To the Death am-10

by Patrick Robinson

  “Correct. With case.”

  “And, Mr. Spencer, the payment method? After I tell you the cost.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Including everything. The purchase of the original. The hours of highly skilled work. The new materials, the practice bullets, the specialized target bullets. I would not touch it for under twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Cash,” said Ravi. “Ten thousand now. Ten more when I pick it up. How long?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Too long. I need it by Saturday morning next week.”

  Prenjit Kumar was silent. “Mr. Spencer, I would have to work on that rifle night and day, to the exclusion of all else. There may be some adjustment in the cost.”

  Ravi, however, knew one thing for absolute certain: he knew the hawk-faced Indian before him understood that there were ten thousand pounds in his pocket. Ten thousand pounds that he did not get offered every day.

  “There will be no adjustment,” he said. “The time you work is not relevant. You know what I want. You have stated a price and I have agreed. It matters not whether it takes you one week or one year. The price is the same.”

  “And what if you should arrive and the weapon is not completed?”

  “In that case, I would have to make other arrangements and use a different rifle. One that might expose me to greater risk. And you would be very disappointed, and perhaps even resentful, and then I would have to kill you.”

  Kumar was well used to dealing with the thugs of the international arms-dealing world, the occasional terrorist, and regular mercenaries. But the man standing before him was like no one he had ever met. To his dark eyes, Ravi was calm but menacing, confident but careful, and there was a coldness about him that had alarm bells ringing in the Indian gunsmith’s head.

  “Your rifle will be ready, Mr. Spencer,” he said.

  “Twenty thousand?”

  “Twenty thousand,” he repeated. “And I am assuming you will want bullets that will explode on impact, making survival from a head shot impossible.”

  “Yes,” said Ravi. “Those will do very well.” He reached into the right inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope which contained two hundred £50 notes. He handed it to Kumar, who acknowledged the down payment with a smile and a respectful nod of his head. He did not count the banknotes.

  Kumar escorted him to the front door, the two men shook hands, but before he left, Ravi had one last request.

  “Kumar,” he said, “I would also like you to provide me with a pistol. Standard issue, but lightweight and terminally deadly with one shot.”

  “That will not be a problem,” the Indian replied. “I’ll find you something, and there will be no further charge.”

  The Hamas C-in-C smiled at this confirmation that £20,000 had indeed proved ample payment. And he climbed behind the wheel of the Audi and headed out of the driveway. Hardly glancing to the left or right, he and Shakira drove straight back to the Syrian embassy, from which he would scarcely venture during the coming week.

  Meanwhile, news of General Rashood’s sudden appearance in Holyhead flashed through the intelligence networks. New Scotland Yard in London, while anxious not to make a public manhunt out of it, pressed all the buttons to ensure that the archterrorist would not find it easy to leave the country.

  The photograph was circulated to all seaports and airports. Serving officers and men from 22 SAS who had known Major Ray Kerman were seconded in teams of six to check passengers at every port of entry or exit in the country. They were detailed to find him at any cost, and not to allow him to slip through the net.

  The police, customs officials, and security guards had their leaves canceled in the areas where General Rashood might show up. Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, and Manchester airports looked like military strongholds. The English Channel seaports were steel-ringed with military personnel and armed police who boarded the ferries, searched the freighters, and checked out private yachts.

  Even the smaller airports, Bristol, Bournemouth, Southampton, New-castle, Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Prestwick, were inundated with police and antiterrorist officers. Most of the airport and seaport staff had no idea why there was this sudden red alert. But the atmosphere was so serious, everyone was happy to cooperate. Flights were delayed, ships were held up, and no one even caught a sniff of General and Mrs. Rashood.

  This was mostly because they never again left the Syrian embassy for the first five days of their visit. They were officially on Syrian soil, even though it was in Belgrave Square, and all of those usual diplomatic taboos were strictly observed at the Court of St. James. The London police did not harass the embassies, because retaliation was too easy: give the Syrians a hard time in London, and the next thing would be some kind of a witchhunt at the British embassy in north Damascus.

  Back in the USA, Lt. Commander Ramshawe was helpless. There was nothing the Americans could do except offer assistance if required. The Hamas military boss and his wife were in hiding somewhere in the UK, and no one knew any more. And with each passing day, Arnold and Kathy were one step closer to the assassination attempt Jimmy Ramshawe was certain would happen.

  All week there was only one break. At 0630 (local) on Tuesday morning, July 24, the Royal Navy ops room at the Gibraltar Station detected the Iranian Kilo moving slowly through the Strait, a hundred feet below the surface. They picked her up again several hours later, snorkeling in the narrow seaway, and reported it back to COMSUBLANT.

  Again there was nothing anyone could do. The Iranians, despite some hefty breaches of international law, were still entitled to send their navy anywhere they wished on the high seas, just so long as the Kilo did not open fire on anyone. In turn, for a Western power to attempt to sink the Iranians would have been a flagrant act of war, which no one felt like committing. At least not in the Mediterranean.

  Jimmy Ramshawe, in receipt of the signal that pinpointed the Kilo, felt nothing but a sense of total frustration. The submarine had turned up where he said it would turn up, a bit late, but it was a long voyage from the south coast of Ireland. He was frankly astounded that his early diagnosis of the plot to kill the admiral was not now universally accepted. Of course the Kilo had dropped off General Rashood in County Cork, and of course Rashood was now in England with Carla Martin, awaiting the arrival of Arnold and Kathy.

  He accepted the difficulty of arresting the terrorist couple, of finding them, and, with mounting anxiety, he once more called the admiral. And Arnold, for the first time, seemed to accept that Jimmy might very well be on to something. But he was not being ruled by a goddamned towelhead, nossir. Not even one as lethally dangerous as Ravi Rashood.

  “When you have outstanding security, provided by the President of the United States of America, you gotta trust your guys,” he growled.

  Jimmy, slipping into a broad Australian outback accent, retorted, “Kinda like JFK and Ronald Reagan.”

  “No, not like them. They were both on public duty; JFK was in a motorcade, Ronnie was outside a hotel with a crowd of people waiting. I’m an unknown former U.S. Naval officer on a private visit with my wife. Hardly anyone will know I’m there.”

  “I can think of at least two bastards who will know: that bloody barmaid, and her reptile husband who went missing from 22 SAS. For Christ’s sake be careful. That’s all I can say.”

  0915 Wednesday 25 July Piccadilly, London

  The wide thoroughfare of Piccadilly was gridlocked, all the way from the Wellington Arch at the western end of Green Park to Piccadilly Circus. The morning rush hour was under way, and it was quicker to walk than to take a bus or a taxi.

  General Rashood stood among the fast-moving crowd on the corner of Dover Street, diagonally across from the Ritz Hotel. Mick Barton would not have recognized him. He was wearing a slim blond wig, a trimmed moustache and goatee beard, and heavy spectacles, with jeans, a white T-shirt, and sneakers. No jacket. He carried a briefcase.

  Right now he was trying to get his bearings,
assessing the distance across the yellow-painted lines of the junction into Arlington Street, to the entrance of the hotel. He stood there for only three minutes and then turned and walked through glass-paneled swing doors into the glum reception area of a London office block.

  The entrance was sited amid a line of shops that curled around the south side of the block, from the Post Office on Dover Street, briefly along Piccadilly itself, and then around into Albemarle Street. The offices were situated on all six floors above the shops. Ever since the recent property collapse in London, there had been vacancies not only in this building, but in most others.

  Ravi had stumbled into a buyers’ market. He wished only to rent, but if necessary he would purchase a leasehold. In this financial climate, however, a leasehold would most certainly not be necessary. Renting would be just fine, at a price way too high for a small space, but not ruinous.

  He walked up to the doorman and requested the office manager. “I did call this morning,” he said. “Haakon Fretheim, Finland Farms Marketing Board.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Ravi was led up to a second-floor office fronting on Piccadilly. The rental agent was a bespectacled thirtyish lady wearing a blue suit and a Sotheby’s International name tag — Judith Birchell.

  She confirmed to Ravi that there were seven available suites of offices at present, but the one she had mentioned on the phone, the single room with reception annex, was probably sufficient for one accountant and a secretary.

  “It’s on the fourth floor, right above here,” she said. “Views directly across to the Ritz and St. James’s Street. let’s go up and take a look.”

  Ravi followed her out to the hall, and they took the elevator two floors higher. There were several doors off the central area, two of which were open with sounds of activity from within. Two others had lights on, and the last one required a key to gain entry.

  Judith showed Ravi into a carpeted office with a bright south-facing window. Ravi checked the catch and decided not to request permission to open it. There was a Venetian blind, which obviously could be lowered, and a desk and chair, which the agent said came with the rental, the last tenants having left the furniture and a rent debt for several hundred pounds.

  “They left in a bit of a hurry,” she said. “They’d been gone more than a week before we realized they weren’t coming back.”

  Ravi chuckled. “What rent were they paying?”

  “A little over three thousand a month,” she replied. “But there’s been a rate cut since then. This is yours for twenty-two hundred, first and last deposit, on the six-month lease you mentioned.”

  “Can I have it right away?”

  “Oh, certainly. This building has a resident cleaning staff. The whole place has been vacuumed, carpets steam-cleaned, and the desk cleared out. The phones are connected, there’s central Internet, and the bathroom is right across the hall. Right next to it is the incinerator. You may dump the dry contents of your wastebasket down there, just paper and unwanted documents, not kitchen waste.

  “If you leave the deposit, I’ll give you two keys, and one for the front door. The doormen are on duty from 7 A.M. until 10 P.M. Don and Reggie. You’ll find them extremely helpful.”

  “That will be excellent,” said Ravi, taking one more look through the window, straight at the curved dark blue- and gold-trimmed awning above the main entrance to the Ritz Hotel. “This will do very nicely indeed.”

  “It’s a standard rental agreement, same for everyone. You can sign it in my office, subject to the references I mentioned, plus a bank statement, and a passport if you’re not a British national.”

  They returned to the second floor and Ravi produced a nicely forged reference from the Egyptian embassy confirming that they had dealt many times with Mr. Fretheim concerning Finnish trade agreements, and they knew him to be trustworthy and aboveboard. Judith photocopied his equally well-forged Finnish passport, and glanced at the bank account of the Syrian ambassador, upon which the name had been changed and copied to read Haakon Fretheim, of 23 Ennismore Gardens, London SW7.

  It showed a current balance of £18,346 in credit, and Ravi, with a remarkable display of affluence, paid Judith a total of three months’ rent with an American Express card issued originally to the military attaché in the Jordanian embassy in Paris.

  The agent handed over two office keys and told him to collect front-door keys from Reggie, who was working the morning shift today. “I’ll call him before you get down there,” she said. “I expect I’ll see you around.”

  Ravi shook hands with Judith Birchell and made his way downstairs. He stopped for a chat with Reggie the doorman and exited through the glass-paneled doors, back to the corner of Dover Street. He stepped forward and looked up to the window of his new office. He moved to stand directly below it and then looked at the angle diagonally across to the main entrance of the Ritz.

  When the traffic light at the top of Arlington Street turned red, he moved swiftly across the central no-parking zone, corner to corner, pacing the precise distance from the outer wall of his office to the six white stone steps that led up to the polished mahogany revolving door of the hotel.

  The traffic light had halted the one-way line of vehicles heading directly out of Arlington Street, across Piccadilly and north up Dover Street. But the onrushing line of cars and taxis running toward central London was up and moving faster than Ravi was walking, and he was hustled along by a couple of loud blasts on the horn from cab drivers. He did not look up.

  Instead, he kept walking, and kept counting, until he reached the hotel steps: fifty-four yards, add six for the height of his office building, and he was looking at a shot, from sixty yards out, at an angle of fifteen degrees from the horizontal of his office outer wall. That, he considered, would be a breeze for the powerful Austrian sniper rifle with its proven needle-point accuracy from almost a half mile.

  Quickly he took stock of the Ritz entrance — the curved brass rails down either side of the steps, the two curly, potted evergreens, like sentries left and right of the steps, the rounded archway of the awning. And directly in the front of the hotel, the no-waiting area, entirely controlled by the top-hatted doormen, moving the guests along, arrivals and departures, with the authority of Metropolitan policemen.

  Ravi did not catch the eye of either doorman. Instead, he walked quickly past and kept going for another hundred yards until he reached the pub on the corner of Bennet and Arlington, the Blue Posts, with its cheerful line of small outside tables, none of them occupied.

  Ravi sat down and waited for a few minutes until a waiter came out and agreed to bring him orange juice and coffee. And there England’s most wanted man, heavily disguised as a native of Finland, sat and quietly watched the comings and goings at the Ritz Hotel, acquainting himself with the patterns of the traffic and the people. He was already concerned that this was not a huge area, but one that could easily be swamped by security men.

  Even more irritating was the little traffic queue that formed at the top of Arlington Street right outside the main door into the Ritz. A tall vehicle waiting in there could obscure his shot, although he imagined the U.S. embassy car, which would undoubtedly be awaiting the admiral, would already be ensconced in the prime spot at the base of the six white steps.

  After an hour, he paid and walked back across Piccadilly to Dover Street and into his new quarters.

  “Hello, sir. Back already?” said Reggie.

  “Just delivering some of my stationery,” replied Ravi. “I’ll take the elevator.”

  Inside his office, Ravi moved the chair to the front of the window. Then he dropped the Venetian blind, bent one of the lower laths downward, and peered across to the Ritz entrance. Five times in the next fifteen minutes, he made notes of a high-sided vehicle driving past the hotel. Two of them parked outside in traffic for between thirty-three and thirty-nine seconds, two drove straight past without coming to a halt, and one was so far over to the right that it made
no difference whether it stopped or not.

  Only one of the five would have caused him a problem, which the Hamas general decided was a risk with which he would have to live. Once more he exited his new office building, and this time he turned right, walking the length of Picadilly, then crossing, via the Hyde Park Corner tube station, the gigantic road junction at the end of Grosvenor Place.

  He strolled into Belgrave Square on an easy stride, pleased with his morning’s work, but full of regret that he dare not take Shakira out this evening to some of his old London haunts — the ones that had decorated his young life, a thousand years ago, when he had never even heard of Hamas, nor the pious self-righteous philosophies which accompany that glowering terrorist organization.

  He thought of the Grenadier, just around the corner in Grosvenor Crescent Mews; he thought of the Bunch of Grapes in Knightsbridge, where almost every wealthy young Catholic girl in London could be found after Sunday morning Mass at Brompton Oratory; and he thought of the Scarsdale Arms, and the Windsor Castle, and the Italian restaurants in Fulham Road and King’s Road. So many places where he had once been made welcome, with a credit card provided by his father. But these places would now be like a minefield, still populated, no doubt, by people who might very well recognize him.

  With the most profound regret, Ravi finally realized that he was an outlaw in a once-friendly city, an outcast in his own land, an enemy of the people. And at that moment, if he could have turned the clock back and been allowed to do things differently, he would most certainly have done so. Except for Shakira. Always Shakira. Surely, he thought, no man had ever lived with a greater, more perplexing conundrum.

  Greater love hath no man than this, muttered Ravi, adjusting the Gospel of Saint John, that he would lay down his country for his wife.

  Grinning at the dexterity of his own words, he walked calmly up the steps to the Syrian embassy and rang the bell, as arranged. He was ever the visitor, never a resident. And the lady for whom he had laid down his country welcomed him as if he had been away for six months rather than four hours.