‘Sergeant Rose and Detective Constable McIlhenney will be here throughout the afternoon, and until the President eventually departs.’
The two, unsmiling, nodded acknowledgement.
‘The visit will not be announced in advance. The media will be told at 4.00 p.m. on the day and special lapel badges will be issued to selected journalists by the Scottish Office Information Directorate. This is a sample.’ He held up a buff-coloured tag with a short purple cord attached. ‘The three press officers will wear green tags, like this.’ He held up another sample.
‘We will travel to Redford by coach, to arrive no more than thirty minutes before the President. As soon as his plane is given landing clearance, we leave the barracks in a chartered bus. Comments from anyone?’
He looked towards Skinner and Martin, who raised a hand.
‘Aren’t you cutting your arrival at the Hall just a bit fine?’
‘If we arrive any earlier, we will be obtrusive. I don’t want the students to twig us. Most of them will be little Lefties, and if they spot an SAS presence at a university event there could be trouble.
‘They might even mob us, and that would be unfortunate.’ He smiled at Martin, fixing him with his gaze.
87
When Skinner returned to his office, he found a note from his secretary on his desk. ‘At lunch. CC called, asked if you could spare a minute on your return.’
Skinner called to check that Proud was still there, then walked the short distance to his office.
‘Hello, Bob. Come along in. Coffee?’ Skinner nodded. ‘Sandwich?’ Proud jerked a thumb towards a plate on his desk. Skinner helped himself to a BLT as the Chief handed him a steaming mug.
‘How did your recce go? Do you see any problems?’
‘Just like you’d expect with the SAS boys — like clockwork. There’s no way that anyone will get near our guest without being spotted. No one will have a go at this man and walk away from it. But of course, political assassins don’t care about walking away. If there’s a fanatic out there, he’ll have a chance.’
‘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.
Colinton Road ends at a complicated junction, known popularly as Holy Corner because of the three churches which seem to glare at each other across the roadway. The white bus was about three hundred yards from the traffic lights, with the driver easing his foot slightly on the throttle, when there was a roar from the left. Just as it passed Napier University, a big modern college building, incongruous among the grey tenements, terraces and villas of staid, conservative Morningside, an old, battered Land-Rover came roaring out of its car park.
The heavy green vehicle skidded and smashed full tilt into the front nearside comer of the bus, which spun out of control, crashing, as the driver jammed on the brakes in vain, into a grey Montego parked on the other side of the street. The engine roared in neutral for a few seconds, then spluttered and died.
‘Bastard,’ shouted the bus driver. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead where it had slammed into the window. Several of the soldiers had been thrown into the aisle, and one looked slightly dazed. All but he had drawn their weapons in an instinctive reaction. The man next to the passenger door forced it open and looked out. The Land-Rover was slewed across the road, empty, as its driver, a slim youth in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, sprinted away into the night. The soldier was about to jump from the bus in pursuit of the escaping man when Maitland stopped him.
‘No, Jones. Leave it. It’s police business. A drunken bloody student, I imagine. Dismount, boys, and haul this damn thing out of the roadway.’
Already the traffic was beginning to tail back in both directions from the accident.
‘I’ll go into the college and call for a replacement vehicle.’ Maitland disappeared into the cloistered entry to the Polytechnic.
When he reappeared five minutes later, the squad had manhandled the bus from the middle of the roadway to a position which allowed the traffic to pass. The build-up was clearing slowly.
‘Well done, gentlemen. Another bus is on its way. However, the delay means that the Hall will already be well filled. By the time we got there, the debate would be well under way. Our entry, in our baggy jackets would be rather conspicuous. Therefore we will have to trust to luck and the efficiency of the police security. You will divert to the hotel and take up position there. Jones, when the new bus arrives, re-direct it to the Norton House. I will contact the police and advise them of the change. See you at the hotel.’
He disappeared into the night.
90
The motorcycle outriders carved a path through the evening traffic for Skinner’s small motorcade, leading it through South Gyle towards the Western Approach Road. The cars were passing Murrayfield, the national rugby stadium, when the radio burst into life once more.
‘HQ to Blue One, Blue Two. Traffic reports a hit and run on Colinton Road, in which a bus carrying a group of men has been disabled. Over.
‘Blue One acknowledges. Blue One to Blue Two. That’s just magic. Are your uniforms deployed around the Hall? Over.’
‘Blue Two affirmative. Over.’
‘We’ll have to make do then. Blue One out.’
But within seconds HQ was back on air. ‘Message for Blue One. Caller advises that in view of accident delay his unit will divert to second site and take up position there. Over.’
‘Blue One acknowledges. Please advise Blue Three of change of plan.’
91
The motorcade pulled up in close order at the entrance to the MacEwan Hall. Skinner, McGuire and Allingham jumped out first and surveyed the area. Latecomers were still pressing into the Hall, each one being carefully frisked by uniformed police officers.
Mackie stood in the doorway. ‘Okay, Brian?’ Skinner called. When the inspector nodded, he opened the door of the Mercedes limousine. Martin stepped out first, and stood close to Skinner, looking around. Mackie and McGuire took up position just beyond them. Martin leaned back into the car and spoke quietly to the President. Al-Saddi climbed out immediately, followed by the tiny, trembling equerry; the four policemen formed a shield and rushed them up the few steps, towards the three people who stood waiting for them. The Lord Provost of Edinburgh stepped forward and introduced himself. Al-Saddi shook his hand.
‘May I present the Rector of the University, Mr David McKnight.’ The Rector of Edinburgh University is elected by the student population to chair the University Court, and David McKnight was an articulate and politically outspoken professional footballer, something of a folk hero. He was captain of Hibernian and Scotland. His suit was beautifully tailored. He shook Al-Saddi’s hand firmly, not in any way overawed.
‘Welcome to Edinburgh University, Mr President. Please allow me to introduce Ms Deirdre O’Farrell, the President of the Union and Speaker for this evening’s debate.’
Deirdre O’Farrell was a tall, fair-skinned, flame-haired girl. Even in the pseudo-Parliamentary robes of her office she retained an air of authority. Her expression indicated that she walked in no one’s shadow, not even that of a visiting head of state.
She spoke with a soft Dublin accent. ‘I’m pleased that you could come, Mr President. I am only sorry that your Israeli counterpart has declined to join us.’
‘That is of no matter to me. What I have to say is for the ears of the world, not for him alone. Shall we go in?’
The party turned into a small procession, led by Deirdre O’Farrell, with Al-Saddi, McKnight and the Lord Provost following in that order. They threaded their way into the hall, where the other speakers were waiting.
As they did so, they were followed by a sudden press of students. Several of them by-passed the search in the few moments it took to regain control. Among them was a small swarthy man, older than the rest, with a three-day stubble emphasising the grimness of his marred face.
92
A place of honour had been reserved for Al-Saddi at the head of the ‘Government’ benches on the Speaker’s right hand. Mackie and Martin sat at the Clerk’s table. McGuire took up position at the main entrance door. Skinner faced the Speaker, beside a television camera. He looked around, trying to peer into the far reaches of the panelled Hall, but was dazzled by the television lights.
The debate opened in fine formality. The motion was proposed by Bernard Holland, a left-wing Labour Member of Parliament, whose fame leaned towards notoriety because of his support for a number of organisations, including the
PLO, which, either openly or by reputation, were involved in terrorism. Holland knew the niceties of Parliamentary debate and his speech, powerful in its delivery, brought a sense of reality to the mock event.
He set out his stall from the start, declaring his support for the Palestinians, and challenging the Israelis. ‘They of all people, Madam Speaker, a nation landless for two thousand years, should understand the plight of the people of the State of Palestine, who for too long have been in the wilderness. There is room for all. Let them live together!’
Holland sat down to applause that was warm, but which stopped short of being thunderous. He was followed by another Parliamentarian, Sir Sidney Legge, MP, a veteran of thirty years at Westminster, and a leading member of the Board of Jewish Deputies. He was a small grey man, but he spoke with surprising power.
‘Madam Speaker, I regret most sincerely that I must urge this House to reject the motion. For once, the gentleman opposite is correct. We Jews appreciate more than any other the plight of the Palestinian people, and we wish them well in their efforts to find a permanent home. But the State of Israel will not be that home. Nor will we allow its security to be put at risk. For that is the real issue here tonight, Madam Speaker, and that is why that gentleman is among us.’
Dramatically, he thrust out his hand, pointing directly at Al-Saddi.
‘He is a sworn enemy of Israel. He comes here tonight not to argue the case for Palestine, but to sow, if he can, the seeds of the destruction of the Jewish State.’
The little man thundered on. ‘Since the nations of the world recognised Israel’s claim to its homeland over forty years ago, we Jews have been attacked on four occasions by people like him. Four times they have sought to take what is ours, and four times they have been taught painful lessons. It may be that, being bad students, our neighbours have forgotten the lesson yet once more. Let us hope not. But with people like that gentleman opposite,’ he glowered again at Al-Saddi, ‘in places of power in the Middle East, I fear that it is the case. Let us hope that tonight, he has come to listen, not to threaten. It would be as well for him.’
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