“Well, never mind that, old boy. It’s damn nice to see you. Just having a drink together, after all these years. Takes you back. Remember that little room in the old Dog and Fox, eh? Remember when we used to sneak out to that pub?”
“God, do I. Those were the days, right? Away from the cares of the world. Tell you what, how about some dinner next week. I’ll be at the MOD for another couple of weeks.”
“Perfect. I’d really enjoy that. I’m mostly on my own during the week, in the London flat. You know, wife and kids at the old family home in Bedfordshire. I usually get down there on Friday nights. How about Tuesday?”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine. Let me have your office number, will you? I’ll confirm it with your secretary tomorrow.”
“Great. Call 0207-555-4337. Ask for Lizzie. She’ll probably answer the phone. Why not come over for a drink in Annie’s Bar in the Commons? We can dine at the Club if you like.”
“Rupe, that all sounds great. But I have to go right now. Meeting the parents just before the second race. This has been real fun. I’ll call in the morning.”
“God, I’m just so glad you’re alive. There’s an Old Harrovian golf meeting at Sunningdale in three weeks. There’s a lot of the chaps who will be delighted you’re still with us. G’bye, Ray.”
Ravi replaced his hat, and walked up to the now empty rail around the early saddling enclosure. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 0207-555-4337.
“Hello, Lizzie. Yes, this is John Farmer, an old friend of Mr. Studley-Bryce…. We were at Harrow together…. Matter of fact, I just left him in the White’s tent at Ascot.”
“Yes, Mr. Farmer, how can I help?”
“Lizzie, he wrote down his home address for me to send him an invitation to a lunch in Oxford, and I must have thrown away the piece of paper with a couple of betting slips. Losers, of course! He said to send the invite to his flat, and there’s so many people here, I just can’t find him. Luckily, I took down his office number. You’re my lifeline!”
Lizzie laughed. “You could just send it to me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
“I don’t care where I send it,” chuckled Ravi. “But he did say specifically to send it to the flat.”
“Okay. It’s Flat 9B, Prior’s Court, 72, Marsham Street, London SWIV 2SA.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll pop it in the post.”
By now he could hear the commentary on the second race, the Norfolk Stakes, five furlongs for two-year-olds. It would take only around sixty seconds, less if one of them was really classy. And already he could see stable staff leading up the runners for the Gold Cup, the next race.
He waited discreetly at the far end of the preliminary enclosure, knowing the trainer would appear any moment, carrying the saddle, and the number cloth for Persian Lady, who was already walking briskly around the perimeter, so close he could touch her as she went by, her name carried on the stable girl’s right arm-band.
He guessed his parents would accompany Charlie McCalmont on the long walk from the weighing room, down the lawn, through the middle of the empty parade ring, and on up the hill to the paddock. Sure enough, there they were, and his heart missed several beats as he saw his mother, and his father marching resolutely toward possible victory.
They both looked immaculate, his father in a black tailored morning coat, a navy blue shirt with a white collar, the perfectly knotted, maroon silk tie, tucked into a gray waistcoat with a gold watch chain, charcoal gray-striped pants.
His mother wore an elegant dark green suit, which showed off her slim figure. Her lustrous dark hair was almost hidden beneath a very chic, wide black hat, obviously from Paris. But she looked older, and walked in a self-conscious way, as if aware that the eyes of the crowd were upon her as the fabulously lucky owner of one of the leading runners in the Gold Cup. She was walking just behind Richard and the trainer, and she was smiling a smile of immense pleasure, imperfectly masked by modesty. Ravi guessed her heart would be pounding, but perhaps not so hard as it might be a few minutes from now, when he made his opening appearance.
Persian Lady’s connections came within twenty-five yards of Ravi, heading straight to the first saddling box on the left. For a few moments, they stood watching the mare coming toward them, and then Charlie gestured to the girl to bring her in.
Persian Lady dipped her head and turned, walking into the box. She turned again easily, facing out of the door, the girl at her head, and Charlie gently placed the saddle on her back.
Ravi ducked under the rail and set off across the grass, walking swiftly approaching his mother, bang on her six o’clock. Silently, he stood behind her, before leaning forward and saying softly into her ear, “Steady, Mum. Don’t scream or faint. I’m right here and I’m just fine.”
Naz Kerman almost died of shock. She heard the familiar voice and spun around, her hand flying to her mouth. Helplessly, she just said, “Oh, my God” twice, with tears cascading down her face. Then she dropped her racing form, binoculars, and handbag to the ground, and flung her arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably, careless of who saw her, disinterested in what anyone might think.
They were both off to the side of the saddling box, and could not be seen by Charlie or the groom, but Richard Kerman turned around and his heart literally stopped for a few seconds, as he saw the commanding figure of his only son, perfectly dressed, in the arms of his wife.
It took only a half minute but it seemed to the owner-breeder of Persian Lady that the whole world had gone into slow motion. He watched Naz try to pull herself together, and he saw Ray step toward him, and he felt the steel arms of the SAS Major enfold him, and was conscious of just one sentence. “Listen, Dad. I’m fine. And you two are busy. Say nothing, but meet me in one hour under that big tree over there. I have much to tell you. And don’t worry.”
With that, Raymond Kerman was gone, striding back across the grass, disappearing into the big crowd now gathering around the paddock, and making his way down to the packed parade ring, where thousands of racegoers were anticipating the arrival of the big gray Homeward Bound and the hugely popular Persian Lady.
Mr. and Mrs. Kerman were in a daze, but Naz was laughing at the world, months of grim acceptance now being replaced by a euphoria that bubbled up inside her.
“Darling, he’s alive,” she whispered, unnecessarily. Richard just shook his head, and there was a wry expression on his face, as the afternoon sun warmed the old red brick of the saddling box, and Charlie McCalmont pushed a dripping cold-water sponge into the mouth of Persian Lady, washing out the saliva, preparing her for battle.
Charlie softly pulled Persian Lady’s right ear and ran his hand down her white blaize, below the headband which bore a neat diamond pattern in the black and scarlet colors of her owner. Then he said, quietly, “Okay, Julie. Let’s go.” And the girl led the mare out, setting off across the grass, almost in the footprints of Major Kerman five minutes before.
Meanwhile, the Hamas General was doing his best to steer clear of any possible human contact, which was not easy in a crowd of close to 75,000. He went into the Royal Enclosure, keeping his head well down, and then made his exit through the tunnel and into the infield where he hoped he would be least likely to see anyone he once knew.
He positioned himself on the rail, and stared at the grass for a full fifteen minutes until the pounding of hooves, thumping past him, signified the horses were going to post. Thus far he had betrayed nothing, no information about his parents’ runner to Rupert Studley-Bryce, no bets on Persian Lady, in case a book-maker should recognize or even remember him. No contact. No lunch. No tea. Just a heartrending reunion with Naz and Richard.
He watched the horses go by, all fifteen of them in a big competitive field. And he waited for six more minutes until the announcement came over the public address system: Under starter’s orders…and they’re off.
Ravi knew the status of this race, and he understood the quality of the blue-blooded thoroughbreds who would contest it. Mos
t national racing authorities consider a mile and a half about as far as a racehorse wants to run. There are a few high-class two-mile races, but not many, the Goodwood Cup and, in Australia, the Melbourne Cup.
The Ascot event is over two and a half miles, $200,000 to the winner. This is an arena for gladiators only, for the Titans of the track, racing into the thunder of the Ascot crowd, bringing lumps into the throats of every true horseman just because of their power, their speed, and their unending bravery.
There was a big television screen behind him, but Ravi could not take his eyes off the emptiness of the dark green carpet before him. He stared ahead, watching the runners come by for the first time, five furlongs already behind them. He spotted the scarlet cap of Persian Lady in the middle of the pack, on the fence, going easily. And then they were gone, away from the stands, thundering out into the country, swinging right, up the slight rise in the ground and then on down toward Swinley Bottom.
Five furlongs out Ravi could hear the announcer calling the race:…and Persian Lady strikes the front…opening up a six-length lead as they race down to the turn.
Twenty-four seconds later, Ravi heard the traditional Ascot bell toll, as the leaders entered the home straight with two and a half furlongs to run. By now most of the field was half-dead with exhaustion, and Persian Lady had the leaders off the bridle. Right behind her, three lengths adrift, came Homeward Bound, answering the desperate calls of his jockey, trying to shake off the outsider, Madrigal, running the race of his life.
Inside the final quarter of a mile, the favorite collared Richard Kerman’s mare. Racing fiercely on the outside, the big gray gelding matched strides and then took a half-length lead. Madrigal was not out of it either, and as they raced into the bedlam of the massive crowd, there were three in a line, driving for the eighth pole, 200 yards from where Ravi was standing.
Right there, Madrigal had had enough. That left Persian Lady, with a half length to find, as they hurtled toward the wire. Jockey Jack Carson, nineteen, went to the whip, slashing Persian Lady three times on her left quarter. But she was already digging deep, racing to within an inch of her life.
Again Carson hit her, and now she shied from the whip, slashing her tail, but she still kept running gallantly, struggling to level with Homeward Bound. The giant grandstand literally shook from the deafening roar of the crowd, as the mare went after the favorite, fighting her way home, coming again in the dying strides.
There was pandemonium in the announcer’s voice as they charged past the winning post. And like him, Ravi could not separate them when they crossed the wire. He just heard: “…THEY’VE GONE PAST TOGETHER…PHOTOGRAPH…”
They waited, Richard and Naz Kerman up in the owners and trainers stand, Ravi in the infield, and the connections of Homeward Bound standing near the winners’ enclosure.
It took six minutes. Result of the photograph…first, number two, Homeward Bound. Second, number eight Persian Lady. The third horse was number 14, Madrigal. Distances, a short head, and nine lengths.
The mare lost nothing in defeat, save for around $150,000. And when her owners finally walked to the meeting place they found their son still breathtakenly awed at the formal drama of the contest. He shook his head and said, “This is a helluva day. You lose the Gold Cup but you regain a son.”
Then he stood by to cope with a blizzard of questions, all on the same theme. Where have you been? What have you done wrong? How long will you stay? Does the Army realize you are here? Have you given yourself up?
Most of them he could not answer. But he explained they must never admit he had been to England, and that he doubted he would ever return. He plainly could never contact them. He was settled in a Middle Eastern country, though not in the land of his birth. He hoped soon to marry, and he had a prosperous career in front of him. His father, of course, wished to know what had really happened in Hebron, but that was something they could never discuss. Ravi had much explaining to do, but his parents understood the high stakes. To discuss their son with anyone might cost him his life. After one hour, they parted with immense sadness. Ravi assured them he would find them again, probably in an equally unguarded moment, as this had been. Possibly in Paris.
Confident their secrets were safe, he ordered them to return to the Royal Enclosure, and he stood under the tree watching them walk away. He could see them making for the Enclosure gate, and as they entered, his mother turned around, just fleetingly, and waved in a halfhearted way up toward the paddock where he stood. He tried to raise his own hand, but it didn’t work, and his eyes were suffused in tears, as indeed were the eyes of Naz Kerman.
Ravi stood alone for a while, but the last race was starting and he decided to leave before the crowds. He left the way he had come, through the top gate, and then he turned left, down toward the train station, where he found a taxi. They pulled up outside the Syrian Embassy at 6:45.
He had dinner at around eight with the Security Chief with whom he would work in Regent’s Park the following morning. But at ten o’clock he left through the main door and hailed a cab in the square, instructing the driver to take him to Marsham Street, SW1.
It took just a very few minutes and it was growing dark by the time they arrived. Ravi paid the driver and walked slowly down one side of the street, the side with the even numbers. Prior’s Court was about halfway along the rather gloomy road. He pushed open the swing doors, presenting himself to the doorman.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m meeting Mr. Studley-Bryce. If he’s not in, he’ll be back shortly. He’s given me a key.”
The doorman gazed at the immaculately dressed man who stood before him. “Sir, I’m sure he’s not in yet,” he said. “But if you have a key, please go up. You know the number?”
“Nine B,” said Ravi.
“The lift is just across there, sir. Ninth floor.” Ravi, thanking God for the curious authority his formal morning clothes gave him, entered the lift and stepped out on the correct floor. He walked to 9B, and opened the lock with a credit card. If Rupert had double-locked it with the other key, flicking the safety steel bolt into place, he was out of luck. But Rupert had not bothered. And the door swung open, and Ravi Rashood entered the flat, sitting down in a large comfortable chair to await his old friend.
He did not turn on the light, but he did turn on the television, watching the ten o’clock BBC News and cheering silently as Persian Lady once more set about trying to cut down the lead of Homeward Bound.
There was another half hour to wait before he heard the obvious sound of a key in the lock. A slightly drunk Rupert came into the room, swaying lightly and demanding to know if anyone was in here or has the bloody doorman gone mad?
Ravi came at him from behind the sofa, and the Member of Parliament just had time to cry out “RAY, WHAT THE HELL…?” They were the last words he ever would utter. Ravi slammed a small onyx ashtray right between his eyes, splintering the bone in the center of his forehead.
Then he rammed the butt of his right hand with all of his force into the nostril end of Rupert’s nose, driving that bone deep into his brain.
“Sorry about that, old chap,” he muttered, lowering the body to the floor. Then he slipped into the kitchen, selected a ten-inch-long steel carving knife from a rack above the wooden work surface, picked it up with a dishcloth and left the apartment holding the weapon inside his jacket.
The ground floor was deserted as he crossed the floor toward the entrance, but he could see the doorman watching a small television behind a glass door. He stopped and beckoned him to come out, which he did, sharply, as if obeying a command from a superior officer.
Ravi killed him on the spot, instantly plunging the knife deep into the man’s heart, all the way in, right between the ribs. He pushed the still-standing body back into the little anteroom beyond the desk, turned out the light and the television, shut the door, and left, wiping his hands on the dishcloth and taking it with him. The knife remained embedded in the heart of the security chi
ef of Prior’s Court, though no one could see the body, now crumpled on the floor behind the door.
He waited on the embankment for a cab, and went straight back to the Embassy, which was quiet now. All of the Ambassador’s staff were sound asleep, and Ravi let himself in the little side door with a key presented to him by the sniper.
It was almost midnight, and he placed his cell phone on the charger before grabbing four hours’ sleep. They called him at run down 4 A.M., and he packed his suitcase before writing careful instructions to a staff officer to deliver it personally to Waterloo Station, outside Coach Five, Eurostar Express, 8 A.M. to Paris.
Once more General Rashood stepped outside the Syrian Embassy, into Belgrave Square, an hour before dawn. He called Northolt Airport, and in an American accent, informed them he was the United States Military Attaché in Grosvenor Square, and could someone give him the ETA of Air Force One?
“This morning sometime, sir. Not allowed to give details to anyone.”
“Thanks, pal,” said Ravi, briskly. And to himself, Well, he’s not here yet. But “this morning”? What the hell does that mean…5:00 or 11:30?
Twenty minutes later, he was at the edge of Regent’s Park looking along the line of houses where the United States Ambassador lived. It was just about 5:00 and the sky was growing lighter to the east, but the streetlights were still on. He could see a detail of four U.S. Marine Guards in tight formation outside the building. Four London policemen, visibly armed with submachine guns, waited on each corner of the block. Another four were outside the Residence talking with the Marines. Every light was on in the front of the building.
“Shit!” cried Ravi. “This does not look promising.” He tuned his little shortwave radio into that of the sniper, who was currently hiding somewhere across the lawns near the boating lake, lining up his sights. He signaled two blips —Hold everything! Then he walked back westward, not especially noticeable because of his dark gray suit and light briefcase.
He reached Clarence Gate, and there at the entrance were six more armed policemen. Worse yet, he could hear the roters howling on a landed helicopter somewhere behind the houses. He stared up to the rooftops and in the distance he could see what looked like an entire SWAT team fanned out in surveillance mode, high above the park.
Barracuda 945 Page 18