It will demonstrate that the Jewish tribes had no prior right to the territories which they were allocated in 1948, and that the so-called ancient Jewish homeland was never more than territory seized by force by bands of nomads and held, for a time, against the will of its native occupants.
It will demonstrate that Israel exists as a state today only by force of arms and oppression, and that there is no basis in law for its occupancy of any territory, not just the occupied territories in Gaza, on the West Bank and in Jerusalem, on the Golan Heights, and in Lebanon, but of any of the lands which it now controls, when this is set against the justifiable claims of the descendants of the people who were the original indigenous occupants of the land known as Palestine.
This opinion will be followed by notes on differences in the methods of presentation required for the presentation of the case to the United Nations General Assembly and Security Council, the International Court of Justice in the Hague, and the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg.
Warmth was beginning to return to the room from the log-effect gas fire set in the fine, high, marble-topped fireplace. Skinner took off his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, as he and Martin settled down for a long read.
Long before it was over, their eyes were smarting from the strain of the screen. Martin removed his contact lens and put on his spectacles. They were mesmerised by the detail which was spread out before them. Each had a policeman’s grasp of the law, and could follow the complex arguments.
Through them all, there emerged with clarity, a powerful case for the eviction of the Israelis from the government and domination of the land they now called home, and for the right of settlement and enfranchisement to be extended to all Palestinians as well as to all Jews, leading to free elections in time.
The conclusion of the document was that since the Israelis had followed a systematic policy of oppression of the Palestinian population, and since it was clear that they would never grant this right of free settlement, or amend their constitution, the just solution of the Palestinian problem, on the basis of the precedent established in 1948, could be enforced by the nations in the region, acting in concert.
After three hours they finished reading. The documents, in total, were over three hundred pages long.
When they had finished, Skinner leaned back in his chair. His face was drawn. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered to Martin, ‘this is dynamite!’
He looked at the dot matrix printer. It had a tractor feed for loading fan-fold paper. He looked around the room, and found eventually, under the desk, a deep box of computer paper. It was almost full.
Clumsily he fed the first sheet into the machine. He pressed the key marked ‘Printer’ and found a new menu. He set the printer to run on continuous stationery.
It took almost five hours to run the full series of documents. Throughout that time, Skinner sat by the printer like a father-to-be in the labour ward. It had been dark for two hours by the time the print-run came to an end.
They looked at it in wonder. Could this be the Holy Grail? Could this really have cost all those lives? It was, at the end of the day, no more than an excellent piece of research, and a seemingly sound, if controversial, legal view, which any one or two among hundreds of advocates in Scotland, and thousands beyond, might have prepared. Yet, it seemed, it could kill. It had killed. It was still killing.
In a desk drawer Martin found some brightly-coloured Christmas wrapping paper. Neatly he packaged the discovery. Skinner withdrew the disk from the drive and slipped it, with the system disk, into his pocket.
They left the flat ostensibly as they had found it, but in fact relieved of an awesome secret.
83
It was 7.00 p.m. A hard rain drummed against the window of Skinner’s office.
‘Either Mortimer hid the files himself, or whoever broke into the flat thought that he had wiped them out. Whichever it was, this is the link. That’s what the twenty grand was for.’
‘It answers that question,’ said Skinner, ‘but it throws up others. Just for a start, why them?’
‘Probably because Fuzzy knew that Rachel was loyal to the cause. Mortimer gets involved because he was loyal to Rachel.’
‘Some machine, this Fuzzy. He comes back into the lives of Rachel and the Harveys after all these years, and he uses them. Now they’re dead, and it looks as if he may have killed them all.’
Martin broke in. ‘But why kill anyone over this. It’s a good piece of work, but other people could do this research and reach the same conclusion. It’s been written for use, not to be kept secret, so why kill the authors?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not convinced that friend Fuzzy did that anyway. But they are dead, and they sure were killed. Maybe the Israelis found out and decided to clean out the whole house. Maybe Fuzzy’s on the run from them.
‘No, my guess is that this is only part of something very big indeed. When we find Fuzzy we might find out what it is.’
84
But finding Fuzzy was easier to order than to achieve, with no photo to aid identification, and only Marjorie Porteous’s thirteen-year-old description to go on. ‘Slim, quiet, good-looking chap. Brown skin, dark hair, dark moustache. That’s all I can remember.’
The hotels yielded nothing. The few bed-and-breakfast houses open for business in January reported only sales reps as overnight guests.
‘Check them again, and every day from now till Friday,’ Martin ordered.
Skinner briefed the team on Tuesday morning on the discovery in Mortimer’s files.
Mackie looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘I should have found that.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Skinner dismissively. ‘You’re a copper not a computer man.’
To keep the team active, Martin sent them out to make their second round of checks in person, rather than by telephone. ‘Remember that cover story. We’re trying to trace him because of trouble at home.’
After the four had left, Skinner picked up his jacket, and motioned to Martin to follow.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re going to the airport to meet a man. We wear these so he’ll recognise us.’ He pinned a small gold lion badge into his lapel, and handed one to Martin, who fastened it to his tie. The lions were sometimes used by Special Branch and protection officers to indicate to each other that the wearer was armed.
The visitor approached them quietly as they stood at the bookstall opposite the British Midland arrival point.
‘Mr Skinner, Mr Martin? I’m Maitland.’ He spoke in flat clipped tones, with no trace of a regional accent.
The man stood just over six feet tall. He might have been around thirty years old. He was clean-shaven, and his dark hair was close-cropped. His eyes were blue, as clear as a bell, and he wore the fading tan of someone recently returned from a spell in a seriously hot place. He wore a well-tailored, double-breasted suit of navy-blue worsted, with a thin vertical stripe.
He did not give the impression of physical power, but when the two policemen shook his hand they found a grip like a vice. His carriage was his most impressive feature. He walked out of the terminal building, between Skinner and Martin, with lightness, grace and perfect balance, as if his feet were hardly touching the ground.
Maitland had introduced himself in a confidential fax to Skinner as the commander of the Special Air Services detachment which had been assigned to provide cover for the Syrian President during his visit. He had not mentioned his rank, but Skinner knew that in the SAS, that was not important.
Martin drove to the Norton House, where the three were met by the manager, an immaculate man named Adrian Doyle. Skinner described Maitland as ‘a security adviser who will be here during the visit’. Doyle, who had previous experience of VIPs, asked no questions.
He guided them round the hotel. In the first-floor suite which had been set aside for the Syrian President, Maitland made a careful check of the angles of view through the double window as
they related to the position of the main items of furniture. He opened a window and checked for drainpipes or other climbing aids, and found nothing. Leaning further out, he surveyed the roof above. He confirmed that there were no points of access to the en suite bathroom, other than the door from the bedroom.
Eventually he turned to the expectant Doyle. ‘It looks secure, but I’d like you to move the bed to that wall. We legislate for everything, even the sort of fanatic who will empty a magazine through a curtained window if he can’t find a better opportunity. At the moment the bed is in the line of fire from those trees over there.’
Doyle smiled. ‘There will be no difficulty about that.’ He took them back to the entrance hall and left them to explore the hotel grounds alone.
The grass and trees were wet from the previous night’s rain, but Maitland was prepared. He produced a nylon coverall from his bag in Skinner’s car, discarding his jacket before slipping it on. His black leather shoes were replaced by trainers.
‘No need to come with me, gentlemen. All I’ll be doing is checking the terrain, and identifying all the possible firing points.’ the disappeared into the woods.
When he emerged silently behind Skinner and Martin fifteen minutes later, the coverall was dripping wet.
‘You’ve made a very good choice,’ he said, as he stepped out of the garment. ‘I will have twenty men here. With that number, I could keep a fly out of this place.
‘When are the technical people installing the listening devices and cameras?’
‘Thursday,’ Martin replied.
‘Good. I’ll advise them on siting the video cameras. My men arrive on Thursday too. I’d like to do a rehearsal of the whole operation that evening, including the Hall. Can we check that out now?’
Their visit to the MacEwan Hall was quickly concluded. Henry Wills was there to greet Maitland, but he left as soon as the welcome was over, with what Martin read as a tiny shudder of distaste for the man and his business.
The SAS leader checked the outside of the building for entry points. Then he inspected all the doorways leading into the Hall itself.
‘Piece of cake. You clear the building a few hours in advance and the specialists do the bomb search. No admission until an hour before the kick-off. Everyone entering is frisked, and all bags are searched. But no metal detectors.’
Martin was surprised. ‘Why not?’
‘This is a student audience. They’ll be wearing all sorts of odds and ends. Big belt buckles, bracelets, all sorts of stuff that would set the alarms ringing. We’d never get them all in in time.
‘You put four good people here doing thorough body and bag searches. If anyone tries to smuggle a gun in they’ll find it.
‘My unit will cover this place easily. We’ll cover all entrances to the building, and doorways to the Hall itself. None of the students will know we’re there. Even you won’t notice us.’
They drove Maitland to Redford Barracks, on Edinburgh’s southern outskirts, where he and his men were to be billeted. As Maitland jogged the few yards from the car into the long imposing building, Skinner looked after him for several seconds.
‘That, Andy, is probably one of the most dangerous men you will ever meet.’
Suddenly Martin was aware of his own lack of experience. He began to understand the reason for Henry Wills’s quick exit.
85
Skinner was packing his briefcase when his door opened. He looked up, surprised, as the bulky figure of Hugh Fulton came into the room.
‘Well, Bob, having a good week?’ The big man’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Skinner was needled into responding in kind. ‘I didn’t think you could find your way into a police office any more. What can I do for you?’
Fulton’s tone softened. ‘You can listen to me. I’m worried about you. Look, man, there are times when singlemindedness and dedication can be bad for you. You certainly didn’t do the Harveys a lot of good, did you?’
Skinner’s face was impassive.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Andrew and Joy Harvey, the couple who were shot dead in Fife on Sunday. You had them under observation. Your people were spotted and the Harveys were popped. Fife CID are, as they say in the tabloids, baffled. But we’re not, are we?
‘Bob, when I asked you to drop it, I had my reasons. You ignored me. Now two more people are dead. I’m asking you again. Let it go. Please.’
Skinner looked the man in the eye. ‘You know a hell of a lot about this case, don’t you? The name Fuzzy doesn’t mean anything to you by any chance?’ Fulton looked puzzled, until he added, ‘I’ll bet that Fazal Mahmoud strikes a chord, though.’
Colour flooded into the other man’s face.
Skinner continued: ‘Is this guy radio-active or something? I have reason to believe that he might be responsible for eight murders, and you tell me to lay off him. I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’
Fulton’s voice was soft. ‘Fazal Mahmoud didn’t kill anyone, Bob, until your people in Fife got too close.’
Skinner walked around his desk to stand in Fulton’s face, setting him on his heels with the power in his eyes and the anger in his voice. ‘Are you telling me you know who did kill those people?’
‘No, man, I’m not saying that.’
‘Well, Hughie boy, you seem to know everything else. If you don’t know who, you know why. And you know why Fuzzy’s running around out there, ready to kill to avoid being traced. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t hold you here until you tell me.’
Fulton laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. You can’t touch me. All the same, I will give you a reason. Fife CID have five sets of prints, one in the laundry room, the other four all through the house. They’re looking for three people, not one — no Bill Howey didn’t tell you that, did he — and you and I know that two of them are members of your force.
‘Of course they don’t know that. They think they’re looking for a couple who left behind a set of crumpled sheets in Room 211 of the local hotel, paid cash and checked out next morning, just before the Harveys were killed. He signed the register as Mr Robert Martin, by the way. Very inventive.
‘Your halo isn’t shiny any more, Bob. Skinner’s Rules are being bent all over the place. You’re even concealing information about a murder from a fellow officer. Give this one up before you ruin your career, and more.’
Skinner’s anger had abated, but his eyes, and his voice were still rock hard. ‘Hughie, I’m not interested in your threats, or your plots. As far as I’m concerned, you can play spy-versus-spy for the rest of your fucking life.
‘I’ll give up when you give me the man who cut off Mike Mortimer’s head — no, Hughie, don’t cringe; that’s what he did — and shoved Rachel Jameson under a train. The guy who was prepared to kill three people at random, just to put us off the trail. You may or may not know who he is, but I’m damn sure you know what he is, and where his orders come from. Give him to me!’
Desperation shone from Fulton’s eyes. And to his surprise, Skinner saw real fear there too. ‘I can’t do that Bob. There’s a big game going on here, and you can’t imagine the stakes.’
‘Then get the fuck out of my office. And don’t you ever threaten me again, Hughie. Not if you like being able to walk upright!’
86
Maitland’s SAS detachment arrived at Redford Barracks in two closed army trucks just after the Thursday morning rush hour from Colinton had subsided, and the last of the Mercedes, Rovers and BMWs had left for the city centre.
They unloaded their equipment, showered, and changed into civilian clothes before assembling in a briefing room where Maitland, Allingham, Skinner, Martin and the four members of their team were waiting. Allingham told them, for the first time, the reason for their sudden posting to Edinburgh.
Maitland pulled across a Sasco flip chart and threw back its covering sheet to display a diagram showing the area surrounding the Norton House Hotel. He explained the lay-out an
d identified key points on which the detail would be concentrating. A second diagram showed a floor-plan of the area where the President’s suite was located. He described the locations represented by each of the plans.
Next, he displayed a vertical section of the MacEwan Hall. The points of access to the building and to the debating hall itself were all labelled.
‘This is the easy part,’ said Maitland. ‘We will be in civilian clothes on this one, gentlemen. Each of the external entry points will be guarded by one man. There will be four of you inside the Hall, each with a clear line of fire covering the whole room. Mr Skinner, Chief Inspector Martin, and their colleagues Inspector Mackie and Detective Constable McGuire will be around the President, and they will be armed. You will take action only if you are convinced that they are unaware of a potentially lethal threat, or if they are not in a position to prevent an attack. Each of you will wear a gold lion badge when you enter the Hall. The police officers on search duty will recognise this and will neglect to frisk you ...
‘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.
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