Patrick Robinson - To The Death

“Well, if they are not important, why did they send them to him?” A part of Shakira’s charm was her determination to go on asking the same question, over and over, until she received the answer she thought she deserved.

Ravi thought she should have trained as a trial lawyer, rather than a terrorist, but nonetheless declined to mention this to her while she was pouring the coffee.

And it did not escape her attention that throughout the entire morning, the general was very much within himself, thinking, reading and rereading the newspaper cutting, which displayed for all to see the man who was the real nemesis to one of the biggest terrorist operations in the Middle East.

Shakira left him for an hour but returned to find him still staring at one of his three newspaper cuttings. She picked up one of the others and said, “So who is this man here, the one you spend all day looking at? What’s his name, Admiral Morgan? I’ve heard that name.”

“In our business, everyone’s heard that name. That man is the biggest reason in the world why the Great Satan believes that America still has the right to dominate the Middle East, to buy and sell our oil, arm the Israelites with the most terrible weapons against us, and station their armies upon our lands whether we like it or whether we don’t.”

“Why is he such a nuisance?”

“He’s worse than a nuisance, my darling. He’s an ogre, nothing less.”

“What’s an ogre?”

“A giant, with a club, which he uses to smash people from poor nations, to beat them because they cannot defend themselves against the military strength of the USA.”

“Well, we have whacked the USA a few times, hah?”

“Yes, but never as hard as we wish. And it seems to me that every time we can get a plan together, for a major strike against them, this guy ruins it.”

“What does he ruin?”

“Everything. He lost us two nuclear submarines. And he got his hands on our operatives in Boston and they all ended up in Guantánamo Bay. One of them obviously was forced to tell them where we live. That’s why someone tried to kill us both.”

“How do you know it was Admiral Morgan?” said Shakira, who privately thought the admiral, from his picture, was a handsome and rather cheerful-looking older man. Not at all like an ogre.

“So how do you know?”

“I’m reading this story about him. It seems even the Americans are worried he has too much power. Some Americans, anyway.”

“Perhaps we should offer him a job?” said Shakira, laughing. “Then he can get back at the Americans who don’t like him. He sounds to me like he’d make a good terrorist.”

They both laughed. But suddenly Mrs. Rashood had a flash of memory, and she said to her husband, “You remember when we went to Paris a few years back, and you went to London for a few days for an assassination. Was that anything to do with Admiral Morgan?”

Ravi stared admiringly at his beautiful wife. “You remember?” he said. “All that time ago.”

“That was the only time I ever heard you wanting to take the life of one specific person. And I remember you mentioned an admiral.”

“And this is the very same man, and the very same problem, his hatred of us and his determination to crush us.”

“Then you must be very careful,” she replied. “Because I know it did not work out last time. This is obviously a very clever and dangerous person.”

“The last time, when I watched him in London, I was only mildly interested. I was just testing the waters.”

“Will you try again now because of the attempt to kill us in Damascus?”

“Yes, little Shakira. I must. I feel differently now, ever since I saw you in our backyard, trapped, crying and covered in blood. I thought you might die. And that would have broken my heart.

“And this newspaper has given me all the information I need. I will assassinate Admiral Morgan. And this time, I will not fail.”

British Airways’ morning flight from London was right on time at Logan, and the line for the “ U.S. Citizens Only” windows was a lot shorter than the one for visitors and legal aliens.

Window three, sir, straight along to the left… this way, please… window 10… stand right behind the red line. The bewildered-looking foreigners moved slowly along, moving up to the glass booths, being fingerprinted, checked, by steely-eyed immigration agents.

This was the last line of defense at the American borders. This was where illegal entrants were questioned, then grilled, then sent right back where they came from if all was not in order-passports, entry forms, visas.

At the right end of the line, where American citizens go through, things were a little more relaxed. The words “Welcome home, sir” were used often. And the agents occasionally wanted to know where a traveler had been abroad. But all U.S. passports were nonetheless scanned and checked. No fingerprints.

Correctly dressed businessmen and -women seemed always to get through quickest. America runs on business. These people always receive respect. And the very smart young woman in her late twenties, dark suit with a skirt, white blouse, computer, and briefcase, stepped confidently into the booth and handed over her passport.

She actually thought her heart might stop as the agent opened it and stared at the first page. Martin, Carla, birth date 27 May 1982, birthplace Baltimore, Maryland. The two long lines of numbers at the bottom. The picture of her, staring out.

The agent flipped to the back page and scanned the barcode through his machine. He glanced at the screen and stared at Carla’s very striking face, which looked Spanish, could have been South American. Then he stamped her officially into the USA, smiled, and said, “Welcome home, ma’am.”

Thus Carla Martin slipped into the United States of America on an exquisitely forged passport, a sensational copy of a passport belonging to another person. Only the picture showed a slight variance, but Carla’s hair was swept up in the precise manner of the original owner, and in the photograph she wore the same necklace, a pendant with a red garnet stone set into a silver loop.

When she retrieved her luggage downstairs, just one suitcase, there would be another passport tucked away inside, with only three changes: birth date, birthplace, and name. This one would be in the name of Maureen Carson, born in Michigan, a year younger. This one would be used only to exit the country. The Americans, like all other nations, are disinterested in who’s leaving. Only in who’s trying to break in.

Carla walked down the steps and waited for her suitcase. Officials with dogs were working around the baggage conveyor. When she grabbed her suitcase and lifted it onto her cart, no one took any notice. She walked to the exit door, where the customs official took her form and nodded briskly.

Outside the terminal, she waited for a few moments on the sidewalk, and then a jet-black Buick pulled up alongside her. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door before loading her luggage into the trunk.

When he was back behind the wheel, Carla said quietly, “Thank you, Fausi. Am I ever glad to see you!”

“Was it nerve-racking?”

“Very. I was terrified he’d notice the variations in the picture. She looks a bit like me, but not that much.”

Fausi, a dark, swarthy intelligence officer at the Jordanian embassy in Washington, chuckled. “I knew you’d hold your nerve. And everything was on your side. All the numbers, codes, and details in that passport were absolutely correct and legal.”

“I know. But the photograph was my weak point. What if he’d noticed, accused me of being a different person? Arrested me? Traveling on a false passport.”