To The Death Part 37

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 a.s.signment."

"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. "h.e.l.lo, 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 the 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 s.h.i.+rts, no jackets."

Rick stared through his bedroom window at the long view down the lawn and across to the far sh.o.r.e 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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. n.o.body 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 a.s.sailant 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 ma.s.sed 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.

Br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 s.h.i.+ft 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. Robertson had already noted Shakira's neat appearance and respectful manner, and she scarcely looked at her Irish pa.s.sport 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 a.s.sist 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.semblage 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 Was.h.i.+ngton.

He paid 10 for his ticket and walked through onto the roadway that climbs right through the castle, way up to the high ramparts, from which there is the most spectacular view over the city. Ravi trudged all the way up to the One O'clock Gun, which is fired with a thunderous report every day except Sunday, frightening tourists to death.

Ravi walked the ramparts, past ancient St. Margaret's Chapel, along the Argyle Battery, past the Governor's House and the prison and the Great Hall. He stared down over the great curved front of the Half-Moon Battery where, in the sixteenth century, artillery was ranged to defend the eastern wing of the castle. It was steep. Everywhere was steep. The castle rose up, constructed layer after layer onto its towering black crags, until it dominated the city. And this week, at least, it was as heavily patrolled as a U.S. Army garrison in Baghdad five years ago.

Everywhere Ravi walked, there were young soldiers, on duty, sometimes in groups, sometimes just in pairs. And all of them carried the standard weapon of the British Army, the SA80 semi-automatic short-barreled rifle, with its 25-round magazine, 5.56mm caliber.

As a pure precaution, Ravi stopped as he walked by and attempted, with only marginal success, to affect the wide-eyed blank stare of the truly ignorant.

"Excuse me," he said to the Scots Guards corporal. "Is that gun loaded with real bullets?"

"Aye, sir, it is."

"Well, that's very dangerous," replied Ravi.

"That's the general idea," said the corporal.

Ravi shook his head in mock exasperation, and continued his walk, going down now, back to the public entrance. And as he did so, a red Royal Navy helicopter circled briefly above the castle and slowly dropped down to land on the wide concourse behind the barracks, the biggest building in the ancient stone complex.

The area had been temporarily cleared by the military for the arrival of the American Navy commander, Rick Hunter, in company with Lady MacLean, the all-powerful chair of the entire Festival and Rick's personal guide for the next hour.

Annie MacLean had made the decision to land on the higher level in order to point out to Rick the precise layout of the Tattoo. She showed him a view of the Esplanade from the heights, the temporary grandstands, and in particular the Royal Box where they would all be seated on Tuesday evening.

She showed him the huge sloping walls of the Half-Moon Battery, down which the warriors of 42 Marine Commando would abseil, before making a final descent to the Esplanade for their formation and finale.

Rick did not love it. "The whole place will be in darkness during this time?" he asked.

"Everywhere. Except for the Royal Box," she told him. "The military will spotlight the Marines as they climb down the walls to the lower levels. Their display is designed to show how they capture a fortified garrison."

Rick still did not love it, mainly because there was so much he would not be able to see. And Arnold, so far as he could tell, would be floodlit as he took the salute, and silhouetted in his seat for the rest of the time. The only aspect of the entire exercise that gave him any confidence was the heavy presence of armed guards, all highly trained military personnel.

The Navy SEAL had worked with the Brits before, and he knew how outstanding they were. Whichever way he looked at it, it would be d.a.m.n near impossible to get at Admiral Morgan without getting apprehended or shot. Arnold would be accompanied at all times by five personal guards, including himself, and a phalanx of armed police.

Rick stood thoughtfully on the ramparts of the Half-Moon Battery, a.s.sessing the precise distance Arnold would be from the base of the wall and from the stands that had been erected along the flanks of the Esplanade.

He noted also that the gradient of the amphitheatre was a slight slope and the surface was uneven. He considered the possibility of an a.s.sa.s.sin running across the ground toward the admiral and dismissed it. Because, he decided, you could not do this with a pistol, you'd need a rifle, and if you produced one of those here, there was a good chance the guards would hit you with a hundred bullets before you hit the ground.

Anyone could sense the place was on high alert. And it seemed to Rick that Arnold would be safe here tomorrow night. But he still did not love it.

He and Lady MacLean walked back up to the helicopter, which immediately took off and headed west, back to Inveraray. Ravi Rashood, driving back to the Cavendish Hotel, saw it leave, climbing up over the city and accelerating away. He wondered, as any ex-SAS officer might, who was in it and why they had paid such a fleeting visit to Edinburgh Castle.

He checked into his room, knowing it was impossible to find Shakira. This place was as big as the Kremlin, and he would have to wait until she located him. She knew either he was checked in here under the name of Captain Harry Martin, or he would leave her a note, addressed to Miss Colleen Lannigan (Cavendish staff).

There was a local map of Edinburgh and its environs, which Ravi studied carefully. He was looking north, along the great expanse of the wide estuary of the River Forth, known locally as the Firth of Forth. He checked the locations of Musselburgh and Port Seton, communities that were on the water, and as he did so, his bedside phone rang. Shakira said eleven words: "They'll be on the top floor, all rooms overlooking Princes Street." "They'll be on the top floor, all rooms overlooking Princes Street." The line went dead. The line went dead.

Then he checked the Yellow Pages, found what he was seeking, and went downstairs out onto the sidewalk. Ravi crossed the street and stared up at the flat roof of the hotel, a.s.sessing the distance between the top of the wall that surrounded the roof to the line of windows on the sixteenth floor. Right now, Ravi was into a possible Plan B, because he was having doubts about his capacity to successfully hit Admiral Morgan and then make a getaway, in the face of that hard-trained security force in the castle.

And with this in mind, he took a half-hour drive out to the coast. He pulled into Port Seton, hoping the marine store was open, a.s.suming it would be on a busy boating Sunday in August.

It was not only open, it was crowded with yachtsmen and power boaters buying all kinds of equipment: dock lines, cleats, lifejackets, winch handles, halyards, and varnish. After a twenty-minute wait, Ravi reached the counter, behind which were large reels of line of varying thickness, all made of modern white nylon, soft to the touch but very strong, with a pattern in either red or blue.

He ordered two 35-foot lengths of the second largest gauge, and asked for a shackle to be spliced onto one end of each line. The marine store a.s.sistant called out "Splice, Jock!" "Splice, Jock!" and a young seaman came over and slowly formed an unbreakable join, working in front of a small flame, into which he held the rough end of the line and watched the nylon melt into a ma.s.s, which he bound with white tape. and a young seaman came over and slowly formed an unbreakable join, working in front of a small flame, into which he held the rough end of the line and watched the nylon melt into a ma.s.s, which he bound with white tape.

"Don't forget, sir," said the a.s.sistant, "if you need to cut this stuff, you need a flame to weld the end like that."

Ravi nodded, and also purchased a safety harness, the kind seamen wear in bad weather with the shackle clipped onto the boat to avoid being swept overboard and lost. He also bought a half dozen of the metal rope clips that climbers use to pay out the line in short takes.