Authors: Patrick Robinson
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 maître 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 attachés 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 suceeded, 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 drive 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 speciman 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.
There would be no sound, save the whine of the 7.62-mm shell, and the smack of steel, crushing bone. The sniper would then walk softly, a full quarter-mile distance from the ensuing uproar, through the grounds of London Regent’s College and out through Clarence Gate, holding his briefcase, a picture of preoccupied innocence, joining other early-morning workers.
They all dined with the Ambassador and the Head of Security at the Embassy that night. They served a fish and rice dish in the Arab style, but it did not compare with the sole at Gaya Rive Gauche. However, the dinner did reveal one illuminating fact: The Head of Security, a lean, swarthy Damascus-born, ex-tank Commander, was in fact Friday’s marksman. He spoke little, but the Ambassador confirmed he was a distinguished soldier, and probably the best sniper in the Middle East.
Ravi slept fitfully, thinking of his parents, wondering if he would find them easily, wondering how they would greet him. He could hardly have blamed them if they were furious with him, and, of course, he ran the risk that his mother might faint at seeing him back from the dead in full Ascot rig.
That’d be attractive, a prostrate mother, right out there in the paddock, in front of the Monarch, and God knows who else. Worse yet, he would probably be found guilty of committing the cardinal sin of the English upper classes—frightening the bloody horses.
As dawn broke over Belgrave Square, General Ravi slipped out of the Embassy, into a chauffeured staff car and headed for Hyde Park Corner. They drove quickly through near deserted streets and turned up Portland Place towards Regent’s Park. It would be Ravi’s last recce.
He noted there were no police on duty, at least none that he could see, and traffic conditions were certainly in his favor. If the Syrian sniper could get an accurate shot in tomorrow, the getaway would not be difficult. They drove slowly along the Outer Circle, all around, past the zoo, and then back to Belgrave Square.
Before midday, General Ravi was on his way to the Gold Cup, dressed immaculately, with the little cardboard pink badge, acquired easily by the Ambassador, pinned to his lapel. The inscribed words
R
.
KERMAN
,
ESQ
. were written beneath the date, June 22, and the day, Thursday. Tomorrow’s badge would be green.
He made the journey to Ascot in a taxi. After the last race, he would walk down the road to the forecourt of the train station and pick up a different one. Today, he was anonymous, dressed identically to about 5,000 other men. But he deliberately did not speak to the driver on the way to the racecourse, burying himself in a corner of the backseat, studying the
Racing Post,
attempting to spot the dangers to his father’s second-favorite for the big race. He read with some satisfaction that the early favorite, High Five, was withdrawn, injured. Homeward Bound, beaten by Persian Lady at Sandown, was now favorite, regarded as more likely to last out the marathon than the stamina-suspect Kerman mare.
They hit heavy traffic as soon as they left the M4 Motorway, crawling in a long queue toward Windsor Castle, but Ravi had left plenty of time, and they drove slowly along the straight road bordering the western edge of the racecourse, arriving at the main intersection just after 1:25.
Ravi jumped out and headed across Number One car park, entering the racecourse at the less busy end, God’s little acre where English families had for generations occupied the same picnic spots. The place was awash with champagne. There were small trestle tables, set behind large Mercedes and Rolls-Royces, groaning under the weight of mighty plates of poached salmon, hauled out of the Scottish rivers, drenched in mayonnaise, and now consumed boldly with cold new potatoes, the standard rations of the British establishment at play.
Ravi strode through the morning suits, looking neither left nor right. He reached the ticket checkpoint and walked past the gate-man,
his badge plain to see. Inside, he purchased a racing form, and stood under a towering oak tree, finding his bearings.
He sensed a determined movement of the swarming crowd around him, heading for the Royal Enclosure. He checked his watch, which showed 1:40, and as he did so, he heard the distant announcement that the horse-drawn Royal carriages were now inside the gates and proceeding up the racecourse toward the Enclosure.
The nineteen-year-old Queen Victoria made that same procession in the first year of her reign back in 1838, and it looked much the same now, the reigning Monarch in the lead carriage, drawn by four Windsor grays, followed by an assortment of Royal Princes, Princesses, Dukes, and Duchesses. The Gold Cup itself has a similar pedigree dating back to 1807. Ravi Rashood, terrorist, killer, and danger to society, felt an overwhelming lack of empathy toward the pageantry of England.