“Anything else?”
“Yes, tell ’em I’ll also take a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol. That’s standard issue for SEALs. And let me have a couple of extra fifteen-round magazines. If I’m on duty, I’d feel half-dressed without it.”
Jimmy made a note in his small brown leather book. “I don’t think you’ll take combat clothing, Rick. George Morris told me this morning you’d be operating disguised as a London policeman.”
“Good idea,” said Rick. “It’ll make me a lot less conspicuous.”
“You just need your regular street clothes,” said Jimmy. “Anything else, the Brits will take care of it. They, by the way, are going to be thrilled you’re coming. Because your presence means they don’t have to take the blame for anything.”
Rick chuckled. “You staying for lunch?”
“Not this time. I need to get back.”
“Okay, I’ll whistle up Olin. He’ll take you to the airport.”
“Thanks, Commander. I appreciate that. Sorry to disrupt your life like this.”
“The whole operation sounds like a real challenge. Tell the truth, I’m quite looking forward to it.” The big Navy SEAL was grinning. “And, as you know, August is the least busy month.”
The admiral and Kathy slept late and decided to stay another day at the Leatherne Bottel. And, in the meantime, Ravi and Shakira continued to head north to Scotland.
The general had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend Tuesday night in the Cambridge Sheraton. And they had begun the long drive on Wednesday morning, cutting west across to the A-1 motorway just north of Huntingdon, and then running due north all the way to Yorkshire.
Ravi had decided to make for the more westerly city of Glasgow rather than the Scottish capital, Edinburgh, and that meant leaving the motorways that run up the eastern side of England and driving right across the Pennines, the range of mountains that runs down the backbone of the country.
The Hamas general had made the journey before, and decided to take the spectacular A-66 for fifty-five miles straight over the wild and glorious Yorkshire moors, across Stainmore Forest and into Cumbria.
They arrived in the town of Penrith, the gateway to the Lake District, shortly before 5 P.M. and pulled into the Claymore, a pleasant-looking inn situated in the historic town center.
Shakira, who had been very withdrawn throughout the entire journey, finally elected to engage in conversation, asking why her husband had elected to leave the fast, direct freeways on the east side in favor of a beautiful but time-wasting drive over the mountains.
Ravi, who was tired of her endless silences, explained carefully that Admiral Morgan’s biography had pointed out that he had served in the U.S. submarines in Holy Loch. “The whole area along the Firth of Clyde is full of ex-submariners,” he said. “And there’s a chance that Admiral Morgan might want to visit his old stomping ground. If he’s in the area, there might be a reference in the local paper. He’s a very influential person, former national security adviser to the president. He’s too big a man to get lost entirely.”
“Will you try to kill him again?”
“Certainly,” replied her husband. “That’s why we’re here, and in particular that’s why we switched to the east side of the country, where he’s most likely to be.”
They checked into the Claymore, and Ravi slept for two hours. Shakira went out and bought some magazines, which she came back and read. It was obvious to anyone, at least anyone who was awake, that she was sick and tired of this relentless chase to assassinate the American.
Shakira had a foreboding that it would end in tears. In her opinion, everything had gone wrong, right from the start-the ludicrous Matt Barker, the unlucky Jerry O’Connell, the equally unlucky George Kallan. They were all dead, and in Shakira’s mind she and Ravi would soon be dead if they didn’t call the whole thing off and leave for the Middle East forthwith.
Even Ravi had admitted that the amount of security surrounding the admiral was very intense. But as her determination waned, so Ravi ’s had increased. And Shakira was afraid he might be losing the cold-blooded streak of realism that had always kept him on the straight and narrow, no matter what the mission.
In Shakira’s opinion, this was all connected to that terrible night in Damascus when their house had been flattened by a bomb and she had been so lucky to get out. She’d never really gotten to the bottom of that, but she had asked Ravi, and he had been very vague except to say that he suspected the Israelis, under American guidance. Especially under Arnold Morgan’s guidance.
But it had all taken so long. They had journeyed so far. And now they were off on some wild-goose chase to find the admiral, and they did not even know his address. They did not even know what town he was in, never mind what country. And there was an unreasonable determination about her husband. He was a man possessed. Nothing else mattered to him. Shakira had never seen him like this before.
She sat disconsolately in an armchair in their room at the Claymore. For a while she read Vogue, then she switched to the more gossipy Marie Claire. But she could find nothing of interest in either of them. She walked across the room and picked up a brochure about the town of Penrith and noted there was a castle on the outskirts that had been built in the fourteenth century.
Against all Muslim teaching, she felt like a glass of wine; she phoned down, asking someone to bring up two glasses and to reserve a table for two in the dining room for 7:30 this evening.
Ravi awakened at seven and without a word went into the bathroom to take a shower. He was totally preoccupied and was becoming almost distant. Shakira did not for one moment believe he was losing interest in her, but she was beginning to worry about this obsession that had taken over his life. Because it was an obsession to kill not an opposing force, but one single man whom he had never even met.
Generally speaking, Shakira did not believe this was a healthy situation. And she did not believe commanders of serious military organizations should behave in that way. It seemed both unnatural and unnecessary.
But Ravi maintained a passionate hatred for the American admiral, and when he came out of the bathroom, as if reading her mind, he said, “I’m not giving up, Shakira. If I have to pursue him to the ends of the earth, I will do so.”
Dinner that evening was thus fraught, and the tension between them seemed to grow, as Shakira harbored more and more doubts about this very personal vendetta in which her husband was involved.
Ravi, for his part, was more determined than ever to end the admiral’s life, but he sensed that his wife did not wish to hear any more about it. Shakira wished only to tell her husband yet again that she wanted to call the entire thing off, but did not dare to do so. As silent dinners go, this one was right up there.
They were only around thirty miles short of the Scottish border, but it was another ninety miles to Glasgow, which was their vague destination. The truth was, Ravi did not know where the hell he was going. All he knew was that Great Britain ’s submarine roads were out to the west of Scotland ’s second city, and that was where Admiral Morgan had served as captain of a nuclear boat out of the American base at Holy Loch.
Emily Gallagher had confirmed that her daughter was going to Scotland, but the rest was pure guesswork on Ravi ’s part. His game plan was to check into a hotel in Glasgow, one with access to the Internet, and start searching for any shred of evidence that a former NSA to the American president was expected in the area.