Ravi took it from him and held it against his shoulder, staring into the telescopic sight, straight at the crosshairs. Then he relaxed and held the rifle in the palms of both hands, away from his body, as if weighing it, balancing it. During his years in the SAS, this weapon, or one precisely like it, had been like an old friend-super accurate, super quiet, and super reliable, all the qualities a professional sniper requires.
This SSG looked different now. But it felt the same, a little lighter, but with the same familiar well-balanced deadliness about it.
“Can we try it?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Kumar. “Follow me. I’ll bring a half dozen practice bullets.” He walked to a door set halfway along the exterior wall, opened it, and beckoned Ravi through. The corridor was well lit, and they walked maybe twenty yards to an indoor shooting range-a long dark tunnel, lit only at the far end, where a large target had been set on an easel. There were wires attached to the target, which was a twelve-inch-wide bull’s-eye. In front of Ravi just below shoulder level was a countertop on which to lean.
“You have five bullets,” said Kumar. “Let’s see how the rifle suits you.”
Ravi leaned forward and, pushing the specially designed safety catch, freed up the rifle to fire. He aimed carefully, placing the crosshairs right across the red heart of the target. He squeezed the trigger, but the target was fifty yards away and it was difficult to see the result of his marksmanship.
In fact, Ravi took no notice of his success or failure. He just fired all five, and then signaled for Mr. Kumar to pull up the target for inspection. The Indian wound it in with a small wheel, exactly the same as in a fairground, but he raised his eyebrows when he checked the piece of cardboard.
All five bullets had gone through virtually the same hole. To the left, there was a very slight bulge, maybe an eighth of an inch, and at the bottom there was another minuscule variance. None of the five shots had strayed beyond the basic red circle of the bull.
“Very nice, Mr. Spencer. Very nice indeed. It’s a privilege to be in the company of a master.”
“Sentiments I share,” replied Ravi. “This is an outstanding rifle, and I thank you.”
Together they walked back into the main workshop, and Ravi carefully dismantled the weapon, placing each piece into its allotted slot in the new case. He took his time and then clipped the case shut. He handed over a large brown envelope that contained the balance of the money, again two hundred £50 notes. And again, Prenjit Kumar did not count it.
This omission was noted by Ravi, who perfectly understood that there had been no necessity to check the cash for the down payment last week, since he was scheduled to return. This, however, was different. After today, Ravi would probably never see the gunsmith again, and he looked up and said, “You don’t want to count it?”
The Bengali smiled. “Of course not,” he replied. “I know when I am in the presence of a gentleman.”
And then he presented Ravi with a heavy cardboard box, around five inches square and three deep. “There’s thirty practice bullets in here,” he said. “You will want to adjust the sights for perfect vision from the precise distance of your target. It may take a while, of trial and error, so I have given you plenty of ammunition. Here also are three targets that may be useful.”
General Rashood smiled and thanked him. He offered his hand and said quietly, “Mr. Kumar, there are only five people in the world who know that you have made this rifle for me. Two of them you know, and all of them I know. Should anyone discover our secret, all four of us will know that you have been indiscreet. I am sure you understand what the penalty would be.”
“Mr. Spencer,” he replied, “my own risk is equally great. There will be no indiscretions, I assure you.”
Before he led Ravi up the green-carpeted stairs to the front door, he presented him with one further item, wrapped in a black velvet bag. “This is the pistol you requested. It’s a new Austrian Glock 17 9mm. The safety catch comes off when the trigger is pressed. It will not discharge if you drop it. And it will not let you down.”
Once more they shook hands, and the master terrorist softly said good-bye to the gunsmith from Bengal.
He drove back to the embassy in a thoughtful mood, aware that this was Saturday and of how much he longed to take Shakira out for the evening, perhaps the theatre, and then dinner at the Ivy where the “stars” are apt to gather after a show. Ravi did not have a shred of time for self-obsessed play-actors or any other kind of celebrities, but Shakira would have loved it. Anyway, he doubted that he could have secured a table.
And a much bigger “anyway” was that the entire thing was out of the question. One recognition, by anyone from his former life, and he’d either have to kill them or flee the country. So once more he faced up to a long waiting day at the embassy. Aside from the boredom, he was, however, eternally grateful for the perfection of the cover he enjoyed behind the ramparts of No. 8 Belgrave Square.
Up in their bedroom, he presented Shakira with the pistol, which Kumar had thoughtfully loaded, and Shakira did precisely as she was told and placed it in her large handbag. “You will carry that wherever you go,” he told her. “We have many enemies.”
They had lunch at the embassy, where the cooks were under orders always to produce food that reminded the ambassador of the desert and the culture of the northern end of the Arabian Peninsula. Thus lunch when it arrived was chicken kebabs, rice, houmus, and salad.
They sipped fruit juice and then sat in the opulent rear drawing room. They read the newspapers, and Ravi watched the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes at Ascot, won for the umpteenth time by the Irish with a superb dark bay colt sired by the Coolmore-based champion stallion, Galileo.
Shakira, who had been paying scant attention, suddenly heard the word “Coolmore” and almost jumped out of her chair. “I’ve been there!” she exclaimed.
“Where? Ascot?” asked Ravi.
“No, Coolmore,” she said. “I visited it while I was waiting for you in Ireland.”
“Did you see the great Galileo? That horse who just won was his son.”
“Well, I didn’t actually go in, but I saw the big iron gates, and I saw all the green countryside where the horses live. It’s in Tipperary.”
Ravi, of course, like anyone with the remotest knowledge of horse racing, knew all about Coolmore. He grinned at Shakira and asked, “How on earth did you find your way down there?”
“I met a man in the hotel in Dublin who owned a filly foal. I think she was born there,” she replied, accurately. “And it was very important to him that her brother, called Easter Rebel, would win the Irish Stakes or something.”
“The what?”
“The Irish something. I can’t remember. But it mattered to him.”
“That would have been the first week in July. It was probably the Irish Derby.”
“ Derby, that’s it. He wanted Easter Rebel to win the Irish Derby.”
“And did he?”
“I forgot to find out.”
Ravi laughed. “I’m not sure you’ve mastered an in-depth appreciation of horse racing,” he said. “Otherwise, you’d have remembered to find out what happened to Easter Rebel.”
“I’ll tell you what I do remember,” she retorted. “Easter Rebel was also the son of that telescope man-what’s his name, Galileo.”
“Was he? Well, you ought to know whether the Rebel won and made your new friend rich.”
“How can I find out?”
“I’ll do that for you. If I can use that laptop computer over there on the sideboard.”