Skinner's Rules

by Quintin Jardine

  Skinner looked Maitland straight in the eye and smiled. He forced his body to relax, ready for any half-chance.

  ‘Still, you timed it perfectly. Deserved to be on TV.’ He amazed himself by laughing.

  ‘But it will never be shown, will it. Not if that’s what I think it is, lying on the table.’

  Maitland took his left hand from the gun and pointed at the cartridge

  ‘Thanks, Skinner. You’ve saved me a tricky job by bringing that along. Now do one more thing for me. Take your pistol from its holster, incredibly carefully, and put it on the table too.’

  Skinner shrugged his shoulders — and regretted it as he saw Maitland’s eyes narrow and his finger tense on the trigger of his gun.

  ‘Why should I? You’ll kill me anyway.’

  ‘But not yet, old boy, not yet. And people will do anything, you know, for just one more minute of life.’ His voice hardened. ‘So, do that for me. Now.’

  Slowly and carefully, Skinner opened his jacket with his left hand. Using his right thumb and index finger, he withdrew the gun from the holster and placed it gently on the coffee table. As he did so, he kept direct eye-contact with Maitland and, with an imperceptible movement, flicked off the safety catch.

  ‘So what now? Do you shoot me or do I have an accident?’

  ‘I’ll shoot you if I have to. I suppose I will at some point; you’re that type of chap. But whatever happens, you and your lady doctor will have a terrible accident. In her car. I’ll make sure there’s plenty of petrol around. You’ll both be burned to cinders.’

  Skinner knew that he must hold the man’s respect. He must put fear out of his own mind - in particular, fear for Sarah. That had let him down earlier. He searched in Maitland’s eyes for uncertainty, looking for any sign of weakness, but finding none.

  ‘You know, pal, you’re some act. Where the hell did they dig you up from?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Skinner.’ Maitland bowed his head very slightly. ‘I accept your compliment. Since you’re going to die, I’ll even tell you.

  ‘I came from the Marines to the Special Forces. All my past records have been destroyed, of course. I did my thing in the Falklands, and after that I went on to become something of a cult figure in Ireland. Remember the shoot-to-kill policy? He laughed, lightly. Well, I was it. But I was too efficient, and the politicians took fright. Pity. Anyway, round about 1985, I left the SAS payroll and became a sort of freelance, working on very special projects only, at a very special rate of pay.

  ‘I only insist on a few things. It is understood that once I am given an assignment I will accept no recall orders. Any mess that I make is cleared up after me by other people, people like your chum Fulton. Also, it is written in stone that any colleague who betrays any detail of an operation will end up like silly old Allingham there. Instantly. No appeal. Bang.

  ‘Fulton told me about Skinner’s rules. But it’s amazing what you can achieve when you play to a set of rules like mine. You should try it sometime, my friend.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, you should have tried it! You wouldn’t like to join me in my work, would you? You’d really be very good. Why not let me win you over to the dark side of the force? I work quite a bit on the international scene, you know. I have some very free-spending clients in Colombia, and if I had a partner I could take on more contracts. Of course, your ladyfriend would still have to go, but you and I would do well in business together.’

  Skinner controlled himself with a great effort. He shook his head. ‘No, my son. It wouldn’t work. I was never made to be the sorcerer’s apprentice. I’d want to be the fucking sorcerer. Once I’d picked your brains and learned where your contacts were, you’d have to go.’

  Maitland laughed again. ‘You really are a killer at heart, Skinner, aren’t you. If you hadn’t become a copper, if you’d taken my route, you’d be absolutely terrifying. I’ve got the gun, so I can tell you this. You even scare me a bit, and no one’s ever done that before.’

  Skinner’s response was heavy with irony. ‘Sure, you look really fucking nervous. But tell me this. Why kill all those people? Why so brutal?’

  ‘That was your fault. I researched you, you see. I realised that my cover story for the elimination of Mortimer and Jameson would have to be very special to fool you. By the way, there was never any question but that Mortimer and Jameson had to go. Everyone linked to Mahmoud had to disappear before the assassination. If he hadn’t killed the Harveys, they’d have had a gas explosion.

  ‘Anyway, the Royal Mile Maniac was created in your honour. But I couldn’t just leave it at that. I knew that you would never give up, so I threw in a culprit. Yobatu san was perfect. A samurai freak who regarded it as an honour to be framed! His turning up at the McCann trial was an incredible bonus. When he headed for the same train as Rachel, I decided to take care of her there and then. It’s not that difficult, you know, at the end of a winter day on a crowded platform. No one ever sees anything. My original idea was that she would take an overdose, in her grief.

  ‘The Yobatu cover was perfect. It should have worked. But you’re a cynical fellow. You don’t believe in perfection! That was my only mistake.’

  Skinner laughed out loud. ‘Oh no.’ He saw Maitland’s eyes crease with annoyance for a second. ‘That wasn’t your only mistake. Not by a long shot. You must learn about limbo files, for a start. You must learn to take your gloves off when you open briefcase locks. You must learn never to steal single pages from books.

  ‘You’re good, but you could improve your attention to detail.’ He laughed again.

  This time the anger stayed in Maitland’s eyes. ‘Enjoy it, Skinner. Laughs can turn into screams.

  ‘There’s one other thing I want to know. Tell me and I’ll kill you quick. Hold out, and I’ll shoot you in the balls and let you enjoy that feeling for a while. You shot another Arab in the Hall tonight. I saw you, through the doorway. Who was he, and why was he there with a gun?’

  Skinner gave an unforced smile. He was amazed to find a glow of self-satisfaction spread over him.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. Ever hear of a man called Rashoun Hadid?’

  Maitland’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Yes I thought you would have. Well, I’m guessing some of this from what Allingham told me. When Fazal disappeared, his section head in London told Damascus, and Damascus told Baghdad. They weren’t sure that they had a problem, but the stakes were so big that Hadid decides to play ultra-safe. He knows Mahmoud. They were students together in Edinburgh, when Hadid was called something else. So he slips out of Iraq and comes over here, ready to shadow Al-Saddi, just in case Fazal does have something spectacular in mind.

  ‘And tonight, when Fuzzy appears with your Uzi, there’s Hadid in the audience with his gun out, ready to pop him and get away, no doubt, in the general confusion. Only he was unlucky.

  ‘So, Maitland, it turns out that we have both been playing on the same team. You get Al-Saddi, and I zap the head of Iraqi intelligence, the big chief’s right-hand man.

  ‘There we have it. You’ve done your thing and I’ve done mine. We can bet that, even as we speak, the Stealth bombers will be overflying Baghdad, and the brown-trousered Syrian military will be aborting the Day of Deliverance. The world saved from another fascist threat, thanks to a fascist like you and a dupe like me. So that’s the full story.

  ‘Now let’s stop pissing about! Do you really think I’d have led you out here without lining up my back-up first? Martin and Mackie were both ordered to give you a fifteen-minute start, then to follow you out here. They have keys. Right now, Andy’s probably in the kitchen, and Brian in the hall, just waiting for my shout.

  ‘Shoot me, son, and you don’t leave this house alive. Drop it. We’ll give you a warm room and three square meals a day for the rest of your life. We’ll even let you tear the wings off the occasional pigeon.’

  Now Maitland smiled again. The gun hung by his side now, ready to swing up in an instant. The name of the game was d
eath, and they both knew it.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do you now, old boy. You’d be too danger-us if I took you out there into the dark. And you can’t bluff your way out of it. Your men are like brothers to you. You know the risks, and you wouldn’t expose them.’

  ‘Bollocks! I kept them out night after night in the Royal Mile, chasing your shadow. You’re a lone hand, Maitland. My lads and I are a team, we trust each other, we take risks for each other. You can’t comprehend that, can you?’

  Somewhere, far back in the cool grey eyes, Skinner thought he saw an edge of uncertainty. He edged closer. Time to chance it all, he thought, for me, but most of all for Sarah; if I don’t stop this man now, we’ve both had it.

  He only had one hope, and that was the oldest, the corniest trick in the book. He glanced suddenly towards the kitchen door. ‘Okay, boys, come in now!’

  But Maitland was too good to take the bluff. His eyes never left Skinner. The gun started to come up, slowly. The cold, killing smile spread.

  Bob Skinner had never believed in miracles. His personal creed encompassed only goodness and logic, and left no room for the concept of a higher power. So, when the crash of the loose shelf and its contents — falling off the wall after all those years — sounded from the kitchen, he was almost as surprised as Maitland.

  But he retained sufficient presence of mind to react as soon as the grey eyes swung towards the door.

  His left foot arced up in a kick, more powerful than any he had ever made. His life hung on the race between his strike and Maitland’s gun, as it swung up towards the firing position.

  It was almost a tie. As the outside edge of the heavy black shoe smashed into his elbow, dislocating it and smashing the ball of the joint, Maitland squeezed off a shot. Even as he followed through, and as the silenced Walther flew across the room to crash against the wall, Skinner felt the bullet rip through his right thigh and burst out in a tangle of flesh.

  But when death threatens, pain is a distraction to be ignored. Skinner knew that, even with one arm, this man was lethal. He threw himself to his right, carried by the momentum of his kick. He snatched the Brownin from the coffee table and levelled it at Maitland.

  ‘Stop!’

  Maitland, too, was ignoring his pain. He was halfway across the room, reaching for his lost gun with his left hand, when he heard Skinner’s command, and felt the tangible force of his aim upon him. He stopped in mid-stride, and turned slowly, his right arm hanging smashed by his side, and a look of terrible exultation on his face.

  ‘So, old boy.’ The voice was steel-hard and controlled. ‘It’s stalemate. What do we do now? They won’t let you try me, you know.’

  Skinner looked at the man. His thigh burned as it pumped blood, but his mind was cold as ice. He thought of Mortimer, his head lying on the pathway; he thought of Rachel Jameson, of PC Iain MacVicar, and of the others. And then he thought of Sarah, burned to a crisp in her car.

  ‘No, Maitland, they won’t, will they? This game’s got to be played by your rules — to the very end.

  ‘Rule One: adapt and survive. Goodbye.’

  No fear, only surprise, registered on Maitland’s face as Skinner pulled the trigger. The bullet went through his heart.

  There was no real need for the second shot, but Skinner took no chances. After all, this man was very special. It was wise to ensure that he was very dead. And so as Maitland’s legs buckled and he slumped to his knees, he took careful aim, and fired again, taking him in the SAS death spot, in the middle of the forehead. The body crashed backwards on to the pale green Wilton.

  Skinner stood over the dead pile of flesh and bone that had bee Maitland. He stared at the body, stunned, until the pain in his leg forced itself into his consciousness, pulling him back into the world.

  He threw his gun on to the couch beside Allingham’s sprawled corpse, noting for the first time, that the room smelled foully of shit.

  He yanked his black leather belt from its loops and buckled it around his thigh, above the wound. Then he took the poker from an ornamental fireside set, a wedding present from many years before, and used it to form an efficient tourniquet.

  He hobbled over to the hi-fi stack and picked up the one-piece telephone which lay there in its cradle. Its cord stretched as far as the two-seater couch. He sat down, carefully, holding the tourniquet tight, and patched in Hatch One, his short code for Fettes Avenue. The switchboard took longer than usual to answer, but eventually Skinner heard the friendly businesslike voice of the night-duty operator. ‘Police Headquarters.’

  ‘This is Skinner. Give me the Chief, wherever he is.’

  More than two minutes went by before Proud’s anxious voice echoed down the line. ‘Bob. Where are you? The Foreign Office has made an announcement, and the press are breaking down the doors here looking for more.’

  ‘Give them the minimum. Tell them that there were two assassins, and that they were both killed by police. Tell them about McKnight — if we’re clear with next of kin. But tell them that anything else will have to be channelled through the Foreign Office.’

  ‘I’ll do all that, but you still haven’t told me where you are, or what’s up.’

  ‘No, and I don’t think I’m going to. Just do one more thing for me. You have a contact number for Hughie Fulton. Use it. Tell him to be in my office in one hour. Don’t ask him, Chief. Tell him. Tell him that Skinner said so.’

  ‘All right, Bob. I’ll do that. I’ll see you there too.’

  ‘No!’ Skinner’s sudden yell down the telephone startled Proud. ‘This is between that fat cunt Fulton and me. I know it all now, Jimmy. You must not be involved. Believe me.’

  Proud could hear the pain in Skinner’s voice. ‘Okay, Bob. Do what you have to do. Are you all right, though?’

  ‘Yes, Chief, I’m okay. Now is Sarah still there?’

  ‘No. She finished up and went home about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Chief. For everything.’

  He laid the telephone face-down and loosened the tourniquet. The bleeding had virtually stopped. ‘Good. No arterial damage. And no broken bones, by the feel of it.’ He made a conscious effort to stay matter-of-fact as he examined his wound.

  He then called Sarah.

  ‘Bob. Are you back at your office? All Brian would say was that you had gone off somewhere with Mr Allingham.’

  ‘No, love, I’m in Gullane. There’s no one else here. Listen, Sarah, I’ve had a wee accident. Just a scratch, but I want you to have a look at it for me. I just need a bit of first aid. Meet me in my office in about forty minutes. I’ve got a very important date, and I want to be properly patched up for it. Oh, and bring along a pair of slacks for me, there’s a girl.’

  He hopped and limped through to the bathroom and took a pack of cotton wool, a roll of tape, and a pair of scissors from the cabinet. With the scissors he cut through the right leg of his trousers, exposing the area around the bullet-hole. The entry wound was small and neat. But the area where the bullet had exited was shredded. Each was crusted with dried blood, and the mess at the back of his thigh still leaked a little. He packed each hole with cotton wool, securing it roughly with tape.

  He eased his way back to the living room, and through to the kitchen. The floor was a mess of shattered crockery, from the collapse of the life-saving shelf. He smiled through the pain. ‘Thank God I’m not a DIY freak.’

  Leaning on any available support, he hauled himself back into the living room. He picked up his Browning and returned it to its holster. He thought of taking Maitland’s Walther, but left it lying on the floor. Instead he picked up the video cartridge and replaced it in the pocket from which he had taken it a lifetime earlier. He turned off the gas fire and started towards the door — before remembering the tape-deck. The cassette had run out. He removed it, slipped it into an inside pocket of his jacket, and left the house in darkness.

  There were no lights in any of the surrounding houses. The double glazing pr
ovided an efficient sound-insulator, and no one had heard the shots.

  He eased himself behind the wheel of the Sierra, and found that he could work the pedals without too much pain, and without having to put weight on the wound.

  He had not gone far when he was hit by a sudden, desperate need to speak to Alex. Luckily, the car had a phone.

  Alex sounded wide-awake when she came on line, her voice echoing on the car speaker.

  ‘Hi, Pops. Why the hell are you calling at this time of night? I’m just in. Jenny and I were up at the Rusty Pelican.’

  ‘You haven’t heard any news then?’

  ‘No. Why?’ Alarm sounded in her voice.

  ‘Don’t get them in a twist. There’s been an incident tonight, and some people have been shot. But I’m fine, and so’s Andy.’

  She was unconvinced. ‘You don’t sound fine.’

  ‘Well I am. Now listen, are you coming through tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well don’t go to Gullane. We won’t be there. Come to Stockbridge. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, Pops.’ She began to ask what the big mystery was, anyway, but thought better of it. ‘Now, if you promise me that you’re really fine, I’ll get some sleep.’

  ‘Promise. Love you. Night.’

  As he ended the call, he thought, suddenly, that he had been within half a second of never hearing that voice, or Sarah‘s, ever again. He felt hysteria lurking within him. To keep it at bay, he smiled savagely in the dark and fixed his thoughts on Hughie Fulton.

  100

  The drive, normally thirty minutes, took fifty. Skinner drove at a steady pace, keeping the pain in his leg to a minimum.

  The wound was still leaking blood when he reached Headquarters Mackie’s overcoat lay in the back of the Sierra. He threw it on, and walked, as evenly as he could manage, into the lift.