‘And is that what you’re after in this investigation of yours, Bob — a fanatic?’
‘No, Chief. I’m after a cold, calculating devious bastard who kills for purpose.’
‘And this Arab chap? Does he fit into that category?’
A slight smile flicked the corners of Skinner’s mouth. Had Proud Jimmy been nobbled? ‘Fuzzy? No, I don’t think so. Yes, Fuzzy’s a killer but he’s not the one I’m looking for. He’s a loose cannon. Somebody’s wound him up and let him go.’
Almost dreamily, he continued in a soft voice, ‘No, there’s someone else, someone much more heavy duty than him.’ Abruptly he looked Proud traight in the eye. ‘What did Fulton tell you?’
The Chief looked slightly furtive. ‘He told me that this man Mahmoud was on the run from his own people because of some political thing, and that Fulton’s outfit was keeping out of it.
‘He said that you had picked up a false trail linking the man with Rachel Jameson, that by chance you had got too close to him, and that he had panicked. He said that Mahmoud murdered the people who were hiding him, that pair that were shot in Earlsferry on Sunday. And he said that you’re still after him. That’s what he said.
‘And he asked me — no that’s the wrong word — he told me, to nail you and Martin to your desks for a while.’
‘And will you?’
‘Should I?’
‘That depends upon whether you like the idea of people in your town, one of your men among them, being killed for politics.’
‘That’s what you think?’
‘That’s what I know, Chief. There’s a wee bit of what Fulton told you that’s true. Fuzzy Mahmoud is on the move, and I want him. But not because he killed our five people. He didn’t. There’s a hell of a lot that I know that Fulton didn’t tell you. I think I even know some things that he doesn’t. Unless you order me otherwise, I’m going to keep it all to myself, to protect your position if nothing else. I’m a loose cannon in this thing too, Chief. Let me stay that way!’
Proud looked at Skinner long and hard. ‘Bob, if something goes wrong here, like as not I’ll be in the firing line along with you.’
Skinner sighed. ‘I know that, Jimmy. And I’ve no right to expect it of you.’
The Chief’s solemn face broke into a sudden, sunny smile. ‘I’ve never liked that big Aberdonian bastard Fulton. The man keeps saying that he doesn’t exist. Well, if that’s the case, then he couldn’t have been in my office this morning. And if he wasn’t, then you’re not here now either, and this conversation hasn’t happened. So away you go then, before I notice you!’
88
The Syrian President’s Boeing 737 touched down at RAF Turnhouse at 7.00 p.m., dead on time. The evening was cold, dry, crisp and moonlit. Skinner and Martin bounded up the steps into the aircraft. Mario McGuire remained on the runway. All three were armed with Browning automatic pistols, and wore lion badges.
Allingham was waiting at the door. He was white-faced. For a fleeting moment, Skinner felt sorry for the transplanted pen-pusher.
‘Don’t worry, man. It’ll be over soon,’ he said in reassurance.
The rear section of the aircraft was screened off. Allingham led the two policemen through.
‘Assistant Chief Constable Skinner, Chief Inspector Martin, may I introduce our guest: His Excellency Hassan Al-Saddi, the President of the Republic of Syria.’
The man who turned to face them was short and squat, in early middle age. He stood between two escorting diplomats. He wore an olive green uniform, with heavy badges of rank on the shoulders and rows of medal ribbons on the left breast. The tunic was beautifully tailored. The cut emphasised the thickness of the President’s chest and the width of his shoulders. The impressive picture was topped off by a black and white chequered headdress held in place by a black circlet.
But all the style of his dress could not hide the real man. Skinner had met many killers in his time, and he recognised another in the President of Syria. There was no laughter in the face. Instead, the grim set of the jaw and the hard gleam in the brown eyes emphasised that this was a man with no conscience, and with the will to succeed whatever the cost in other people’s lives.
‘Welcome to Scotland, Mr President,’ said Skinner, formally. ‘We are operating to a tight schedule, so there will be no ceremonial at the airfield. We will drive straight to the Hall. There you will be met by the Lord Provost, and by the President of the Edinburgh University Students’ Union, who will chair the evening.
‘As I believe you know, the debate is run on British Parliamentary lines. The motion is “That this House believes that a Palestinian state should be established without delay”. You will be invited to sum up, in favour of the motion. You can expect to be called to speak at around 9.00 p.m. The debate is scheduled to end by 9.30.
‘As soon as the result is declared, and before the Hall is emptied, the Chairman will lead you from the Chamber. From there you will be driven to the Norton House Hotel, where you will spend the night. Be assured that you will be under armed guard throughout your stay with us. Have you any questions?’
Al-Saddi shook his head, jerking the headdress into sudden motion. ‘No. I know the programme for the evening, and I have every faith in your security arrangements. Let us go.’
Skinner led on to the floodlit runway, which was guarded by men of the RAF Regiment, armed with automatic rifles. Three cars were lined up close to the aircraft. At the head of the small convoy, two motor-cycle policemen in day-glo tunics straddled powerful BMW bikes.
Martin held open the rear door of the second car, a black Mercedes. limousine. Al-Saddi stepped in, followed by his equerry, a tiny nervous man in a dark grey suit. Martin followed him into the long car and perched himself on a jump seat, his back to Al-Saddi. Skinner steered Allingham towards the lead car. As he climbed into the front passenger seat of the Granada, its blue light whirling on top, he shouted to the motorcyclists, ‘Okay, boys, move out. Lights and sirens all the way!’
He jumped into the car and slammed the door shut. With McGuire in the third vehicle, the convoy swung out through the airfield gates. As it did so Skinner picked up the hand-microphone which hung from the car’s radio transceiver. ‘Blue One to HQ. Patch me through to Blue Two.’
‘Understood Blue One. Blue Two on line.’
‘Blue One calling Blue Two. Package on the way. Over.’
‘Blue Two receiving.’ Brian Mackie’s eager voice seemed to fill the car. Skinner adjusted the volume. ‘The venue is filling up. Searches proceeding smoothly and without trouble. The crowd seems quiet, sober and responsible. The press are in position, with their escorts. There’s only one problem: there’s no sign of the bloody military!’
89
On the darkened square at Redford Barracks, Maitland assembled the twelve men who were to guard the MacEwan Hall. Their eight colleagues were, even then, positioned invisibly around the Norton House, each clad in a black tunic and carrying a rifle with a wide, round night-sight on top.
The soldiers wore a variety of civilian dress, some in denim jeans and bomber jackets, some in overcoats. Each man carried a Walther automatic in a shoulder holster.
A white mini-bus stood nearby, its passenger door open.
‘Gentlemen, let us go to work,’ said Maitland calmly, quietly, but with chilling purpose and authority.
One by one they climbed on board the vehicle. Maitland, in black slacks and a Daks sports jacket, brought up the rear. The bus, with a military driver at the wheel, pulled out of the Barracks and headed towards the centre of Edinburgh.