‘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 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.
