Skinner's rules

63

As Martin and the former Joy Granger were recalling their previous close encounter, the secure telephone rang once again in Skinner’s office.

‘Hello, Bob. About that supplementary question you asked me. It was a cracker.

‘I threw that name at all the Arab watchers, and one of them all but shit himself. It seems that your man Ali Tarfaz is very heavy duty indeed; only you’re right, he is dead.

‘The way the story goes, Ali Tarfaz was an intelligence operative. He was planted in the UK as a student around 1980 and did well for himself. He was moved on to West Germany, and then to Brussels. Then, the story goes, in 1987 a few middle-ranking soldiers hatched a plot to overthrow the government. It failed. Saddam, as you might expect, was not best pleased. Not a nice man when annoyed. The plotters were all strung up on poles and left to rot. The intelligence community, which was said to have been in on it, was heavily purged. And among those shot was one Ali Tarfaz.

‘Now this is where the story becomes legend. After the blood had been mopped up, Saddam appointed a sort of supremo, with powers of command over the military, and over all intelligence operations, everywhere. That man’s name was Rashoun Hadid. He was never, ever photographed, or seen by foreigners.

‘Naturally the Israelis developed a great interest in Hadid. Mossad lost two men just trying to take his picture, never mind kill him. But eventually, after, it’s said, a wee bit of torture of a captured Iraqi spy that they’re not keen to admit, they came out with a story. According to Mossad, the man who informed on the 1987 plot was your pal Ali Tarfaz. Far from being given a bullet as a reward, he was given a new identity, and the job of Intelligence supremo. The guy who was shown on television facing the firing squad was an obscure so-called political detainee called Rashoun Hadid, whose crime was that he had been caught fucking a general’s wife.

‘So it the Israelis are to be believed, and they usually are, your boy Ali Tarfaz has done very well for himself. Impressed?’

‘By him or by you?’

‘Both. But there’s a postscript. The Israelis track this boy’s movements all the time, looking for a clear shot at him. Well just recently, they were forced to admit that they had lost track. They don’t know where he is, but they believe that he’s either out of the country, or out of the picture. They reckon that he’s either had a bust-up with his boss and been liquidated for real this time, or he’s away on some very serious business. Either way, the Israelis would love to know, so if you’ve come across him under his old name, you could win yourself a whole barrowload of Brownie points.’

‘You can forget that, Robbie. I don’t know where he is. The name came up in an enquiry into events past, that’s all. And if I did know where he was the Israelis would be the last people I would tell. I’m here to stop murders, not to set them up.’

‘You’re not wrong there, Bob. If the Israelis find this guy, he’s dead. And probably if other people find him too.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as the CIA. They’d love to take out the big guy in Iraq. If they could pot his right-hand man, it’d be the next best thing. Remember the supergun. Your pal Ali was right in the middle of that business. He’s supposed to have signed the purchase orders for the parts, using different names, but the same pen and ink.

‘Maybe the project is still active. Maybe he’s away trying to buy more steel pipes!’

‘If he’s trying to buy steel tubes, he’s not in Scotland! Look, thanks Robbie; your pals have been very helpful. Tell them that if I find Rashoun Ali Tarfaz Hadid, I’ll kick his arse and send him home!’