Sir Iain hugged Kathy and shook hands with Arnold. They were all old friends, and the tall Scotsman was delighted to see them both. But as they walked up the lawn, Arnold could see three Navy staff cars and two police cruisers from the Argyll force.
“The chaps have been telling me about that trouble in London,” he said. “I read about it, of course, and I guessed it might have been connected with you. Although no one seemed very sure. I had the distinct impression that the police were not releasing any information they could reasonably keep secret.”
“That’s about right, Iain,” said Arnold. “They never caught the killer, of course. He was up and out of there before they realized George Kallan had been shot. It was a very professional operation.”
“A bit too professional for my taste,” said Kathy. “ Arnold could have been killed. Those Middle Eastern hitmen are damned dangerous, don’t you think?”
“Most certainly they are,” replied the Scotsman. “But you have enough security here to keep you very safe. The police chief, chap standing over there, told me they plan to surround you until you leave.”
Arnold laughed. And Kathy added, “Of course, he flatly refused to go home. And we had a message from the president this morning that he’s sending a Special Forces team leader, ex-Navy SEAL, to take personal charge of the situation. He’s arriving on Air Force One, if you can believe it. Tomorrow morning. Just one passenger.”
By this time, they had reached the house, and the American bodyguards dispersed to make their arrangements. The Navy had taken rooms in the local hotel in Inveraray and provided cars for them to drive to and from the house. Sir Iain MacLean ushered Arnold and Kathy inside and had his butler/chauffeur Angus take the baggage up to their usual room. “Let’s go and have a cup of tea, and then you two can have a rest before dinner. Annie will be home in a few minutes. She’s been playing golf. God knows how she does it. I’ve retired from the bloody game, bad back and a slice that frequently borders on the grotesque.”
Ravi gunned the Audi fast along the mountainous, curving A-83 road through the forest and crossed the river at the top of Loch Fyne, four miles from Inveraray. He did not know the precise location of Admiral MacLean’s house, but he had a feeling it might be obvious.
He drove fast through the village and, still on the main road, suddenly saw up ahead a parked police car, blue lights spinning, right across the main gates of a big white house. He steadied his speed and drove sedately past, noticing another cruiser in the drive. Ravi did not need to inquire precisely whose residence this was.
A short distance beyond the house, he noticed a wide track leading up into the woods, and he swung right, driving for a half mile until he had a clear view straight down to the loch. The house was largely obscured from his view by tall trees, but through his telescopic gunsight he could see enough.
Positioned on the roof were two plain and obvious police marksmen, along with what looked like a machine gun but might have been a guided missile system designed to repel air attack.
He could see two more police officers standing by the lake, speaking to two very obvious armed bodyguards. The gateway to the house was jammed by the cruiser. There were dogs all over the place, big Labradors whose sunny nature, he knew, could quickly be replaced by fearless, snarling aggression in the presence of an enemy, which he most certainly was.
Ravi pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Millennium Hotel, room 622, and told Shakira he’d be back for dinner after all.
Then he drove back down the mountain track and turned left onto the main road, back the way he had come.
Option One was shot. Not the admiral, just the option. And Ravi looked crestfallen. He glanced into his rearview mirror and could still see the revolving blue lights on the police cruiser outside the gates.
“That,” he muttered, “was no place for me. It’s Edinburgh or nothing.”
CHAPTER 13
No aircraft had landed for a full twenty minutes. The runways were clear, especially the longest one designed for the world’s biggest passenger jets. And flying east across Renfrewshire came SAM 38000, the huge presidential Boeing 747, losing height, bearing Commander Rick Hunter to Scotland with full landing privileges. This was Air Force One, and, as always, the world practically stopped dead for its arrival.
Airline officials fumed, as flights were made late, landings delayed; but the request had come direct from the White House for SAM 38000 to be treated as if Paul Bedford himself was on board. The fact that it was designated SAM 38000 meant he absolutely was not on board, because that is the code name for Air Force One if anyone else is using the aircraft-Special Air Mission 38000.
Dead astern, around five miles distant, flew a smaller Boeing owned and operated by the National Security Agency. This is not an unusual occurrence, because America’s super-secret intelligence system wishes to know every last vestige of information that might be transmitted anywhere near the President of the United States.
It was not the cheapest operation in the world, since Air Force One alone knocks down around $60,000 an hour in costs. But this Admiral Morgan scenario was way beyond mundane matters like expense. President Bedford wanted him kept safe, and he wanted ironclad security. Dollars were not a consideration.
All the way across the Atlantic from Andrews Air Force Base, east of Washington, the operators inside the NSA jet had swept the skies for sign of a tracking device. And Rick Hunter had slept in peace, dining like a king on New York sirloin and apple pie with ice cream.
There were no other passengers on board, and Rick, who had left Lexington at 4 A.M. (local), had been attended by just two stewardesses. The No. 2 crew, who would fly the aircraft home tonight after the refuel, were at the rear of the cabin, as opposed to the presidential suite in which Rick was ensconced.
The ex-Navy SEAL had been told specifically by Lt. Commander Ramshawe that President Bedford would take care of the transportation, and he sure as hell had done that.
SAM 38000 swooped low over the town of Paisley and touched down at three minutes after 6 P.M. The pilot taxied up to an open, designated place outside the international terminal, and a mobile set of stairs was instantly put into place. Rick exited the aircraft and came down the stairs carrying his CAR-15 light machine gun in an olive-drab-colored holder as if it was a group of salmon-fishing rods.
A customs officer was awaiting him, in company with a Royal Navy lieutenant commander, and both men saluted him. The customs officer put a small discreet chalk marking on both the machine gun case and the duffel bag that Rick carried with him.
Just beyond the group was a red Royal Navy helicopter-the high-speed Dauphin 2 which can, if required, fire Sidewinder AIM-9M air-to-air guided missiles. Rick carried his bag and sniper rifle on board and strapped himself in, and the helicopter immediately took off, heading northwest, straight over Loch Lomond to Loch Fyne and Inveraray.
The Dauphin 2, in battle conditions, is capable of flying at almost 200 mph, and this evening it flew very fast, coming in to land on the lawn of the MacLean residence only thirty minutes after takeoff. Rick arrived at precisely the same time as Lady MacLean, who did not have the slightest idea who he was.
She stood outside the house with three policemen and watched the Dauphin take off, heading back to the Navy base of Faslane on the Gare Loch.