offered. “I caught a glimpse. Computers and stuff.”

“That aerial on the roof probably isn’t for Coronation Street then,” Rebus said, pointing. The drivers laughed just as a door opened and the soldier reappeared. He seemed nonplussed that Rebus and Siobhan were no longer where he’d left them. As he marched toward them, Rebus accepted his omelet from the chef and scooped up a mouthful. He was praising the food as the soldier halted in front of him.

“Want some?” Rebus offered, holding out his fork.

“It’s an earful you’ll be getting,” the soldier countered. Rebus turned toward Siobhan.

“Pretty good comeback,” she told him, taking her own plate from the chef.

“DS Clarke is an expert,” Rebus informed the soldier. “We’ll just finish our grub, then hop into one of the Mercedes to watch Columbo…”

“I’m keeping hold of your badges,” the soldier said. “For verification purposes.”

“Looks like we’re stuck here then.”

“Which channel’s Columbo on?” one of the drivers asked. “I like that program.”

“It’ll be in the TV pages,” a colleague offered.

The soldier’s head jerked upward, chin jutting as he watched a heli copter approaching. It was low and deafening. The soldier stepped out from under the canopy to get a better view.

“You have got to be kidding,” Rebus said as the man stiffly saluted the underside of the machine.

“Does it every time,” one of the drivers yelled. Another asked if it might be Bush arriving. Watches were checked. The chef was covering his ingredients, in case flying debris from the downdraft landed in them.

“He’s due around now,” someone surmised.

“I brought Boki in from Prestwick,” another added, going on to explain that this was the name of the president’s dog.

The helicopter had disappeared over a line of trees. They could hear it coming in to land.

“What do the wives do,” Siobhan asked, “while the menfolk are arm wrestling?”