To The Death Part 39

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 h.e.l.lo to the doorman and headed straight up to his room, hoping to h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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. . . ." "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, 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. 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 G.o.dawful 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned a.s.sa.s.sins 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 a.s.suming 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, p.r.o.nounced 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d.

Admiral MacLean was just pouring four gla.s.ses of Scotland's finest, when Ravi, with a ma.s.sive double-footed kick, launched himself, temporarily, into s.p.a.ce, 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 gla.s.s. 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 pa.s.sing 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 bulls.h.i.t," he confirmed. "Stupid f.u.c.ker couldn't even shoot straight. No wonder he kept missing. Anyway, who the h.e.l.l 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. he yelled. "GET OUT-RIGHT OUT! RIGHT NOW!" "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 k.u.mar.

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. bellowed Arnold Morgan. "THIS IS LIKE THE f.u.c.kING WILD WEST!" "THIS IS LIKE THE f.u.c.kING 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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."

EPILOGUE.

0730 Wednesday 8 August Edinburgh Airport.

Air Force One was refueled. The stairway was in place, and the Royal Navy staff car pulled up twenty yards away. Admiral Morgan, with his arm around Kathy, stepped out and climbed the steps to the giant presidential aircraft, right behind Commander Hunter. The four American agents were already on board.

The huge door was immediately closed and the Boeing 747 that bore the Presidential Seal of the United States of America began to push back, ready to taxi down to the end of the runway.

Little was yet known about the ident.i.ty of the two would-be a.s.sa.s.sins, but the communications officer was instructed to stand by for information from the Lothian and Border Police in Edinburgh.

Somewhat poignantly, they were thirty thousand feet above West Cork at around 9 A.M. when the coded communique came through: Dead a.s.sa.s.sin identified as Major Ray Kerman, deserted from Great Britain's Special Air Service eight years ago. Dead hotel maid believed to be his Palestinian wife, Shakira Rashood. Search of her luggage, in Kerman's room, revealed five different pa.s.sports, one of them American in the name of Carla Martin. Both the deceased are believed to have been Islamic extremists operating on behalf of the terrorist organization, Hamas."

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned towelheads," growled Arnold Morgan.

Books by PATRICK ROBINSON:

NOVELS.

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