“Not ’til we’ve finished dinner,” he chuckled. “Remember, no one has the slightest idea where we are and where we’re going. Not even you.”
The admiral signaled for James to take the white Burgundy in, to the table, and to serve him a glass of the 1998 Château de Carles, which had been opened an hour previously. This particular deep red Bordeaux, made on the right bank of the Gironde River, has a pedigree dating back to the eighth century when Emperor Charlemagne camped in the area.
Château de Carles itself dates back to the fifteenth century, and all that history, plus the distant presence of the great warrior Charlemagne, tipped the balance for Arnold, away from his favorite Château Lynch-Bages to the earthy black fruit aromas of the wine from Fronsac.
“Always remember, my boy,” he said to James. “Ninety-eight. St. Emilion and Pomerol, right bank of the river. That’s where they made the top vintage.”
“I did know that, sir. But I’ve never really known why.”
“Because it rained like hell on the left bank,” snapped the admiral.
“Really? Well, how wide’s the river, sir?”
“About a hundred times wider than the one outside the front door,” chuckled Arnold, as he led the way to the table, hugely looking forward to the forthcoming house specialty of honey-glazed duck with pickled plum.
At 10 P.M., British television announced details of the fatal shooting that had taken place on the front steps of the Ritz Hotel that morning. They named the dead man as George Kallan, an American national employed by the U.S. embassy in London and believed to be on the staff of the U.S. admiral Arnold Morgan, who was staying at the hotel. There had been no arrests, and, as yet, there were no suspects. The shot was believed to have been fired from a building on the opposite side of Piccadilly.
From the newscast, it was plain that the police had been very reticent about the nature of the crime. Scotland Yard did not have a representative supplying any extra information, and it was almost impossible for journalists to speculate, given the paucity of information.
Behind the scenes, however, there was pandemonium. Scotland Yard called in MI-5 and MI-6. The long-anticipated attempt on Admiral Morgan’s life had indeed happened. The attack, which had been flagged by the FBI, the CIA, and even the National Security Agency, had been carried out by persons almost certainly connected with the Middle Eastern Jihad against the West.
One way or another, one of the Holy Warriors had tracked down the admiral, the first time he had left the United States in six months. According to all known intelligence, gathered internationally in the last few weeks, the culprit was General Ravi Rashood, the former SAS major, who appeared to be on the loose somewhere in Great Britain. Right now, he was wanted for the murders of Jerry O’Connell and George Kallan.
The news reached Jimmy Ramshawe at 5 P.M. (local) at Fort Meade. It came in the form of a private signal from one of his buddies in the CIA: Jim, someone tried to assassinate Admiral Arnold Morgan at the front door of the Ritz Hotel in London today. The bullet missed, but hit one of the admiral’s bodyguards, George Kallan, killed him instantly.
Lt. Commander Ramshawe went white. He felt no sense of triumph, no feeling of exoneration for all the grief he had been given by the admiral. He actually felt scared, for Arnold and for Kathy. This represented all his dreads. And it was not the stray rifle shot across Piccadilly that bothered him. It was the fact that this organization, to which General Rashood belonged, had very obviously decided the time had come to eliminate the Big Man.
They had, Jimmy was certain, gone to the most enormous amount of trouble and expense to mount this operation, and it had plainly gone wrong. He, Jimmy, had been on to them from the start, and in his opinion they were not the kind of guys to quit. They would regroup and start again, searching for the man who had been their bête noire for so long.
He touched base with the CIA’s London desk, and they informed him that the admiral and Kathy were quite safe and in hiding somewhere west of London, under heavy CIA and police protection. There were two Flying Squad cars on permanent station outside the small hotel where the Morgans were staying. That was a total of seven armed British officers. There was Arnold ’s regular Secret Service detail, and an armed boat from the London River Police was on its way up through the locks and expected to arrive before midnight. If Hamas, or whoever, was planning to try again, this would not be an ideal time.
Nonetheless, Jimmy was extremely worried. Despite all the warnings and alerts received by the security authorities, this character Rashood had slipped through the net and had actually managed to park himself in a building opposite the admiral’s hotel and open fire on him the first time Arnie set foot outside the door. And then get away!
This was no ordinary assassin, Jimmy decided. This was a top-of-the-line professional, Rashood, the former SAS commander, a man once headed for the very top in Britain’s most elite branch of Special Forces.
If Admiral Morgan was to be protected, he would need at his side a man of comparable talents, not some half-trained London bobby. And Jimmy did not know what to do about that. He called Admiral Morris, his boss, who told him to come along to the director’s office immediately. George had not yet heard the news.
And when Jimmy arrived, Morris listened wide-eyed while his assistant recounted the events in London earlier that day.
“Sir,” said Jimmy, “we got to get him a bodyguard. Not a cop, or an agent, a Special Forces guy, someone like an ex-Navy SEAL or a Green Beret. Someone who can shoot, fight, or kill if necessary.”
Admiral Morris nodded sagely, and wondered if it had occurred to Jimmy that such a man might not be allowed to operate with impunity in a foreign country.
“There are such things as laws, Jimmy,” he said. “Particularly in a socialist country like England. And those laws prevent ex-Navy SEALs from opening fire on wandering terrorists, whatever their crimes. The Brits have been neurotic about the human rights of criminals ever since that cream-puff Blair and his lawyer wife smooth-talked their way into 10 Downing Street.”
“Couldn’t we fix something with the Brits?”
“I think that’s very possible, if we can get the president on our side. Arnold obviously needs specialized protection, and the Brits won’t relish getting the blame if anything should happen to him while he’s in their country.”
“Can you talk to President Bedford?”
“Well, not right now. He’s fishing up in Kennebunkport with George Bush. But he’s coming back in the morning. I’ll catch him then.”
“Okay, sir. Let’s assume something can be arranged. You want me to talk to John Bergstrom, see if he can suggest anyone?”
“Good idea, Jimmy. We don’t want anything to happen to our guy, right? Let’s start things moving right away.”
Jimmy returned to his office, checked his watch-2:30 P.M. in California -and punched in the numbers for SPECWARCOM in Coronado, San Diego. It took the assistant to the director of the National Security Agency approximately three minutes to be put through to Vice Admiral John Bergstrom, who was in the final weeks of his tenure as head of Special War Command.
He and Lt. Commander Ramshawe had met previously and shared in common a profound admiration for Admiral Morgan. It took Jimmy only two or three minutes to outline the events in London that morning, and the potential danger to Arnold, for the king SEAL to offer his undivided attention.
Finally Jimmy came to the point. Both he and Admiral George Morris were convinced that Arnold now required a very special bodyguard. Jimmy pointed out the skill and devilish determination of the assassin who everyone now assessed as the C-in-C of Hamas in person.