To The Death Part 30

0900 Sat.u.r.day 28 July Southall, West London.

Ravi drove out to the workshops of Prenjit k.u.mar alone. He parked the car in the same spot and was led down to the bas.e.m.e.nt by the gunsmith himself. And there, lying open on the red baize beneath the light, was a hand-tooled brown leather case containing all the parts of an Austrian SSG 69 sniper rifle, each one set into precision grooves carved into a black velvet interior.

The barrel rested in its own groove, above the main firing section, which contained the bolt and the magazine, plus the trigger and guard. The silencer also had its own section, around which were set the light metal components which would form the newly designed stock, made specifically to fit General Rashood's shoulder and arm length. Along the bottom part of the interior were s.p.a.ces for six of the exploding bullets, and the gunsights.

"Problems?" asked Ravi.

"None," replied k.u.mar, "except that I have had no sleep for a week."

"Then you have earned your money," he said. "Perhaps you would a.s.semble the rifle and then I'll dismantle it and put it together myself."

"Of course," replied the Bengali gunsmith. "And I hope you agree, this is the most beautiful object, a work of art. Very light and very deadly."

He removed the main firing section from the case and picked up the barrel carefully, as if he were handling precious gems. Expertly he screwed the barrel into place, and then clipped in the sights.

He took out the metal plate that screwed into the neck behind the trigger guard, and then took two silver struts for the stock and screwed each one into place, using just his fingers. The top one went out straight, perpendicular. The second was set at more of an angle, but finished level at the end. Then he took the cast-bronze base of the stock, made to fit Ravi's shoulder precisely, and clipped it onto the struts, forming the outline shape of a rifle stock, but without the bulk. Ravi looked on approvingly.

Above the magazine there were two clips, set five inches apart. To these k.u.mar attached the telescopic sight, sliding it into place and locking it securely. Finally he screwed the silencer into the barrel. And then he held the rifle at arm's length and said, admiringly, "Magnificent, hah?"

Ravi took it from him and held it against his shoulder, staring into the telescopic sight, straight at the crosshairs. Then he relaxed and held the rifle in the palms of both hands, away from his body, as if weighing it, balancing it. During his years in the SAS, this weapon, or one precisely like it, had been like an old friend-super accurate, super quiet, and super reliable, all the qualities a professional sniper requires.

This SSG looked different now. But it felt the same, a little lighter, but with the same familiar well-balanced deadliness about it.

"Can we try it?" he asked.

"Certainly," said k.u.mar. "Follow me. I'll bring a half dozen practice bullets." He walked to a door set halfway along the exterior wall, opened it, and beckoned Ravi through. The corridor was well lit, and they walked maybe twenty yards to an indoor shooting range-a long dark tunnel, lit only at the far end, where a large target had been set on an easel. There were wires attached to the target, which was a twelve-inch-wide bull's-eye. In front of Ravi just below shoulder level was a countertop on which to lean.

"You have five bullets," said k.u.mar. "Let's see how the rifle suits you."

Ravi leaned forward and, pushing the specially designed safety catch, freed up the rifle to fire. He aimed carefully, placing the crosshairs right across the red heart of the target. He squeezed the trigger, but the target was fifty yards away and it was difficult to see the result of his marksmanship.

In fact, Ravi took no notice of his success or failure. He just fired all five, and then signaled for Mr. k.u.mar to pull up the target for inspection. The Indian wound it in with a small wheel, exactly the same as in a fairground, but he raised his eyebrows when he checked the piece of cardboard.

All five bullets had gone through virtually the same hole. To the left, there was a very slight bulge, maybe an eighth of an inch, and at the bottom there was another minuscule variance. None of the five shots had strayed beyond the basic red circle of the bull.

"Very nice, Mr. Spencer. Very nice indeed. It's a privilege to be in the company of a master."

"Sentiments I share," replied Ravi. "This is an outstanding rifle, and I thank you."

Together they walked back into the main workshop, and Ravi carefully dismantled the weapon, placing each piece into its allotted slot in the new case. He took his time and then clipped the case shut. He handed over a large brown envelope that contained the balance of the money, again two hundred 50 notes. And again, Prenjit k.u.mar did not count it.

This omission was noted by Ravi, who perfectly understood that there had been no necessity to check the cash for the down payment last week, since he was scheduled to return. This, however, was different. After today, Ravi would probably never see the gunsmith again, and he looked up and said, "You don't want to count it?"

The Bengali smiled. "Of course not," he replied. "I know when I am in the presence of a gentleman."

And then he presented Ravi with a heavy cardboard box, around five inches square and three deep. "There's thirty practice bullets in here," he said. "You will want to adjust the sights for perfect vision from the precise distance of your target. It may take a while, of trial and error, so I have given you plenty of ammunition. Here also are three targets that may be useful."

General Rashood smiled and thanked him. He offered his hand and said quietly, "Mr. k.u.mar, there are only five people in the world who know that you have made this rifle for me. Two of them you know, and all of them I know. Should anyone discover our secret, all four of us will know that you have been indiscreet. I am sure you understand what the penalty would be."

"Mr. Spencer," he replied, "my own risk is equally great. There will be no indiscretions, I a.s.sure you."

Before he led Ravi up the green-carpeted stairs to the front door, he presented him with one further item, wrapped in a black velvet bag. "This is the pistol you requested. It's a new Austrian Glock 17 9mm. The safety catch comes off when the trigger is pressed. It will not discharge if you drop it. And it will not let you down."

Once more they shook hands, and the master terrorist softly said good-bye to the gunsmith from Bengal.

He drove back to the emba.s.sy in a thoughtful mood, aware that this was Sat.u.r.day and of how much he longed to take Shakira out for the evening, perhaps the theatre, and then dinner at the Ivy where the "stars" are apt to gather after a show. Ravi did not have a shred of time for self-obsessed play-actors or any other kind of celebrities, but Shakira would have loved it. Anyway, he doubted that he could have secured a table.

And a much bigger "anyway" was that the entire thing was out of the question. One recognition, by anyone from his former life, and he'd either have to kill them or flee the country. So once more he faced up to a long waiting day at the emba.s.sy. Aside from the boredom, he was, however, eternally grateful for the perfection of the cover he enjoyed behind the ramparts of No. 8 Belgrave Square.

Up in their bedroom, he presented Shakira with the pistol, which k.u.mar had thoughtfully loaded, and Shakira did precisely as she was told and placed it in her large handbag. "You will carry that wherever you go," he told her. "We have many enemies."

They had lunch at the emba.s.sy, where the cooks were under orders always to produce food that reminded the amba.s.sador of the desert and the culture of the northern end of the Arabian Peninsula. Thus lunch when it arrived was chicken kebabs, rice, houmus, and salad.

They sipped fruit juice and then sat in the opulent rear drawing room. They read the newspapers, and Ravi watched the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot, won for the umpteenth time by the Irish with a superb dark bay colt sired by the Coolmore-based champion stallion, Galileo.

Shakira, who had been paying scant attention, suddenly heard the word "Coolmore" and almost jumped out of her chair. "I've been there!" she exclaimed.

"Where? Ascot?" asked Ravi.

"No, Coolmore," she said. "I visited it while I was waiting for you in Ireland."

"Did you see the great Galileo? That horse who just won was his son."

"Well, I didn't actually go in, but I saw the big iron gates, and I saw all the green countryside where the horses live. It's in Tipperary."

Ravi, of course, like anyone with the remotest knowledge of horse racing, knew all about Coolmore. He grinned at Shakira and asked, "How on earth did you find your way down there?"

"I met a man in the hotel in Dublin who owned a filly foal. I think she was born there," she replied, accurately. "And it was very important to him that her brother, called Easter Rebel, would win the Irish Stakes or something."

"The what?"

"The Irish something. I can't remember. But it mattered to him."

"That would have been the first week in July. It was probably the Irish Derby."

"Derby, that's it. He wanted Easter Rebel to win the Irish Derby."

"And did he?"

"I forgot to find out."

Ravi laughed. "I'm not sure you've mastered an in-depth appreciation of horse racing," he said. "Otherwise, you'd have remembered to find out what happened to Easter Rebel."

"I'll tell you what I do remember," she retorted. "Easter Rebel was also the son of that telescope man-what's his name, Galileo."

"Was he? Well, you ought to know whether the Rebel won and made your new friend rich."

"How can I find out?"

"I'll do that for you. If I can use that laptop computer over there on the sideboard."

Ravi walked over and opened it. He searched with Google and found a site for the Racing Post. Racing Post. Then he tapped in the name "Easter Rebel" and, nine seconds later, learned that the colt had not won the Irish Derby, but had been beaten by a head in a photo finish. Then he tapped in the name "Easter Rebel" and, nine seconds later, learned that the colt had not won the Irish Derby, but had been beaten by a head in a photo finish.

"Just lost," he told Shakira. And he made a signal with his right hand, placing his index finger about a quarter of an inch above his thumb. "That much," he added.

"Poor Mr. O'Donnell will be very sad," she said.

"I a.s.sure you he won't," said Ravi. "I expect he's going to sell his filly, and most breeders would be happy going through the ring with a sister to a colt beaten by a head in the Irish Derby. Don't feel sorry for him."

"Okay, I won't."

"Was his filly also by Galileo?"

"Can't remember," she said absently, leafing through her fashion magazine.

Life and death for Mr. O'Donnell, total lack of interest by Shakira. Ravi smiled and thought of his father, the man the newspapers always referred to as the "shipping tyc.o.o.n and racehorse breeder." "shipping tyc.o.o.n and racehorse breeder."

He missed seeing his family but was certain that they now knew what he had done and what disgrace he had brought upon them all. Treason, mutiny, murder. My G.o.d! He hardly dared to think about it.

Toward the end of the afternoon, Ravi retired to his emba.s.sy suite, leaving Shakira to watch a sitcom on the television. He opened the leather case and started counting. Carefully he took out the sections of the rifle, a.s.sembling them into the finely engineered finished product.

Then he started his count again, disa.s.sembled the weapon, and placed the pieces back in the case. It had taken him twenty-eight seconds to put it together and twenty-four seconds to take it apart. The twenty-eight did not matter, but the twenty-four was critical and it was too long. From the moment he fired that lethal 7.62mm sh.e.l.l at the admiral's unprotected head, every second counted. Because right then he would be in the critical part of the operation, the getaway.

Twenty-four seconds was almost a half minute. There would be, he knew, American Secret Service agents, London police security, and possibly military personnel swarming outside the Ritz. If they had even an inkling of where the bullet had come from, they would be across Piccadilly in fifteen seconds and into the building where his office was situated. If they were through those gla.s.s doors before he was out, he'd be trapped, overwhelmed, and headed for the gallows on charges of murder and high treason against Her Majesty's forces.

That twenty-four seconds had to be reduced, and if it couldn't, he might have to abort the mission. But Ravi knew it could. Over and over, he a.s.sembled the rifle and then disa.s.sembled it. For almost two hours he practiced, finally realizing that the princ.i.p.al solutions to the operation were the swift removal of the telescopic sight and the level of tightness on the wide silver-plated finger screw which attached the stock to the neck.

After another hour, he could disa.s.semble that sniper rifle in eighteen seconds. Within two hours, he had it down to twelve, and those twelve seconds would be all he could afford while packing the rifle away and bolting down the stairs to the freedom of Dover Street.

Early that evening, before dinner with the amba.s.sador, Ravi went shopping alone. He walked through to Knightsbridge and wandered into Harrods, to the busy ground-floor men's department where once he had shopped with his mother, purchasing a new tweed jacket for school. Today he wanted a new dark gray suit, a blazer, a few shirts, a couple of ties, boxer shorts, socks, and shoes.

It took him forty-five minutes to punch a serious hole in 2,500, and he paid with his Amex card, which would eventually be billed to the government of Jordan via the Paris emba.s.sy. He then made his way to men's sporting goods and purchased a loose-fitting tracksuit and a medium-sized athlete's duffel bag.

Casting aside the green Harrods plastic shopping bags, he folded his purchases neatly into the sports bag and walked back to the emba.s.sy via Sloane Street and Cadogan Place. He and Shakira dined with the amba.s.sador that evening, in company with two visiting Saudi sheiks.

The following morning, Sunday, July 29, the day before Admiral and Mrs. Morgan were due to board the London flight from Washington, D.C., Ravi summoned the Audi from the Motcombe Street garage and asked one of the emba.s.sy staff to fill the tank, because he and Shakira were going on a journey of almost 150 miles.

They left at around 11 A.M., both dressed casually in jeans and sneakers, Shakira wearing a blue shirt and denim jacket, Ravi in his black T-shirt and suede jacket. This was his Irish killing gear, although he did not antic.i.p.ate murdering anyone today. Indeed, he did not expect to meet, or speak to, one other member of the human race all day.

They once more drove west, but not on the gloomy old A-4 under the Chiswick flyover. This time they sped straight over the top and out onto the wide, fast M-4 motorway. They drove past Heathrow and proceeded for almost an hour to where the landscape begins to rise into the foothills of the Berkshire Downs.

They left the M-4 at Junction 13 and headed north up the A-34 toward Oxford, finally branching left to the switchback road that leads to the village of West Ilsley. This is land where all villages seem to lie in the folds in the Downs, invisible until you are actually in them.

Ravi remembered this country well. He had been out here many times with his father, to look at racehorses being worked, to visit his father's two trainers. In his mind, he recalled the majestic sweep of the Berkshire and Oxfordshire "prairies," miles and miles of undulating land where wheat and barley are grown, the endless fields split only by narrow roads and the horse-training gallops.

But most of all, he remembered the long woods, big but narrow growths of trees set high on the summits. In particular, he recalled those above the horse-racing village of Lambourn. He had seen nothing like it, anywhere in the world, these stark stands of high trees, sometimes four hundred yards long and rarely more than a hundred yards deep, like great, dark Medieval castles ranged along the heights.

Ravi did not know precisely where he was going, but he would know it when he saw it. And he drove through West Ilsley and on through the prairies, through literally square miles of ripening wheat and barley, up through the high village of Farnborough, and then fast down the three-mile-long hill to the town of Wantage, birthplace of King Alfred the Great and the largest town in the fabled Vale of the White Horse.

From here, he drove along the road that leads to the 374-foot chalk carving of the white horse, which has peered across the valley at Uffington for more than two thousand years. Ravi, however, swerved off up the hill to the sensational view of the Lambourn Downs, right across the rolling land, to the castles he had come for, the long woods. And there they were, ranged before him, forbidding, even in the bright summer sunlight. The one closest to him stood high above one of the most important jump-racing stables in the world, that of the maestro Nicky Henderson, G.o.dson of the late Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery of Alamein.

Like all of the other five long woods, this one was shadowed, several hundred yards in length, and only a hundred yards wide maximum. It did, however, unlike the others, lack privacy, because the road down to Lambourn village ran hard beside it.

Ravi stopped the car and stared out toward the west. High on the Downs to the left, there was the wood that runs close to the gallops used by many trainers. Directly in front, maybe a mile away, were two high woods situated way up on the land above Kingston Warren. But down below, at the far end of the hundreds of acres belonging to Henry Candy and his family, there was a long wood set in a shallow valley, completely out of view of the trainer's house.

This was a very lonely spot, on the edge of the border country between Henderson and Candy, neither of whom was in any way acquainted with the Hamas commander in chief. It was absolutely perfect for a quiet spell of fine-tuning for a planned a.s.sa.s.sination.

Ravi drove down from the hills and parked the Audi. He took out the brown leather case and left Shakira in the pa.s.senger seat. He walked to the end of the wood, studied the landscape for a few minutes, then climbed the gate and entered the deserted wood. It was just one o'clock on this Sunday, lunchtime. Ravi remembered quite enough about England to know that this was a sacred time for men who work seven days a week throughout the racing season. He did not expect to be disturbed.

First he walked into the center of the trees, and then chose his "range." He used a small drawing pin to fix one of Mr. k.u.mar's targets to the tall trunk of an ancient oak, two feet off the ground, giving him a downward angle. Then he walked back for sixty paces.

He a.s.sembled his rifle, fitted the silencer, and slid a practice bullet into the breech. He stared through the telescopic sight and then made two small adjustments on the screws that varied the crosshairs. There was nowhere to rest the weapon, which there would be in his office, so he leaned on a tree to steady his aim, and squeezed the trigger. The sound was hardly discernible, and, still holding the rifle, Ravi walked the hundred paces to the target and saw that the bullet had smashed into it around three inches to the left of center.

He walked back and once more adjusted the crosshairs. Then he fired again, and again, and again. When he walked back to the target, he could see that he was still slightly left. Once more he made the slight adjustment. Too far. Three more bullets. .h.i.t home a fraction to the right. They were well grouped, but right.

The operation took another twenty minutes of painstaking correcting and recorrecting, back and forth in this gloomy private firing range, undisturbed, unseen, and all alone.

Finally he had the range and the accuracy. He took down the two battered targets and fixed his last new one to the tree. Again he walked back, reached his firing mark, leaned on the tree, aimed, and fired. This time he required only one shot.

He walked back to the target, which was pristine save for one small round hole, 7.62mm across, straight through the dead center of the bull's-eye. The next time he fired the SSG, the bullet would smash straight through Arnold Morgan's skull, metal splitting the bone, and then blowing the great man's brains out. Instant death. Ravi was certain that he could not miss.

Slowly he dismantled the rifle and, with the utmost care, placed it back in its case and clipped it shut. That, he decided, was a good day's work. The long wood at the end of Henry Candy's one-mile gallop would keep the secret well, and he sincerely hoped Mr. k.u.mar would do the same.

CHAPTER 11

Monday 30 July London.

General Rashood had been curiously out of touch with the outside world for almost the entire month of July. In particular, he had been out of touch with the United States of America. And since the death of Matt Barker, Shakira too had little or no idea what America was thinking with regard to her crime, and whether anyone had connected her activities with Admiral Morgan.

No one from the Hamas organization had dared to put in a cell-phone call to either of them, and E-mail was impossible since neither Ravi nor Shakira was traveling with a computer. The general's regular contact in the United States, Ahmed, the cultural attache at the Jordanian emba.s.sy in Washington, was aware of the furor Shakira had left behind in Brockhurst, but had been able only to inform the Hamas High Command in Gaza.

And since, at the time, General Rashood was deep underwater in the Mediterranean Sea, it was a) nearly impossible, b) unwise, and c) totally unnecessary to risk satellite detection, so they sent not a screed of information about his wife's antics on the other side of the world.

Thus Ravi was operating totally in the dark. He had no idea whether anyone in the USA understood that Admiral Morgan might be in danger. Shakira had, of course, told him precisely what had happened, but she had been far away from Brockhurst even before they discovered Matt Barker's body. She was on the other side of the world before the Washington press corps finally switched on to her absence.

The questions haunted the general. What level of security was being employed for the admiral's trip? How many agents from the USA would accompany him? What did the Brits think? Had they been requested to provide extra security? Would Admiral Morgan be surrounded by CIA hard men? Did Scotland Yard have their typical shoot-on-sight team awaiting his arrival?

And, perhaps above all, how long was the admiral staying at the Ritz? How long did Ravi have? If there was a foul-up, where would he and Shakira next locate Admiral and Kathy Morgan?

Ravi could only find answers in the broadest possible sense. In his opinion, Shakira would most certainly have been found out. The FBI would have interviewed anyone in Brockhurst who knew her, and that would most certainly include Mrs. Gallagher. Yes, there would be heavy security surrounding the admiral. And yes, the CIA would almost certainly have been in touch with the British authorities concerning the protection of President Bedford's closest personal adviser, the man who had put him in power.

In Ravi's mind, the worst possible time to attempt the a.s.sa.s.sination would be the moment of the admiral's arrival. If the security was anything like as ironclad as he thought, it would be impossible to strike and then get away. There would be police everywhere, probably outriders on motorcycles, and it would be early morning, the streets of London not yet busy. Ravi did not relish the thought of being pursued across a near-deserted Berkeley Square by mounted officers, sirens wailing.