Patrick Robinson: To The Death

He stayed until the end, watching and applauding the Russian Cossack State Dance Company, the massed bands of the Royal Marines with their “Celebration of Trafalgar,” and the 600-strong massed military bands, with pipes and drums, playing their world-famous Edinburgh Tattoo specialties “Mull of Kintyre” and “Caledonia.”

For the finale, before a Royal Navy Guard of Honor, the entire thousand-strong cast of musicians played “Auld Lang Syne,” and, as the sacred Scottish notes died away, the Lone Scots Guards Piper appeared high on the battlements of the castle, and played a pibroch lament, the slow melancholy classical music of the bagpipes.

This effectively brought the house down, and Rick stood up and cheered as it ended. And then he stood transfixed as a mighty roll on the drums signified the moment when the great throng of musicians and serving soldiers began the March Out, in strict formation, kilts swirling, to the drums and bagpipes playing “Scotland the Brave.”

Commander Richard Hunter, a career U.S. Navy officer, had never before seen anything so perfect, so moving, and so inordinately impressive. He’d almost forgotten why he was there, forgotten about the policeman’s uniform he wore, forgotten about the grave threat to the life of the great American he was sworn to protect.

He stood and surveyed the happy crowd leaving the area, and then he walked down among them, back down the Esplanade to the main entrance and through the gap between the left grandstand and the end wall. He found himself thinking, “If I’d just shot Admiral Morgan, I’d bolt straight through here and make for the street in this big crowd… that would mean I’d need to wait until the very end…”

He found his police car and was driven back to the Cavendish. He returned to his room and stripped off his yellow police raincoat and the dark blue sweater. He put on his regular sportcoat and returned downstairs to the busy second-floor grill room and ordered himself an Aberdeen steak and a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.

Rick did not notice another lone diner sitting close by, a man in a black T-shirt and a brown suede jacket, sipping a Scotch whisky and eating a chicken sandwich. He too had been to the Military Tattoo, but had spent his time high in the upper regions of the castle, just checking guard movements and watching the Marines form line of battle before their mock assault on the great Scottish fortress.

Both men, on this night, would sleep uneasily. And the issue for both of them was timing.

The MacLeans and the Morgans drove away from Inveraray in convoy. A police car led the way, followed by Sir Iain’s Range Rover, and then Arnold’s four personal bodyguards in a Royal Navy staff car, with a second police car bringing up the rear.

They drove around the lochs and finally picked up the M-8 motorway, which took them all the way into Edinburgh, approaching from the southwest. The police did not use lights or sirens, preferring to make the journey as unobtrusively as possible. They covered the hundred miles in three hours and arrived at the Cavendish Hotel a little after six in the evening.

Two police officers escorted Sir Iain and Annie, Arnold and Kathy, and the four bodyguards to the sixteenth floor of the hotel, where there was just one maid on duty, using a noisy vacuum cleaner at the beginning of their corridor.

She looked up as the party approached and said quietly, “I’m sorry about this-we were running very late today. I’ll be finished in two minutes.”

One of the policemen replied, “Okay, lassie. No problem.” Shakira, in the middle of her dinner break, carried on cleaning the carpet diligently.

They reached the door of the big suite, marked 170-172, and the four bodyguards entered first, moving swiftly between the rooms, checking cupboards and bathrooms. When they went through the open connecting door to Rick’s room, they found the big SEAL commander with his feet up, reading the racing pages of The Scotsman.

“Hello, sir,” said Al Thompson. “Taking it easy for a while?”

“Trying to,” said Rick. “Everyone here?”

“Yup,” replied Al. “We’re just checking out the area. We’ll have two men outside the door at all times. We’re all staying on this floor.”

“Sounds good,” said Rick. “How about tonight, when the admiral takes the salute at the Tattoo?”

“We’ll all be over there, sir. I was going to ask you about deployment. I’ll station the guys wherever you want.”

“Okay, let’s get everyone settled, and then you and I can take a look at this map of the castle. I guess you’ll want the guys on station by around 8 P.M. Admiral Morgan wants to be there at ten minutes before nine, just before the start.”

“I’ll leave one man with him permanently, and there’ll be six cops, plus a military escort, to walk him and Mrs. Morgan to their seats.”

“That ought to do it,” said Rick. “But I’ll tell you something, Al. That darned castle’s a big place, and most of it’s going to be in darkness. The security’s red-hot, as you’d expect, but the place gives me the goddamned creeps.”

Al Thompson laughed. “We’ll be all right, sir. I’ll see you in a minute.”

Rick could hear the two admirals and their wives moving in. He heard the luggage arrive on a trolley outside in the corridor. Then Arnold popped his head around the corner and said, “Hi, Rick. How was it last night? Good display?”

Rick stood up. “Admiral,” he said, “it was fantastic. So much tradition, and marvelously well-done.”

“Was it mostly music?”

“I guess it was. But there were fabulous displays by the troops, and Russian Cossacks dancing, and God knows what else. The military bands were great, pipes, drums, and bagpipes. I’m really looking forward to seeing it again.”

“Don’t forget about me, for chrissakes!” chuckled Arnold, before he disappeared next door. “I’d sure hate to get shot while you’re dancing the fucking Highland fling or whatever the hell they call it.”

“No chance of that, sir. I’m all over it.”

“See you later, pal,” said Arnie as he left.

At 7:30, a general evacuation of the sixteenth floor began. Al Thompson left for the castle with two of his men, all three of them armed, by special permission of MI-5 and the Lothian Police Force. They were accompanied by four police officers, men who had been on duty at the Inveraray house.

Forty-five minutes later, the MacLeans and the Morgans left with one bodyguard and Rick Hunter, who was now in his full police uniform, his CAR-15 automatic rifle loaded with a thirty-round magazine and slung over his shoulder. Four police officers met them at the elevator, and they all stepped on board.

The doors slid silently shut and the elevator began its descent. Thus no one saw the same maid, carrying a small inexpensive seaman’s bag, use a master key to open the door up to the roof. Sixteen floors below, the maintenance chief had not yet missed his key.

Meanwhile, over at the castle, high on the west side, General Ravi Rashood was in hiding. He had been there since mid-afternoon, sitting quietly behind a low wall, out of sight of the security team responsible for moving out the paying visitors before 6:30 in preparation for the evening.

He was situated in one of the loneliest parts of the battlements, and had no intention of moving until the light began to fail. When it did, at around 8:15, he reached for his combat knife, which, as ever, was tucked into his belt in the small of his back. He waited until the guards had passed, and then moved quickly to the high wall of what he now regarded as his operational center.

Way above him was a powerful light, a temporary fixture, designed to illuminate the entire area. Tonight it would not function. The electric wire that fed it was fixed loosely to the stonework, and Ravi severed it swiftly. Then he slipped unobtrusively back to his hideout, unseen and unobserved. It was growing darker now, especially in this area on the high west side, where there was no light.