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 bookmaker 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. Most 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 chief 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 rotors 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.
It was 5:40 and suddenly, advancing down Marylebone Road
, there was an unmistakable convoy consisting of two police-escort cruisers, four motorbike outriders, and then two long, black U.S. Navy staff cars, the American flag fluttering from both of their front wings.
The motorcade swept left into the wide entrance to the park, policemen waving them in. The first cruiser turned across the road, blocking it northward, and the second skewed across the entrance immediately the U.S. Navy cars were past. Ravi, standing some fifty yards south of the Residence, saw the rear door of the cars open and six obvious agents emerged.
Then two more people disembarked. In the gathering light, Ravi could see a smallish, broad-shouldered, tough-looking character accompanied by a stunning redhead. The agents closed around them, and the U.S. Marines moved up tight, all four of the original guards by the cars, two accompanying the tall figure of the U.S. Ambassador as he came out of the house.
Ravi sent four blips to the Syrian assassin—Weapons tight! Then he sent five blips—Abort mission instantly! One thing was for certain, any shot fired could not possibly hit the Admiral, not in this mob scene of security.
If anyone did get a shot off, he stood a near one hundred percent chance of being shot down like a prairie dog before he'd traveled ten yards. These guys were not joking. They were ready for anything, and Ravi knew how to weigh up danger.
"Fuck it," said General Rashood to himself. "I'm outta here." And he called a cab, snapping somewhat irritably to the driver, "Waterloo Station, in a hurry."
But his mood lightened as he pondered lunch in Paris with his Palestinian goddess, followed by a relaxed afternoon in bed, and then a wonderful dinner.
His trip had been, he decided, a bit of a disaster. His parents were in tears, Persian Lady was defeated, two completely innocent men were dead, and Arnold Morgan was cast-iron safe.
Now he had a long journey ahead of him. But not as long as Rupert Studley-Bryce's. In the back of the cab, there was a thin smile on the face of the Hamas terrorist.
6
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Damascus
The splash headline on the front page of last Saturday's London Daily Mail was, well, arresting. And General Rashood stared at it intently:
RUPERT STUDLEY-BRYCE MURDERED
Tory MP's body discovered in London flat
Ravi had just brought the newspapers home from the Librairie Avicenne, and though he had expected to see some coverage o
f his old roommate's death, he had not imagined it would be quite on this scale.
Before him was a large photograph of Rupert in his Ascot clothes, taken by the photographers who permanently loiter around the main gates to the racecourse. Beneath it, the caption read: "A day at the races for the Tory firebrand—he died in his top hat and tails."
The story described how the body had been found midafternoon on Friday, the final day of the Royal Ascot meeting. His House of Commons secretary, unable to locate him, had phoned his wife, Susan, in Bedfordshire, who had also heard nothing. Receiving no reply from the flat, the secretary had arrived at Prior's Court with two policemen at three o'clock in the afternoon. There she found the place was already swarming with detectives trying to find out who had stabbed the sixty-three-year-old doorman, Alf Rowan, to death, on the previous evening. The story continued:
Police believe the same killer murdered both men, probably because the doorman refused him entry, on this quiet
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