... They go downstairs. Enveloped in a chair beside the white marble fountain is a smallish, swarthy Libyan wearing a crumpled suit, and with a mane of jet black hair. Crammed down over his ears is some kind of deerstalker hat. He stands up and walks towards them limping, badly. "Ah, good afternoon Dr Swire, I am here for to guide you."
The words come with a sweet odour of quality malt, memories of Skye. They exchange pleasantries, he in broken English, Jim in Etonian perfection, through a translator who speaks Nubian and Egyptian. He says his name is Saleh. To Jim, from this moment, he is Deerstalker.
Deerstalker invites, "Please Dr Swire, I would like for to show you my office." He limps ahead, they follow the scent of Scotland. He walks to a large Mercedes with tinted windows, opens the passenger door with a flourish, and ushers Jim in. As Deerstalker's walking around the front of the car to get to the driver's seat, Jim finds himself staring at a needle of sunlight forming a tiny bright oval on the leather sill. In the bottom corner of the windscreen is a neat, round bullet hole.
THE FOREIGN SECRETARY IS WILLING
David moves to a strategic point and gets set. In comes Mandela, majestically shakes hands with one or two people, and David walks forward. He's six feet six and Mandela's five eleven. The President looks up, curious and David smiles. He's got a nice smile. He says "Mr President, on behalf of Tiny Rowland-"
"Ah! My friend Tiny!"
"May I welcome you to my city, and say that I have thought about you for many, many years." He flicks his lapel over and on the back is one of the first ANC badges. "Mr President, I've worn this from the day that you were imprisoned on Robben Island. I'd like to give it back to the man that I wore it for..." He gives him the badge. Mandela takes it, looks at it whistfully for a few seconds, and puts it slowly into his pocket.
David continues, "The UK relatives of Lockerbie have asked - first, is there any chance they could meet you, although they know your programme is busy, and second, to thank you for all that you have done to try to break this ridiculous impasse."
By this time the Foreign Office pinstripes are frantic, trying to drag Mandela away. Their worst nightmare has just happened- Chief Shit Stirrer meets Chief Trouble Maker. Mandela thanks him and disappears along the corridor, surrounded by a crush of security people and anxious officials.
A few minutes later David's having a thoughtful drink when suddenly, with all the weight of a hand on the shoulder, a voice behind him says "Didna recognise ya in a suit!" It's the Chief Constable of Edinburgh and a group of Special Branch boys. "Now David, let's not do anything silly. Just enjoy yaself and stay out of trouble."
Late that night, David's mobile rings. It's Tiny Rowland's associate Rusty Evans. "Hello David. Why don't you come round to the hotel for a chat?"
"I'll never get in. It's like Fort Knox."
Rusty laughs. "Don't worry about that. I'll fix it." Then he and David talk into the morning hours of something that will change the Foreign Office agenda just a tad.
THE BURDEN
... Throughout the years Jane has faced a terrible enemy, fighting to exclude every emotion save that which might keep her family together. Now Jim can see, all squeezed into this one moment, the extra burden he's placed within her heart, borne silently and lovingly. Torn between her anguish and what he must do for Flora, he's added to her suffering, always spirited away in search of something he could never clearly define. As he looks into the camera, and behind it the puzzled eyes of Shelley Jofre, it is now he understands. He cannot speak, humbled, all resolve gone. He's faced the world's press, robed judges, ministers, dictators, yet with these few glistening tears he seems a broken man.
The tenth Lockerbie memorial service will be something special. He's prepared a centre-piece, one that he used in the first memorial five years ago. It is a ladder with two hundred and seventy candles, each with its own tiny blue shroud, the colour of Pan Am, and there's a mirror at each end, creating a river of light into the infinite.
A candle is a special thing, the light of the world, a flickering soul, a symbol of what we are. "My ladder of candles will I hope be restrained and dignified. When we used it for our five-year anniversary memorial service at Westminster Abbey in 1993, some folks were kind enough to say that it was beautiful."
There is to be a trial, but what comes next? Even if guilty the two accused are but minnows in a huge pond. Do more dark forces lurk behind the politicians, forces who have yet to show their hand? If the trial is delayed Jim does not know what he will do. "Maybe our campaign will never end and those poor souls will never rest. Will I have failed them?"...
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