“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.”
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. Robertson 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.
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.