Barracuda 945 am-6

by Patrick Robinson

  "Is the place where the horses go before the race in the Royal Enclosure?"

  "No. It's outside down the lawn, where everyone can see them parade. Before that, there's a kind of saddling paddock with boxes where trainers fix the girths and stuff."

  "And is that in the enclosure?"

  "Well, no. No, it's not."

  "So you wouldn't even need one of those badges?"

  "I suppose not. But I am on the Ascot list. I've been on it since I was at Harrow. I'd have to have a badge… And that badge would probably finish me."

  "Ravi, my darling, you're going to talk to your parents, to give them reassurance, just for a little while, just to put their minds at rest, to let them know you're not dead. Nothing else is important. Anyway I would like to come too… "

  "Shakira. I'm not going. You're not going. I love you, and I'm not taking you into England. It's too dangerous."

  "So it might be. But I still think a big crowd is a very good way for you to disappear, then make contact and spend a half hour with your mother and father before you vanish from their lives again… perhaps forever."

  "Maybe," said Ravi. "But it's a risk I cannot take. Putting my mother's mind at rest is not worth the sacrifice of my own life. And that's what it would mean. They'd almost certainly make me stand trial for treason, killing two serving SAS NCOs in cold blood, to save a Palestinian girl. I don't think so."

  Shakira put her arm around his shoulder. "It's nice to know we are safe here, though," she said. "Safe from the horrible English. I do love you."

  The days in Syria were long and growing hotter. Ravi and Shakira had been given a large, rambling, eighteenth-century house around the corner from the Elissar restaurant in the eastern part of the old city. They had air-conditioning installed and settled into a relaxed and pleasant life in their new country.

  Most weeks they hosted at least two Hamas meetings, and most days they wandered around the covered bazaar. Sometimes Shakira cooked for just Ravi, other times for friends. They kept a near-permanent private table at the Elissar, which served the best food in the city, and they used her brother as a paid general helper, delivering messages, chauffeuring their medium-range Ford car, occasionally collecting visitors from the airport.

  Ravi had no money problems. He had been awarded "prize money" of $2 million after the two sensational bank heists in Israel, the $250,000 "expenses" had been wired into his account by the Iranians, and his annual "General's" salary of $100,000 was wired into an account he kept in Switzerland, approximately $2,000 a week. There was no question of tax.

  The house, on Sharia Bab Touma, was rapidly filling with travel books that contained information on all United States Embassies, Consulates, and Military garrisons, in Europe, South America, and Asia, and in far-flung outposts in the South Pacific, New Zealand, and Africa.

  With no active operations, they moved through the month of June calmly, even discussing their forthcoming marriage.

  But on Tuesday morning, June 13, he picked up an encrypted E-mail on his laptop computer direct from Iranian Naval HQ, which jacked Ravi's pulse up by several notches.

  "To General Rashood. FYI. Admiral Arnold Morgan believed to fly to London, Thursday, June 22, 1800 hours, Andrews Air Force Base-Northolt. Air Force One, ETA 0500 Friday, June 23. Staying privately, U.S. Ambassador, Regents Park. Funds, if necessary, through Iranian Embassy, 27 Prince's Gate. Prefer you employ third party. Adm. B."

  Shakira was asleep when he read it, at 5 a.m., and thoughts tumbled through his mind. Parents. Ascot. Same Day. Gold Cup. Assassination. England. Danger. Terrible danger. Was it worth it? Why? Time. Eight days from now. Planning. Assistance. No time. And yet, perhaps the finest hours lay just ahead… a dagger to the very heart of the Great Satan?

  At this precise moment, Ravi was stopped dead in his tracks. He recalled his final farewell to his mother, and the pain was as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. He doubted a day went by without her thinking of him. His father's hurt was probably worse. They, who had never wished anything but the best for him. He doubted God would lightly forgive him for this flagrant violation of their trust and hopes.

  Ravi committed the E-mail to memory, erased it from the computer, and retired to the kitchen to brew some tea. As if tuned in to the raging neurons in his brain, Shakira joined him, alert to his mood, dressed in a long white robe. She was sensational upon the eye, beneath her tousled jet black locks.

  "What's happened?" she said.

  "Oh, nothing. Just making some tea."

  "Yes, but… what's happened?"

  "Nothing, really. I had an E-mail from Bandar Abbas, and it made me wonder again whether I should try to find my parents at Ascot on the day of the horse race."

  "What did the E-mail say that made you wonder?"

  "Oh, it just mentioned a certain U.S. diplomat who might be in London in late June."

  "Surely no one you might want to meet."

  "No. Not really. Someone I might want to assassinate."

  "Wow! You mean personally? Or on behalf of a government?"

  "On behalf of the Nation of Islam."

  "Will you take him out before the horse race, or after?" Shakira spoke with complete seriousness, and Ravi laughed.

  "Oh, I shan't be involved myself. But I think they might like me to try to hire someone."

  "Good. Can I come?"

  "No. But I may take you some of the way."

  "Meaning?"

  "We might both go to Paris. Where I will leave you for two or three days."

  "And you go to London to the horse race and the assassination without me?"

  "More or less."

  "What's that? Yes or no?"

  "Yes. I would have to leave you because my mission may be dangerous, and I don't want you to end up in a British jail. Even if I do."

  "Oh."

  "And we don't have much time to make our arrangements. Later today, I must call Admiral Badr, and the Syrian Embassy in London. It's in Belgrave Square. I need to fix a badge for the horse races. The Syrian diplomats are more acceptable to the British than the Iranians."

  "But I thought we said you did not need one to see the horses before they race?"

  "No. You said that. But I know I must have a proper badge. Royal Ascot is like a club for some people, the English upper classes. Without that little colored badge I'd feel half dressed. And if I did need to talk to anyone, the badge will give me status, make me look bona fide, as if I am there legally, still a part of the regiment. But this is not a military place. And you see very few serving officers. It's too expensive."

  "What about Frederick Astaire's morning clothes?"

  "I need my morning coat, top hat, and tails. That way I can relax, properly dressed, with proper credentials. Nothing suspicious. I'll just be a smart public school-educated Army Officer enjoying a day at the races."

  "What will it say on your badge?"

  "The least possible. Just R. Kerman, Esq. Unobtrusive. And I'm not going into the Enclosure, so I won't have to run the gauntlet with those bloody gatemen."

  Six Days Later

  Monday, June 19, 2006

  Paris

  The Air France Boeing 737 from Damascus touched down at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, nineteen miles northeast of Paris, two and a half hours late at four o'clock in the afternoon. Ravi and Shakira hurried through Terminal Two and picked up a cab, directing it to the long narrow Rue du Bac in the Saint Germain area of the city, on the Left Bank.

  In moderate traffic, they pulled up outside the Hotel Bac St. Germain forty minutes later. To Shakira it seemed she was visiting the City of Light with the most sophisticated man in the entire world. But Ravi's hotel selection was made from horizons more narrow than she knew.

  He had only ever been to one hotel in Paris in his life. And this was it, his parents' favorite, a charming, moderately priced, twenty-one-room establishment that served breakfast in the summer months high on a rooftop terrace with a grand fountain in the center.
<
br />   Richard Kerman always stayed here, mainly because he liked the terrace and the discreet, semiluxurious nature of the place. Young Ravi had never forgotten the sweeping views over the city he saw as he tackled his first-ever croissant and poured himself hot chocolate from a special pot with sideways handles.

  Behind him to the west, jutting into the sky above the grand buildings of the French Government Ministries, was the Eiffel Tower. Out in front, a few hundred yards away was the Cathedral of Notre Dame set on its ancient island in the middle of the River Seine. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the chocolat chaud to the twelve-year-old Ravi. "This," he had muttered, "is plainly the life for me."

  Twenty-four years later, he was back, under very different circumstances, some of which were markedly better, such as the beautiful Palestinian girl with whom he would sleep and have breakfast. Some were sharply worse, like the need for secrecy, the false name, the forged passport, the wariness, the need to remain separate from other guests.

  In general terms, Ravi was pleased to be here, however briefly. And she, in turn, was breathtakenly awed by the size and beauty of the French capital.

  They checked into the Bac, as the French call the hotel, without incident or questions, as Ravi took the greatest care not to reveal he was the son of one of the hotel's best and most long-standing clients. He thought he recognized the proprietor from all those years ago, but he betrayed nothing and wondered cheerfully whether the same lady still mixed the chocolat chaud. He certainly hoped so.

  Shakira was thrilled by the mass of foreign satellite channels on the television in the room, and had to be coaxed away to dine on that Monday night. It was raining lightly, and they were both tired, gladly accepting the recommendation of the hotel doorman to try, just a few doors away, the Gaya Rive Gauche, the Left Bank outpost of the famous Paris seafood restaurant on the Rue Duphot.

  They ate tiny clams prepared with thyme as a first course, and then a superbly grilled fresh sole for Ravi, and turbot with hollandaise sauce for Shakira. The maitre d' recommended a bottle of 1998 Chablis from the impeccable Tonnerre estate of Monsieur Jean-Marie Raveneau. At the conclusion of their dinner, the vivacious freedom fighter and bank robber from the backstreets of the Jerusalem Road in Hebron found herself echoing the distant sentiments of General Rashood. "This is, quite probably, the life for me."

  And so it was. But not for long. The next morning, Tuesday, time was short. The rain had stopped and the weather was bright. They had a hurried breakfast on the roof, croissants and fresh fruit, and Ravi was nearly certain the same lady had made the chocolat chaud.

  But he had to leave. Back in their room, he packed quickly and gave Shakira one thousand Euros to sustain her in Paris until Friday evening, when he would hopefully return with the love of his parents rekindled and the elimination of Arnold Morgan among his list of achievements.

  He settled the hotel bill in Euros, cash, and handed Shakira a piece of paper containing the name of a contact in the Syrian Embassy to whom she should report in any crisis or in the event of his death or capture.

  He kissed her lovingly good-bye, and took a cab straight along the river and up the wide Boulevard Sebastopol to the Gare du Nord train station, a ten-minute ride. His booking on the eleven o'clock Eurostar Express to London's Waterloo Station was confirmed, and he slept most of the three hours it took to cross northern France, traverse the tunnel under the English Channel, and then charge through the county of Kent at high speed into Central London.

  By three o'clock he was inside the Syrian Embassy in Belgrave Square, his headquarters until Friday morning and a living tribute to the iron bonds that held the unspoken world of Islamic Fundamentalism together. Syria and Iran, Palestine and Iraq, blood brothers in Jihad, in the fight against Israel and the West.

  That night Ravi dined with two military attaché’s and a member of the Syrian "security" forces. None of them had much to add about the arrival of Arnold Morgan, except to confirm the times and reconfirm they knew nothing about his schedule.

  No one seemed hopeful, but first thing on Wednesday morning, they drove a car with diplomatic plates around Regent's Park, checking out vantage points that might give a view of the U.S. Ambassador's private residence. It was not promising. The top adviser to the American President would arrive in a military staff car surrounded by agents. It would take a huge slice of luck for security to be so lax a marksman could hit Vice Admiral Morgan with a silenced rifle and then make an escape.

  It might be possible from somewhere near the boating lake or from a hide in Queen Mary's Gardens, but there would almost certainly be too many people. Nonetheless, they decided that this early-morning rendezvous at dawn was an opportunity to be explored.

  A hit man would be loitering outside the Central Mosque, west of the boating lake from 5 a.m. onward. He would take instruction from General Rashood only, and no instruction would be given if there was the slightest risk either of them would be apprehended. This would depend on the size of the police escort and the U.S. Security staff.

  Ravi was not optimistic, but luck is an unexpected ally at times. Maybe the Admiral would arrive with just a couple of agents and no extra police on duty because of the early hour. In any event, there would be three getaway cars positioned on the outer Circle near Hanover Terrace, Clarence Gate, and opposite the Royal Academy of Music.

  If the Syrian sniper could make a couple of shots, it was the best possible time to hit and run. Clear roads, light traffic, and minimum law enforcement. Ravi would make his decision at first light on Friday morning when the U.S. Admiral arrived.

  If the operation succeeded, Ravi would lie low in the Embassy through the weekend and then leave for Paris by train from Ashford Station in Kent on a British passport under the name of John Farmer, a local landowner from nearby Bethersden.

  Meanwhile, he had another task to attend: a visit to number 86, The Bishop's Avenue, which would, he was certain, be completely empty. His parents always rented a house in Winkfield Row for the Royal Ascot meeting and they always took with them their permanent in-house staff of Joe and Edna Wallace, butler/chauffeur and cook/housekeeper. Mrs. Kerman did have an extra daily cleaner in London, and there was a three-day-a-week gardener, but none of them would be at the main house during Royal Ascot.

  The Kermans entertained quite lavishly on the Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of the Royal Ascot meeting but dined out on Friday, usually at the home of the former Conservative Cabinet Minister Sir Henry Tattendon-Sykes.

  Ravi elected to go home by, taxi, confident he could have it pull into the driveway, behind the high walls and out of sight of the neighbors. He was right. It went off without a hitch, and he walked quietly around to the back of the house to a line of large terra-cotta tubs full of flowering geraniums. Under the third one from the left, he knew, was the spare key.

  He stood at the rear door and prayed the numbers had not been changed, which, amazingly, they had not. And he immediately disarmed the burglar alarm by punching in the numbers of his own birth date, 180570. That stopped the buzzer, and he bounded through the house, up the main stairs, hard right along the corridor to his old bedroom.

  Inside, nothing had changed since the day he had left. He opened the door to his wardrobe and everything was exactly as he expected, his morning coat hanging neatly on the left-hand side, next to three dark gray suits. He grabbed the coat and striped pants on the same hanger, took the gray waistcoat from the upper shelf, a plain midnight blue silk tie from the rack, then dived into the drawer for the correct shirt. He had black socks and shoes with him.

  He ran down the stairs, clutching everything under his arm, banged in the numbers to the burglar alarm, watched the digital sign leave now light up on the little screen, and slipped out of the door, double-locking it behind him.

  He replaced the key and walked back to the taxi, which was now turned around ready to drive him back to the Embassy. Risky, sentimental mission accomplished.

  Ravi ordered the cabbie to dri
ve down to Regent's Park and to take a turn around the Inner Circle, then make a slow circuit of the Outer Circle, before heading west along the Marylebone Road and then south to Marble Arch, Park Lane, and Belgrave Square.

  The driver did as he was instructed, charged £40 for the trip and was glad to be handed £50 for his trouble.

  Ravi spent the early evening with his Syrian colleagues, working on a detailed map of the Regent's Park area, and inspecting the beautifully made SSG 69 Austrian sniper rifle the marksman would use on Friday morning, Allah willing, in Regent's Park.

  This is one of the most deadly long-range rifles in the world. Superbly engineered, in the right hands it can achieve a six-round grouping of less than 15.5 inches at a range of a half mile. Bolt-actioned, with a 6-by-24 ZFM telescopic sight, it fires a lethal, single 7.62-mm shell, which leaves the cold-forged barrel at a speed of 860 meters per second.

  The specimen currently in the hands of the General was engineered into three pieces, to fit into a seventeen-inch-long, hard leather briefcase. Its black, matte-finished cycolac stock unscrewed at the thin neck right behind the trigger guard. The barrel unscrewed at a point four inches in front of the iron rear sight. This delicate conversion work had been carried out by an Austrian jeweler, with the help of a precision gunsmith, and it fitted snugly into deep velvet grooves, in the black innocent-looking briefcase.

  Ready to fire, with a five-round drum magazine in place, it would take no more than twelve seconds to assemble, and even less to dismantle. The marksman would be dressed in city clothes, his hands spotless having made the professional sniper's routine check, wiping off any excess oil inside the rifle, thus eliminating any telltale puff of smoke on firing.

  General Ravi liked it. He actually loved it, and hoped to hell the man he would meet on Friday morning knew how to use it. Knew how to blow away Arnold Morgan's head from the cover of a carefully selected forsythia bush, long beyond flower but large and leafy and strategically perfect to hide a lone assassin, east of the boating lake.