To the Death am-10

by Patrick Robinson

  Positioned on the roof were two plain and obvious police marksmen, along with what looked like a machine gun but might have been a guided missile system designed to repel air attack.

  He could see two more police officers standing by the lake, speaking to two very obvious armed bodyguards. The gateway to the house was jammed by the cruiser. There were dogs all over the place, big Labradors whose sunny nature, he knew, could quickly be replaced by fearless, snarling aggression in the presence of an enemy, which he most certainly was.

  Ravi pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Millennium Hotel, room 622, and told Shakira he’d be back for dinner after all.

  Then he drove back down the mountain track and turned left onto the main road, back the way he had come.

  Option One was shot. Not the admiral, just the option. And Ravi looked crestfallen. He glanced into his rearview mirror and could still see the revolving blue lights on the police cruiser outside the gates.

  “That,” he muttered, “was no place for me. It’s Edinburgh or nothing.”

  CHAPTER 13

  1800 Saturday 4 August Glasgow Airport

  No aircraft had landed for a full twenty minutes. The runways were clear, especially the longest one designed for the world’s biggest passenger jets. And flying east across Renfrewshire came SAM 38000, the huge presidential Boeing 747, losing height, bearing Commander Rick Hunter to Scotland with full landing privileges. This was Air Force One, and, as always, the world practically stopped dead for its arrival.

  Airline officials fumed, as flights were made late, landings delayed; but the request had come direct from the White House for SAM 38000 to be treated as if Paul Bedford himself was on board. The fact that it was designated SAM 38000 meant he absolutely was not on board, because that is the code name for Air Force One if anyone else is using the aircraft — Special Air Mission 38000.

  Dead astern, around five miles distant, flew a smaller Boeing owned and operated by the National Security Agency. This is not an unusual occurrence, because America’s super-secret intelligence system wishes to know every last vestige of information that might be transmitted anywhere near the President of the United States.

  It was not the cheapest operation in the world, since Air Force One alone knocks down around $60,000 an hour in costs. But this Admiral Morgan scenario was way beyond mundane matters like expense. President Bedford wanted him kept safe, and he wanted ironclad security. Dollars were not a consideration.

  All the way across the Atlantic from Andrews Air Force Base, east of Washington, the operators inside the NSA jet had swept the skies for sign of a tracking device. And Rick Hunter had slept in peace, dining like a king on New York sirloin and apple pie with ice cream.

  There were no other passengers on board, and Rick, who had left Lexington at 4 A.M. (local), had been attended by just two stewardesses. The No. 2 crew, who would fly the aircraft home tonight after the refuel, were at the rear of the cabin, as opposed to the presidential suite in which Rick was ensconced.

  The ex-Navy SEAL had been told specifically by Lt. Commander Ramshawe that President Bedford would take care of the transportation, and he sure as hell had done that.

  SAM 38000 swooped low over the town of Paisley and touched down at three minutes after 6 P.M. The pilot taxied up to an open, designated place outside the international terminal, and a mobile set of stairs was instantly put into place. Rick exited the aircraft and came down the stairs carrying his CAR-15 light machine gun in an olive-drab-colored holder as if it was a group of salmon-fishing rods.

  A customs officer was awaiting him, in company with a Royal Navy lieutenant commander, and both men saluted him. The customs officer put a small discreet chalk marking on both the machine gun case and the duffel bag that Rick carried with him.

  Just beyond the group was a red Royal Navy helicopter — the high-speed Dauphin 2 which can, if required, fire Sidewinder AIM-9M air-to-air guided missiles. Rick carried his bag and sniper rifle on board and strapped himself in, and the helicopter immediately took off, heading northwest, straight over Loch Lomond to Loch Fyne and Inveraray.

  The Dauphin 2, in battle conditions, is capable of flying at almost 200 mph, and this evening it flew very fast, coming in to land on the lawn of the MacLean residence only thirty minutes after takeoff. Rick arrived at precisely the same time as Lady MacLean, who did not have the slightest idea who he was.

  She stood outside the house with three policemen and watched the Dauphin take off, heading back to the Navy base of Faslane on the Gare Loch.

  “We assume he’s on our side?” Lady MacLean asked the policemen as Rick walked toward them.

  “Oh, yes, m’lady,” replied the young constable in a rich Argyll accent. “We’ve been expecting him. He just landed in Glasgow from America on Air Force One, the president’s private aircraft.”

  Annie MacLean’s eyebrows rose. “Good Lord,” she said. “Who is he?”

  There was no time to answer that, since Rick had very much arrived. He walked directly toward her and surveyed the slim, blonde-haired, sixtyish Scottish aristocrat who stood before him and said, “Ma’am, I’m Commander Rick Hunter, United States Navy. I believe Admiral MacLean is expecting me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Lady MacLean, hurriedly. “You just took me slightly by surprise. I’ve only just returned myself.”

  “Ma’am, in my trade I’m real used to surprising people,” replied Rick.

  “Aha,” said Lady MacLean. “Are you the Navy SEAL my husband told me about?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m actually retired. I’m on special assignment.”

  “You look a lot too young to be retired,” she smiled, with the practiced grace of the wife of a very senior Navy commander, a wife who had spent a lifetime trying to put young officers at their ease while knowing perfectly well they were terrified of her husband.

  “Oh, I had a lot of family commitments,” he offered. “My dad runs a pretty big thoroughbred breeding farm out in Kentucky, and he kinda needed me.”

  “Oh, you must tell me all about it,” she said. “But we’d better get inside. I’m already an hour late, and I expect you would like to get rid of your luggage.”

  Rick followed her in, through the open French windows and into a large sunlit room that contained a highly relaxed Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, Admiral Arnold Morgan, and Kathy Morgan, old and trusted friends in comfortable surroundings.

  Arnold Morgan stood up immediately and walked across the room. “Hello, Rick,” he said. “It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you.”

  Lady MacLean made the introductions, checked her watch, and said, “Well, it’s almost seven o’clock, shouldn’t we be having a drink? Has no one offered you anything, Arnie? Honestly, Iain, sometimes I think you were too long in the Navy being waited on hand and foot — and here’s poor Rick, flown thousands of miles from the middle of the United States. He’s probably dying of thirst.”

  Angus appeared magically and took everyone’s order, white burgundy, except for Rick, who would accept only mineral water, “Just in case we come under attack. ”

  Arnold Morgan laughed wryly. “The way things are going, that might not be too far from the truth,” he said. He did not of course realize that at this precise time General Ravi Rashood was high in the woods behind the house, staring through the telescopic sight from his long-range sniper rifle.

  Five minutes later, when the drinks arrived, Ravi was gone, slightly unnerved by the sheer strength of the security that surrounded the admiral. Had he waited around much longer, up there in the woods, he would have been even more unnerved, as another Navy helicopter swept the area with infrared radar, searching for the slightest sign of unauthorized human presence among the pine and spruce trees of the Argyll Forest.

  There was no doubt that the police and military on both sides of the Atlantic had been seriously spooked by that wayward silver-headed bullet that had ripped into the skull of agent George Kallan. Especially since th
e National Security Agency had been predicting something like it for several weeks. Security services hate being made to appear even remotely slow-witted.

  Annie MacLean showed Rick up to his room and pointed out where Arnie and Kathy would be sleeping. “I don’t suppose you need to sit outside their door, armed to the teeth, do you?” she said.

  “Not with those beautiful dogs of yours in the house,” he said. “But I probably will not shut my own door. I need to pay attention if they bark.”

  “If you leave your door open, they’ll all be on your bed,” she said.

  “Ma’am. There’s two things I’m real good at: that’s dogs and horses. They won’t bother me.”

  “Well, I noticed they all clustered around your feet downstairs. funny thing about Labradors, they always know who likes them.”

  “I got a couple back home in Kentucky,” said Rick. “Black like yours. They wander in and out of the stallion boxes, and I’m amazed they never get kicked.”

  “Well, you have full permission to kick them off if they invade your bed,” she replied. “Come down for dinner at around eight-fifteen. It’s a warm evening; Iain and Arnie will both wear polo shirts, no jackets.”

  Rick stared through his bedroom window at the long view down the lawn and across to the far shore of the loch. He knew Admiral Morgan was also sleeping on this side of the house, and with the all-night guard posted outside, he doubted any would-be assassin could get anywhere near him, not from this side.

  At dinner, he was questioned about his forthcoming role as head of Arnold’s security and told them frankly, from what he had seen, it would be just about impossible to hit the admiral within the confines of the house.

  “So far as I can tell, this is likely to be an urban operation, where your gun is not the priority. In big cities like Edinburgh, you need your brain, you need to be quick, observant, on top of your game.

  “I’ve read the Scotland Yard report on the Ritz Hotel murder, and I’m left with one thought — someone fired that rifle from that building across the street, so the window to the room must have been open.

  “The sniper would have been leaning on the window ledge, and the rifle barrel would have been jutting out when it was fired. Nobody saw it. All I can say is, a Navy SEAL, on guard duty, would have seen it and blown the guy’s head off, no questions asked. I would have seen it, because I would have known what I was looking for.”

  “You may find it’s rather more difficult to react like that in England than it is in the back streets of Baghdad or Kabul,” said Admiral MacLean.

  “Sir,” replied Rick, “I am reliably briefed that in this case, the British police, the military, and the government are in agreement with the President of the United States. There will be no questions asked. If an assassin tries his luck, my task is to capture or kill him, whichever is the most expedient.”

  “I presume you are an expert in unarmed combat?” asked Annie MacLean.

  “Every Navy SEAL is,” answered Rick. “And usually, if your assailant has managed to get close enough to aim a gun at his target, there is no time to fire accurately at him. You need a swift physical response, which may be deadly, but is usually not too late.”

  “You lead an exciting life, Commander,” said Lady MacLean.

  “This is kid’s stuff to him,” interjected Arnie. “I’ll deny ever saying this, but Commander Hunter and his men once blew up an entire oil refinery in Iran. Now that was exciting.”

  Rick chuckled. “Can’t live on past glories, sir. Right now I have to make certain that Admiral and Mrs. Morgan come to no harm in the city of Edinburgh. I understand you will be returning to the United States immediately after the Military Tattoo?”

  “Guess they forced that on me,” replied Arnold. “Wrecked my vacation, worried Kathy to death, and ordered me home immediately. It’s amazing what I have to put up with.”

  “I hear you’re taking the salute at the Tattoo on Tuesday night, sir?” said Rick. “And that’s where we need to be very careful. Two things I did want to ask: How dark is it in there? And how many people are expected?”

  “There are around ten thousand each night for three weeks,” said Lady MacLean. “And mostly it takes place on the main Castle Esplanade. Sometimes it is quite dark with spotlights on the performers, like a theatre. But for the main event, the demonstration by the Marine Commandoes, almost all the lights will be lowered.”

  “What’s it like in the Royal Box where Admiral Morgan will be?”

  “The lights are always on there,” Lady MacLean continued. “Subdued lights from the rear, but brighter than the other seating areas.”

  “So we have a darkened stadium where no one can see anything except the Royal Box and the people in it?” said Rick. “Hmmmmm.”

  “Well, not exactly. The spotlights constantly illuminate various parts of the performance, all over the castle, especially down on the Esplanade where the massed military bands will be playing.”

  “Is access to the Royal Box easy? I mean, can anyone get in?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Sir Iain. “There are armed guards at both entrances and all around. You need a VIP ticket to get anywhere near.”

  “I’d like to scout the place out for a while tomorrow, if that would be okay,” said Rick.

  “No problem. The helicopter will pick you up here in the morning.”

  900 Sunday 5 August Glasgow

  Ravi and Shakira checked out of the Millennium Hotel early, drove out to the M-8 motorway through West Lothian, and set off for Edinburgh, a distance of forty-six miles. They arrived before 10 A.M., and Ravi, who had read every word written about the Edinburgh International Festival in the past week, drove straight to the Caledonian Hilton at the end of Princes Street behind the castle.

  Brimming with confidence, he parked outside, asked the doorman to keep a watch on the car for a few minutes, and walked inside to speak to the receptionist.

  “Good morning,” he said politely. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’m Captain Martin, ADC to the CO of 42 Marine Commando. Could you possibly tell me, are the head honchos of the Military Tattoo staying here this week? I appear to have lost the boss.”

  The girl behind the desk laughed, and replied, “Sadly not this year, sir, though they often do. But I believe they are all in the new Cavendish Hotel, right on Princes Street and closer to the castle than we are.”

  “I’m grateful,” said Ravi. “You’ve probably saved my career.”

  Back outside, Ravi once more settled behind the wheel and drove into Princes Street, moving slowly along Edinburgh’s main thoroughfare until he saw the high rise of the Cavendish on the left-hand side. He pulled over around a hundred yards from the main entrance, and Shakira jumped out, wearing an inexpensive black dress and carrying a large too-expensive handbag which she hoped no one would notice.

  She walked up to the doorman and asked him who to see about a job. “Go straight to reception, young lady,” he said, “and ask to see Mrs. Robertson. She’s the undermanager.”

  Shakira did as she was told, and five minutes later was sitting in a small first-floor office with a stern, neatly dressed Scottish lady of around fifty, Janet Robertson, gray-haired, currently at her wits’ end with staff shortages in the busiest month of the year.

  She was polite but businesslike. “Have you experience?” she asked. And, seeing Shakira nod, proceeded to ask her in which department she would like to work.

  “We have vacancies in housekeeping and room service, and we need two waitresses in the restaurant, and in the residents’ lounge. But we do need references.”

  “I can do anything, and I have references,” said Shakira. “I’ve worked in several hotels, in Ireland, London, and the United States.”

  “Do you mind shift work? That’s evenings and early mornings.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you require room and board?”

  “No. I’m living locally with my sister.”

  Mrs. Robertso
n had already noted Shakira’s neat appearance and respectful manner, and she scarcely looked at her Irish passport in the name of Colleen Lannigan, nor at the reference from a central London bar in Covent Garden.

  “Very well, let’s give it a try, shall we?” said Mrs. Robertson. “I’d like you to start as a maid on the twelfth floor, where we are very short of help. And this evening, if possible, I’d like you to assist in room service.

  “As a nonresident, we’ll pay you £10 an hour, plus time-and-a-half for anything over seven hours’ work a day, not including a lunch break. We of course provide whatever meals you require while you are on duty. There’s a staff canteen on the basement level.”

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Robertson,” said Shakira. “Will I require a uniform?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Mother Superior of the Cavendish Hotel. “I’ll call the housekeeper and she’ll arrange everything. Just take the service elevator to the twelfth floor, and someone will meet you.”

  A half hour passed, and, as arranged, Ravi drove away. He took a spin around the enormous castle, set on its mighty black volcanic rock, and stopped to make a phone call, direct to the Cavendish Hotel.

  He managed to book one of the last rooms, on the third floor of the hotel, thanks to a Sunday-morning cancellation. Then he found a parking lot and walked through Edinburgh’s Old Town into the precincts of the castle, across the Esplanade to the public entrance. There were two armed military guards on duty, watching carefully as members of the public paid to see the huge assemblage of historic buildings inside the ramparts of the twelfth-century fortress.

  The castle has in its time been a royal palace, a military garrison, and a state prison. The Crown of Scotland is on display in the palace building, where, in the sixteenth century, Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to James, the future king of both Scotland and England.

  Ravi, however, was not remotely interested in Scottish history, however rich and turbulent it may have been. Ravi was here to scout out the security that surrounded the Military Tattoo, because herein rested his last chance to kill Arnold Morgan, before the United States government would surely compel the admiral to return to Washington.