Skinner's rules

59

Skinner was still in his office when his secure line rang at 6.35 p.m. He picked up the receiver and quoted the number, listening cautiously for the voice at the other end of the line.

‘Bob? Aye, it’s me. I’ve got that info you’re after. The only thing is that the Lebanese don’t publish a separate list of the people in the Syrian interest section. That’s because they’re all Syrians with Lebanese passports and they don’t want to single them out for special attention from the security services, or from the Israelis. So what I’ve got for you are the names of all the Embassy staff. If your man’s on it, you’ll spot him … assuming that he’s using his real name, that is.’

The voice on the other end of the line read out a list of names slowly and deliberately, although he knew that Skinner would be waiting for one name rather than noting them all down.

‘Fazal Mahmoud, cultural attaché,’ came towards the end. Skinner made no sound of recognition, allowing the caller to complete the list. ‘That’s it. Whoever this lad is, he must be a bit dodgy to be taking up the time of an Assistant Chief Constable, not to mention using up his favour bank!’

Skinner spoke for the first time since picking up the telephone. ‘Don’t worry, Robbie, I’ll make it up. That’s been helpful.’

‘In that case,’ said the voice on the line, ‘I’ve got a bonus for you. Some of the Walworth Road researchers have contacts that are better informed than your secret police down there. The guy who gave me that list told me that the Embassy’s a bit tense these days, because one of their blokes has disappeared. Diplomats vanish off the face of the earth from time to time, but usually it’s because they’ve upset someone at home. Not this time apparently. One of the alleged Lebanese is missing without trace, and without his diplomatic passport, and no one in the Embassy has a clue where he is.’

‘Which one?’ Skinner’s heart pounded as he waited for the answer.

‘Fazal Mahmoud, the cultural attaché.’

Skinner did not respond in any way. When he spoke again it was to change the subject.

‘Robbie, one more thing. Would you throw the name Ali Tarfaz at your Middle-East watchers, particularly any of them whose student days cover the late seventies and into the eighties, in Edinburgh. Nationality Iraqi. There’s one other thing I can tell you about him, although just for fun, I’d like you to keep it to yourself.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s dead.’