The important thing, however, was that he was still free, on the loose and able to fight another day. Except that, in this particular case, it would be this day. He said hello to the doorman and headed straight up to his room, hoping to hell Shakira would contact him and finalize their arrangements.
It was after 10:30 now, and Shakira took half an hour to call. Ravi answered the phone and she just said, “They are all arriving. I’ll be down.”
Two minutes later she let herself into the room, having just seen Admiral Morgan and his wife, and having ascertained that, again, her husband had missed the target for which they had both strived for so long.
“Darling,” she said, “can we go home now? Let’s just get away. We have the car, we can make it.”
Ravi shook his head. “This is not a military mission,” he said. “This is the sacred work of Allah. I cannot abandon it. I would burn in hell if I did that. We must complete what we began.”
“But why? We’ve both tried so hard. Maybe this is not meant to be. Why can’t we just go?”
Again, Ravi shook his head. “Is everything ready on the roof?” he asked. “Yes, but I don’t want you to go.”
“Can’t you see that I must?” And Ravi’s voice began to rise. “I have to kill him. He is the enemy of my people, the attack dog of the West, the sworn foe of the Prophet, the scourge of our armies. The admiral must die by my hand…”
Ravi was shouting now, and Shakira was frightened someone would hear. Worse yet, she was afraid of Ravi now, afraid he had lost all sense of reason.
“Go,” he commanded her. “GO! And do the bidding of Allah, as I must. Now GO!”
He watched her walk through the door, and minutes later he followed her along the corridor to the fire escape. He took with him a balaclava and goggles he had bought in the same army surplus store where he purchased his boots.
He climbed the stone steps, fourteen floors, to the stairwell of the sixteenth. He was standing inside the door Shakira had opened earlier that evening. The last short flight of stone steps led to the roof. Ravi checked his watch; three minutes later, Shakira came in.
Ravi told her they were each precious messengers of Allah, and that this task tonight might be the last time they would see each other on this earth. They would, however, be united in the arms of Allah, who would surely welcome two of his finest Holy Warriors into everlasting paradise.
“Besides,” he added in conclusion, “there is nothing here for us any more. Nowhere to go, to live. We’d be hiding for all the days of our lives. Tonight Allah will decide for us.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. Together they’d risked everything for the Jihad, and now there seemed to be nothing left. For a while, Ravi had considered that Admiral Morgan was the one trapped in a corner. And that may have been true, but the corner he and Shakira were in was slower and more deadly.
He kissed her good-bye and said quietly, “Shakira, you know what to do. And if I can make this work tonight, we will still have a chance to escape. If I can’t, we’ve had many wonderful years together, and Allah will unite us soon.”
And with that, General Rashood climbed the stone steps to the roof, and there, standing hidden in the shadow of the air-conditioning unit, was the seaman’s bag containing the dock lines and the harness. He fixed the ends around a thick water pipe which was cemented into the wall, and ran them both through their shackles.
He slipped the safety harness on and fastened it tightly, attaching it to the second line with the rock-climbers’ clips which he could adjust on the way down, playing out the line. And then he waited for Shakira’s call.
In the meantime, over at the castle, the police were trying to make up for lost time. They sent a detail to the Marine commando headquarters and checked every man who had gone over the wall. Everyone was present, every man still had his rifle, and every rifle was empty, having fired only blanks. The police stationed officers at every door, and they began to search people as they left the Tattoo.
Finally they had the CO summon the guard and conduct a roll call of the men who had been on duty. There was, of course, one missing, a 23-year-old Scots guardsman who had been armed with an SA80 semi-automatic, loaded.
This was a rifle with the precise same bullets that had been fired at the U.S. admiral and killed the provost. At 11:30 P.M., the police decided they had a suspect-a missing suspect, but still a suspect.
They posted a further guard detail on the Cavendish Hotel, with men again on duty on the sixteenth floor. Arnold’s four-man bodyguard team was still working, and Rick elected to stay close to the admirals and their wives.
Right now they were having supper in the hotel grill, and no one felt like going to bed after the narrow escape from death Arnold had suffered.
“Jesus, Rick, you saved my life,” he said. “Guess I owe you and Ramshawe together.”
“You don’t owe me anything, sir,” replied the ex-SEAL. “It was an honor to carry out my duty.”
“I guess I’m getting too old for these front-line politics,” said the admiral. “And I think I might be getting stupid as well.”
“I’d find that very hard to accept,” said Sir Iain.
“Even if you took into consideration the very obvious truth, that young Jimmy Ramshawe has been trying to warn me for more than a month that this trip was a truly godawful idea?”
“But, Arnie,” protested Annie MacLean, “you can’t react to every wild theory that someone comes up with.”
“No. I guess that’s why I insisted on coming. It was as if I thought I could outsmart whoever these goddamned assassins were, no matter what the facts were telling me. Or at least were telling Ramshawe. I wasn’t listening.”
“It’s often the way with very clever people,” said Sir Iain. “They get so accustomed to being right, when everyone else is barking up the wrong tree, they end up thinking they can shape events just by their own intellect.”
“I think it’s sometimes called megalomania,” interjected Kathy, smiling for the first time in several hours. “Right now, I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. Because whoever opened fire on Arnie is still out there.”
Rick Hunter looked grim. He had shed his yellow police jacket, and it was currently lying on the banquette next to Kathy, covering up his CAR-15 rifle.
“He is still out there,” agreed the former SEAL. “And I’m assuming he’s still armed. We need to be very careful. I’ve called home, and the president has sent the 747 to pick us up at Edinburgh airport first thing tomorrow… we’re out of here, sir, no ifs, ands, or buts. Pushing your luck is one thing-but this is crazy.”
He glanced at his watch. It was thirty-five minutes after midnight. “It’s around 7:30 in Washington,” he said. “The boss said they’d be in the air from Andrews a half hour ago.”
“What time do we cast off tomorrow morning?” asked Admiral Morgan.
“They expect to refuel Air Force One at 7 A.M.,” replied Rick. “I guess we’ll get on board around 7:30. Leave here at 6:30.”
“Better get the hotel to give us a shout around five,” said Arnie.
“No need, sir. I won’t be sleeping,” said Rick. “Not until they shut the door of that aircraft and take off for the U.S. of A.”
“Well, I’m going to try to sleep,” murmured Kathy. “But I’m so tired, and so on edge, I expect it will be impossible. It’s not every day someone tries to blow your husband’s head off. But I’m kinda getting used to it.”
Everyone laughed. Nervously. And Rick summoned the two policemen standing inside the grill room doorway to step forward. Arnold’s four bodyguards, sitting at the next table, were also on their feet.