To the Death am-10

by Patrick Robinson

No one could hear. Except for Charlie. And even he did not understand that.

  It was, of course, the 1,400-year-old prayer of devotion from the Koran:

  God is most great.

  I bear witness there is none worthy of worship but God.

  I bear witness that Mohammed is the Prophet of God.

  There is no Deity but God.

  She unclipped Charlie and stood for a few moments. Then she quoted, quietly in English, direct from the Koran, the words of Allah as stated by the Prophet: Remember me. I shall remember you! Thank me. Do not be ungrateful to me. You who believe, seek help through patience and prayer.

  At this point, Charlie charged straight into the Rappahannock, and Shakira ran to the bank, shouting at him in words that may not have been entirely understood by the Prophet. But they were understood by Charlie, who charged back out again, shook himself, absurdly, all over Shakira’s jeans, and then went back into the river again.

  Finally he came out, shook himself again, and allowed himself to be clipped back onto the leash and walked home. He was, however, such a wreck with river water and mud that Shakira took him to the garden hose, washed him, and left him outside to dry.

  Emily came out and said, “I suppose he ran into the river again, Carla. I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble. Are you staying for lunch?”

  The familiarity between them was now complete. And Shakira felt almost sad that soon she would leave and never again see this calm, pretty American house. And she found herself wondering if she and Ravi would be happy here together. But that was impossible, and Carla politely declined lunch and said she would see Emily in the evening at the hotel.

  Somewhat wistfully, she walked back to the center of town, where Fausi had the car waiting, to drive her to a lonely spot down on the estuary of the river, where she could make contact on her cell phone with the High Command of Hamas.

  She had already chosen the place. A near-deserted beach down near Grey’s Point, ten miles south of Brockhurst. The land was flat. The road was hardly used, and indeed petered out into a sandy track as it neared the water. She would stand right there and make the satellite call on one of the most expensive phones of its type in the world, with the American T-Mobile service. No mistakes for the 21st-century terrorist.

  Fausi dropped her off at the point where the beach road dissolved into sand. Shakira walked for a couple of hundred yards down to the water, then began punching in the numbers for the house where Hamas kept a 24-hour communications center, and where she hoped Ravi would be, to know she was safe.

  The house was situated south of Tel Aviv because the Gaza phone system was so unreliable. Israel itself has always been rather shaky at telecommunications, but it was a whole lot better than Gaza.

  Shakira dialed the country code—011–972—then three for the area south of Tel Aviv, then the secret number. There was no reply until an answering machine clicked in. Shakira spoke in her well-practiced operative’s voice, much the same as Ramon Salman had done from Boston to Syria almost six months before: Virginia calling — the Ritz Hotel, London, Tuesday, January 31, to Thursday, February 2. Not another word. No clues, no indications, nothing to reveal Shakira’s personal plans, nothing to identify the target. Plus the usual Hamas code for months — six forward — thus July becomes January, and August turns into February.

  If there had been a wiretap on the Hamas phone south of Tel Aviv, that message would have revealed only inaccurate information. But there was no tap. And that message almost caused the roof to fall in, so incendiary were its ramifications.

  Because General Rashood would now have to enter England, which was almost catastrophically difficult. Air travel was out of the question. Ravi was one of the most wanted men on earth. If he presented any passport, forged or genuine, at Heathrow’s immigration desk, the computer would probably explode.

  A clandestine landing by sea was no less hazardous. The new antidrug culture had put the entire British Coast Guard on red alert. There were Royal Navy ships patrolling the English Channel like bloodhounds. Every radar dish, civilian or military, was sweeping the coastline for intrusive small aircraft.

  There was only one way in, only one that carried an acceptable risk, and that meant Ravi had to move very fast. As it happened, he was in the house when Shakira called, and he wished fervently that he could speak to her. But he knew better, and he tried to shut her from his mind as he prepared for the immediate conference of the Hamas High Command and the two visiting senior members of Hezbollah. It was 9:30 in the evening.

  Shakira arrived back at Chesapeake Heights at around 2 P.M. Fausi dropped her off and drove away. She greeted the doorman and made her way to her top-floor apartment. The day was hot but cloudy, with a slight but increasing breeze that might easily turn into a thunderstorm.

  She made herself a sandwich of roast beef and goat’s cheese and houmus on the bread. It gave it an offbeat Middle Eastern flavor, and it made her homesick, and she wondered if she and Ravi would ever make it home together.

  But most of all, she wondered where he was and what his plans were. She had, she knew, fulfilled the relatively easy part of the Hamas scheme. All she wanted was to be with him again, and to help him in his mission and protect him if she could.

  She took a chair out onto her wide penthouse balcony and sat reflectively, staring out over the wide green treetops toward the river. She knew so little of this evil country. All she knew was the great highway that had brought her from Boston to Brockhurst, to this peaceful place with its wide river and warm climate.

  She had met with only friendliness here. The cheerful officer in the Boston immigration booth, who had welcomed her home; the big doorman at the Pierre who had carried her bag; Freddy, the nice, helpful doorman downstairs here; agreeable, trusting Jim Caborn, her boss; and her new best friend, Emily.

  So far as she could tell, America was very short of archvillains, the kind her husband always railed about. But she had never really been anywhere until she met Ravi, and he had taught her almost everything she knew.

  She supposed he must be right about America. But she had not seen anything yet, firsthand, to suggest a terrible land populated by ogres like Admiral Morgan. No, she had definitely not seen any of those.

  She ate her lunch thoughtfully, and drank some fruit juice. And she wondered how and when she should extricate herself from here before going to meet Ravi. She most certainly would not tell Emily she was going, which would leave the old lady in a bit of a spot when Kipper arrived. Not, however, in so bad a spot as the one in which Kipper’s master, Admiral Morgan, might shortly find himself.

  Shakira would have liked to say a proper good-bye to Emily and perhaps make plans to stay in contact. But that could never happen. The truth was, if she just vanished, it would take maybe a day, or even two, before anyone even realized she had gone. If she announced her departure, a lot of people would know she was leaving before she even started. No, the only way was to vanish, and she had to organize that.

  Her cell phone rang, and she rushed back into the apartment to retrieve it from her handbag and answer it. There could be only one person in all the world calling that number, but she knew he would not be there personally.

  She pressed the receiving button and heard a voice recording. It intoned only a dozen words: Dublin. Ireland. The Great Mosque in Clonskeagh. 1700. July 16 to 18. The line went dead.

  And Shakira clicked off the phone. The message had, she knew, been overheard by no one. And it meant she must be in Dublin by the evening of July 15. That was a week from Sunday. She must be on her way, on a flight from the USA by Friday night, July 13, at the latest.

  She plugged her computer into the Internet connection and decided the best flights were Aer Lingus. She was flying first-class, and her very expensive ticket could be switched to another airline, from British Airways, which did not fly direct to Dublin.

  She returned to the balcony with a new glass of fruit juice. And she sat there for a half hour, reading
one of the celebrity magazines she so loved and wondering if Emily and Charlie would ever think of her.

  In her mind, there were two people, two Mrs. Rashoods: the Shakira who tried to be polite and helpful, the one Emily had grown fond of; and then there was the other Shakira, the assassin’s ruthless assistant. She did not like to think of herself as one and the same.

  Midnight Same Day (Monday 2 July) Gaza City

  General Rashood was invited to chair this meeting as the most senior member of the Hamas military. Once more, they were seated on cushions in the whitewashed situation room in the basement of the walled house off Omar el-Mokhtar Street.

  He opened the discussion by pointing out that in the short time that had passed since he had first seen the Washington Post story on Admiral Morgan, there had been a serious uproar in the liberal media back in the USA. People were beginning to ask important questions about the presence of Arnold at the right hand of the president.

  They had trotted out all the predictable platitudes: Just who does this admiral think he is? Why does a modern USA require this aged Cold Warrior? Is Arnold Morgan leading us back to gunboat diplomacy? Just how dangerous is this ex-nuclear submarine commander? President Bedford must explain to the American people. If Arnold Morgan wants this much influence, he should run for office.

  The television networks seized upon the theme. Political “forums” were established specially to wreck the admiral’s reputation. And very quickly, the Arab al Jazeera television station leaped onto the bandwagon with such “documentaries” as The Terrorist-Buster in the White House—an in-depth look at President Bedford’s Hard Man.

  General Rashood was as utterly disinterested in this outpouring of indignation in the USA as Admiral Morgan was himself, regarding all media journalists as a bunch of know-nothing, half-educated, hysterical charlatans. Or worse.

  What concerned the general was the intelligence between the lines: that Admiral Morgan had indeed been the principal force that sent three of the top Hamas field officers to Guantánamo Bay, probably for the rest of their lives. That there was a definite chance that the suicide Boeing 737, Flight TBA 62, going for the Capitol building, had been shot down by the U.S. military on specific orders from Admiral Morgan.

  In General Rashood’s opinion, the jihadists were fighting a war against one man, and losing it. Time and again. Militarily, there was only one option. And he would carry out that option himself. They now had a time, a place, and the target. All that remained was to enter England in a thoroughly clandestine way.

  Colonel Hassad Abdullah interrupted to report that the Iranian Navy had one of their Russian-built Kilo-class diesel-electric submarines in the Mediterranean, patrolling somewhere off Lebanon. It had been refueled at the north end of the Suez Canal, and its task was, essentially, to stand by to help the holy warriors of Hezbollah should they require it. The Iranians, however, would be only too delighted to help General Rashood on his mission.

  This was the best possible news, because without that submarine, it would be nearly impossible to land General Rashood in the operations area. Even now, time was extremely tight. Southern Ireland was the obvious landfall for anywhere in Great Britain, although the distance was somewhat daunting. From Lebanon, it was approximately 3,900 miles by sea, straight through the Med to the Strait of Gibraltar, a distance of 2,500 miles, then 1,400 more north across the Bay of Biscay to the open Atlantic and on to the coast of County Cork.

  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.”

  1900 Monday 2 July The Estuary Hotel

  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 cle
ar.”

  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.