Skinner's rules

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.