No aircraft had landed for a full twenty minutes. The runways were clear, especially the longest one designed for the world’s biggest passenger jets. And flying east across Renfrewshire came SAM 38000, the huge presidential Boeing 747, losing height, bearing Commander Rick Hunter to Scotland with full landing privileges. This was Air Force One, and, as always, the world practically stopped dead for its arrival.
Airline officials fumed, as flights were made late, landings delayed; but the request had come direct from the White House for SAM 38000 to be treated as if Paul Bedford himself was on board. The fact that it was designated SAM 38000 meant he absolutely was not on board, because that is the code name for Air Force One if anyone else is using the aircraft-Special Air Mission 38000.
Dead astern, around five miles distant, flew a smaller Boeing owned and operated by the National Security Agency. This is not an unusual occurrence, because America’s super-secret intelligence system wishes to know every last vestige of information that might be transmitted anywhere near the President of the United States.
It was not the cheapest operation in the world, since Air Force One alone knocks down around $60,000 an hour in costs. But this Admiral Morgan scenario was way beyond mundane matters like expense. President Bedford wanted him kept safe, and he wanted ironclad security. Dollars were not a consideration.
All the way across the Atlantic from Andrews Air Force Base, east of Washington, the operators inside the NSA jet had swept the skies for sign of a tracking device. And Rick Hunter had slept in peace, dining like a king on New York sirloin and apple pie with ice cream.
There were no other passengers on board, and Rick, who had left Lexington at 4 A.M. (local), had been attended by just two stewardesses. The No. 2 crew, who would fly the aircraft home tonight after the refuel, were at the rear of the cabin, as opposed to the presidential suite in which Rick was ensconced.
The ex-Navy SEAL had been told specifically by Lt. Commander Ramshawe that President Bedford would take care of the transportation, and he sure as hell had done that.
SAM 38000 swooped low over the town of Paisley and touched down at three minutes after 6 P.M. The pilot taxied up to an open, designated place outside the international terminal, and a mobile set of stairs was instantly put into place. Rick exited the aircraft and came down the stairs carrying his CAR-15 light machine gun in an olive-drab-colored holder as if it was a group of salmon-fishing rods.
A customs officer was awaiting him, in company with a Royal Navy lieutenant commander, and both men saluted him. The customs officer put a small discreet chalk marking on both the machine gun case and the duffel bag that Rick carried with him.
Just beyond the group was a red Royal Navy helicopter-the high-speed Dauphin 2 which can, if required, fire Sidewinder AIM-9M air-to-air guided missiles. Rick carried his bag and sniper rifle on board and strapped himself in, and the helicopter immediately took off, heading northwest, straight over Loch Lomond to Loch Fyne and Inveraray.
The Dauphin 2, in battle conditions, is capable of flying at almost 200 mph, and this evening it flew very fast, coming in to land on the lawn of the MacLean residence only thirty minutes after takeoff. Rick arrived at precisely the same time as Lady MacLean, who did not have the slightest idea who he was.
She stood outside the house with three policemen and watched the Dauphin take off, heading back to the Navy base of Faslane on the Gare Loch.
“We assume he’s on our side?” Lady MacLean asked the policemen as Rick walked toward them.
“Oh, yes, m’lady,” replied the young constable in a rich Argyll accent. “We’ve been expecting him. He just landed in Glasgow from America on Air Force One, the president’s private aircraft.”
Annie MacLean’s eyebrows rose. “Good Lord,” she said. “Who is he?”
There was no time to answer that, since Rick had very much arrived. He walked directly toward her and surveyed the slim, blonde-haired, sixtyish Scottish aristocrat who stood before him and said, “Ma’am, I’m Commander Rick Hunter, United States Navy. I believe Admiral MacLean is expecting me.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Lady MacLean, hurriedly. “You just took me slightly by surprise. I’ve only just returned myself.”
“Ma’am, in my trade I’m real used to surprising people,” replied Rick.
“Aha,” said Lady MacLean. “Are you the Navy SEAL my husband told me about?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m actually retired. I’m on special assignment.”
“You look a lot too young to be retired,” she smiled, with the practiced grace of the wife of a very senior Navy commander, a wife who had spent a lifetime trying to put young officers at their ease while knowing perfectly well they were terrified of her husband.
“Oh, I had a lot of family commitments,” he offered. “My dad runs a pretty big thoroughbred breeding farm out in Kentucky, and he kinda needed me.”
“Oh, you must tell me all about it,” she said. “But we’d better get inside. I’m already an hour late, and I expect you would like to get rid of your luggage.”
Rick followed her in, through the open French windows and into a large sunlit room that contained a highly relaxed Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, Admiral Arnold Morgan, and Kathy Morgan, old and trusted friends in comfortable surroundings.
Arnold Morgan stood up immediately and walked across the room. “Hello, Rick,” he said. “It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you.”
Lady MacLean made the introductions, checked her watch, and said, “Well, it’s almost seven o’clock, shouldn’t we be having a drink? Has no one offered you anything, Arnie? Honestly, Iain, sometimes I think you were too long in the Navy being waited on hand and foot-and here’s poor Rick, flown thousands of miles from the middle of the United States. He’s probably dying of thirst.”
Angus appeared magically and took everyone’s order, white burgundy, except for Rick, who would accept only mineral water, “Just in case we come under attack…”
Arnold Morgan laughed wryly. “The way things are going, that might not be too far from the truth,” he said. He did not of course realize that at this precise time General Ravi Rashood was high in the woods behind the house, staring through the telescopic sight from his long-range sniper rifle.
Five minutes later, when the drinks arrived, Ravi was gone, slightly unnerved by the sheer strength of the security that surrounded the admiral. Had he waited around much longer, up there in the woods, he would have been even more unnerved, as another Navy helicopter swept the area with infrared radar, searching for the slightest sign of unauthorized human presence among the pine and spruce trees of the Argyll Forest.
There was no doubt that the police and military on both sides of the Atlantic had been seriously spooked by that wayward silver-headed bullet that had ripped into the skull of agent George Kallan. Especially since the National Security Agency had been predicting something like it for several weeks. Security services hate being made to appear even remotely slow-witted.
Annie MacLean showed Rick up to his room and pointed out where Arnie and Kathy would be sleeping. “I don’t suppose you need to sit outside their door, armed to the teeth, do you?” she said.
“Not with those beautiful dogs of yours in the house,” he said. “But I probably will not shut my own door. I need to pay attention if they bark.”
“If you leave your door open, they’ll all be on your bed,” she said.
“Ma’am. There’s two things I’m real good at: that’s dogs and horses. They won’t bother me.”
“Well, I noticed they all clustered around your feet downstairs… funny thing about Labradors, they always know who likes them.”
“I got a couple back home in Kentucky,” said Rick. “Black like yours. They wander in and out of the stallion boxes, and I’m amazed they never get kicked.”
“Well, you have full permission to kick them off if they invade your bed,” she replied. “Come down for dinner at around eight-fifteen. It’s a warm evening; Iain and Arnie will both wear polo shirts, no jackets.”
Rick stared through his bedroom window at the long view down the lawn and across to the far shore of the loch. He knew Admiral Morgan was also sleeping on this side of the house, and with the all-night guard posted outside, he doubted any would-be assassin could get anywhere near him, not from this side.
At dinner, he was questioned about his forthcoming role as head of Arnold’s security and told them frankly, from what he had seen, it would be just about impossible to hit the admiral within the confines of the house.
“So far as I can tell, this is likely to be an urban operation, where your gun is not the priority. In big cities like Edinburgh, you need your brain, you need to be quick, observant, on top of your game.
“I’ve read the Scotland Yard report on the Ritz Hotel murder, and I’m left with one thought-someone fired that rifle from that building across the street, so the window to the room must have been open.
“The sniper would have been leaning on the window ledge, and the rifle barrel would have been jutting out when it was fired. Nobody saw it. All I can say is, a Navy SEAL, on guard duty, would have seen it and blown the guy’s head off, no questions asked. I would have seen it, because I would have known what I was looking for.”
“You may find it’s rather more difficult to react like that in England than it is in the back streets of Baghdad or Kabul,” said Admiral MacLean.
“Sir,” replied Rick, “I am reliably briefed that in this case, the British police, the military, and the government are in agreement with the President of the United States. There will be no questions asked. If an assassin tries his luck, my task is to capture or kill him, whichever is the most expedient.”
“I presume you are an expert in unarmed combat?” asked Annie MacLean.
“Every Navy SEAL is,” answered Rick. “And usually, if your assailant has managed to get close enough to aim a gun at his target, there is no time to fire accurately at him. You need a swift physical response, which may be deadly, but is usually not too late.”
“You lead an exciting life, Commander,” said Lady MacLean.
“This is kid’s stuff to him,” interjected Arnie. “I’ll deny ever saying this, but Commander Hunter and his men once blew up an entire oil refinery in Iran. Now that was exciting.”
Rick chuckled. “Can’t live on past glories, sir. Right now I have to make certain that Admiral and Mrs. Morgan come to no harm in the city of Edinburgh. I understand you will be returning to the United States immediately after the Military Tattoo?”
“Guess they forced that on me,” replied Arnold. “Wrecked my vacation, worried Kathy to death, and ordered me home immediately. It’s amazing what I have to put up with.”
“I hear you’re taking the salute at the Tattoo on Tuesday night, sir?” said Rick. “And that’s where we need to be very careful. Two things I did want to ask: How dark is it in there? And how many people are expected?”
“There are around ten thousand each night for three weeks,” said Lady MacLean. “And mostly it takes place on the main Castle Esplanade. Sometimes it is quite dark with spotlights on the performers, like a theatre. But for the main event, the demonstration by the Marine Commandoes, almost all the lights will be lowered.”
“What’s it like in the Royal Box where Admiral Morgan will be?”
“The lights are always on there,” Lady MacLean continued. “Subdued lights from the rear, but brighter than the other seating areas.”
“So we have a darkened stadium where no one can see anything except the Royal Box and the people in it?” said Rick. “Hmmmmm.”
“Well, not exactly. The spotlights constantly illuminate various parts of the performance, all over the castle, especially down on the Esplanade where the massed military bands will be playing.”
“Is access to the Royal Box easy? I mean, can anyone get in?”
“Absolutely not,” said Sir Iain. “There are armed guards at both entrances and all around. You need a VIP ticket to get anywhere near.”
“I’d like to scout the place out for a while tomorrow, if that would be okay,” said Rick.
“No problem. The helicopter will pick you up here in the morning.”
Ravi and Shakira checked out of the Millennium Hotel early, drove out to the M-8 motorway through West Lothian, and set off for Edinburgh, a distance of forty-six miles. They arrived before 10 A.M., and Ravi, who had read every word written about the Edinburgh International Festival in the past week, drove straight to the Caledonian Hilton at the end of Princes Street behind the castle.
Brimming with confidence, he parked outside, asked the doorman to keep a watch on the car for a few minutes, and walked inside to speak to the receptionist.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’m Captain Martin, ADC to the CO of 42 Marine Commando. Could you possibly tell me, are the head honchos of the Military Tattoo staying here this week? I appear to have lost the boss.”
The girl behind the desk laughed, and replied, “Sadly not this year, sir, though they often do. But I believe they are all in the new Cavendish Hotel, right on Princes Street and closer to the castle than we are.”
“I’m grateful,” said Ravi. “You’ve probably saved my career.”
Back outside, Ravi once more settled behind the wheel and drove into Princes Street, moving slowly along Edinburgh’s main thoroughfare until he saw the high rise of the Cavendish on the left-hand side. He pulled over around a hundred yards from the main entrance, and Shakira jumped out, wearing an inexpensive black dress and carrying a large too-expensive handbag which she hoped no one would notice.
She walked up to the doorman and asked him who to see about a job. “Go straight to reception, young lady,” he said, “and ask to see Mrs. Robertson. She’s the undermanager.”
Shakira did as she was told, and five minutes later was sitting in a small first-floor office with a stern, neatly dressed Scottish lady of around fifty, Janet Robertson, gray-haired, currently at her wits’ end with staff shortages in the busiest month of the year.
She was polite but businesslike. “Have you experience?” she asked. And, seeing Shakira nod, proceeded to ask her in which department she would like to work.
“We have vacancies in housekeeping and room service, and we need two waitresses in the restaurant, and in the residents’ lounge. But we do need references.”
“I can do anything, and I have references,” said Shakira. “I’ve worked in several hotels, in Ireland, London, and the United States.”
“Do you mind shift work? That’s evenings and early mornings.”
“Not at all.”
“Do you require room and board?”
“No. I’m living locally with my sister.”
Mrs. Robertson had already noted Shakira’s neat appearance and respectful manner, and she scarcely looked at her Irish passport in the name of Colleen Lannigan, nor at the reference from a central London bar in Covent Garden.
“Very well, let’s give it a try, shall we?” said Mrs. Robertson. “I’d like you to start as a maid on the twelfth floor, where we are very short of help. And this evening, if possible, I’d like you to assist in room service.
“As a nonresident, we’ll pay you £10 an hour, plus time-and-a-half for anything over seven hours’ work a day, not including a lunch break. We of course provide whatever meals you require while you are on duty. There’s a staff canteen on the basement level.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Robertson,” said Shakira. “Will I require a uniform?”
“Absolutely,” said the Mother Superior of the Cavendish Hotel. “I’ll call the housekeeper and she’ll arrange everything. Just take the service elevator to the twelfth floor, and someone will meet you.”
A half hour passed, and, as arranged, Ravi drove away. He took a spin around the enormous castle, set on its mighty black volcanic rock, and stopped to make a phone call, direct to the Cavendish Hotel.
He managed to book one of the last rooms, on the third floor of the hotel, thanks to a Sunday-morning cancellation. Then he found a parking lot and walked through Edinburgh’s Old Town into the precincts of the castle, across the Esplanade to the public entrance. There were two armed military guards on duty, watching carefully as members of the public paid to see the huge assemblage of historic buildings inside the ramparts of the twelfth-century fortress.
The castle has in its time been a royal palace, a military garrison, and a state prison. The Crown of Scotland is on display in the palace building, where, in the sixteenth century, Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to James, the future king of both Scotland and England.
Ravi, however, was not remotely interested in Scottish history, however rich and turbulent it may have been. Ravi was here to scout out the security that surrounded the Military Tattoo, because herein rested his last chance to kill Arnold Morgan, before the United States government would surely compel the admiral to return to Washington.
He paid £10 for his ticket and walked through onto the roadway that climbs right through the castle, way up to the high ramparts, from which there is the most spectacular view over the city. Ravi trudged all the way up to the One O’clock Gun, which is fired with a thunderous report every day except Sunday, frightening tourists to death.
Ravi walked the ramparts, past ancient St. Margaret’s Chapel, along the Argyle Battery, past the Governor’s House and the prison and the Great Hall. He stared down over the great curved front of the Half-Moon Battery where, in the sixteenth century, artillery was ranged to defend the eastern wing of the castle. It was steep. Everywhere was steep. The castle rose up, constructed layer after layer onto its towering black crags, until it dominated the city. And this week, at least, it was as heavily patrolled as a U.S. Army garrison in Baghdad five years ago.
Everywhere Ravi walked, there were young soldiers, on duty, sometimes in groups, sometimes just in pairs. And all of them carried the standard weapon of the British Army, the SA80 semi-automatic short-barreled rifle, with its 25-round magazine, 5.56mm caliber.
As a pure precaution, Ravi stopped as he walked by and attempted, with only marginal success, to affect the wide-eyed blank stare of the truly ignorant.
“Excuse me,” he said to the Scots Guards corporal. “Is that gun loaded with real bullets?”
“Aye, sir, it is.”
“Well, that’s very dangerous,” replied Ravi.
“That’s the general idea,” said the corporal.
Ravi shook his head in mock exasperation, and continued his walk, going down now, back to the public entrance. And as he did so, a red Royal Navy helicopter circled briefly above the castle and slowly dropped down to land on the wide concourse behind the barracks, the biggest building in the ancient stone complex.
The area had been temporarily cleared by the military for the arrival of the American Navy commander, Rick Hunter, in company with Lady MacLean, the all-powerful chair of the entire Festival and Rick’s personal guide for the next hour.
Annie MacLean had made the decision to land on the higher level in order to point out to Rick the precise layout of the Tattoo. She showed him a view of the Esplanade from the heights, the temporary grandstands, and in particular the Royal Box where they would all be seated on Tuesday evening.
She showed him the huge sloping walls of the Half-Moon Battery, down which the warriors of 42 Marine Commando would abseil, before making a final descent to the Esplanade for their formation and finale.
Rick did not love it. “The whole place will be in darkness during this time?” he asked.
“Everywhere. Except for the Royal Box,” she told him. “The military will spotlight the Marines as they climb down the walls to the lower levels. Their display is designed to show how they capture a fortified garrison.”
Rick still did not love it, mainly because there was so much he would not be able to see. And Arnold, so far as he could tell, would be floodlit as he took the salute, and silhouetted in his seat for the rest of the time. The only aspect of the entire exercise that gave him any confidence was the heavy presence of armed guards, all highly trained military personnel.
The Navy SEAL had worked with the Brits before, and he knew how outstanding they were. Whichever way he looked at it, it would be damn near impossible to get at Admiral Morgan without getting apprehended or shot. Arnold would be accompanied at all times by five personal guards, including himself, and a phalanx of armed police.
Rick stood thoughtfully on the ramparts of the Half-Moon Battery, assessing the precise distance Arnold would be from the base of the wall and from the stands that had been erected along the flanks of the Esplanade.
He noted also that the gradient of the amphitheatre was a slight slope and the surface was uneven. He considered the possibility of an assassin running across the ground toward the admiral and dismissed it. Because, he decided, you could not do this with a pistol, you’d need a rifle, and if you produced one of those here, there was a good chance the guards would hit you with a hundred bullets before you hit the ground.
Anyone could sense the place was on high alert. And it seemed to Rick that Arnold would be safe here tomorrow night. But he still did not love it.
He and Lady MacLean walked back up to the helicopter, which immediately took off and headed west, back to Inveraray. Ravi Rashood, driving back to the Cavendish Hotel, saw it leave, climbing up over the city and accelerating away. He wondered, as any ex-SAS officer might, who was in it and why they had paid such a fleeting visit to Edinburgh Castle.
He checked into his room, knowing it was impossible to find Shakira. This place was as big as the Kremlin, and he would have to wait until she located him. She knew either he was checked in here under the name of Captain Harry Martin, or he would leave her a note, addressed to Miss Colleen Lannigan (Cavendish staff).
There was a local map of Edinburgh and its environs, which Ravi studied carefully. He was looking north, along the great expanse of the wide estuary of the River Forth, known locally as the Firth of Forth. He checked the locations of Musselburgh and Port Seton, communities that were on the water, and as he did so, his bedside phone rang. Shakira said eleven words: “They’ll be on the top floor, all rooms overlooking Princes Street.” The line went dead.
Then he checked the Yellow Pages, found what he was seeking, and went downstairs out onto the sidewalk. Ravi crossed the street and stared up at the flat roof of the hotel, assessing the distance between the top of the wall that surrounded the roof to the line of windows on the sixteenth floor. Right now, Ravi was into a possible Plan B, because he was having doubts about his capacity to successfully hit Admiral Morgan and then make a getaway, in the face of that hard-trained security force in the castle.
And with this in mind, he took a half-hour drive out to the coast. He pulled into Port Seton, hoping the marine store was open, assuming it would be on a busy boating Sunday in August.
It was not only open, it was crowded with yachtsmen and power boaters buying all kinds of equipment: dock lines, cleats, lifejackets, winch handles, halyards, and varnish. After a twenty-minute wait, Ravi reached the counter, behind which were large reels of line of varying thickness, all made of modern white nylon, soft to the touch but very strong, with a pattern in either red or blue.
He ordered two 35-foot lengths of the second largest gauge, and asked for a shackle to be spliced onto one end of each line. The marine store assistant called out “Splice, Jock!” and a young seaman came over and slowly formed an unbreakable join, working in front of a small flame, into which he held the rough end of the line and watched the nylon melt into a mass, which he bound with white tape.
“Don’t forget, sir,” said the assistant, “if you need to cut this stuff, you need a flame to weld the end like that.”
Ravi nodded, and also purchased a safety harness, the kind seamen wear in bad weather with the shackle clipped onto the boat to avoid being swept overboard and lost. He also bought a half dozen of the metal rope clips that climbers use to pay out the line in short takes.
Expertly, the assistant slung each line into a three-foot-long coil and then wrapped the end tight around the “throat,” and handed them to Ravi holding just the shackles. Ravi bought a small inexpensive seaman’s bag and paid in cash. His equipment had cost him the thick end of £150.
He returned to the city center and parked the Audi in the open-air lot, close to the castle. He walked back to the Cavendish and waited for Shakira to find him in his room.
Two hours later, she arrived and flopped down on the bed, exhausted. “I was told they were short of staff on the twelfth floor,” she said. “But I didn’t know they were that short. I’ve made about a thousand beds, with only one other girl. I didn’t even get a turn on the vacuum cleaner.”
Ravi laughed and kissed her. And then he said, with great seriousness, “Shakira, time may be running out for us. I have two plans, both of them highly dangerous. Right now I need to attend to the details, and then try to formulate an escape route. There are several tasks you must complete.”
And then, somewhat darkly, he added, “In the end, it may be up to you.”
It was 4:30 P.M. now, and Shakira had to report to room service. “I won’t see you until ten o’clock,” she said. “Where will you go now?”
“I’m going to the Mosque for evening prayers,” he said. “These are difficult days, and I need a guiding light. And there is only one light.”
A third police car pulled into the MacLeans’ drive, and a detective sergeant disembarked, holding what looked like dry cleaning, three plastic-covered hangers containing police clothing-dark blue trousers, royal blue sweater with insignia, two white shirts, blue tie, and a bright yellow rain jacket. In his left hand, the sergeant carried a white plastic bag containing shoes, leather belt, and peaked uniform cap with its badge and familiar black-and-white checked headband.
He walked to the door and told Angus they were for Commander Rick Hunter. Ten minutes later, the U.S. Naval officer walked out disguised as a Lothian and Borders police constable.
He carried with him his rifle, in the holder that made it look like fishing rods, and his traveling bag. He waved a brief good-bye to everyone in the household and climbed into the police car. Sir Iain stepped out to see him off and called, “See you tomorrow, Rick.”
The police driver pulled out onto the main road and set off on the hundred-mile drive to Edinburgh. The helicopter was considered too ostentatious for an operation as clandestine as this.
They arrived at the Cavendish Hotel a little after 7 P.M., and Rick spoke briefly to the receptionist, who summoned a porter to escort him to the sixteenth floor. The police car waited right outside the main door.
Rick checked his watch, and walked with the porter along to room 168, a large double bedroom that had an open connecting door to the biggest suite in the hotel. This was situated on the corner of the building and was composed of two large bedrooms with bathrooms, and a substantial drawing room suitable for entertaining sixteen people. This was the room that led into Commander Hunter’s bedroom. It formed what could be, at any time, a three-bedroom suite, suitable for visiting royalty and heads of state, with personal staff and protection.
The porter asked Rick if he would be needing him further, but Edinburgh ’s newest policeman declined and handed over a £10 tip, which the porter thought was not too bad, for a policeman.
Rick wandered through the rooms, wondering which bedroom he should allocate to Arnold and Kathy, and which to Sir Iain and Annie. The five of them were very much on first-name terms by now, the Scottish aristocrats having long accepted Rick as one of their own-educated, multimillionaire horse breeder, and perfectly mannered naval officer.
It had been agreed that he alone would decide who slept where, since he alone carried the ultimate responsibility to ensure that no one murdered Arnold Morgan. On this, his initial recce, he checked that the windows were fastened, checked the door locks, and checked that the phone lines were all working.
Then he called down to inform the desk that no staff was allowed anywhere near the big suite without his express permission and his personal attendance. That included maids, the housekeeper, room service, and anyone else who might wish to attend the two admirals and their wives when they arrived the following day.
He put his rifle in the wardrobe, hung up his jacket and civilian trousers, and placed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handles out in the corridor. Then he placed his Sig Sauer service revolver in his belt, took the elevator down, and climbed into the back of the police car.
“Over to the castle, sir?” asked the driver.
“Thank you,” said Rick. “Main entrance.”
The opening ceremony at 9 P.M. was still an hour away when Rick arrived, but the crowds were already gathering to watch the stirring massed pipers and drummers of the most revered Scottish regiments march down the Esplanade. Rick was rather looking forward to it.
But right now he was very preoccupied. He walked around to the Royal Box and sat down in the center of the front row, staring out at the grandstands, trying to assess where an assassin might position himself for a long-range shot at the admiral.
He established there would be either a police or military presence on duty at both ends of the rows of seats. It would plainly be impossible for anyone to smuggle in a rifle, not under the eyes of these trained security men.
Privately Rick thought a shot from the higher battlements would somehow be too far in the dark, however well the Royal Box was lit. And, anyway, the entire place was crawling with military guards, every fifty yards on the ramparts, all around the castle. Christ, he could see them from here.
He walked the length of the left-hand grandstand to check whether it went right to the end wall of the Esplanade. It didn’t, and there was a throughway between the last line of seats and the wall with two military policemen on duty, demanding to see people’s seating tickets.
He found it almost impossible to find a spot from which to fire a high-powered rifle anywhere beyond the Esplanade and the grandstands. He was finding it difficult to find anywhere in the entire castle environs where anyone could produce a rifle without being arrested in a matter of moments.
Rick went back to the Royal Box and sat down in one of the empty seats along the front row. He watched the huge crowd growing as they took their places around the arena. The VIPs were arriving now, among them two high-ranking generals, plus the Royal Navy’s First Sea Lord, who would take the salute tonight.
The Tattoo began with a rousing piece of music played by the band of the Royal Navy, “Fanfare for the First Sea Lord.” And then the massed pipes and drums of the Scottish regiments led the huge parade through the entrance onto the Esplanade. The Guards, the Highlanders, the Borderers were followed by the bands of the Irish Guards, the Royal Gurkha Rifles, and the Rats of Tobruk.
The ancient sounds of the Scottish marching songs split the night sky above the capital city. The haunting strains of “The Campbells Are Coming” evoked proud reminders of the Siege of Lucknow in 1857, when General Sir Colin Campbell, at the head of 4,500 Scottish troops, marched across the Punjab to defeat 60,000 Indian rebels besieging the British residency.
It was a superb military pageant, and Rick ignored the unease he felt at the end of the performance when the First Sea Lord stood up in his seat to take the salute. Rick too stood up with the crowd and joined the applause, understanding that every Scotsman in the arena felt an age-old rising of pride in a warlike past.
The U.S. Navy commander thought it was terrific, and he was almost relaxed when the Royal Marines of 42 Commando began their display, dozens of them abseiling down the castle walls, then forming up and firing their rifles into the air to signify a successful assault on a fortified stronghold. Rick had already checked. Blank rounds.
He stayed until the end, watching and applauding the Russian Cossack State Dance Company, the massed bands of the Royal Marines with their “Celebration of Trafalgar,” and the 600-strong massed military bands, with pipes and drums, playing their world-famous Edinburgh Tattoo specialties “Mull of Kintyre” and “Caledonia.”
For the finale, before a Royal Navy Guard of Honor, the entire thousand-strong cast of musicians played “Auld Lang Syne,” and, as the sacred Scottish notes died away, the Lone Scots Guards Piper appeared high on the battlements of the castle, and played a pibroch lament, the slow melancholy classical music of the bagpipes.
This effectively brought the house down, and Rick stood up and cheered as it ended. And then he stood transfixed as a mighty roll on the drums signified the moment when the great throng of musicians and serving soldiers began the March Out, in strict formation, kilts swirling, to the drums and bagpipes playing “Scotland the Brave.”
Commander Richard Hunter, a career U.S. Navy officer, had never before seen anything so perfect, so moving, and so inordinately impressive. He’d almost forgotten why he was there, forgotten about the policeman’s uniform he wore, forgotten about the grave threat to the life of the great American he was sworn to protect.
He stood and surveyed the happy crowd leaving the area, and then he walked down among them, back down the Esplanade to the main entrance and through the gap between the left grandstand and the end wall. He found himself thinking, “If I’d just shot Admiral Morgan, I’d bolt straight through here and make for the street in this big crowd… that would mean I’d need to wait until the very end…”
He found his police car and was driven back to the Cavendish. He returned to his room and stripped off his yellow police raincoat and the dark blue sweater. He put on his regular sportcoat and returned downstairs to the busy second-floor grill room and ordered himself an Aberdeen steak and a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.
Rick did not notice another lone diner sitting close by, a man in a black T-shirt and a brown suede jacket, sipping a Scotch whisky and eating a chicken sandwich. He too had been to the Military Tattoo, but had spent his time high in the upper regions of the castle, just checking guard movements and watching the Marines form line of battle before their mock assault on the great Scottish fortress.
Both men, on this night, would sleep uneasily. And the issue for both of them was timing.
The MacLeans and the Morgans drove away from Inveraray in convoy. A police car led the way, followed by Sir Iain’s Range Rover, and then Arnold’s four personal bodyguards in a Royal Navy staff car, with a second police car bringing up the rear.
They drove around the lochs and finally picked up the M-8 motorway, which took them all the way into Edinburgh, approaching from the southwest. The police did not use lights or sirens, preferring to make the journey as unobtrusively as possible. They covered the hundred miles in three hours and arrived at the Cavendish Hotel a little after six in the evening.
Two police officers escorted Sir Iain and Annie, Arnold and Kathy, and the four bodyguards to the sixteenth floor of the hotel, where there was just one maid on duty, using a noisy vacuum cleaner at the beginning of their corridor.
She looked up as the party approached and said quietly, “I’m sorry about this-we were running very late today. I’ll be finished in two minutes.”
One of the policemen replied, “Okay, lassie. No problem.” Shakira, in the middle of her dinner break, carried on cleaning the carpet diligently.
They reached the door of the big suite, marked 170-172, and the four bodyguards entered first, moving swiftly between the rooms, checking cupboards and bathrooms. When they went through the open connecting door to Rick’s room, they found the big SEAL commander with his feet up, reading the racing pages of The Scotsman.
“Hello, sir,” said Al Thompson. “Taking it easy for a while?”
“Trying to,” said Rick. “Everyone here?”
“Yup,” replied Al. “We’re just checking out the area. We’ll have two men outside the door at all times. We’re all staying on this floor.”
“Sounds good,” said Rick. “How about tonight, when the admiral takes the salute at the Tattoo?”
“We’ll all be over there, sir. I was going to ask you about deployment. I’ll station the guys wherever you want.”
“Okay, let’s get everyone settled, and then you and I can take a look at this map of the castle. I guess you’ll want the guys on station by around 8 P.M. Admiral Morgan wants to be there at ten minutes before nine, just before the start.”
“I’ll leave one man with him permanently, and there’ll be six cops, plus a military escort, to walk him and Mrs. Morgan to their seats.”
“That ought to do it,” said Rick. “But I’ll tell you something, Al. That darned castle’s a big place, and most of it’s going to be in darkness. The security’s red-hot, as you’d expect, but the place gives me the goddamned creeps.”
Al Thompson laughed. “We’ll be all right, sir. I’ll see you in a minute.”
Rick could hear the two admirals and their wives moving in. He heard the luggage arrive on a trolley outside in the corridor. Then Arnold popped his head around the corner and said, “Hi, Rick. How was it last night? Good display?”
Rick stood up. “Admiral,” he said, “it was fantastic. So much tradition, and marvelously well-done.”
“Was it mostly music?”
“I guess it was. But there were fabulous displays by the troops, and Russian Cossacks dancing, and God knows what else. The military bands were great, pipes, drums, and bagpipes. I’m really looking forward to seeing it again.”
“Don’t forget about me, for chrissakes!” chuckled Arnold, before he disappeared next door. “I’d sure hate to get shot while you’re dancing the fucking Highland fling or whatever the hell they call it.”
“No chance of that, sir. I’m all over it.”
“See you later, pal,” said Arnie as he left.
At 7:30, a general evacuation of the sixteenth floor began. Al Thompson left for the castle with two of his men, all three of them armed, by special permission of MI-5 and the Lothian Police Force. They were accompanied by four police officers, men who had been on duty at the Inveraray house.
Forty-five minutes later, the MacLeans and the Morgans left with one bodyguard and Rick Hunter, who was now in his full police uniform, his CAR-15 automatic rifle loaded with a thirty-round magazine and slung over his shoulder. Four police officers met them at the elevator, and they all stepped on board.
The doors slid silently shut and the elevator began its descent. Thus no one saw the same maid, carrying a small inexpensive seaman’s bag, use a master key to open the door up to the roof. Sixteen floors below, the maintenance chief had not yet missed his key.
Meanwhile, over at the castle, high on the west side, General Ravi Rashood was in hiding. He had been there since mid-afternoon, sitting quietly behind a low wall, out of sight of the security team responsible for moving out the paying visitors before 6:30 in preparation for the evening.
He was situated in one of the loneliest parts of the battlements, and had no intention of moving until the light began to fail. When it did, at around 8:15, he reached for his combat knife, which, as ever, was tucked into his belt in the small of his back. He waited until the guards had passed, and then moved quickly to the high wall of what he now regarded as his operational center.
Way above him was a powerful light, a temporary fixture, designed to illuminate the entire area. Tonight it would not function. The electric wire that fed it was fixed loosely to the stonework, and Ravi severed it swiftly. Then he slipped unobtrusively back to his hideout, unseen and unobserved. It was growing darker now, especially in this area on the high west side, where there was no light.
For their short journey to the castle, Lady MacLean and her party traveled in a big black Royal Navy staff car. There was a police car in the lead, and another right behind, in which the bodyguard and Rick were traveling.
They turned right off Princes Street, into the side streets of Old Town, and arrived at the castle on time at ten minutes before nine. The military escort from the Scots Guards was in place as the car drew up, and Admiral Morgan and Kathy were led up to the Royal Box with Sir Iain and Annie walking right behind them.
Rick Hunter, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, walked between the two couples, and four Scottish policemen followed. Arnold’s four personal bodyguards now closed in and positioned themselves strategically close to the front row as the two admirals took their seats in the center of the VIP line.
By now, the Royal Box was filling up. The provost of Edinburgh University and his wife sat directly behind the admirals, flanked by the chief superintendent of the Lothian Police and the commanding officer of 42 Commando, which would again present their display. Another ten city and military dignitaries filled the remainder of the seats.
At this time, just before the Tattoo began, Ravi was just above the new barracks, standing back, out of sight in the shadows. He was still there when the massed bands opened the evening’s proceedings with, in Admiral Morgan’s honor, “The Fanfare to the United States Navy,” specially composed by the conductor of the Royal Marine Bands for the occasion.
Ravi was not, however, interested in the music. He was concerned only with the guards who were in position along the walls, on this night of the Tattoo’s most rigorous security alert ever.
He was unarmed, except for his knife and a small but weighty glass paperweight, which he carried in his jacket pocket. He was dressed as a perfectly normal tourist, except for his shoes… well, boots, which were black and laced high beneath his dark gray trousers.
Ravi was waiting for the guards to send for tea, a procedure he had watched four times on the previous night. The complete guard detail was four men, but every half hour they met, high up on the western ramparts. And that was when one of them walked down to fetch four cups of tea from the military canteen, set up temporarily next to the old hospital buildings.
And now he waited, watching for the single soldier to break away and begin the walk down to the canteen. The Tattoo had been running for exactly fifteen minutes when the four guards came together. They chatted for two or three minutes, and then one of them turned around and began to stride down the hill, into the now-darkest area of the castle.
The soldier was humming along with the music when Ravi burst out of the shadows like a panther, running toward his prey, coming in from the left, but from the back. He swung back his right arm and, with a stupendous display of strength, smashed the paperweight into the guard’s head-right into the brain’s critical nerve center behind the ear.
The heavy glass weight obliterated the protective skull bone, and the young man, who had only yesterday informed the Hamas chief that his rifle was indeed loaded with live bullets, crumbled to the ground. Stone dead.
Ravi, working in almost complete darkness thanks to the missing light, ripped off the man’s combat jacket, undid the belt, and tore off the loose trousers. He grabbed the man’s rifle and his woolly hat. Then he lifted the guard under the armpits and heaved him straight over the wall. It was a fifty-foot drop to the rocks and undergrowth that would surely obscure the body until well into the morning. Ravi heard the twigs snap as the Scots guardsman thudded into bushes.
Ravi raced back into the shadows with his new combat kit, and pulled it on over his street clothes, making certain that his combat boots, purchased in a local army surplus store, could now be plainly seen.
He pulled on his leather driving gloves and set off on the twenty-minute walk down to the Half-Moon Battery where the Marine commandoes were setting up their abseil ropes for their daredevil descent to the Esplanade. Ravi did not join them. Instead he hung back, with his rifle slung over his shoulder like a backwoodsman, or indeed an SAS officer going into combat.
The minutes passed and the military displays continued to rousing applause. And then over the loudspeaker came the words-There will now be a demonstration by the commandos of 42 Royal Marine, who will display their versatile skills and efficiency in the capture of a fortified enemy stronghold-Ladies and Gentlemen-the Marines in action!
The lights in the stadium were dulled, and lancing spotlights lit up the high walls above the west end of the Esplanade. Every eye in the grandstand was on the rampart that circled the Half-Moon Battery. It was just possible to see, in the spotlights, the ropes snaking out over the battlements, down the first sixty-foot-high sheer stone wall to the flat rocky promontory. Then there were more ropes over the lower wall, dropping down over the buildings onto the Esplanade.
Ravi stayed back in the shadows, when suddenly there was movement. The first four commandoes ran for the battlements, and, on the word of the commander, grabbed the ropes with their gloved hands, swung backward over the wall, and dug in with their boots. Then they leaned back and pushed out, dropping down, down, down with each kick off the stone surface, the rope sliding expertly through their grips.
It was a breathtaking example of high-caliber soldiering as, four by four, the men bounced down the wall, crossed the rocks at top speed, then abseiled down the last section to the ground. Back at the top, Ravi waited. The formations were slightly more ragged now, simply because some of the troops had been faster than others, and the ropes supported uneven numbers across the battery wall as each man descended.
There were only six men left up there in the darkness, and Ravi suddenly emerged from the shadows and ran in toward the battlements with the others. He had selected his rope and arrived simultaneously with two others.
“Righto, mate, after you,” one of them snapped, barely looking at the Hamas chief.
And Ravi grabbed the rope. He’d done this a hundred times in the SAS and, perhaps more expert than all these young commandoes, he swung over the battlements and bounced his way down, backward, the way a trained Special Forces officer is expected to complete this discipline.
Seconds later, he was on the rocks, running over to the last descent and abseiling onto the Esplanade. In front of him, the troops were lining up on the ground. Ravi moved back against the wall. There were essentially two differences between him and the rest. He was not lying flat on the ground, and his standard issue SA80 semi-automatic rifle was loaded with live ammunition, as opposed to the blanks the demonstration team would fire.
The last two men were down, and the subdued backlighting up ahead on the Royal Box was still silhouetting Admiral Morgan, sitting in the front row, four seats from the left. The VIPs were standing now, applauding the breathtaking display. Ravi could see Admiral Morgan, with Sir Iain to his right and Kathy in her green linen suit to his left.
Commander Rick Hunter was standing away to the right, on the end of the front row, when the first line of Marines opened fire into the air, demonstrating their opening assault on the enemy.
Rick’s mind raced. He had always hated this darkened castle, with his man plainly visible out in front. A thousand instincts honed on the battlefield with his brave and beloved SEALs crowded into his thoughts. He braced himself for the attack, thinking only that this stadium was right now in darkness, and men were firing rifles and he could not see them, and he had no idea who was shooting at what.
Ravi Rashood, two hundred yards away, steadied himself on the wall, and, from out of the night, he aimed his SA80 directly at Admiral Arnold Morgan’s chest.
He held his breath and pressed the trigger. But Rick was about a hundredth of a second faster. He bounded two strides forward and launched himself sideways across the front of the Royal Box. He hit Arnold Morgan with a full-blooded rugby tackle that flattened the great man to the floor. They hit Kathy on the way down and flattened her too. Rick tried desperately to protect the admiral, raising himself and instinctively covering Morgan’s body with his own.
Women screamed. The gunfire continued. The police ran in to break up what looked like a fight between two Americans. And as the guns were finally silenced, everyone stood up and dusted themselves off.
No one spoke, but Arnold and Rick could see a line of 5.56mm bullets studded into the back of Arnold’s seat. Directly behind, the provost of Edinburgh University, covered in blood, was slumped dead in his chair.
Rick helped Kathy to her feet. Neither she nor Arnold was hurt, but they were both very shaken. Arnold stared in disbelief at the bullets lodged in his chair. The police called for an ambulance, and the main lights came on. An announcement was made that owing to an unfortunate incident, the remainder of the Tattoo had been called off because of the suspected murder of the provost of Edinburgh University.
The 10,000-strong crowd was told to leave in an orderly manner and that either their tickets would be renewed or their money refunded.
And down behind the left-hand grandstand, in the dark, under the seats, Ravi was tearing off his army clothes and returning to civilian life. As suspected by Commander Hunter, he had bolted through that gap between the grandstand and the back wall. And now he dumped the trousers, jacket, and hat into a trashcan and walked out with everyone else, taking a circuitous route around to Princes Street. For the moment, he abandoned the Audi and walked back to the Cavendish, wearing his suede jacket, with the short-barreled rifle tucked underneath, half down his trousers, out of sight.
He had missed for the second time, and he knew it. He had seen the schemozzle in the front row of the Royal Box, seen the admiral go down just as he had fired. For a split second he’d thought the bullet had hit home, but Special Forces commanders have an instinct about these things. And in his heart he knew he’d missed the admiral.
The important thing, however, was that he was still free, on the loose and able to fight another day. Except that, in this particular case, it would be this day. He said hello to the doorman and headed straight up to his room, hoping to hell Shakira would contact him and finalize their arrangements.
It was after 10:30 now, and Shakira took half an hour to call. Ravi answered the phone and she just said, “They are all arriving. I’ll be down.”
Two minutes later she let herself into the room, having just seen Admiral Morgan and his wife, and having ascertained that, again, her husband had missed the target for which they had both strived for so long.
“Darling,” she said, “can we go home now? Let’s just get away. We have the car, we can make it.”
Ravi shook his head. “This is not a military mission,” he said. “This is the sacred work of Allah. I cannot abandon it. I would burn in hell if I did that. We must complete what we began.”
“But why? We’ve both tried so hard. Maybe this is not meant to be. Why can’t we just go?”
Again, Ravi shook his head. “Is everything ready on the roof?” he asked. “Yes, but I don’t want you to go.”
“Can’t you see that I must?” And Ravi’s voice began to rise. “I have to kill him. He is the enemy of my people, the attack dog of the West, the sworn foe of the Prophet, the scourge of our armies. The admiral must die by my hand…”
Ravi was shouting now, and Shakira was frightened someone would hear. Worse yet, she was afraid of Ravi now, afraid he had lost all sense of reason.
“Go,” he commanded her. “GO! And do the bidding of Allah, as I must. Now GO!”
He watched her walk through the door, and minutes later he followed her along the corridor to the fire escape. He took with him a balaclava and goggles he had bought in the same army surplus store where he purchased his boots.
He climbed the stone steps, fourteen floors, to the stairwell of the sixteenth. He was standing inside the door Shakira had opened earlier that evening. The last short flight of stone steps led to the roof. Ravi checked his watch; three minutes later, Shakira came in.
Ravi told her they were each precious messengers of Allah, and that this task tonight might be the last time they would see each other on this earth. They would, however, be united in the arms of Allah, who would surely welcome two of his finest Holy Warriors into everlasting paradise.
“Besides,” he added in conclusion, “there is nothing here for us any more. Nowhere to go, to live. We’d be hiding for all the days of our lives. Tonight Allah will decide for us.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. Together they’d risked everything for the Jihad, and now there seemed to be nothing left. For a while, Ravi had considered that Admiral Morgan was the one trapped in a corner. And that may have been true, but the corner he and Shakira were in was slower and more deadly.
He kissed her good-bye and said quietly, “Shakira, you know what to do. And if I can make this work tonight, we will still have a chance to escape. If I can’t, we’ve had many wonderful years together, and Allah will unite us soon.”
And with that, General Rashood climbed the stone steps to the roof, and there, standing hidden in the shadow of the air-conditioning unit, was the seaman’s bag containing the dock lines and the harness. He fixed the ends around a thick water pipe which was cemented into the wall, and ran them both through their shackles.
He slipped the safety harness on and fastened it tightly, attaching it to the second line with the rock-climbers’ clips which he could adjust on the way down, playing out the line. And then he waited for Shakira’s call.
In the meantime, over at the castle, the police were trying to make up for lost time. They sent a detail to the Marine commando headquarters and checked every man who had gone over the wall. Everyone was present, every man still had his rifle, and every rifle was empty, having fired only blanks. The police stationed officers at every door, and they began to search people as they left the Tattoo.
Finally they had the CO summon the guard and conduct a roll call of the men who had been on duty. There was, of course, one missing, a 23-year-old Scots guardsman who had been armed with an SA80 semi-automatic, loaded.
This was a rifle with the precise same bullets that had been fired at the U.S. admiral and killed the provost. At 11:30 P.M., the police decided they had a suspect-a missing suspect, but still a suspect.
They posted a further guard detail on the Cavendish Hotel, with men again on duty on the sixteenth floor. Arnold’s four-man bodyguard team was still working, and Rick elected to stay close to the admirals and their wives.
Right now they were having supper in the hotel grill, and no one felt like going to bed after the narrow escape from death Arnold had suffered.
“Jesus, Rick, you saved my life,” he said. “Guess I owe you and Ramshawe together.”
“You don’t owe me anything, sir,” replied the ex-SEAL. “It was an honor to carry out my duty.”
“I guess I’m getting too old for these front-line politics,” said the admiral. “And I think I might be getting stupid as well.”
“I’d find that very hard to accept,” said Sir Iain.
“Even if you took into consideration the very obvious truth, that young Jimmy Ramshawe has been trying to warn me for more than a month that this trip was a truly godawful idea?”
“But, Arnie,” protested Annie MacLean, “you can’t react to every wild theory that someone comes up with.”
“No. I guess that’s why I insisted on coming. It was as if I thought I could outsmart whoever these goddamned assassins were, no matter what the facts were telling me. Or at least were telling Ramshawe. I wasn’t listening.”
“It’s often the way with very clever people,” said Sir Iain. “They get so accustomed to being right, when everyone else is barking up the wrong tree, they end up thinking they can shape events just by their own intellect.”
“I think it’s sometimes called megalomania,” interjected Kathy, smiling for the first time in several hours. “Right now, I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. Because whoever opened fire on Arnie is still out there.”
Rick Hunter looked grim. He had shed his yellow police jacket, and it was currently lying on the banquette next to Kathy, covering up his CAR-15 rifle.
“He is still out there,” agreed the former SEAL. “And I’m assuming he’s still armed. We need to be very careful. I’ve called home, and the president has sent the 747 to pick us up at Edinburgh airport first thing tomorrow… we’re out of here, sir, no ifs, ands, or buts. Pushing your luck is one thing-but this is crazy.”
He glanced at his watch. It was thirty-five minutes after midnight. “It’s around 7:30 in Washington,” he said. “The boss said they’d be in the air from Andrews a half hour ago.”
“What time do we cast off tomorrow morning?” asked Admiral Morgan.
“They expect to refuel Air Force One at 7 A.M.,” replied Rick. “I guess we’ll get on board around 7:30. Leave here at 6:30.”
“Better get the hotel to give us a shout around five,” said Arnie.
“No need, sir. I won’t be sleeping,” said Rick. “Not until they shut the door of that aircraft and take off for the U.S. of A.”
“Well, I’m going to try to sleep,” murmured Kathy. “But I’m so tired, and so on edge, I expect it will be impossible. It’s not every day someone tries to blow your husband’s head off. But I’m kinda getting used to it.”
Everyone laughed. Nervously. And Rick summoned the two policemen standing inside the grill room doorway to step forward. Arnold’s four bodyguards, sitting at the next table, were also on their feet.
Flanked by his protectors, Admiral Morgan made his way out to the lobby, with Rick leading the way, his rifle now openly in the firing position. Sir Iain, Annie, and Kathy walked behind Arnold, with the two policemen bringing up the rear, weapons drawn.
All eleven of them stepped into the elevator, and all eleven stepped out at the sixteenth floor. They walked in convoy down to room 168, where two more policemen were on duty. The security men went in first, swept the rooms for intruders, pronounced them “clean,” and signaled for everyone to come in at last.
Rick announced that he would be on permanent duty and would like two of the bodyguards with him at all times. Al Thompson volunteered to share the first watch, and Rick detailed two policemen to stand guard in the corridor throughout the night.
Admiral MacLean, who had been subconsciously concerned that all this was giving Scotland one hell of a bad name, suggested that everyone gather for a farewell nightcap in the drawing room. “Who knows when we will all be together again?” he smiled.
Two of the policemen now went off duty and left the suite, walking along the corridor to the elevator. Neither of them was concerned by a maid pushing a trolley, about forty feet ahead of them. And neither of them saw her put a cell phone to her ear, which caused a soft ringtone high on the roof of the hotel.
Ravi was ready. His lines were clipped, harness tight, rifle loaded and ready. His balaclava was pulled down. He wore goggles, and he edged his way to the 180-foot precipice of the hotel roof.
Carefully he tested the lines, pulling on them hard, ensuring that they could take the strain; and then, for the second time this night, he leaned back and prepared to descend. He began slowly to abseil down the wall, until he was right above the line of windows on the sixteenth floor.
Right here he adjusted his clips, giving himself another six feet on both lines. Now poised high above Princes Street, he released the safety catch on the SA80, and said a final prayer to his God.
Admiral MacLean was just pouring four glasses of Scotland’s finest, when Ravi, with a massive double-footed kick, launched himself, temporarily, into space, backward, until his lines stretched tight to the horizontal. At which point, gravity took over, and Ravi plummeted downward and inward.
He hit the windowpane with the soles of both boots and obliterated the glass. The huge force of his body weight carried him through to the window ledge, and his rifle was already spitting bullets.
Ravi could see Admiral Morgan, and he had eyes for no other. He rammed down his finger on the trigger, aiming straight at Arnold. The first bullet ripped into the admiral’s shoulder, and a stain of blood seeped through his shirt.
And in that split second, Commander Rick Hunter swiveled and opened fire, pumping a line of 5.56-millimeter shells straight into the head of General Ravi Rashood, killing him instantly. Slowly he dropped his rifle and flopped backward through the window from whence he had come. His lines held fast, and the body of the Hamas C-in-C swung theatrically above Princes Street, steadily dripping blood on anyone who happened to be passing sixteen floors below.
The two policemen on duty outside the suite had now rushed inside, and Arnold’s wound was being wrapped in towels from the bathroom. Rick insisted that Arnie rest on the bed while he, so often the medic on his SEAL teams, took a look at it, mostly to make sure the bullet was not still in the admiral’s shoulder.
Arnold hung tough. “It’s bullshit,” he confirmed. “Stupid fucker couldn’t even shoot straight. No wonder he kept missing. Anyway, who the hell is he?”
At which point there was a gentle tap on the door, and a voice said “Room service.”
“Come in,” snapped the policeman, who at the time was fetching more towels. But Rick Hunter, suddenly remembering his instructions to the front desk, looked up just in time to see a service cart, laden with food covered with a white tablecloth, being pushed through the door.
“STOP!” he yelled. “GET OUT-RIGHT OUT! RIGHT NOW!”
But the service cart kept coming, and the good-looking, dark-haired maid from along the corridor kept pushing. She made it into the room, and then slid her right hand under the tablecloth, and when it emerged it was gripping the deadly Austrian revolver provided by Prenjit Kumar.
No one noticed, except Rick Hunter. And Shakira never had time to take aim at Admiral Morgan. Rick blew her away, studding her perfect face with a line of bullets that knocked her backward into the corridor, blood pumping from her head.
“JESUS CHRIST!” bellowed Arnold Morgan. “THIS IS LIKE THE FUCKING WILD WEST!”
By now there were about twenty more policemen thundering along the corridor. Squad cars, blue lights flashing, sirens howling, were pulling up outside the hotel’s main entrance. Lady MacLean had almost fainted with terror, and Kathy Morgan, as white as the tablecloth, was holding Arnold’s hand while her husband griped and moaned about too much fuss being made about a small incident.
It was after two o’clock when the room was restored almost to normal. The body of Ravi was hauled back onto the roof, and once more his lines held fast. They wheeled Shakira out on a hospital gurney, and the police summoned a doctor and three nurses from nearby Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to tend Arnold’s mercifully superficial wound.
“I’d prefer you to be treated in the hotel,” the chief superintendent told America’s former national security adviser. “I just have a feeling that if you step outside the door, another bloody gun battle might break out.”
Admiral Morgan chuckled and said, gruffly, “Words of appreciation don’t come naturally to me. But I would like to say ‘thank you’ for everything you all have done for me. I’ve been a very stubborn old man, and I’ve put a lot of good people in great danger.”
“For the last time,” responded Kathy. “Because you, Arnold Morgan, are retired-no more advising, no more telling presidents what to do. Your service to your country is over. That’s if you want to stay married.”