Ravi walked back into the room and instructed Shakira to pack and be prepared to leave.
“But we only just arrived,” she said. “Aren’t you tired? You haven’t been to bed for two days.”
“I am tired. But we are both on a mission for our people.”
“I know that. But where are we going?”
“ Scotland,” he replied.
“Where’s that?” asked Shakira.
“About four hundred miles north of here. It’s the top part of England.”
“Why are we going there?”
“Because Emily Gallagher just told me that’s where Admiral Morgan is headed, and we don’t have one single other clue about his whereabouts.”
“But Scotland ’s a whole country, right? With towns and everything?”
“It sure is. And we don’t have any idea which part he’s visiting.”
“Well, where do we start?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is we either go there and try to find him, or go home-wherever that is.”
“But how do we get to Scotland?”
“Drive. Airports are out of bounds for us.”
“How about a train?”
“Same. And anyway we’ll need a car, and I don’t want to risk renting again. In case it slipped your mind, darling Shakira, I am wanted in the British Isles for two murders.”
Arnold and Kathy sat on the banks of the Thames in the warm embrace of the Leatherne Bottel and its staff. The admiral had ordered dinner for 8:30, and now he and Kathy were sipping a superb white Burgundy, a 2004 Corton-Charlemagne made by the maestro, Franck Grux, for Olivier Leflaive Frères. This bottle is widely regarded as one of the longest-lived, most delicious wines in the world.
Arnold considered it perfect for the first evening of their vacation, the best kind of soothing elixir to steady the nerves after someone has just made a bold attempt to blow your head off.
The Thames is wide along this reach, and the occasional boat chugs by on its way down to the lock at Goring. Ducks meander along the riverbank, and the views are always wondrous with the changing light of a summer evening.
Kathy had rarely seen the admiral in a more mellow mood, and she decided to mention the strictest taboo in their lives.
“Jimmy was right, wasn’t he?” she said.
The admiral sipped luxuriously. “Yes,” he replied. “Jimmy was right. Clever little sonofabitch.” Even in defeat, Arnold still needed to take one last swing.
“What about his whole thought process-you know, the girl in Brockhurst, the murder in Ireland, the submarine? Do you think they were all correct, all connected?”
“Of course they were,” the admiral harrumphed. “Every one of ’em. His conclusions were too quick, but the outcome was correct.” At which point, he took another good solid gulp of Corton-Charlemagne and added, “Beginner’s luck, in a way.”
“ Arnold!”
“Well, he’s never worked on a case like that before. Half civilian, half military. And he’d solved it before it started.”
“Very clever,” said Kathy.
“Very goddamned fluky,” said the admiral. “He didn’t have anything like the evidence you need to leap to wild conclusions like that.”
“Do you think he might be a genius?”
“Probably,” growled Arnold. “But just remember, I invented the little sonofabitch. But for me, he’d still be working in the mailroom.”
“There are times, Arnold, when you are a disgrace. Jimmy is the son of an admiral and a very senior diplomat. He came to the NSA as a highly recommended intelligence lieutenant. And he’s one of the youngest lieutenant commanders in the history of the United States Navy. He did not graduate from the mailroom.”
“I meant that metaphorically, of course,” said Arnold, adding, pompously for him, “I have always been wary of precocity.”
“Jesus!” said Kathy. “You’re the most precocious person I ever met. And I bet you always were.”
Arnold laughed. “All right, all right. Jimmy out-thought me. I’m too old; I’ve lost my edge. This is Socrates and Plato all over again. The pupil overtakes the master.”
“Oh, don’t be too hard on yourself, darling,” she replied. “What I really want to know is, do you think the London assassin might try again?”
“Well, he won’t know where we are any longer, will he? Your mom told Carla about the Ritz, and that’s where he showed up. Even we aren’t certain where we’re going to be in the next few days. So I doubt he’ll ever locate us in time to take another shot.”
“ Arnold? Are you sure we shouldn’t head home, right now?”
“Not ’til we’ve finished dinner,” he chuckled. “Remember, no one has the slightest idea where we are and where we’re going. Not even you.”
The admiral signaled for James to take the white Burgundy in, to the table, and to serve him a glass of the 1998 Château de Carles, which had been opened an hour previously. This particular deep red Bordeaux, made on the right bank of the Gironde River, has a pedigree dating back to the eighth century when Emperor Charlemagne camped in the area.
Château de Carles itself dates back to the fifteenth century, and all that history, plus the distant presence of the great warrior Charlemagne, tipped the balance for Arnold, away from his favorite Château Lynch-Bages to the earthy black fruit aromas of the wine from Fronsac.
“Always remember, my boy,” he said to James. “Ninety-eight. St. Emilion and Pomerol, right bank of the river. That’s where they made the top vintage.”
“I did know that, sir. But I’ve never really known why.”
“Because it rained like hell on the left bank,” snapped the admiral.
“Really? Well, how wide’s the river, sir?”
“About a hundred times wider than the one outside the front door,” chuckled Arnold, as he led the way to the table, hugely looking forward to the forthcoming house specialty of honey-glazed duck with pickled plum.
At 10 P.M., British television announced details of the fatal shooting that had taken place on the front steps of the Ritz Hotel that morning. They named the dead man as George Kallan, an American national employed by the U.S. embassy in London and believed to be on the staff of the U.S. admiral Arnold Morgan, who was staying at the hotel. There had been no arrests, and, as yet, there were no suspects. The shot was believed to have been fired from a building on the opposite side of Piccadilly.
From the newscast, it was plain that the police had been very reticent about the nature of the crime. Scotland Yard did not have a representative supplying any extra information, and it was almost impossible for journalists to speculate, given the paucity of information.
Behind the scenes, however, there was pandemonium. Scotland Yard called in MI-5 and MI-6. The long-anticipated attempt on Admiral Morgan’s life had indeed happened. The attack, which had been flagged by the FBI, the CIA, and even the National Security Agency, had been carried out by persons almost certainly connected with the Middle Eastern Jihad against the West.
One way or another, one of the Holy Warriors had tracked down the admiral, the first time he had left the United States in six months. According to all known intelligence, gathered internationally in the last few weeks, the culprit was General Ravi Rashood, the former SAS major, who appeared to be on the loose somewhere in Great Britain. Right now, he was wanted for the murders of Jerry O’Connell and George Kallan.
The news reached Jimmy Ramshawe at 5 P.M. (local) at Fort Meade. It came in the form of a private signal from one of his buddies in the CIA: Jim, someone tried to assassinate Admiral Arnold Morgan at the front door of the Ritz Hotel in London today. The bullet missed, but hit one of the admiral’s bodyguards, George Kallan, killed him instantly.
Lt. Commander Ramshawe went white. He felt no sense of triumph, no feeling of exoneration for all the grief he had been given by the admiral. He actually felt scared, for Arnold and for Kathy. This represented all his dreads. And it was not the stray rifle shot across Piccadilly that bothered him. It was the fact that this organization, to which General Rashood belonged, had very obviously decided the time had come to eliminate the Big Man.
They had, Jimmy was certain, gone to the most enormous amount of trouble and expense to mount this operation, and it had plainly gone wrong. He, Jimmy, had been on to them from the start, and in his opinion they were not the kind of guys to quit. They would regroup and start again, searching for the man who had been their bête noire for so long.
He touched base with the CIA’s London desk, and they informed him that the admiral and Kathy were quite safe and in hiding somewhere west of London, under heavy CIA and police protection. There were two Flying Squad cars on permanent station outside the small hotel where the Morgans were staying. That was a total of seven armed British officers. There was Arnold ’s regular Secret Service detail, and an armed boat from the London River Police was on its way up through the locks and expected to arrive before midnight. If Hamas, or whoever, was planning to try again, this would not be an ideal time.
Nonetheless, Jimmy was extremely worried. Despite all the warnings and alerts received by the security authorities, this character Rashood had slipped through the net and had actually managed to park himself in a building opposite the admiral’s hotel and open fire on him the first time Arnie set foot outside the door. And then get away!
This was no ordinary assassin, Jimmy decided. This was a top-of-the-line professional, Rashood, the former SAS commander, a man once headed for the very top in Britain’s most elite branch of Special Forces.
If Admiral Morgan was to be protected, he would need at his side a man of comparable talents, not some half-trained London bobby. And Jimmy did not know what to do about that. He called Admiral Morris, his boss, who told him to come along to the director’s office immediately. George had not yet heard the news.
And when Jimmy arrived, Morris listened wide-eyed while his assistant recounted the events in London earlier that day.
“Sir,” said Jimmy, “we got to get him a bodyguard. Not a cop, or an agent, a Special Forces guy, someone like an ex-Navy SEAL or a Green Beret. Someone who can shoot, fight, or kill if necessary.”
Admiral Morris nodded sagely, and wondered if it had occurred to Jimmy that such a man might not be allowed to operate with impunity in a foreign country.
“There are such things as laws, Jimmy,” he said. “Particularly in a socialist country like England. And those laws prevent ex-Navy SEALs from opening fire on wandering terrorists, whatever their crimes. The Brits have been neurotic about the human rights of criminals ever since that cream-puff Blair and his lawyer wife smooth-talked their way into 10 Downing Street.”
“Couldn’t we fix something with the Brits?”
“I think that’s very possible, if we can get the president on our side. Arnold obviously needs specialized protection, and the Brits won’t relish getting the blame if anything should happen to him while he’s in their country.”
“Can you talk to President Bedford?”
“Well, not right now. He’s fishing up in Kennebunkport with George Bush. But he’s coming back in the morning. I’ll catch him then.”
“Okay, sir. Let’s assume something can be arranged. You want me to talk to John Bergstrom, see if he can suggest anyone?”
“Good idea, Jimmy. We don’t want anything to happen to our guy, right? Let’s start things moving right away.”
Jimmy returned to his office, checked his watch-2:30 P.M. in California -and punched in the numbers for SPECWARCOM in Coronado, San Diego. It took the assistant to the director of the National Security Agency approximately three minutes to be put through to Vice Admiral John Bergstrom, who was in the final weeks of his tenure as head of Special War Command.
He and Lt. Commander Ramshawe had met previously and shared in common a profound admiration for Admiral Morgan. It took Jimmy only two or three minutes to outline the events in London that morning, and the potential danger to Arnold, for the king SEAL to offer his undivided attention.
Finally Jimmy came to the point. Both he and Admiral George Morris were convinced that Arnold now required a very special bodyguard. Jimmy pointed out the skill and devilish determination of the assassin who everyone now assessed as the C-in-C of Hamas in person.
“He’s a highly trained SAS commander, Admiral,” said Jimmy. “And the truth is, he’s been a couple of jumps in front of us ever since we first suspected there was a Middle Eastern agent who’d been tracking down Kathy’s mom.”
“Did he actually get inside a building opposite the Ritz Hotel and then open fire on Arnold?” asked Admiral Bergstrom.
“He sure did,” said Jimmy. “We’re working with the London police to try to identify and then locate him. But I’m highly unhopeful.”
“You mean this bastard is still on the loose?”
“Correct. And, so far, the best we’ve been able to do is surround Arnie with a group of London bobbies. And that’s not anything like good enough. Not with a trained Special Forces assassin like this guy on his trail.”
“What do you need, Jimmy?”
“Ideally I’d like one of your top guys. Maybe a recently retired SEAL. Someone who’s fit, hard-trained, and savvy, a guy who’s worked in the hot-spots, who knows what to watch for, who can spot danger before it arrives.”
“Uh-huh,” said the admiral. “We got guys like that. But let me ask you one thing-will the Brits allow us to move in an armed warrior to protect one of our own?”
“Admiral Morris says yes. Mainly because they will not want to get the blame if anything happens to the Big Man.”
“Who’s asking them? That’s important.”
“George says President Bedford will do it.”
“That’s good, because if he asks, they’ll say yes. It’s one of those perfect situations. You ask for that kind of favor, and they say no, then you’ve got ’em by the ears, because if something goes wrong it’s obviously their fault. I should think they’d be delighted to hand Arnie’s security over to us.”
“Then,” said Jimmy, “if it all goes wrong, it’s totally our fault, right?”
“You got it. Trouble is, I’m real stretched at the minute. We got guys all over the place, Iraq, Iran, Burma, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain. And you want a top guy, like a full SEAL commander. And we don’t have that many. But I do have a guy in mind.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’m considering our old friend Commander Rick Hunter. And I’m considering him for several reasons, the first and main one being he’s probably the best we ever had. Secondly, he is a great fan of Arnold Morgan’s. And thirdly, he’s retired and could easily take the time.”
“Has he stayed fit?”
“Hell, yes. He has a private gym at his home, and he runs around that darned great farm of his every day.”
“Is that SEAL-fit, combat-fit?”
“That’s Hunter-fit, which is almost certainly better.”
“Where does he live?”
“ Kentucky.”
“Oh, yes; I remember now. His family runs a thoroughbred horse-breeding farm, right?”
“That’s him. And quite honestly, I don’t think his wife-Diana-would allow him to go into combat again. But this is not combat, is it? He’s just got to go with the admiral and make sure no one tries to kill him. It’s nothing like the danger level he’s used to.”
“Who should ask him, sir? You, I hope.”
“You, I’m afraid,” said the admiral. “I asked him once before to undertake a special mission, and he got shot in the thigh. I think Diana might hang up on me if I called.”
Jimmy laughed. “Well, I can’t just phone him and suggest that he load his machine gun, can I?”
“Certainly not. You need to go and see him, and you’ll find it harder getting Diana to agree. She’s very protective and senses, but does not know, just how important a warrior her husband is.”
“Sir, will you call him and tell him I’m on my way to see him, and I should be treated with consideration?”
“Not me. But I’ll send him an E-mail and tell him he should at least see you.”
“Tomorrow, sir. This is urgent. None of us wants Arnie to get killed.”
“You got it, Jimmy. I’ll send it now. By the way, Rick’s address is Hunter Valley Farms, Lexington, Kentucky. Better get out there.”
President Bedford already had an E-mail requesting that he speak to Admiral Morris at the National Security Agency at 9:45. Even presidents tend to hop to it when Crypto City comes calling. Because Crypto City does not usually bother the president unless it’s a five-alarmer.
When the admiral came on the direct line, Paul Bedford was both polite and extremely curious. When George Morris began to explain the situation and the clear and present danger to Arnold, Bedford was appalled.
“We have to bring him home,” he said. “These people are killers. And we cannot mount proper security in another country-not even with our friends in Great Britain.”
“That’s half the trouble, sir,” replied George. “We’ve been trying to curtail this trip for several weeks. He won’t give it up. And he always says the same thing, about giving in to the goddamned terrorists. You know what he’s like.”
“But surely he feels differently now, with George Kallan being murdered.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. You see, Arnold hardly knew George. Met him for the first time at Dulles Airport and never really spoke to him again. George was not on his regular Secret Service detail. This was his first assignment with Arnold.”
“Yes, but what about bringing him home, the funeral and everything?”
“According to Al, his chief bodyguard who’s spoken to Lt. Commander Ramshawe, the admiral said the one place in all the world he would never go would be to Kallan’s funeral. He thinks that’s where the killer is most likely to strike again.”
“Where’s Kallan from?”
“ Peru, Indiana.”
“Birthplace of Cole Porter,” replied the president.
“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, that’s a truly remarkable piece of information. I thought he was from Long Island, New York.”
“So do most people,” said the president, grinning down the phone. “Guess that’s why I’m… er… sitting in this chair, et cetera, et cetera.”
Admiral Morris laughed. He really liked Paul Bedford. “Anyway, sir, the purpose of my call is to request your help in protecting Arnold from further attempts on his life. We’re trying to recruit a Navy SEAL, a combat veteran, to fly to England and take up position beside Arnold at all times.”
The president instantly approved of that. “Great idea, George. We got John Bergstrom on the case?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll get the best man we can. But he’s got to be armed, and able to shoot if necessary. That’s probably against the law in England, and we need you to get special permission for our man to be permitted to do everything in his power to protect Arnold.”
“No problem,” said the president. “I’ll call the British PM right away. He’ll fix it at the highest level, not because he wants to, but because it’ll take the heat off them if anything else happens.”
“My assessment precisely, sir. But we are in a bit of a hurry-could you help get our man there in the fastest possible time?”
“Let me know when he can leave. I’ll take care of it.”
The U.S. Navy’s Lockheed Airies came swiftly in over Bourbon County, high above some of the most renowned racehorse farms in the world. Blue Grass Field was out on the west of the town, and the Navy pilot, who had made it in just over seventy-five minutes from Andrews Air Force Base, could see the runway up ahead.
He banked around to the south of Lexington, flared out, and landed the Airies immaculately in Kentucky. There was one passenger only in the aircraft, and the navigator walked back to let him out.
The uniformed Lt. Commander Ramshawe thanked him and climbed down the steps to a waiting farm truck, which had the words HUNTER VALLEY inscribed on the door, above a picture of a mare and foal. Jimmy Ramshawe had no luggage, and the truck driver just held the door open and let him in.
He introduced himself as Olin and revealed that he worked in the coverin’ barn all winter and spring, then took care of the farm vehicles all summer and autumn.
“Is Hunter Valley a big place?” asked Jimmy.
“Hell, yes,” said Olin. “Hundreds of acres. Around seventy mares and foals in residence. A lot of ’em born here.”
“That’s a big operation, right? Does Mr. Hunter run the whole thing himself?”
“Well, he’s the boss. But a lot of the staff here worked for his father. That makes a big difference. The department heads know as much about the place as he does. But Mr. Rick is the main man. And he’s got his daddy’s touch with a breeding stallion.”
Lt. Commander Ramshawe was not exactly certain what that last part meant. But it sounded important, and for a moment it crossed his mind that Commander Hunter might be altogether too busy to save Arnold ’s life. However, he understood that, somehow, breeding racehorses was a seasonal business; and he asked if August was a busy time of the year.
“Not really. Thoroughbred stallions cover mares between February and July at the very latest,” he said. “Their foals gotta be born in the new year, up through May. No one wants what we call a June foal.”
“How long are the mares pregnant for?” asked Jimmy.
“Eleven months. And that means we don’t really want them going in foal too late.”
“Why don’t people want a June foal?” said Jimmy.
“Well, all racehorses have their birthday on January 1. On that day, any foal born two years previously becomes two. They are young and immature, still growing; but the horse who was born in January really is two, where the one born in June is only nineteen months. And that makes a difference when they get on the track. The older ones are stronger and bigger, and usually faster. No June foals, sir. No June foals.”
“So there’s no action in August. The stallions are resting.”
“Correct, sir. We have the usual anxiety about mares in foal. But it’s not like the spring, when everyone’s giving birth. And the stallions are working day and night. And the staff are often up all night.”
“Including Mr. Hunter?”
“Oh, sure. He’s a real hands-on kind of guy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Olin drove the truck through big stone gates, in front of which was a two-ton rock with HUNTER VALLEY carved smoothly on its surface. The drive was long, lined with lime trees and carefully trimmed grass.
At the end was another pair of stone pillars, set to the left. And beyond there was the main house, standing back across a wide lawn. There were Doric columns on either side of the front door, and to the left was a three-acre paddock in which there were three mares, two of them with foals at foot.
Diana Hunter saw the truck arrive and came out to meet the naval officer from Fort Meade. She was dressed in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a white shirt, and her accent was English. She was a great-looking horsewoman, slender, with swept-back blonde hair, light blue eyes.
“Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe?” she said. “Hello, I’m Diana, Rick’s wife. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Come on in and have some coffee.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said Jimmy. “This is a very beautiful place you have here. Olin’s been trying to educate me about racehorses.”
“He’ll be pretty good at that,” she laughed. “His family’s been in the business for five generations, like mine. He’s our head stallion man-and he’s the great-great-grandson of the man who looked after Black Toney.”
“Black Tony!” exclaimed Jimmy. “We had a Black Tony back home in Australia.”
“Was he a thoroughbred?”
“Not likely. He was a bank robber.”
Diana Hunter laughed, already taking to the intelligence officer who sounded like the Man from Snowy River. “Out here, Black Toney was a great Kentucky stallion,” she said. “Sired two winners of the Kentucky Derby in the 1920s and ’30s. Probably not as interesting as your Black Tony.”
“Probably not,” agreed Jimmy, earnestly. “Our Black Tony was Tony McGarry, knocked over the Sydney National Bank for a million dollars and shot four cashiers dead. They hanged him about sixty years ago. He was no relation.”
Diana Hunter laughed loudly this time. “I didn’t think he was,” she said. “Your name’s not McGarry.”
“No, but my grandma’s was. I forgot to mention that.”
Just then, Commander Rick Hunter came in. “Okay, you guys,” he grinned, “what’s so funny? I could do with a joke.”
“Oh, nothing,” said his wife. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe just thought Black Toney was a bank robber who was hanged for murder.”
Rick Hunter walked over with his right hand outstretched. “Hi,” he said. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe? Admiral Bergstrom refused to tell me what you wanted, so I’ll get a cup of this coffee and you can fill me in.”
The ex-Navy SEAL commander stood a little over six feet, five inches tall. He was built like a stud bull, carried not one ounce of fat, and looked as if he could pick up a thoroughbred stallion with his bare hands.
Jimmy Ramshawe knew all about him, having checked out the commander’s biography on the Navy networks. Rick had served on SEAL teams all over the world- Burma, Iran, Russia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Argentina. He’d been in sole command six times, fought, been wounded, and always come out on top. He would have received the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor but for a sudden and premature retirement from the Navy after his best friend and colleague was unjustly brought before a court-martial six years previously.
There were still very senior officers in the United States Navy who would have moved mountains to get Rick back into the SEALs. But he was a rather unusual member of the armed forces. His family was long-established Bluegrass horse breeders, and the young Rick Hunter had wanted more excitement in his life than waiting months on end for thoroughbred mares to produce expensive foals.
However, when the Navy disgraced Commander Dan Headley by finding him guilty of mutiny, despite overpowering mitigating evidence, Rick never felt the same. He resigned with his buddy, and the two of them retired to Kentucky to run the farm. Both of them were married within two years, Rick to one of the daughters of the revered Jarvis horse-training family in Newmarket, England. It was a dazzling match. Diana’s younger brother was a major in Great Britain ’s SAS.
And now the towering former SEAL stood before Lt. Commander Ramshawe, wondering what on earth the National Security Agency could want from him. Jimmy took a sip of coffee. Diana motioned for everyone to sit down and made it perfectly clear that she was not going anywhere at this particular moment.
“Rick,” said Jimmy, “you are, I believe, acquainted with the president’s closest friend, Admiral Arnold Morgan?”
Commander Hunter nodded.
“Well,” said Jimmy, “he is in England right now, and for some weeks we have been concerned there would be an attempt on his life. And then yesterday morning, outside the Ritz Hotel in London, someone tried to kill him. It was a high-powered rifle shot to the head, and it killed one of his bodyguards instead of him. But it was close.”
“Was the shot from street level?” asked the ex-SEAL team leader.
Jimmy shook his head. “So far as we can tell, the killer fired from high up, from a building on the other side of the street.”
And from there Jimmy took the story through from the beginning, from the barmaid-agent in Brockhurst, to the submarine, the subsequent murder of the Irish farmer who got in the way, and finally the sighting of the Hamas chief, in the ferry terminal in Holyhead, with the barmaid.
“Jesus,” replied Rick, “that does not sound in any way good. Because you’re not dealing with some nutcase, you’re dealing with a professional operation from the Middle East. If they can knock down the Towers, I guess they can knock down Arnold.”
“Not if we can help it,” said Jimmy. “And it has now been agreed that we will call in either a U.S. Navy SEAL, or a Green Beret, or a Ranger, to stand personal guard over the admiral. Obviously we want a real combat veteran, preferably a man who has fought with our Special Forces not only in a remote and rural environment, but also in an urban theater.”
Rick got it. And he raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you’re here? To ask me to rejoin the Navy and fly to Europe to protect Arnold Morgan?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Out of the question,” said Diana.
“I guess you heard the lady,” added Rick. “I couldn’t possibly do that. I have vast responsibilities here, I couldn’t just up and leave.”
“Not even for two or three weeks?” said Jimmy. “I know August is your least busy month. Now the covering season is over.”
“How can a man who thinks Black Toney is a bank robber possibly know that?” asked Diana, smiling.
“Olin told me,” said Jimmy, simply. “But I don’t think I have explained very well how important this is. As you doubtless know, Admiral Morgan is closer to the president than anyone else in the country except for his wife. Paul Bedford relies on Arnold for all advice on global problems and threats to the United States.
“He is well acquainted with the grave danger this General Rashood poses. And he immediately suggested that Admiral John Bergstrom be brought into the equation. You are Admiral Bergstrom’s choice. And by now the president knows full well, and approves, that you should be the chosen man.”
“Hmmmm,” said Rick, his mind racing. “Under no circumstances can I undertake this, but no one likes to personally turn down the President of the United States.”
“Rick, this thing is going higher than even I know. President Bedford is speaking to the British prime minister today, requesting special permission for an armed American bodyguard to have free choice in the matter of Arnold ’s safety… to legally open fire if necessary.”
“Guess the guy’ll need that,” said Rick. “These things are always split-second. You spot something and act instantly. If you don’t, the target’s dead.”
“And of course,” said Jimmy, smoothly, “you would not be the target.”
“Neither,” said Diana, sweetly, “was this George Kallan. But he’s still dead.”
“Rick, if you were to accept this assignment, you would look back in years to come. And you won’t remember the inconvenience. Only the honor of being chosen by the U.S. president to carry out a mission that close to his heart.
“Right now, you are hearing it from this lowly lieutenant commander from the National Security Agency. If I go back and say you’ve refused, you’ll be in the Oval Office tomorrow, trust me.”
“Well, even the president can’t force us to agree, can he?” said Diana.
But Rick added, “He probably couldn’t force you, Diana. But you’re not an American, and sometimes I think you don’t quite understand what that office means to all of us. Especially if you’ve served in the military.”
And Rick turned to Jimmy and said, “I have to admit, I would find it very difficult to tell the President of the United States that I would not answer his call to protect his closest friend, who just happens to be one of America ’s finest strategists and greatest patriots.”
Jimmy nodded, unsmiling. “I can’t stress this too much, Rick-the highest powers in this country want you to go to Great Britain, on behalf of the president, and do everything you can to prevent this terrorist from killing Arnold Morgan.”
“It’s so unfair,” interjected Diana. “Rick’s not even in the Navy any more. Why should he have to step in when there are so many young guys who would be honored to go on a mission like that?”
“Mostly because Rick is the best Navy SEAL there’s ever been,” said Jimmy. “At least that’s what the Navy high command thinks. And that’s what the president believes. That’s why I’m here. And you can turn me down. But that won’t be the end of it. The president will want to see you.”
“And what will Rick get out of it, apart from the honor?”
“I’d guess anything he asks for,” replied Jimmy. “But if there was an incident, and he managed to save the admiral, I’d guess you’d be looking at the Congressional Medal of Honor. Since Rick would officially be in the Navy for the three-week length of the mission.”
“You mean the president could deem that Rick was a serving Navy officer and facing an enemy?” asked Diana.
“The president can deem anything he darn well pleases,” said Jimmy. “He’s the commander in chief. No one can argue.”
“Including me,” said Rick. “You are making this very difficult.”
He turned to his wife and added, “I do understand, Diana, that as a civilian you cannot quite tune in to… well… a warrior’s call to the flag. It’s not easy.”
“And it would be even less easy if you managed to get killed,” she retorted.
“Diana, that’s the one thing I’m not too worried about. An assassin usually has to spend a lot of time lining up his position and his shot. The best sniper rifles don’t have automatic loading, which means he only gets one shot, if he intends to escape.
“And the guy involved in this case is not some kid high on opium and happy to commit suicide. At least it doesn’t look that way. From what Jimmy says, this assassination will be carried out by the top commander in Hamas or Hezbollah, a guy we’ve never arrested or even gotten a chance to kill. We know he’s ex-SAS, so he’ll be damn good at his job.
“Jimmy, my biggest hesitation is that I might fail. And then have to live with the blame.”
“Rick, that’s not going to happen. Everyone agrees: if you can’t do it, it can’t be done. There will be no announcements, no one will ever know you were there. This mission is just about as classified as anything can get. You will travel in secret, operate in secret, and return home in secret. If you should fail, no one will ever know.”
“I’ll know,” said Commander Hunter. “And that’s why I can’t allow anything to happen.”
Jimmy, recognizing the superior rank, asked flatly, “Sir, does that mean you’ll except the assignment?”
“Affirmative,” replied the SEAL.
Diana stood up. “I know when I’m beaten,” she smiled. “And I’m comforted by only one thing-this assassin’s not firing at Rick, is he?”
“He won’t have time,” replied Jimmy. “Not if he hopes to get away.”
“When do you guys need me on station?” asked Rick.
“Certainly in the next few days,” said Jimmy. “The trouble is, no one quite knows where Arnold is going. Since he left the White House, he’s been pretty secretive. My boss, Admiral Morris, has spoken to the CIA, and they think he’s going to Scotland.”
“I have met him, you know,” said Rick. “A couple of times. Only briefly, but he’s a damned impressive guy. He was talking to me about the Middle East, and Jesus, he really knows his stuff. In just a few minutes he let me know why he can’t stand Arabs or Russians. Doesn’t trust ’em, any of ’em.”
Jimmy then told Rick that he could expect a call from Admiral Bergstrom, and probably from the president, before he left. “You’ll fly direct to Andrews Air Force Base from here in a Navy jet. And from there you’ll fly private to either Edinburgh or Glasgow, if Arnie’s in Scotland, or RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire, England. All your gear will be preloaded. Do you have a weapon you prefer?”
“I’ll need a short-barreled CAR-15 automatic rifle. I’m used to it, and it’s the best I’ve ever used, probably the best military weapon ever made-fires a.223-caliber cartridge at high velocity. It has a thirty-round magazine. It’s very powerful, hits with enormous force. Just a small bullet, but it would stop a mountain lion dead in its tracks.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, tell ’em I’ll also take a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol. That’s standard issue for SEALs. And let me have a couple of extra fifteen-round magazines. If I’m on duty, I’d feel half-dressed without it.”
Jimmy made a note in his small brown leather book. “I don’t think you’ll take combat clothing, Rick. George Morris told me this morning you’d be operating disguised as a London policeman.”
“Good idea,” said Rick. “It’ll make me a lot less conspicuous.”
“You just need your regular street clothes,” said Jimmy. “Anything else, the Brits will take care of it. They, by the way, are going to be thrilled you’re coming. Because your presence means they don’t have to take the blame for anything.”
Rick chuckled. “You staying for lunch?”
“Not this time. I need to get back.”
“Okay, I’ll whistle up Olin. He’ll take you to the airport.”
“Thanks, Commander. I appreciate that. Sorry to disrupt your life like this.”
“The whole operation sounds like a real challenge. Tell the truth, I’m quite looking forward to it.” The big Navy SEAL was grinning. “And, as you know, August is the least busy month.”
The admiral and Kathy slept late and decided to stay another day at the Leatherne Bottel. And, in the meantime, Ravi and Shakira continued to head north to Scotland.
The general had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend Tuesday night in the Cambridge Sheraton. And they had begun the long drive on Wednesday morning, cutting west across to the A-1 motorway just north of Huntingdon, and then running due north all the way to Yorkshire.
Ravi had decided to make for the more westerly city of Glasgow rather than the Scottish capital, Edinburgh, and that meant leaving the motorways that run up the eastern side of England and driving right across the Pennines, the range of mountains that runs down the backbone of the country.
The Hamas general had made the journey before, and decided to take the spectacular A-66 for fifty-five miles straight over the wild and glorious Yorkshire moors, across Stainmore Forest and into Cumbria.
They arrived in the town of Penrith, the gateway to the Lake District, shortly before 5 P.M. and pulled into the Claymore, a pleasant-looking inn situated in the historic town center.
Shakira, who had been very withdrawn throughout the entire journey, finally elected to engage in conversation, asking why her husband had elected to leave the fast, direct freeways on the east side in favor of a beautiful but time-wasting drive over the mountains.
Ravi, who was tired of her endless silences, explained carefully that Admiral Morgan’s biography had pointed out that he had served in the U.S. submarines in Holy Loch. “The whole area along the Firth of Clyde is full of ex-submariners,” he said. “And there’s a chance that Admiral Morgan might want to visit his old stomping ground. If he’s in the area, there might be a reference in the local paper. He’s a very influential person, former national security adviser to the president. He’s too big a man to get lost entirely.”
“Will you try to kill him again?”
“Certainly,” replied her husband. “That’s why we’re here, and in particular that’s why we switched to the east side of the country, where he’s most likely to be.”
They checked into the Claymore, and Ravi slept for two hours. Shakira went out and bought some magazines, which she came back and read. It was obvious to anyone, at least anyone who was awake, that she was sick and tired of this relentless chase to assassinate the American.
Shakira had a foreboding that it would end in tears. In her opinion, everything had gone wrong, right from the start-the ludicrous Matt Barker, the unlucky Jerry O’Connell, the equally unlucky George Kallan. They were all dead, and in Shakira’s mind she and Ravi would soon be dead if they didn’t call the whole thing off and leave for the Middle East forthwith.
Even Ravi had admitted that the amount of security surrounding the admiral was very intense. But as her determination waned, so Ravi ’s had increased. And Shakira was afraid he might be losing the cold-blooded streak of realism that had always kept him on the straight and narrow, no matter what the mission.
In Shakira’s opinion, this was all connected to that terrible night in Damascus when their house had been flattened by a bomb and she had been so lucky to get out. She’d never really gotten to the bottom of that, but she had asked Ravi, and he had been very vague except to say that he suspected the Israelis, under American guidance. Especially under Arnold Morgan’s guidance.
But it had all taken so long. They had journeyed so far. And now they were off on some wild-goose chase to find the admiral, and they did not even know his address. They did not even know what town he was in, never mind what country. And there was an unreasonable determination about her husband. He was a man possessed. Nothing else mattered to him. Shakira had never seen him like this before.
She sat disconsolately in an armchair in their room at the Claymore. For a while she read Vogue, then she switched to the more gossipy Marie Claire. But she could find nothing of interest in either of them. She walked across the room and picked up a brochure about the town of Penrith and noted there was a castle on the outskirts that had been built in the fourteenth century.
Against all Muslim teaching, she felt like a glass of wine; she phoned down, asking someone to bring up two glasses and to reserve a table for two in the dining room for 7:30 this evening.
Ravi awakened at seven and without a word went into the bathroom to take a shower. He was totally preoccupied and was becoming almost distant. Shakira did not for one moment believe he was losing interest in her, but she was beginning to worry about this obsession that had taken over his life. Because it was an obsession to kill not an opposing force, but one single man whom he had never even met.
Generally speaking, Shakira did not believe this was a healthy situation. And she did not believe commanders of serious military organizations should behave in that way. It seemed both unnatural and unnecessary.
But Ravi maintained a passionate hatred for the American admiral, and when he came out of the bathroom, as if reading her mind, he said, “I’m not giving up, Shakira. If I have to pursue him to the ends of the earth, I will do so.”
Dinner that evening was thus fraught, and the tension between them seemed to grow, as Shakira harbored more and more doubts about this very personal vendetta in which her husband was involved.
Ravi, for his part, was more determined than ever to end the admiral’s life, but he sensed that his wife did not wish to hear any more about it. Shakira wished only to tell her husband yet again that she wanted to call the entire thing off, but did not dare to do so. As silent dinners go, this one was right up there.
They were only around thirty miles short of the Scottish border, but it was another ninety miles to Glasgow, which was their vague destination. The truth was, Ravi did not know where the hell he was going. All he knew was that Great Britain ’s submarine roads were out to the west of Scotland ’s second city, and that was where Admiral Morgan had served as captain of a nuclear boat out of the American base at Holy Loch.
Emily Gallagher had confirmed that her daughter was going to Scotland, but the rest was pure guesswork on Ravi ’s part. His game plan was to check into a hotel in Glasgow, one with access to the Internet, and start searching for any shred of evidence that a former NSA to the American president was expected in the area.
He and Shakira once more drove with hardly a word spoken. They reached the outskirts of Glasgow around noon and moved fast around the city on the freeway. Ravi followed the signs to the city center, crossed the River Clyde, and pulled up outside the Millennium Hotel in George Square, Glasgow ’s focal point.
Ravi had not been here for many years, but he remembered Scotland’s last great shipbuilding city, and he smiled for the first time this week when the receptionist told him there was a large double room which he and Mrs. Barden could have for two nights. And yes, there was a communications room for visiting businessmen who wanted access to the Internet. There were four desktop Apple Macintosh computers in there, and it was open twenty-four hours.
Ravi and Shakira checked in, and immediately his mood began to lighten. He took Shakira down to the hotel’s conservatory, which looks out onto the square, and ordered coffee and chicken sandwiches for lunch.
He apologized for his melancholy demeanor and tried to explain that he had taken a sacred oath, among his peers in the Hamas High Command, that he would rid the Jihad of its most sinister enemy. For him, it would be the most terrible loss of face to fail. And there was no turning back. He must assassinate the admiral or die in the attempt.
“But what about me?” asked Shakira, plaintively. “I won’t let you die alone. But I still don’t understand why this cannot be like any other military operation. You try, you fail, then you retreat, regroup, and perhaps someone else takes over as leader. Great victories are sometimes won at the second or third try. It does not have to be all or nothing, every time.”
“This one does, Shakira. This one is to the death.”
“Do you have any real hope of finding him here? This Glasgow is a very big place.”
“I know,” said Ravi. “It’s a kind of surprise after driving all through that amazing lonely country-the Yorkshire moors, then the Lake District, then the border country, and suddenly there’s this giant metropolis right on the banks of the Clyde.”
“And those freeways, it was like being back in London.”
“A long time ago,” said Ravi, “ Glasgow was described as the Second City of Empire. After London, that is. And there were a lot of cities in the British Empire. Half the bloody world. It was a very important place.”
“You still haven’t told me what happens to me if you manage to get yourself killed. What am I supposed to do? Where could I go?”
Ravi was once more silent. “You are right in your thoughts. There would be nowhere else for you to go. Because they’d hunt you down and charge you with the murder of Matt Barker. Plus God knows how many other crimes. Shakira, I am pretty hard to kill, and I’m not even considering that possibility. But if we have to die, we die together, like Holy Warriors.”
“Well, I’m sick of this dying business,” she replied. “I’m sick of blowing things up and hating everyone. I’ve been in the West for a long time now, and I can’t think of any reasons why we should go around trying to kill people. I’ve liked nearly everyone I’ve met. I’m not even sure this Admiral Morgan is all that bad.”
Despite the seriousness of Shakira’s mindset, Ravi laughed. He had another bite of his chicken sandwich, principally to give himself time to think up a reply, and then he said, “Sometimes there is a far bigger picture than the little corner we occupy.”
“I’m not in a picture,” she said. “I’m right here in Glasgow eating chicken sandwiches, and I don’t want you to go off and blow this admiral’s head apart with your special bullets, and then get shot by the police. That’s all.”
“Ssssshhhh!” he hissed. “Someone will hear you.”
“And I don’t want to go around being told to ssshhhh for the rest of my life. Why can’t we go back to Ireland? I liked it there. And we could live peacefully, miles away from all this terrorist stuff.”
“Because I’m wanted for murder in County Cork,” replied Ravi. “And there would never be any peace for us. We have just one choice. I have to complete my mission, and then we go back to Gaza or Damascus where we will be protected. We must live in an Arab country, because that’s where we will be looked after for the rest of our lives.”
Shakira made no reply for a full minute. And then she said, “I just have a bad feeling about this mission. And I have not experienced anything like it before. The Americans must know that a Middle Eastern group tried to kill the admiral. And if he stays here, they will have extra security all over the place.
“I think our task will be harder now than it’s ever been. And those Americans will be armed with machine guns. And we know they can shoot straight. I think we should call the whole thing off and Hamas can try again next year. Let someone else take the risk.”
Ravi gazed at her sternly. “Shakira,” he said, “this one is to the death.”
“Even though you might be committing suicide? I mean, how the hell do you think we’ll get away? All those assassins in the past were caught. I read the other day, they got the man who shot President Lincoln, they got that Oswald guy who shot JFK. President Reagan and John Lennon were both shot, and the police got both gunmen. Same with Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy.”
“Hey,” said Ravi, “how come you know so much about assassinations?”
“I read a magazine article about them in the hotel last night. I’ve been saving the knowledge to hit you with it. All those men who pulled the trigger on famous people were caught and tried in a court of law.”
“They didn’t catch me,” replied Ravi. “I walked away scot-free. And I’m still walking.”
“Well, you might be a bit cleverer, that’s all,” she replied. “But your luck may not hold out forever.”
“I assure you,” said Ravi, momentarily stunned by his wife’s insolence, “luck had absolutely nothing to do with it. I walked away because I planned it better.”
“I accept that,” said Shakira, retreating. “But I just wish we could give it up and try to get on with our lives. We’ve both done enough in the cause of Islam. No one could deny that.”
“I can only repeat what I said before. I have too much to lose in terms of reputation, and in case you had forgotten, I am still an English national, and that will always cast a shadow over me among some Muslims. There would be suspicions about my commitment. You make me say it again. This one is to the death.”
They finished their lunch, and Shakira went up to their room. Ravi kissed her and said he treasured her above all else, and then he walked into the communications room.
He sat in front of one of the computers and, after a quick Google search, connected to the Web site of Glasgow ’s excellent newspaper The Herald. And there he typed the words Admiral Arnold Morgan, waiting patiently while a search was carried out for any mention of the American during the past few weeks. In the end there was nothing.
He tried Web sites for the submarine service, for Holy Loch, the old U.S. base. And for Royal Navy reunions. All in the vain hope that somewhere, somehow, Admiral Morgan’s name would pop up. It didn’t. But then Ravi decided there needed to be a change of tack, since he was working on the pure assumption that Arnold was returning to his old stomping ground in the west, around the Clyde estuary.
But perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he was coming to Scotland for entirely different reasons. Maybe Glasgow was a waste of time. Perhaps Admiral Morgan was going to the capital city, Edinburgh. And perhaps it would be better to search through Scotland ’s other national newspaper, The Scotsman, which was based in Edinburgh.
Ravi switched Web sites and tapped in the name Admiral Arnold Morgan and waited. Nothing came up. He decided to scroll through some recent editions and see if he could find some inspiration. His luck turned with last Monday’s newspaper, which had an entire page on the forthcoming Edinburgh International Festival, an annual August event, to which 500,000 people were expected.
The chairman of the Festival was someone called Lady MacLean, married to a retired Royal Navy admiral, Sir Iain MacLean. Her name was Annie, and there was a substantial interview with her about the wide-ranging aspects of the Festival, the films, the plays, the ballet, the chorale, and finally the Military Tattoo, which began on Saturday.
Lady MacLean had revealed a list of high dignitaries who would sit in the Royal Box at Edinburgh Castle and take the salute. The fourth one down, in extremely small type, was Admiral Arnold Morgan, U.S. Navy (ret.).
The reporter who compiled the page must have been struck by the unusual nature of a U.S. admiral showing up for this very British event. And he had plainly pressed her on the subject. Lady MacLean had rewarded his persistence by explaining that this former presidential staff member was a very old friend of her husband’s, and would be staying with them at their home in Inveraray before attending the Festival. Both Sir Iain and Admiral Morgan had commanded nuclear submarines.
Each night, a different person takes the salute at the Tattoo, and Admiral Morgan would have the honor on Tuesday, August 7. Ravi could hardly believe his luck. He felt so relieved, he did not even take into consideration that Admiral Morgan, during his tenure on the Castle Esplanade, would be surrounded by heavy personal security plus half the British Army.
His initial thought was to attempt to shoot Arnold Morgan while he was at the house in Inveraray. If that proved impossible, he would have another chance at the Tattoo. Five minutes ago, he had had no chances whatsoever, and now he had two. Ravi sensed that his luck had turned around.
He made two short notes in his leather book and then took the elevator to the sixth floor, where Shakira was asleep. He woke her gently and told her that he was attending afternoon prayers at the Central Mosque of Glasgow, which stands on four acres right by the river. He did not tell his wife, but he was feeling in urgent need of spiritual reinforcement, so cutting had her words been earlier in the day.
The flat brand of logic that was Shakira’s specialty had, in a sense, gotten to him. Because there was of course much truth in her argument. Why should he and this beautiful Palestinian girl continue to risk their lives, or at best face life imprisonment, when no one else seemed to be doing anything?
He needed encouragement, and although Muslims do not communicate directly with God-not even the ayatollahs do that- Ravi usually felt an affinity with Allah inside the mosque, and, as the Chosen One, he lived in hope that one day he would hear the voice of the Great One.
He was not losing his new faith. But he was most certainly questioning it. And that was something no one could help. Ravi knew, above all else, that he needed to stand alongside the Prophet Mohammed in order to carry out His work on the planet Earth. The Muslim dream of a vast kingdom stretching from the Horn of Africa to Morocco was well within the grasp of the oil-rich sheiks of the Middle East. But only if men like himself, General Rashood, could pave the way by eliminating the more troublesome warriors of the West.
Just to hear the mullah call the faithful to prayer, to sense those rhythms of the ancient desert religion. That was his need, his requirement, here in this strange Scottish city where he was struggling to regain an impassioned belief in his God, the same belief that forced him every day to turn to the east, toward the holy shrine of Mecca in Saudi Arabia, and prostrate himself before Allah.
Ravi took a cab to the Mosque, which turned out to be a hugely impressive building, bigger than the Regents Park Mosque in London, with a massive, geometric steel-and-glass dome and a separate minaret. When Ravi heard the call of the mullah, he once again felt the old familiar lure of the desert.
This was a call to the faithful, and now he was back among that vast throng of faithful Islamists. He belonged there with these people, many of whom wore Arab dress. And he joined them in removing his shoes, and he walked inside to the great hall of prayer, and once more he prostrated himself before his God, and the recent words of Shakira faded away into the darkness of the unbelievers.
When he returned to the hotel, Shakira was awake and changed for the evening, and he explained that he was taking a long drive out to the small town of Inveraray, which stands at the top of Loch Fyne, a 55-mile journey from Glasgow.
He did not wish her to join him, and he hoped to be back by 10 P.M. Shakira accepted the news with equanimity and said she would have dinner by herself. She seemed, once more, both distant and disinterested. But she noticed that he did take his briefcase with him when he left, and distractedly wondered if she would ever see him again.
Arnold and Kathy were finally ready to leave the Leatherne Bottel. The Royal Air Force helicopter was once more down in the parking lot, rotors spinning, luggage loaded. There were two police cars stationed top and bottom of the entrance drive, which winds down a steep hill. Two CIA hard men were positioned either side of the entrance door to the helo, and two other guards, Al Thompson and a new man from the U.S. embassy in London, were outside the restaurant’s main entrance, ready to walk close quarters across the terrace with the admiral and his wife.
With everyone on board, strapped in, doors locked, the pilot took off, rising and backing at the same time, until the screaming military aircraft was stationary over the middle of the River Thames. At which point it tilted forward and rocketed upstream, gaining height, rising up to a thousand feet, before it clattered over the thirteenth-century bridge that guards the ancient town of Wallingford.
The pilot headed north, leaving Oxford to his port side, then Birmingham, then Leicester, Nottingham, and York. At this point he changed to a slightly more westerly course, across north Yorkshire, before coming in to land at RAF Leeming for his refuel. The first two hundred miles of the journey had taken a little over an hour.
The ground crew was awaiting the helicopter’s arrival, and they were on their way again after twenty minutes, flying high, directly over the A-66 where Ravi and Shakira had driven the previous day.
They flew right across the north Yorkshire moors, and then over Durham and Northumberland, before crossing the Scottish border just east of the city of Carlisle. Their route to the estuary of the Clyde took them almost identically over the route Ravi and Shakira had taken into Glasgow.
They left Loch Lomond to starboard and flew across the Forest of Argyll, coming out of the east to Loch Fyne, where, under guidance from Arnold Morgan, the pilot swept across the water and put down on the wide flat lawn of a beautiful white Georgian house on the west bank of the loch.
Standing there to meet them was the still-commanding figure of Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, now almost seventy years old. He was accompanied by three rambunctious black Labradors who all charged into the water to meet the helicopter, and then charged straight back out again when the pilot elected to come down on dry land.
Barking and shaking water all over everyone, they hurled themselves at their old friend Arnold Morgan, who greeted them like lost brothers, roughing them up the way Labradors expect to be treated. The American admiral introduced his staff to Sir Iain, and the helicopter’s loadmaster helped with the luggage.
In moments, the helicopter was gone, flying back south, trying to make it before dark. It was exactly 5:30. Fifty-five miles away, Ravi Rashood was just driving away from the Millennium Hotel in Glasgow, heading for Inveraray with his briefcase.
Sir Iain hugged Kathy and shook hands with Arnold. They were all old friends, and the tall Scotsman was delighted to see them both. But as they walked up the lawn, Arnold could see three Navy staff cars and two police cruisers from the Argyll force.
“The chaps have been telling me about that trouble in London,” he said. “I read about it, of course, and I guessed it might have been connected with you. Although no one seemed very sure. I had the distinct impression that the police were not releasing any information they could reasonably keep secret.”
“That’s about right, Iain,” said Arnold. “They never caught the killer, of course. He was up and out of there before they realized George Kallan had been shot. It was a very professional operation.”
“A bit too professional for my taste,” said Kathy. “ Arnold could have been killed. Those Middle Eastern hitmen are damned dangerous, don’t you think?”
“Most certainly they are,” replied the Scotsman. “But you have enough security here to keep you very safe. The police chief, chap standing over there, told me they plan to surround you until you leave.”
Arnold laughed. And Kathy added, “Of course, he flatly refused to go home. And we had a message from the president this morning that he’s sending a Special Forces team leader, ex-Navy SEAL, to take personal charge of the situation. He’s arriving on Air Force One, if you can believe it. Tomorrow morning. Just one passenger.”
By this time, they had reached the house, and the American bodyguards dispersed to make their arrangements. The Navy had taken rooms in the local hotel in Inveraray and provided cars for them to drive to and from the house. Sir Iain MacLean ushered Arnold and Kathy inside and had his butler/chauffeur Angus take the baggage up to their usual room. “Let’s go and have a cup of tea, and then you two can have a rest before dinner. Annie will be home in a few minutes. She’s been playing golf. God knows how she does it. I’ve retired from the bloody game, bad back and a slice that frequently borders on the grotesque.”
Ravi gunned the Audi fast along the mountainous, curving A-83 road through the forest and crossed the river at the top of Loch Fyne, four miles from Inveraray. He did not know the precise location of Admiral MacLean’s house, but he had a feeling it might be obvious.
He drove fast through the village and, still on the main road, suddenly saw up ahead a parked police car, blue lights spinning, right across the main gates of a big white house. He steadied his speed and drove sedately past, noticing another cruiser in the drive. Ravi did not need to inquire precisely whose residence this was.
A short distance beyond the house, he noticed a wide track leading up into the woods, and he swung right, driving for a half mile until he had a clear view straight down to the loch. The house was largely obscured from his view by tall trees, but through his telescopic gunsight he could see enough.
Positioned on the roof were two plain and obvious police marksmen, along with what looked like a machine gun but might have been a guided missile system designed to repel air attack.
He could see two more police officers standing by the lake, speaking to two very obvious armed bodyguards. The gateway to the house was jammed by the cruiser. There were dogs all over the place, big Labradors whose sunny nature, he knew, could quickly be replaced by fearless, snarling aggression in the presence of an enemy, which he most certainly was.
Ravi pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Millennium Hotel, room 622, and told Shakira he’d be back for dinner after all.
Then he drove back down the mountain track and turned left onto the main road, back the way he had come.
Option One was shot. Not the admiral, just the option. And Ravi looked crestfallen. He glanced into his rearview mirror and could still see the revolving blue lights on the police cruiser outside the gates.
“That,” he muttered, “was no place for me. It’s Edinburgh or nothing.”