It was 5:40 and suddenly, advancing down Marylebone Road, there was an unmistakable convoy consisting of two police-escort cruisers, four motorbike outriders, and then two long, black U.S. Navy staff cars, the American flag fluttering from both of their front wings.
The motorcade swept left into the wide entrance to the park, policemen waving them in. The first cruiser turned across the road, blocking it northward, and the second skewed across the entrance immediately the U.S. Navy cars were past. Ravi, standing some fifty yards south of the Residence, saw the rear door of the cars open and six obvious agents emerged.
Then two more people disembarked. In the gathering light, Ravi could see a smallish, broad-shouldered, tough-looking character accompanied by a stunning redhead. The agents closed around them, and the U.S. Marines moved up tight, all four of the original guards by the cars, two accompanying the tall figure of the U.S. Ambassador as he came out of the house.
Ravi sent four blips to the Syrian assassin —Weapons tight! Then he sent five blips—Abort mission instantly! One thing was for certain, any shot fired could not possibly hit the Admiral, not in this mob scene of security.
If anyone did get a shot off, he stood a near one hundred percent chance of being shot down like a prairie dog before he’d traveled ten yards. These guys were not joking. They were ready for anything, and Ravi knew how to weigh up danger.
“Fuck it,” said General Rashood to himself. “I’m outta here.” And he called a cab, snapping somewhat irritably to the driver, “Waterloo Station, in a hurry.”
But his mood lightened as he pondered lunch in Paris with his Palestinian goddess, followed by a relaxed afternoon in bed, and then a wonderful dinner.
His trip had been, he decided, a bit of a disaster. His parents were in tears, Persian Lady was defeated, two completely innocent men were dead, and Arnold Morgan was cast-iron safe.
Now he had a long journey ahead of him. But not as long as Rupert Studley-Bryce’s. In the back of the cab, there was a thin smile on the face of the Hamas terrorist.
6
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Damascus
THE SPLASH HEADLINE on the front page of last Saturday’s London Daily Mail was, well, arresting. And General Sharood stared at it intently:
RUPERT STUDLEY-BRYCE MURDERED
Tory MP’s body discovered in London flat
Ravi had just brought the newspapers home from the Librairie Avicenne, and though he had expected to see some coverage of his old roommate’s death, he had not imagined it would be quite on this scale.
Before him was a large photograph of Rupert in his Ascot clothes, taken by the photographers who permanently loiter around the main gates to the racecourse. Beneath it, the caption read: “A day at the races for the Tory firebrand—he died in his top hat and tails.”
The story described how the body had been found midafternoon on Friday, the final day of the Royal Ascot meeting. His House of Commons secretary, unable to locate him, had phoned his wife, Susan, in Bedfordshire, who had also heard nothing. Receiving no reply from the flat, the secretary had arrived at Prior’s Court with two policeman at three o’clock in the afternoon. There she found the place was already swarming with detectives trying to find out who had stabbed the sixty-three-year-old doorman, Alf Rowan, to death, on the previous evening.
The story continued:
Police believe the same killer murdered both men, probably because the doorman refused him entry, on this quiet Thursday night when very few people were around. Residents were being interviewed last night, but no one admitted seeing anything or anyone suspicious in the building.
A spokesman at New Scotland Yard said the causes of death were very different. Mr. Studley-Bryce, who was 36, had not been stabbed, but had died as a result of head injuries inflicted by persons unknown.
Little was known about the MP’s movements during the day, save that he did attend the Royal Ascot race-meeting and had spent some of the afternoon with friends in the private tent of White’s Club. It is believed that he dined out in the West End, but no one at the Club would confirm that he had been there.
Police are continuing with their inquiries.
There followed a two-page biography of the Member for South Bedford, detailing his school days at Harrow, his three years at Oxford University, and his rambunctious entry into politics. Of Mr. Alf Rowan, who was equally dead, but considerably less important, there was a small, single-column story and a short interview with his heartbroken wife.
Ravi Rashood put down the newspaper and poured himself some afternoon tea. Then he scanned the sports pages of the London Sunday Telegraph, noting that the six-year-old Homeward Bound had been sold for nearly $300,000 to go jumping. The purchasers were John Magnier, boss of Coolmore, the world’s greatest thoroughbred stud farm in County Tipperary, and his friend J. P. McManus, the hugely wealthy Irish sportsman and gambler. Homeward Bound would be trained in Tipperary by Aidan O’Brien.
Meanwhile, Shakira had settled down with the Daily Mail and very quickly asked, “Did you know that MP who was murdered in London? He went to your school and he’s the same age.”
“Yes. Yes I did. Knew him quite well. He was not a friend. Guess someone had it in for him. Those MPs get mixed up in a lot of shady stuff these days.”
“I suppose so. His wife is only twenty-nine. And they had three very young children. It’s got the English guessing by the look of it.”
The problem with buying newspapers that are nearly a week old is you can get behind the times, very swiftly.
Six thousand miles away, in the National Security Agency in Maryland, Lt. Jimmy Ramshawe was doing some very advanced guessing on precisely the same subject. He had spotted a paragraph in Tuesday’s London Telegraph that had seriously intrigued him. “Police investigating the murder of Rupert Studley-Bryce admitted last night that a small part of the inquiry was being conducted by the antiterrorist squad based at New Scotland Yard. However, they had no further information.”
Lieutenant Ramshawe knew what that meant. Some reporter had discovered the antiterrorists were on the case and had tried to find out what was going on. The police, not willing to tell an outright lie, had confirmed, and then fobbed him off.
“So what,” murmured Jimmy Ramshawe, “are the bloody antiterrorists doing in there?”
This was precisely the kind of puzzle that appealed to the Lieutenant, but he was busy today and had no time for luxuries like a foreign murder inquiry. It was a story in Wednesday’s London Daily Mail that really switched him on.
“Police admitted to being completely baffled by the news that the knife used to stab doorman Alf Rowan to death in Westminster last Thursday night almost certainly came from the kitchen of the murdered M.P. Rupert Studley-Bryce.
“Unlike Mr. Rowan, the M.P. was not stabbed, but died from head injuries. They now believe Mr. Studley-Bryce may have been killed BEFORE the doorman. And that the killer may have murdered the doorman on his way out of the building.”
Jimmy Ramshawe thought long and hard. He came for the MP, didn’t he? And then he killed the only man who could possibly recognize him, or even identify him. Hmmm.
But what Jimmy wondered was why the doorman had let him in in the first place? But he did, because the guy went upstairs and entered the flat without busting down the door, killed Studley-Bryce, then nicked the bloody carving knife and hopped back downstairs and murdered the bloke behind the desk. Bloodthirsty little bastard. But efficient. Damned efficient. And I still wonder what the antiterrorists are doing in there.
Jimmy spent another fifteen minutes pondering this mystery. Then he decided to call an old Navy buddy at the CIA in Langley, Virginia, just to see if they knew what was going on over there in London.
He did not, however, hear anything back for twenty-four hours, but it was worth the wait.
“Jimmy, hi. Sorry to take so long. But our guys have been very interested in that murder case for one reason. Studley-Bryce was killed by a prof
essional man, probably one who had served in Special Forces. It was a classic blow to the face, drove his nose bone right into the brain, killing him instantly. The Brits don’t have a clue who might have done it, or why. But not many civilians know how to kill like that. And it’s got a lot of people wondering.”
“Have they announced anything about this?”
“No. And they’re not going to. Our guys know, because any murder that may have been committed by any person who could have been a terrorist is shared between Scotland Yard and the CIA. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t shout it around. This is supposed to be classified.”
“You can count on my discretion,” said Jimmy. “Hey, thanks for that. It’s damned interesting.”
Lieutenant Ramshawe had trouble remaining seated, there were so many antennae leaping out of his head. Only twice in his short career had he been told of men being killed by plain and obvious Special Forces unarmed combat techniques—once early last year when that SAS NCO’s body was found in the rubble in Hebron, and now again today. New body, same technique.
There was something else that was itching his brain. Where the hell’s that biography of Studley-Bryce? Here we are…. Right here…. He went to Harrow School and he’s thirty-six years old. Now where’s my file on Major Raymond Kerman?…Here we are…. Right here….
Holy shit! Or, as that Greek bastard might have said, Eureka! They went to the same bloody school and they’re the same age! They fucking knew each other. Woweee! I think this bastard killed him. Same as he killed the SAS Sergeant, same as he did everything else. But I’m buggered if I know why. I’d better tell Scotty and George.
Jimmy Ramshawe had taken a very short time to establish a significant reputation in the National Security Agency. He was obviously thorough to an extreme degree, and he was smart as hell, one of those most unusual young men, born to operate at the highest level of Military Intelligence. He was suspicious and cynical, with a memory like a bull elephant. He could match facts, recalling seemingly unconnected incidents. If three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles had been an Olympic sport, J. Ramshawe, representing either Australia or the United States, would have won a Gold Medal.
“My bloody oath,” he told Admiral George Morris. “Did you ever see such a set of facts? We’re damn nearly certain he murdered his SAS colleagues, one of ’em with a blow no civilian could deliver. And suddenly we’ve got another body, killed in precisely the same one-in-a-million way—and it turns out to be a bloke he actually went to school with, same age, must have known him well.”
Rear Admiral Morris grinned. “Jimmy,” he said, “I have the greatest respect for your powers of deduction. But I have a couple of questions: One, why do you think this wanted terrorist was in London? And two, if he was, what the hell’s he doing wandering around murdering Members of Parliament? You wouldn’t be in possession of anything so unusual as a motive, would you?”
“Gimme a break, Chief. I’m just getting bloody started.” In times of stress young Ramshawe was apt to become more Australian than Banjo Patterson. And he kept going: “This is a very big guy in the terrorist world,” he said. “And big guys tend to make big waves. You told me that yourself. And every instinct I have tells me to watch out for this character.”
“I don’t disagree with any of that. And I think you could very usefully spend the rest of the day trying to shed a little more light on what we already know…. Scotty?”
Capt. Scott Wade, sitting in on behalf of the Military Intelligence Division, nodded carefully to the Director. “Admiral,” he said, “We have taken this vanishing SAS Major very seriously since he first went missing. And we got a lot of alarm bells going off right now. If he really was in London, he was there for a darned good reason, running a big risk of capture. I don’t know what that reason was, or why he killed a Member of Parliament, but I am completely in favor of Lieutenant Ramshawe going after some more facts…. I mean, we know how dangerous he is…. This guy could turn out to be a new Abu Nidal.”
No one smiled. And Admiral Morris murmured, “We don’t even know his goddamned name anymore.”
“Dollars to doughnuts he’s gone back to his original name from Iran,” interjected Lieutenant Ramshawe. “What was it…Ravi? Ravi Rashood?”
“Very likely, among his Middle East guys,” replied Admiral Morris. “But there’s no way he went to London using that.”
“Oh, no. He went into the U.K. as a Pom, in dress, voice, and attitudes. No doubt of that,” said Jimmy. “Even the dead doorman wouldn’t have let a robed Arab, a total stranger, into the apartment block, not without specific instructions from a tenant.”
“What’s a Pom?” asked Scotty.
“That’s Aussie for Brit,” said Jimmy. “Usually whinging Pom. But in this case, just Pom. Major Kerman’s no whinger.”
“Jimmy,” said Admiral Morris, good-naturedly interrupting this discourse on the finer points of outback elocution, “you better get right back on the case. I don’t know where you’ll start. But I expect you have a few ideas.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “I’m on my way.” And with that he stood up and left, carrying a large file, heading right back to his post in Security Ops, his computer, and his phones.
A thought was already formulating in his mind and it concerned Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kerman. Everyone accepted their son had made no contact since his disappearance. After all, phones had been tapped, constant surveillance had been in place, and all mail to the Kermans’ home had been monitored. And there had been no contact from the fugitive. But was that still true? Ramshawe ruminated.
Would have been just as bloody difficult to contact them from a London hotel as from a Jordanian hotel. The phone checks would have picked it up. Don’t know about E-mail, but the Brits would be capable of intercepting. And a personal visit to the house would have been spotted by the surveillance guys.
Nonetheless, Jimmy believed that Major Kerman must have contacted his parents if he had been in London on some kind of a murder mission. Jimmy needed to know what Richard Kerman and his wife had been doing during the week of June 19, and whether it looked like a rendezvous had taken place.
He went on-line initiating a search for Richard Kerman. He was surprised at the list of headings that faced him: a catalog of newspaper articles about the father of the missing Army officer; another catalog of magazine articles and broadcast transmissions about the London shipping tycoon; more data involving the City, shares, and oil prices; and finally, a list of newspaper stories about his involvement with thoroughbred racehorses.
Jimmy elected to leave that one till last. But it would be only a few minutes away. He had read much of the other stuff, and took little time to insure nothing much had happened in the last four weeks.
The racehorse section was much more current, and it immediately revealed the second favorite for the Ascot Gold Cup, Persian Lady, was owned by Mr. Richard Kerman, the London shipping tycoon, and his wife, Naz.
Ramshawe’s eyes opened wide. He jumped out of the Kerman file and keyed straight into Royal Ascot Results 2006. He searched for the Gold Cup, and found the two-and-half-mile marathon had been run on Thursday afternoon, June 22.
Jimmy prayed Persian Lady was “in the bloody shake-up”—and there she was, placed second to a gray gelding called Homeward Bound…beaten a short head…ridden by Jack Carson…trained by Charlie McCalmont…owned by Mr. and Mrs. R. Kerman.
The Lieutenant scrolled down for a report on the race, looking for an interview, cast-iron confirmation that there had been no mix-up. The Gold Cup runner-up was indeed owned by the parents of the missing SAS man.
No doubt. “London shipping tycoon Richard Kerman was magnanimous in defeat…. ‘We’re very proud of Persian Lady. She gave it everything,’ he said. ‘And it took the best staying colt in Europe to defeat her, by the width of your hand, after twenty furlongs.’”
Jimmy Ramshawe rifled among his papers…. Body discovered Friday afternoon June 23…murder committed the night be
fore, Thursday, just a few hours after the Gold Cup was run…and the bloody MP was right there at the racecourse. Now there’s another coincidence for you…. There’s gotta be a connection.
He swiveled his chair around, picked up the phone, and called his buddy at the CIA.
“Can you do me one quick favor? Find out whether the Brits have talked to Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kerman about their missing son the SAS Major any time in the last ten days?”
“Shit, you’re a nuisance, Ramshawe. Gimme till the morning, will you?”
Jimmy leaned back and tried to put himself in the Major’s shoes. He’s buggered off from home and family, everything, every connection he’s ever had, and parked himself in the middle of the bloody desert. He knew the score, knew he could not possibly contact home, not even to reassure his parents he was alive. This guy’s a Special Forces Forward Commander. He would not have taken that risk, mostly to protect his own mum and dad.
He stood up and paced his small office. “Poor bastard couldn’t even risk a message, could he? Somehow to make a rendezvous,” he muttered. “No. He was buggered all ways by the bloody Secret Service, and he, of all people knew how thorough they would be.”
It took another few minutes for the light of truth to dawn upon him. “GOTTIT!” he exclaimed. “Major Kerman went to make his own rendezvous without even telling Richard and Naz. He didn’t have to tell ’em. Because he knew, beyond doubt, exactly where they would be standing at around three o’clock on that Thursday afternoon, with their trainer, getting ready to saddle the horse.
“And what happens? He runs straight into this bloody joker from his old school who stops him, has a chat with him. It must have been like a horror story. The guy’s a member of fucking Parliament, and he’s longing to tell the entire world he has discovered the missing Major, an old friend. Ray had just one possible course of action. And he took it.
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