‘On the other hand, you are a very assertive man by nature, for all your expression of diffidence here.’
For a second, Martin froze. Had he blown it? But he was reassured as Joy went on.
‘It isn’t insecurity that has brought you here. It’s a desire for perfection; even if you don’t know it.’
Martin smiled at her. ‘Maybe I do.’
Suddenly a fragment of memory from the past tugged at him. ‘You know, Mrs Harvey, it occurs to me that we must all be about the same age. I knew quite a few Edinburgh people when I was at Glasgow. Which university were you at? You weren’t at Gilmorehill too were you?’
‘No. I was at Strathclyde, from 1979 to 1983.’
‘We overlapped, then. Did you socialise much when you were there?
‘Union dances. Daft Friday, that sort of thing. You do remember Daft Friday, don’t you.’ A tone of laughter crept into her honeyed voice.
‘Sure do. A collection of kids in evening dress taking a long time to get plastered.’
‘That’s just how it was!’
‘We’ll all have changed a bit since then. I remember two girls called Joy. What was your maiden name?’
‘Granger. What was your first name, again?’
‘Same as your husband. May I be indelicate and ask, were you a blonde then?’ It was an inspired guess. In fact, Martin’s student vanity had been incompatible with the spectacles which he had needed then for close range vision. The faces of the girls with whom he had danced had always been blurred.
Joy beamed. ‘I have to admit it. I’m sure I remember you too. You played rugby didn’t you? Always bumped or bruised.’
Martin nodded, surprised.
‘We were at the same party together once, out in Thornliebank.’
Martin searched his memory. Oh Lord, there was a distant night after a rugby international. Dimly, he recalled winding up in bed, for only a little while, but long enough, with a randy blonde; only of course, she hadn’t really been a blonde. Could this be her? Something in her eyes told him that she was.
‘After a rugby match. That’s right. We had a drink together. I was on Guinness then, and you knew where it was hidden.’
Quickly, he took the opportunity to switch the conversation.
‘How about you, Mr Harvey, were you at that party?’ Christ, I hope not, he thought.
‘No,’ said the little round man. Martin could not decide whether he was amused or bemused by the conversation. ‘I never got through to Glasgow in those days. I didn’t meet Joy till after we both graduated. At a business seminar, actually.’
Figures, Martin thought again.
‘As I said, I got around a bit. Maybe you knew some of my rugby pals there; Al Reid, Johnny Hall? Do they mean anything?’
Harvey shook his head. It was hardly surprising. The names were fictitious.
‘I had a thing with a girl through there once. What was her name? Marjorie. Marjorie Porteous, that was it. Clever, but a bit of an airhead at the same time. Then there was that Arab who was always hanging around. What the hell was his name again?’
He paused. He realised, quite suddenly that the figures on either side of him had frozen, as if they were hanging on his next word. It was the sort of tension which shows itself through a mass holding of breath. For two or three long seconds, Martin drank it in.
‘Ali something; like Ali Tarbrush. Ali Tarfaz. That was it. An Iraqi bloke.’ Both Harveys exhaled quietly and relaxed again, imperceptibly. ‘I remember; the Glasgow team used to call him Ali Macleod. He really hated that.’
Harvey looked puzzled. Martin tried an explanation. ‘Ali Macleod. Ally Macleod - 1978 World Cup, Scotland team manager. Gettit? No? Never mind.’
Joy broke into a laugh which sounded slightly forced. ‘Ali Macleod. That’s terrible. Do you remember any of these people, Andrew?’
‘I’m afraid not. None of them. But then I was very serious in those days.’
Martin decided that the time for reminiscence was over. He turned towards Joy. ‘Anyway, back to this seminar of mine. Any tips?’
She nodded. ‘Prepare a script so that you know exactly what you intend to say, but speak from brief notes if you can. Take a few slides along, even a short video if you have one. I’m sure the police will have one. Allocate at least fifty per cent of your time to discussion. And at the end of the session, make sure you leave behind an information pack, summarising what you said, with suitable leaflets.
‘Oh yes, and if there are women in the audience, flash those green eyes at them and you can’t go wrong.’ She laughed. Her husband did not.
Martin stood up to leave, and thanked them both. Joy led him back to reception, and walked with him to the front door.
As he turned to take his leave, she said quietly, ‘Thanks for your discretion. I remember that party pretty well now, and I remember you, Andy, very well indeed.’ As they shook hands, she slipped him a business card. ‘If you fancy a replay sometime, give me a call.’
He smiled at her. ‘I may just do that.’
Joy laughed. ‘Goodbye then. And good luck with your seminar.’
63
As Martin and the former Joy Granger were recalling their previous close encounter, the secure telephone rang once again in Skinner’s office.
‘Hello, Bob. About that supplementary question you asked me. It was a cracker.
‘I threw that name at all the Arab watchers, and one of them all but shit himself. It seems that your man Ali Tarfaz is very heavy duty indeed; only you’re right, he is dead.
‘The way the story goes, Ali Tarfaz was an intelligence operative. He was planted in the UK as a student around 1980 and did well for himself. He was moved on to West Germany, and then to Brussels. Then, the story goes, in 1987 a few middle-ranking soldiers hatched a plot to overthrow the government. It failed. Saddam, as you might expect, was not best pleased. Not a nice man when annoyed. The plotters were all strung up on poles and left to rot. The intelligence community, which was said to have been in on it, was heavily purged. And among those shot was one Ali Tarfaz.
‘Now this is where the story becomes legend. After the blood had been mopped up, Saddam appointed a sort of supremo, with powers of command over the military, and over all intelligence operations, everywhere. That man’s name was Rashoun Hadid. He was never, ever photographed, or seen by foreigners.
‘Naturally the Israelis developed a great interest in Hadid. Mossad lost two men just trying to take his picture, never mind kill him. But eventually, after, it’s said, a wee bit of torture of a captured Iraqi spy that they’re not keen to admit, they came out with a story. According to Mossad, the man who informed on the 1987 plot was your pal Ali Tarfaz. Far from being given a bullet as a reward, he was given a new identity, and the job of Intelligence supremo. The guy who was shown on television facing the firing squad was an obscure so-called political detainee called Rashoun Hadid, whose crime was that he had been caught fucking a general’s wife.
‘So it the Israelis are to be believed, and they usually are, your boy Ali Tarfaz has done very well for himself. Impressed?’
‘By him or by you?’
‘Both. But there’s a postscript. The Israelis track this boy’s movements all the time, looking for a clear shot at him. Well just recently, they were forced to admit that they had lost track. They don’t know where he is, but they believe that he’s either out of the country, or out of the picture. They reckon that he’s either had a bust-up with his boss and been liquidated for real this time, or he’s away on some very serious business. Either way, the Israelis would love to know, so if you’ve come across him under his old name, you could win yourself a whole barrowload of Brownie points.’