The 3,000-ton Kilo could probably make twelve knots all the way. But she would have to run at periscope depth, snorkeling throughout the journey, to keep her massive batteries charged. That would be noisy, but unavoidable, because the diesel generators, running hard, needed air.
Her greatest strength, her stealth, would thus be compromised. Because, running deep and slow, she was a deadly quiet underwater combatant, totally silent under five knots. Undetectable, with a 3,650-horsepower electronic running capacity on a brilliantly engineered single shaft. But for this mission, speed was the deciding factor, the intention being to land Ravi somewhere on the south coast of the Irish republic on the weekend of Saturday, July 14.
From there he must make his way to Dublin, and then to England, on one of the busy ferry routes, arriving at one of the less stringently patrolled terminals. But first there was a question of arming him.
And even at the ferry ports, there was no possibility that Hamas would take the risk of sending someone through with a sniper rifle. That was the way to a British prison and certain exposure. If they caught him, the Brits would probably hang Ravi for high treason against the state. He had, after all, shot two SAS men in cold blood. His own people. In a sense.
No, he must collect his weapon in England. Collect it, use it. And somehow leave without it. There was no other course of action open to him. The details would be handed over to the Syrian embassy in London, and perhaps the rifle could be handmade in time for Ravi’s arrival.
Time, once more, would probably be pressing. So the rifle would need to be constructed in London, since there would be so little time for the ace terrorist to be running around all over England to collect and test it. The arrival of Admiral and Mrs. Morgan was cast in stone. The early morning of Tuesday, July 31. The Ritz Hotel, on Piccadilly.
And such a destination, busy, public, and always secure, would undoubtedly require a great deal of time for reconnaissance. Which, as every military man knows, is always precious and sometimes priceless. It is time seldom wasted.
The Hamas general would need to be on station, in London, by July 20. Only with that timetable could he possibly have the sniper’s rifle perfectly primed, his hiding place perfectly sited, his escape route from central London perfectly organized, and his rendezvous with the submarine timed to perfection.
The general would need a car and money, lots of it, since he might have to rent, or even buy, a space somewhere along the north side of the wide thoroughfare of Piccadilly, opposite the great hotel. Real estate in that area was scarce and astronomically priced. The Syrian embassy would be called upon to assist in this commercial end of the plot.
All this was for the elimination of one man. And there were three oil-rich Middle Eastern states involved in the planning and financing: Jordan, Syria, and Iran. But the power behind the decision was Ravi Rashood, the world-class, SAS-trained sniper-marksman, the Islamic terrorist mastermind, who would trust no one else to carry it out.
The general’s overall reasoning was simple: “Every operation we undertake against the USA will stand a 100 percent better chance of success if Admiral Arnold Morgan is in his grave. And that is where I intend to put him.”
Shakira was busy for a Monday night. The local group-Herb, Bill, Rick, and Matt Barker-were into their second beers, and there were several residents who had stopped for a drink before going into the dining room. The restaurant was filling up, the kitchen was busy, and tonight’s special, sea bass, was awaiting Emily Gallagher and her friend, for whom the same table was always reserved.
The two ladies arrived at 7:15 and made their usual stop at Shakira’s bar for a glass of white wine. At the time, Matt Barker was proposing that Shakira meet him as soon as she finished and he would take her to a beautiful spot on the water for a nightcap. The Porsche was outside.
As ever, Shakira was making her excuses to the doe-eyed Matt and was inordinately grateful for the arrival of Emily, who was watching her with an amused smile. Shakira broke away from Matt and moved quickly to pour the wine for Mrs. Gallagher, who said quietly, “I sense that young garage man is making a slight nuisance of himself?”
“Oh, he’s all right,” she replied. “But he does seem to have a crush on me.”
“It’s his age, my dear,” whispered Emily. “He’s too old to be some kind of a lovesick teenager, and too young to be a suave, wealthy, middle-aged Lothario. The trouble is, to people like us, he’ll always be a garage mechanic. Not good enough for you, Carla. Stay well clear.”
Emily offered a conspiratorial smile and retreated into the crowd. A few minutes later, Shakira saw her cross the hall into the restaurant, and thought enviously about that freshly caught baked sea bass. She had been offered only a cheeseburger for her own dinner.
But she could never, of course, betray to Jim Caborn the irritating fact that, to her, money was absolutely no problem whatsoever. She could have bought the fishing trawler, if she’d felt like it. On a mission such as hers, finance was not a consideration, not for the most wealthy of the jihadists.
Matt Barker once more stepped up to the plate. “Carla,” he said, “I really want to take you out tonight. We know each other well enough by now. And anyway, I have a little gift for you.”
“Matt,” she replied, “that is very sweet of you, and I appreciate it. But I have tried to tell you, I am engaged. There is no way I can go out with you. It wouldn’t be fair to Ray.” She spoke the name without thinking, almost without realizing; it had been her husband’s name in another life.
And anyway it did not make a shred of difference to the way Matt felt about her or his overwhelming desire for her. But he tried to hide it, shrugged, and said, “Well, okay. I just wanted you to know how much I respect you, and how much it would mean to me, if you would ever go out with me.”
“Not in this life, I’m afraid,” she said jauntily. “You need to find an unattached girl. Not someone who is planning to marry someone else.”
Matt, stung by the double-edged poison of rejection and envy, ordered another beer.
The evening wore on, and although Matt Barker and his friends were drinking only some kind of light beer, they were, all of them, showing signs of becoming increasingly drunk.
At ten o’clock, Emily and her friend returned to the bar for Irish coffee. They sat at the counter while Shakira made it, and stayed on their bar stools to drink it. Matt, noticing Shakira’s obvious fondness for the old lady, called loudly for the Irish coffees to go on his tab.
Mrs. Gallagher was far too wise to argue with a rowdy group of men who’d been drinking the entire evening, and she nodded a polite sign of thank-you to the garage owner, and then hissed to Shakira, “Don’t you dare put it on his tab.”
Slightly to her surprise, Matt Barker drained his beer, paid his check, and was the first to go. “Early start tomorrow,” he said. “Washington. Again. Still, the new Porsche knocks it off pretty sharply.”
By 10:45, there were just a few residents left. Matt’s crowd had gone, and so had Emily and her friend. Shakira was tired, and she asked the night security man to take over for the last few minutes.
Then she slipped through to the small room behind the bar, put on her short jacket and her driving gloves, and headed for the back door. She ran down the steps and across to the dark side of the parking lot, and there, waiting in the shadows, was Matt Barker.