To The Death Part 38

Expertly, the a.s.sistant 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 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." 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."

1600 Monday 6 August Inveraray.

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 ma.s.sed 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 a.s.sess where an a.s.sa.s.sin 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 ma.s.sed 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 a.s.sault 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 ma.s.sed bands of the Royal Marines with their "Celebration of Trafalgar," and the 600-strong ma.s.sed 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 cla.s.sical 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 a.s.sault on the great Scottish fortress.

Both men, on this night, would sleep uneasily. And the issue for both of them was timing.

1500 Tuesday 7 August.

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 un.o.btrusively 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, la.s.sie. 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. The Scotsman.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d 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 f.u.c.king Highland fling or whatever the h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed, 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 un.o.btrusively back to his hideout, unseen and un.o.bserved. 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 ma.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sault 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.