‘So. Rachel is the original contact, then Mortimer makes the running, and collects the first slab of fivers. But on the second trip, Rachel goes too, so it couldn’t have been anything risky, or at least Mike couldn’t have thought so.’
‘Yes. I wonder what Fazal’s nationality is, or if his ... ’
‘Wait a minute!’ Martin cut in.
‘Fazal. Fuzzy. Rachel’s university pal told me that story about a serious boyfriend when she was a student. Some sort of Arab, she said. She never knew his real name, Rachel and the others just called him Fuzzy!’
‘A pound to a pinch of pig-shit that’s the man!’ Skinner’s voice rose.
‘Let’s see how good your predecessors were. Any Arab student in Edinburgh is quite likely to have wound up on Special Branch files. Come on. Let’s get along to your place and see if we can find your friend Fazal Mahmoud.’
Special Branch duties include the maintenance of a discreet watch over those who might be regarded by the State as malign influences, or subver sives. Sometimes, this category extends to include all citizens of certain foreign countries.
‘What years should we cover, Andy?’ Skinner asked as Martin unlocked the room in which the back files were stored, then answered his own quesion. ‘Let’s try ‘79 to ’82 for openers, since Jameson was thirty-two, going on thirty-three.’
Martin nodded agreement. He scanned the labelled drawers of a bank of grey steel filing cabinets lined against the wall facing the door. Choosing one, he opened it with a small brass key.
‘Let’s be precise, boss. I think Rachel would be nineteen or twenty when she was involved with this guy, so let’s look first at eighty and eighty-one.’
The files were labeled neatly and listed first alphabetically, then in date order. Martin found the 1980 ‘M’ listings and scanned through them. He found no ‘Mahmoud’ file. He unlocked the next cabinet and found the 1981 ‘M’ series in the bottom drawer. He flicked through the names. ‘Could be, boss, could be!’ he called.
He produced two creased yellow folders. ‘Mahmouds, both of these.’ He opened one, and read the top sheet of the papers inside. ‘Mahmoud, Achmed. Iranian; Exile, believed to be in some physical danger from the agents of the fundamentalists. No that’s not him.’ He opened the next folder.
‘You beauty!’
He scanned the pages for a few seconds, then read aloud. “‘Mahmoud, Fazal, Syrian passport holder. Born Damascus 1956. Student of politics and economics Edinburgh University. Matriculated October 1980. Member of Middle-East Students Anti-Zionist League. Member of University Squash Club. Residence, Pollock Halls. Known Associates Ali Tarfaz, Iraqi (see separate file), Andrew Harvey, Scottish (See separate file), Marjorie Porteous, Scottish (Nothing known), Rachel Jameson, Scottish (See separate file).”
‘We’ve got one on Rachel!’
Martin pulled open the second drawer of the cabinet. He searched quickly through the ‘H’ and ‘J’ listings and pulled out two files. Then he unlocked the next cabinet, found the ‘T’ series, and quickly located a third. He opened the Rachel folder and read aloud. “‘ Rachel Jameson. Born Edinburgh 1961. Educated St George’s School. Student of Law, Edinburgh University. Known associate of Fazal Mahmoud, Syrian. Known to have attended meetings of the Middle-East Students’ Anti-Zionist League. Not thought to be a member. Nothing else known.”’
He opened another. “‘Andrew Harvey. Born Airdrie, Lanarkshire, 1960. Student of mathematics, Edinburgh University. Member of Middle-East Students Anti-Zionist League.” — I never knew Airdrie was in the Middle-East, boss - “Also member, Student Front for Ulster Independence, Anti-Nazi League, Campaign for the Legalisation of Recreational Substances, Scottish National Party, Independent Labour Party, Edinburgh University Football Club.” This guy’s a bloody groupie. Let’s look at Tarfaz.’ He opened the third folder.
‘“Ali Tarfaz. Iraqi passport holder. Born Baghdad, 1958. Student of politics and economics, Edinburgh University. President of Middle-Eastern Students Anti-Zionist League. Activities include organisation of demonstrations, fly-posting, etcetera. Surveillance reveals possible links with Iraqi intelligence officers in Europe.”’
There was a photograph stapled to the inside of the folder. The man had a broad dark face. It was disfigured by a jagged, curving scar which ran round his left cheek to finish at the corner of his mouth. ‘Handsome geezer, is he not?’ said Martin.
‘There’s a later entry here, dated 1987. “Ali Tarfaz reported liquidated by Saddam after involvement in unsuccessful coup attempt.” Well, it looks like we can stop looking for him in this movie.’
‘Okay,’ said Skinner, ‘let’s concentrate on Mahmoud, and let’s see if we can trace Andrew Harvey, too. I suspect that’ll be a waste of time, but let’s eliminate him at least.’
‘How do we check out Fuzzy? Through my net in London?’
‘Absolutely not. You’d be bound to alert the Foreign Office, and I don’t want that bastard Allingham to have the faintest sniff of this. Leave that to me. I’ve got a couple of sources of my own.’
57
Back in his office, Skinner pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a small blue book, divided into sections. He opened it at ‘IJ’.
The listings were initials only, opposite numbers entered in a random code which only he knew. He picked up the secure telephone on his desk and keyed in a seven digit number.
‘Robbie? This is Bob S. I need a favour. Look, I know the House is in recess, but your research people in Walworth Road will be working this week won’t they? Good. I’d like someone to procure for me a list of all officially accredited personnel at the Syrian interest section of the Lebanese Embassy, with their ranks or designations. Don’t ask me why I need this, and I’ll owe you two or three in return ...
‘No. I can’t just ask the Foreign Office, for reasons which I can’t explain...
‘Obviously when you ask for this info it’s for your own use. Good. Thanks a million. Yes, today would be great. Tomorrow will do, though. Call me on my ex-directory number here, or at home tonight. I’ll give you an Edinburgh number.’
He dictated Sarah’s telephone number.
‘You’ve heard too. Christ, there’s nowhere that the Edinburgh grapevine doesn’t reach, is there. Thank you very much, I’ll pass that on. Yes I do know how lucky I am. So long, Robbie.’
58
Like the House of Commons, Edinburgh University was on vacation, but its administration was working as usual. Henry Wills, the Registrar of the University, had never met Andrew Martin, but he had enjoyed a cordial relationship with Alec Smith, his predecessor. There had been occasions on which Smith had advised on political organisations within the student body. Equally, Smith’s job had often been made easier by Wills’ accommodating stance.
Wills was effusive in his greeting. ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector Martin. I had heard of your appointment from Mr Smith, and I was expecting a visit eventually.
‘Forgive me for saying this, but you look very young for the job. I have known your three immediate predecessors, and not one was under forty when he was appointed. Bob Skinner and Jimmy Proud must have a high regard for your judgement.’
Martin smiled. ‘I don’t know whether I’m lucky or lumbered. I always fancied this job, but I never realised how much there is to it.’
‘Yes, indeed. I imagine that our occasional worries are among the least of yours.’
‘From what Alec told me, the University won’t be a worry at all. One thing you might watch out for, though. We have information that the Trotskyite Front are planning something against student loans. They’ve been a bit of a back number lately, and they’re trying to make a come-back. We’ve had a tip that they’re lining up student support for an extended occupation of the offices here, at Heriot Watt, and at Napier. It’s due to start in the first week of the new term. Let me know if you need help to back up your own security. I’d rather they didn’t succeed, because we’d have to crack heads to get them out, and we don’t want it to get to that stage.’