‘Once President Kennedy told the people of Berlin, “I am a Berliner”. Today they are all free. Tonight, I say to the people of Palestine, “I am a Palestinian”. Soon, not tomorrow but soon, they too will be free.
‘But there will be a price.
‘The State called Israel was founded as our American friend has reminded us, after a holocaust. Let us hope that it does not take another to regain Palestine for its people. But if it does …’ he paused ‘ … then so be it. We are ready and our cause is just!’
The terrible warning boomed out into a stilled hall. Six hundred people knew that they had just heard a declaration of war, a promise of destruction by a man who was as ruthless as any of history’s great tyrants. As Al-Saddi sat down, there was no applause, only an awful silence.
Madam Speaker broke the spell by calling upon the House to vote upon the proposition.
The motion was put by the Clerk. ‘All in favour say “Aye”.’
On the side of the proposers many, Bernard Holland notable among them, sat silent, chilled by the threats of Al-Saddi. When the ‘No’ vote as called, the word roared out in the hall, voicing the horror of the gathering.
Deirdre O’Farrell declared that the motion had been defeated.
Hassan Al-Saddi’s portentous face darkened still further. He glared across the floor at Sir Sidney Legge and Herbie Clay, who sat smiling softly. There was a bustle at the back of the hall as two television camera assistants left with their cassettes, ready to break around the world the news of the Syrian President’s sudden and sensational announcement of alliance with Iraq, and his ultimatum to Israel.
Deirdre O‘Farrell stilled the hubbub even as it arose. ‘This House stands adjourned.’
She rose from her chair and slipped down to lead the procession from the Hall.
Skinner and Martin moved into the passage to keep it clear. Mackie and McGuire rose and flanked Al-Saddi as he took his place behind the Speaker, and in the tension, behind David McKnight.
Skinner nodded to Deirdre O’Farrell, and the Speaker’s procession began to wind its way towards the doorway.
And there, waiting, was a man with death in his hands.
93
Fazal Mahmoud was trembling as he approached the MacEwan Hall. He had come so far, risked so much, and done such terrible things. He was ready for his moment, but one barrier remained.
Possibly he could complete his mission from where he stood, but with so many people milling around, and at night, his chances of success would be slim.
No, thought Fazal; I must be inside. He checked his watch; it was 9.18 p.m. Inside the building, Al-Saddi had risen to his feet.
Four police officers, in uniform, the quartet who had carried out the body searches, were ranged across the door. Fourmore stood around the three cars parked close to the steps. The motorcycle men waited at the end of the exit road.
Fazal stepped towards the Hall. He wore clear spectacles. He was dressed in jeans and a bulky parka, partly zipped over an open-necked check shirt with a white tee-shirt showing at the throat. His hands were deep in the pockets of the parka, and he was slightly hunched over as he walked. Back home in Syria, he had been trained to adopt a body posture which made him seem not just of no significance, but almost invisible in a crowd. Tonight, however, there was no crowd — only a few people making their way through the cold January night, most of them bound for or coming from the Royal Infirmary.
Not looking at the police officers, as they stamped their feet on the paving slabs to stimulate the circulation, he drifted towards the steps. If no opportunity to enter arose, he would linger there, insignificant, until a chance came.
But just as he drew near, the policeman closest to him, a red-faced, leavily-built sergeant in uniform, turned towards him. ‘Evening, sir. Can we just stop there a minute.’
Fazal’s hand slipped through the slit in the pocket of the Parka, and found the grip of his Uzi.
94
Someone else was watching the Hall, pressed in the dark shadow of the building. And he was watching Fazal Mahmoud as he sized up the situation and decided on his gamble.
The girl still squirmed in his grasp, trying to bite the hand clampe over her mouth. She had been walking through George Square, a student on her way home from the library, when he had grabbed her in the dark spot between two street lights, pulling her round the corner into the shadow.
It was his strong left hand which was clamped over her mouth, the forearm crushing her breast as he held her with her back towards him. His right arm encircled hers, the hand trapping her left wrist and holdin her completely immobile.
He watched the unfolding drama of the Hall, the police and Fazal Mahmoud.
Suddenly he moved. His right hand left her wrist, and in a single powerful move, ripped her blouse open. Then, a blurred second later, a knife was in the same hand. She felt it slash through the waistband of her skirt. For a second, the left arm relaxed, and she spun out of the man’s grasp, her skirt falling loose round her ankles.
She gathered her breath and screamed, a second before the knife cut her chin. Involuntarily, her arms flew up, and the knife slashed again, across her exposed belly. She screamed again, louder this time. She stumbled back, screaming a third time, and waiting for the next blow of the knife.
It never came. The man was gone, melted away into the darkness. As the girl screamed yet again, feeling the warm blood running down her neck, her chest and her legs, ten uniformed police officers, two in motor cycle gear, sprinted towards her.
95
As the police sergeant turned towards him, and he grasped his gun, Fazal knew what he must now do. He must take this man down quickly, rush into the Hall, and complete his mission before the other police could react.
Then he would throw the gun down — to be hailed, when the full story broke, as the saviour of the free world.
His hand moved to withdraw the gun as the bluff sergeant moved toward him. ‘I’m sorry, ma mannie, but you can’t go in … ’
The rest of the sentence went unsaid — and the sergeant lived to see his wife again — as the screaming began. The big policeman turned away from Fazal and rushed off after his colleagues towards the source of the disturbance.
Fazal Mahmoud slipped quickly and quietly up the steps and into the Hall. A few seconds later, a second figure turned towards the building from Teviot Place, and followed him inside.
96
The procession had almost reached the end of the passageway when Fazal appeared. Deirdre O’Farrell had stepped to one side, to allow her guests to leave, as the burr of the Uzi sounded from the doorway, masking a hoarse cry in Arabic.
In a second, the air was ablaze with gunfire. Fazal’s burst of fire was slightly high at first. One of the first bullets caught David McKnight in the head. The million-pound footballer was dead before he hit the ground.
Mario McGuire’s gun was already drawn as he leapt in front of the Syrian President. Two bullets caught him high in the chest, throwing him backwards in a spray of blood.
Al-Saddi, Fazal and the third man were hit simultaneously.
A red hole, slightly bigger than a caste mark, appeared suddenly in the middle of the President’s forehead. The black-and-white headdress was tossed wildly by the bullet, as it cleaved its exit.
Fazal jerked around as the returning gunfire concentrated on him, Mackie and Martin each emptying their magazines into the human marionette.
The third man did not even get off a round before Skinner shot him dead with two bullets through the heart.