‘I will deal with any questions after we have recced the sites.’
They travelled in a white-liveried Lothian Charter bus. They might have been taken for a visiting football side, an appropriate comparison, since teamwork was the essential factor in both occupations.
The Norton House was empty of visitors. All other bookings had been diverted to the Royal Scot, just over a mile away. Maitland briefed those men involved in securing the hotel.
‘This is the more difficult job, given the dark and those woods. The assignment at the hall will be handled by twelve men. The eight men handling perimeter security here will be in place from midday, under the command of Mr Hoskins.’ Maitland nodded towards a small ginger-haired man seated on a couch near to Skinner and Martin.
‘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.