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 death, 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
‘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
