Barracuda 945 (23 page)

The Ascot event is over two and a half miles, $200,000 to the winner. This is an arena for gladiators only, for the Titans of the track, racing into the thunder of the Ascot crowd, bringing lumps into the throats of every true horseman just because of their power, their speed, and their unending bravery.

There was a big television screen behind him, but Ravi could not take his eyes off the emptiness of the dark green carpet before him. He stared ahead, watching the runners come by for the first time, five furlongs already behind them. He spotted the scarlet cap of Persian Lady in the middle of the pack, on the fence, going easily. And then they were gone, away from the stands, thundering out into the country, swinging right, up the slight rise in the ground and then on down toward Swinley Bottom.

Five furlongs out Ravi could hear the announcer calling the race:…
and Persian Lady strikes the front
…
opening up a six-length lead as they race down to the turn.

Twenty-four seconds later, Ravi heard the traditional Ascot bell toll, as the leaders entered the home straight with two and a half furlongs to run. By now most of the field was half-dead with exhaustion, and Persian Lady had the leaders off the bridle. Right behind her, three lengths adrift, came Homeward Bound, answering the desperate calls of his jockey, trying to shake off the outsider, Madrigal, running the race of his life.

Inside the final quarter of a mile, the favorite collared Richard Kerman’s mare. Racing fiercely on the outside, the big gray gelding matched strides and then took a half-length lead. Madrigal was not out of it either, and as they raced into the bedlam of the massive crowd, there were three in a line, driving for the eighth pole, 200 yards from where Ravi was standing.

Right there, Madrigal had had enough. That left Persian Lady, with a half length to find, as they hurtled toward the wire. Jockey Jack Carson, nineteen, went to the whip, slashing Persian Lady three times on her left quarter. But she was already digging deep, racing to within an inch of her life.

Again Carson hit her, and now she shied from the whip, slashing her tail, but she still kept running gallantly, struggling to level with Homeward Bound. The giant grandstand literally shook from the deafening roar of the crowd, as the mare went after the favorite, fighting her way home, coming again in the dying strides.

There was pandemonium in the announcer’s voice as they charged past the winning post. And like him, Ravi could not separate them when they crossed the wire. He just heard: “…THEY’VE GONE PAST TOGETHER…PHOTOGRAPH…”

They waited, Richard and Naz Kerman up in the owners and trainers stand, Ravi in the infield, and the connections of Homeward Bound standing near the winners’ enclosure.

It took six minutes.
Result of the photograph
…
first, number two, Homeward Bound. Second, number eight Persian Lady. The third horse was number 14, Madrigal. Distances, a short head, and nine lengths.

The mare lost nothing in defeat, save for around $150,000. And when her owners finally walked to the meeting place they found their son still breathtakenly awed at the formal drama of the contest. He shook his head and said, “This is a helluva day. You lose the Gold Cup but you regain a son.”

Then he stood by to cope with a blizzard of questions, all on the same theme.
Where have you been? What have you done wrong? How long will you stay? Does the Army realize you are here? Have you given yourself up?

Most of them he could not answer. But he explained they must never admit he had been to England, and that he doubted he would ever return. He plainly could never contact them. He was settled in a Middle Eastern country, though not in the land of his birth. He hoped soon to marry, and he had a prosperous career in front of him. His father, of course, wished to know what had really happened
in Hebron, but that was something they could never discuss. Ravi had much explaining to do, but his parents understood the high stakes. To discuss their son with anyone might cost him his life. After one hour, they parted with immense sadness. Ravi assured them he would find them again, probably in an equally unguarded moment, as this had been. Possibly in Paris.

Confident their secrets were safe, he ordered them to return to the Royal Enclosure, and he stood under the tree watching them walk away. He could see them making for the Enclosure gate, and as they entered, his mother turned around, just fleetingly, and waved in a halfhearted way up toward the paddock where he stood. He tried to raise his own hand, but it didn’t work, and his eyes were suffused in tears, as indeed were the eyes of Naz Kerman.

Ravi stood alone for a while, but the last race was starting and he decided to leave before the crowds. He left the way he had come, through the top gate, and then he turned left, down toward the train station, where he found a taxi. They pulled up outside the Syrian Embassy at 6:45.

He had dinner at around eight with the Security Chief with whom he would work in Regent’s Park the following morning. But at ten o’clock he left through the main door and hailed a cab in the square, instructing the driver to take him to Marsham Street, SW1.

It took just a very few minutes and it was growing dark by the time they arrived. Ravi paid the driver and walked slowly down one side of the street, the side with the even numbers. Prior’s Court was about halfway along the rather gloomy road. He pushed open the swing doors, presenting himself to the doorman.

“Good evening,” he said. “I’m meeting Mr. Studley-Bryce. If he’s not in, he’ll be back shortly. He’s given me a key.”

The doorman gazed at the immaculately dressed man who stood before him. “Sir, I’m sure he’s not in yet,” he said. “But if you have a key, please go up. You know the number?”

“Nine B,” said Ravi.

“The lift is just across there, sir. Ninth floor.” Ravi, thanking God for the curious authority his formal morning
clothes gave him, entered the lift and stepped out on the correct floor. He walked to 9B, and opened the lock with a credit card. If Rupert had double-locked it with the other key, flicking the safety steel bolt into place, he was out of luck. But Rupert had not bothered. And the door swung open, and Ravi Rashood entered the flat, sitting down in a large comfortable chair to await his old friend.

He did not turn on the light, but he did turn on the television, watching the ten o’clock BBC News and cheering silently as Persian Lady once more set about trying to cut down the lead of Homeward Bound.

There was another half hour to wait before he heard the obvious sound of a key in the lock. A slightly drunk Rupert came into the room, swaying lightly and demanding to know if anyone was in here or has the bloody doorman gone mad?

Ravi came at him from behind the sofa, and the Member of Parliament just had time to cry out “RAY, WHAT THE HELL…?” They were the last words he ever would utter. Ravi slammed a small onyx ashtray right between his eyes, splintering the bone in the center of his forehead.

Then he rammed the butt of his right hand with all of his force into the nostril end of Rupert’s nose, driving that bone deep into his brain.

“Sorry about that, old chap,” he muttered, lowering the body to the floor. Then he slipped into the kitchen, selected a ten-inch-long steel carving knife from a rack above the wooden work surface, picked it up with a dishcloth and left the apartment holding the weapon inside his jacket.

The ground floor was deserted as he crossed the floor toward the entrance, but he could see the doorman watching a small television behind a glass door. He stopped and beckoned him to come out, which he did, sharply, as if obeying a command from a superior officer.

Ravi killed him on the spot, instantly plunging the knife deep into the man’s heart, all the way in, right between the ribs. He pushed the still-standing body back into the little anteroom beyond the desk, turned out the light and the television, shut the
door, and left, wiping his hands on the dishcloth and taking it with him. The knife remained embedded in the heart of the security chief of Prior’s Court, though no one could see the body, now crumpled on the floor behind the door.

He waited on the embankment for a cab, and went straight back to the Embassy, which was quiet now. All of the Ambassador’s staff were sound asleep, and Ravi let himself in the little side door with a key presented to him by the sniper.

It was almost midnight, and he placed his cell phone on the charger before grabbing four hours’ sleep. They called him at run down 4
A
.
M
., and he packed his suitcase before writing careful instructions to a staff officer to deliver it personally to Waterloo Station, outside Coach Five, Eurostar Express, 8
A
.
M
. to Paris.

Once more General Rashood stepped outside the Syrian Embassy, into Belgrave Square, an hour before dawn. He called Northolt Airport, and in an American accent, informed them he was the United States Military Attaché in Grosvenor Square, and could someone give him the ETA of
Air Force One?

“This morning sometime, sir. Not allowed to give details to anyone.”

“Thanks, pal,” said Ravi, briskly. And to himself,
Well, he’s not here yet. But “this morning”? What the hell does that mean
…
5:00 or 11:30?

Twenty minutes later, he was at the edge of Regent’s Park looking along the line of houses where the United States Ambassador lived. It was just about 5:00 and the sky was growing lighter to the east, but the streetlights were still on. He could see a detail of four U.S. Marine Guards in tight formation outside the building. Four London policemen, visibly armed with submachine guns, waited on each corner of the block. Another four were outside the Residence talking with the Marines. Every light was on in the front of the building.

“Shit!” cried Ravi. “This does not look promising.” He tuned his little shortwave radio into that of the sniper, who was currently hiding somewhere across the lawns near the boating lake, lining up his sights. He signaled two blips
—Hold everything!
Then he
walked back westward, not especially noticeable because of his dark gray suit and light briefcase.

He reached Clarence Gate, and there at the entrance were six more armed policemen. Worse yet, he could hear the roters howling on a landed helicopter somewhere behind the houses. He stared up to the rooftops and in the distance he could see what looked like an entire SWAT team fanned out in surveillance mode, high above the park.

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

T
HE 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:

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.

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 professional 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.