Flanked by his protectors, Admiral Morgan made his way out to the lobby, with Rick leading the way, his rifle now openly in the firing position. Sir Iain, Annie, and Kathy walked behind Arnold, with the two policemen bringing up the rear, weapons drawn.
All eleven of them stepped into the elevator, and all eleven stepped out at the sixteenth floor. They walked in convoy down to room 168, where two more policemen were on duty. The security men went in first, swept the rooms for intruders, pronounced them “clean,” and signaled for everyone to come in at last.
Rick announced that he would be on permanent duty and would like two of the bodyguards with him at all times. Al Thompson volunteered to share the first watch, and Rick detailed two policemen to stand guard in the corridor throughout the night.
Admiral MacLean, who had been subconsciously concerned that all this was giving Scotland one hell of a bad name, suggested that everyone gather for a farewell nightcap in the drawing room. “Who knows when we will all be together again?” he smiled.
Two of the policemen now went off duty and left the suite, walking along the corridor to the elevator. Neither of them was concerned by a maid pushing a trolley, about forty feet ahead of them. And neither of them saw her put a cell phone to her ear, which caused a soft ringtone high on the roof of the hotel.
Ravi was ready. His lines were clipped, harness tight, rifle loaded and ready. His balaclava was pulled down. He wore goggles, and he edged his way to the 180-foot precipice of the hotel roof.
Carefully he tested the lines, pulling on them hard, ensuring that they could take the strain; and then, for the second time this night, he leaned back and prepared to descend. He began slowly to abseil down the wall, until he was right above the line of windows on the sixteenth floor.
Right here he adjusted his clips, giving himself another six feet on both lines. Now poised high above Princes Street, he released the safety catch on the SA80, and said a final prayer to his God.
Admiral MacLean was just pouring four glasses of Scotland’s finest, when Ravi, with a massive double-footed kick, launched himself, temporarily, into space, backward, until his lines stretched tight to the horizontal. At which point, gravity took over, and Ravi plummeted downward and inward.
He hit the windowpane with the soles of both boots and obliterated the glass. The huge force of his body weight carried him through to the window ledge, and his rifle was already spitting bullets.
Ravi could see Admiral Morgan, and he had eyes for no other. He rammed down his finger on the trigger, aiming straight at Arnold. The first bullet ripped into the admiral’s shoulder, and a stain of blood seeped through his shirt.
And in that split second, Commander Rick Hunter swiveled and opened fire, pumping a line of 5.56-millimeter shells straight into the head of General Ravi Rashood, killing him instantly. Slowly he dropped his rifle and flopped backward through the window from whence he had come. His lines held fast, and the body of the Hamas C-in-C swung theatrically above Princes Street, steadily dripping blood on anyone who happened to be passing sixteen floors below.
The two policemen on duty outside the suite had now rushed inside, and Arnold’s wound was being wrapped in towels from the bathroom. Rick insisted that Arnie rest on the bed while he, so often the medic on his SEAL teams, took a look at it, mostly to make sure the bullet was not still in the admiral’s shoulder.
Arnold hung tough. “It’s bullshit,” he confirmed. “Stupid fucker couldn’t even shoot straight. No wonder he kept missing. Anyway, who the hell is he?”
At which point there was a gentle tap on the door, and a voice said “Room service.”
“Come in,” snapped the policeman, who at the time was fetching more towels. But Rick Hunter, suddenly remembering his instructions to the front desk, looked up just in time to see a service cart, laden with food covered with a white tablecloth, being pushed through the door.
“STOP!” he yelled. “GET OUT-RIGHT OUT! RIGHT NOW!”
But the service cart kept coming, and the good-looking, dark-haired maid from along the corridor kept pushing. She made it into the room, and then slid her right hand under the tablecloth, and when it emerged it was gripping the deadly Austrian revolver provided by Prenjit Kumar.
No one noticed, except Rick Hunter. And Shakira never had time to take aim at Admiral Morgan. Rick blew her away, studding her perfect face with a line of bullets that knocked her backward into the corridor, blood pumping from her head.
“JESUS CHRIST!” bellowed Arnold Morgan. “THIS IS LIKE THE FUCKING WILD WEST!”
By now there were about twenty more policemen thundering along the corridor. Squad cars, blue lights flashing, sirens howling, were pulling up outside the hotel’s main entrance. Lady MacLean had almost fainted with terror, and Kathy Morgan, as white as the tablecloth, was holding Arnold’s hand while her husband griped and moaned about too much fuss being made about a small incident.
It was after two o’clock when the room was restored almost to normal. The body of Ravi was hauled back onto the roof, and once more his lines held fast. They wheeled Shakira out on a hospital gurney, and the police summoned a doctor and three nurses from nearby Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to tend Arnold’s mercifully superficial wound.
“I’d prefer you to be treated in the hotel,” the chief superintendent told America’s former national security adviser. “I just have a feeling that if you step outside the door, another bloody gun battle might break out.”
Admiral Morgan chuckled and said, gruffly, “Words of appreciation don’t come naturally to me. But I would like to say ‘thank you’ for everything you all have done for me. I’ve been a very stubborn old man, and I’ve put a lot of good people in great danger.”
“For the last time,” responded Kathy. “Because you, Arnold Morgan, are retired-no more advising, no more telling presidents what to do. Your service to your country is over. That’s if you want to stay married.”
EPILOGUE
Air Force One was refueled. The stairway was in place, and the Royal Navy staff car pulled up twenty yards away. Admiral Morgan, with his arm around Kathy, stepped out and climbed the steps to the giant presidential aircraft, right behind Commander Hunter. The four American agents were already on board.
The huge door was immediately closed and the Boeing 747 that bore the Presidential Seal of the United States of America began to push back, ready to taxi down to the end of the runway.
Little was yet known about the identity of the two would-be assassins, but the communications officer was instructed to stand by for information from the Lothian and Border Police in Edinburgh.
Somewhat poignantly, they were thirty thousand feet above West Cork at around 9 A.M. when the coded communiqué came through:
Dead assassin identified as Major Ray Kerman, deserted from Great Britain’s Special Air Service eight years ago. Dead hotel maid believed to be his Palestinian wife, Shakira Rashood. Search of her luggage, in Kerman ’s room, revealed five different passports, one of them American in the name of Carla Martin. Both the deceased are believed to have been Islamic extremists operating on behalf of the terrorist organization, Hamas.”
“Goddamned towelheads,” growled Arnold Morgan.
Patrick Robinson
