Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  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.’

  As Sir Sidney sat down, the audience, ringed around the participants in the debate rose in applause. Skinner looked across at Al-Saddi. He was impassive; only in the tightness of the mouth was there a hint of anger.

  The exchanges boomed back and forth across the Chamber, not sustaining the weight of the opening salvos, but nevertheless holding the audience and maintaining a fine air of tension.

  The case against the motion was summed up by Herbie Clay, a Los Angeles Jew who was one of the world’s leading comedians. He performed out of type. For once, no one rolled in the aisles when he spoke.

  ‘Madam Speaker, my parents left Europe for America because they had a simple choice. It was either to leave their homeland or be murdered by a regime which is not dissimilar in outlook to that of the gentleman opposite. Madam, I am sorry that I cannot keep to your Parliamentary tradition by using the word ’honourable’ to describe him.

  ‘Millions of my cousins, my brethren, did not have the chance which my parents had. They did not escape. They died. The State of Israel was founded by the survivors of the genocide. Others returning to lands from which they had been expelled by force, determined not to be driven out again.

  ‘Like my Right Honourable Friend, I sympathise with the people of Palestine. I hope they find a home, and soon. But not in my back yard. What about Syria, Mr President? At the rate at which your people have been disappearing since you came to power, you must have room for them Or what about Lebanon? If you don’t actually own it, at least you hold the lease, and at a peppercorn rent too. Why not sub-let a piece to the Palestinians?

  ‘Madam Speaker, as my Right Honourable Friend has said, the Palestinian homeland is not the real issue here. What we are discussing tonight is, as it always is, the existence of the State of Israel. And when the gentleman opposite rises to speak, I am sure that will become all too clear. Well, Madam Speaker, let those who threaten us never forget their mistakes of 1948, of 1967, of 1973, and of 1991, when the world stood by us. Next time the cost of such a foolish misjudgement might be much higher.’

  For a second after Clay resumed his seat the audience sat silent, stunned by his unexpected grim eloquence. Then they burst into an ovation which continued until Deirdre O’Farrell called for order.

  Finally, President Hassan Al-Saddi was invited to sum up for the motion. He stood up, bowed stiffly to the Chair, and at once his presence filled the room.

  ‘Madam Speaker, I am a blunt man. I do not have the glib tongue of these ladies and gentlemen opposite, who have dismissed the plight of my Palestinian brothers with their fine words. But I have come here tonight to listen to the bluster and threats of these Jews, and to face their insults, as a sign to the world that we people of the front line Arab states, whatever difficulties might arise between our individual nations, are no longer afraid, and that we have recovered our pride.

  ‘For too long, my predecessors in office have paid lip service to the plight of the brave Palestinian people. We have given them our support and little else. When they have become a nuisance in one place, like Lebanon, like Jordan, they have been moved on, like a herd of cattle. We have always put our own interests over theirs. I say that of Syria, my own nation. And, as I say it, I am ashamed of the rulers who went before me.

  ‘But now I say to the people of Palestine, have hope, for Al-Saddi is with you, and Syria is with you, to the death. And my brother in Iraq, whose cause I recognise tonight and to whom I pledge myself in Holy Alliance, although beset and under siege by the world, he joins me in this promise. Together we will win back for the Palestinian people that which was theirs. We have the right on our side. We know this, and we will defend our cause in any court in the world. Morally it is just. Legally it is sound. The finest lawyers have told us that this is so.’

  Suddenly Al-Saddi brandished in the air a thick sheaf of papers, bound together at the top with an India tag. The hair at the back of Skinner’s neck began to tingle. Opposite, he saw Martin stiffen in his seat. Neither had to be told what those papers were.

  ‘Tonight, with the law at my back and in my hand, I put the Israelis on notice. This is the last chance that they will be given to return to the people of Palestine the land that was stolen from them.

  ‘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 found
ed 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.

  As the procession was nearing the doorway, Skinner’s eye had scanned the crowd. Suddenly it had focused hard when a dark-skinned, unshaven man had jumped out of his seat, his hand probing inside his leather jacket. Even as Fazal appeared, shouting and firing, the man had pulled out a pistol and brought it up to a marksman’s firing position.

  In the second when Skinner pulled the trigger of his Browning, the realisation came to him: he’s aiming at the doorway, not at Al-Saddi!’

  But he was already committed. The man went down.

  As the firing ceased, the hysterical screams throughout the Hall turned to frightened whimpers. Many of the audience, instinctively, had dived for the floor at the very first shots. Now as the firing stopped, and the re
ek of cordite filled the air, they began to stand up, staring in shock at the figures sprawled in the passageway by the door.

  Bodies littered the floor: some still and bleeding, others simply crouche in terror.

  Skinner, moving towards the doorway with his pistol still at the ready, called out to his men one by one.

  ‘Mackie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘McGuire.’

  Silence.

  ‘Martin.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He looked quickly at the body in the doorway. It was still twitchin slightly, as its dying brain sent out random, pointless messages. Skinner kicked the Uzi into a comer, and turned back towards the aisle.

  The three victims lay in a row. McKnight was first, his body twisted on its side. McGuire lay behind him, but McGuire was still moving. Blood bubbled from his chest, the sure sign of a lung shot.

  ‘Andy.’ Skinner barked the order. ‘Ambulances, quick. Everything they’ve got!’ But Martin was already speaking urgently into his radio.

  Skinner stepped across to McGuire and crouched beside him. He inspected the wounds, then put a hand on his shoulder. The man’s expression begged for reassurance. Skinner spoke to him with more confidence than he felt.

  ‘It’s okay, son, just take it easy. The Royal’s right next door. You’ve copped a good one, but you’ll be all right. They’ll have you fixed up i no time.’

  He moved beyond, to Al-Saddi. The President was now a closed chapter in history. His eyes were open, but they had no lustre; none of the cold, hard anger which had shone from them only a few minutes before The headdress had fallen away, the head was tilted slightly backwards, and a thin line of blood traced from the bullet wound into the receding hairline, eventually running into a spreading puddle on the floor.

  Skinner became aware of a thin, soft wail alongside him. Looking over his shoulder he saw the tiny Syrian equerry on his knees, keening over his leader’s corpse.