Patrick Robinson - To The Death

Back in England, MI-6 E-mailed the picture to Military Intelligence, with a special copy to SAS headquarters in Stirling Lines, Hereford, where once Major Ray Kerman had served with honor and courage. By the time the photograph arrived, it was mid-evening, and it would not be examined in the normal course of business until the following morning. However, an urgent communication was picked up from the Israelis at around 10 P.M., and the duty officer instantly summoned the commanding officer.

The communiqué from Tel Aviv read: POSIDENT photograph English ferry port Holyhead. The man is General Ravi Rashood, commander in chief Hamas, formerly known as Major Ray Kerman, 22 SAS Regt. The woman with him is Shakira Rashood, his Palestinian wife, last known address Bab Touma Street, Damascus.

Rashood wanted for murder in County Cork, Ireland. Local farmer Mr. Jerry O’Connell, killed by obvious Special Forces method-smashed central forehead, nose bone rammed into the brain. Looks like Rashood back in England. We stand by to help if required. Joel, Israeli Intelligence.

Lieutenant Colonel David Carter, CO 22 SAS, walked through steady rain to his office, accompanied by Major Douglas Jarvis. Neither of them had been in Hereford when Major Kerman had jumped ship back in 2004, but both of them knew the seriousness of his crimes. It was common knowledge nowadays that Kerman had murdered two highly regarded SAS NCOs and had then wreaked havoc on behalf of the well-funded Hamas terrorists. The name Ray Kerman represented the most inflammatory utterance in SAS history.

The two Special Forces officers shook off their rain smocks and made their way quickly to the CO’s office. Lt. Colonel Carter had served with Ray Kerman in Sierre Leone a dozen years ago, knew him well. The duty officer had put the photograph up on a wall screen, and David Carter took one look at it and said, “That’s Ray. Not a single doubt.”

Douglas Jarvis picked up a hard copy of the report from Tel Aviv, and said, “Christ! He’s here.”

Lt. Colonel Carter replied, “Well, he was when that ferry came into Holyhead. Who knows if he’s still here?”

“What do we do now?”

“Well, I suppose we better confirm our positive identification of Kerman to all of the interested parties, looks like Israeli Intelligence, MI-5, MI-6, CIA, FBI, and the Irish. We’ll send our confirmation direct to MI-6 and they’ll take care of the rest.”

“Did you read that bit about he’s supposed to have killed the Irish farmer, sir?”

“Not yet. What did it say?”

“Well, he used our regular unarmed combat blow. You know, smashed forehead bone and upward drive on the nose. I seem to remember from the report, he used that very same method to kill Sergeant Fred O’Hara in Hebron.”

“After eight years with the enemy, he’s probably getting careless. Thinks he’s safe. Looks like he’s getting so confident, he thinks he can move in and out of England any time he wants to.”

“Do you think we’ll ever catch him, sir?”

“Possibly. But we’d need a hell of a bit of luck.”

The Mossad communiqué, via the CIA, landed in Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s computer at 4 P.M. It was accompanied by an urgent phone call from his pal at the CIA, and then another call from Army Intelligence. General Rashood and his wife had been photographed at the English ferry port.

And at that moment, a thousand questions that had been swirling in Jimmy’s mind were answered. In fact, all the questions that had been swirling in his mind were answered. Except for one. Was the woman in the picture with Ravi none other than Carla Martin?

There were only a very few people in the world who could tell him. One of them was Emily Gallagher; another was Jim Caborn, manager of the Estuary Hotel; and, of course, there were Matt Barker’s buddies.

In Jimmy’s judgment, this required a further visit to Brockhurst. But the game had now changed drastically from a very local murder hunt to a hunt for an international terrorist with the most serious implications.

Jimmy seized the picture, and the reports from the Mossad and the Irish police, and proceeded in a major hurry to the office of the director, Admiral George Morris. The somewhat lugubrious ex-battle group commander was studying a copy of Jane’s International magazine when his deputy came through the door without knocking.

Big George knew urgency when he saw it. He looked up and said quietly, “Steady, Jimmy. What’s going on?”

“Every damn thing in the world, if you ask me,” he replied. “You know all that business I was telling you about a terrorist group trying to locate and then assassinate Admiral Morgan?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, it’s happening. Everything just sprang into place. And you’ll never guess who’s at the back of it.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Hamas. General Ravi Rashood. And his wife. Take a look at this picture.”

He handed it to Admiral Morris, who said, “From what I remember, that’s him. I’ve never seen a picture of her. Tell you what, run me through it quickly, will you? Refresh my memory.”

Jimmy did so, fast, recounting the chain of circumstances that led to Carla’s sudden vanishing, in full possession of the admiral’s ETA and hotel in London. Then he reconstructed Ravi’s trip to Ireland, the murder of the farmer, and the police hunt for the master terrorist, which apparently had ended in the ferry port.

“And here they are,” he said, waving the photograph, “after their rendezvous in Dublin, arriving in England, where Ravi will attempt to blow Arnie’s brains out without getting caught.”

Admiral Morris nodded thoughtfully. “One thing, Jim,” he said. “Why Ireland? Why did they not just go to England?”

“Even with forged passports, that would be very risky. There’s nowhere hotter than London for a terrorist to make port of entry. My guess is that Ravi went to Ireland, landed on one of the loneliest coasts in the world, probably from that missing Iranian submarine, and then tried to sneak into England through the back door, the Irish ferry.”

Admiral Morris was thoughtful. “And what do you need to find out? What brought you in here with such obvious urgency?”

“Sir, I need to know whether that girl in the photograph is definitely Carla Martin from the Estuary Hotel.”

“Well, is that difficult?”

“No. Not as soon as I can get down to Brockhurst. And I was wondering if I could take a helicopter, right now.”

“You may. And then we better meet right here in the morning to plan some kind of strategy, stop Arnie from going to England. At least stop him from sticking to his original schedule.”

“Okay, I’ll get going. And be warned-Arnie is not going to take kindly to this interference with his plans.”

One hour later, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe came in to land on the grassy banks of the Rappahannock River, at the north end of the township of Brockhurst.

Still just in his shirtsleeves and still holding the picture, he walked up to the main road and turned left toward the house owned by Mrs. Emily Gallagher. If she was not in, he would make straight for the hotel. If she was at home, he might not need to bother with a further personal call, because he could probably get Jim Caborn to walk up the street to Emily’s house.

Which was how it turned out. Emily welcomed Jimmy warmly and immediately went to make some tea. Then she took the photograph, placed her spectacles at the end of her nose, and stared at the images.

“My goodness, yes,” she said. “That is very definitely my friend Carla. Where on earth was this photograph taken? She’s never bothered to contact me, you know. So disappointing, so very disappointing.”