Patrick Robinson - To The Death

She then telephoned the Estuary, and Jim Caborn said he was on his way. Ten minutes later, he arrived and confirmed precisely what Mrs. Gallagher had said. Yes, that was Carla Martin, and no, she had never been in touch.

The three of them sat quietly sipping tea, and Jimmy told them that Carla was almost certainly married to General Rashood, perhaps the most wanted terrorist in the world. Emily and Jim were astounded but seemed grateful for the knowledge, as if a dark cloud had been removed from their lives, some final clarification as to the identity of the girl they had both befriended and whose mysterious disappearance now seemed to make more sense.

Emily remained puzzled why Carla had found it necessary actually to murder Matt Barker, rather than just fight him off. And Jimmy tried to explain to her the mantra of the international terrorist. How, in their minds, there can be nothing to draw attention from anyone.

No matter who gets too close, they must be eliminated. They cannot be allowed to live. And there was no question of just stabbing Matt Barker somewhere on his body where death would not result. Carla could not risk Matt Barker, dripping blood, chasing her down the street like a bull elephant, with all the attendant publicity and questions that would cause. Stealth was her watchword. Matt must die.

Emily seemed to accept this. And it was soon time for Jimmy to leave. Since Detective Joe Segel had never met Carla, he was out of the loop so far as Lt. Commander Ramshawe was concerned. He decided to chat with him on the telephone tomorrow. Meanwhile he said his good-byes to Emily and Jim, and walked back up the street, to board the U.S. Marine helicopter for the ride back to Fort Meade.

All his suspicions were now confirmed. Yes, Carla Martin had journeyed to Brockhurst specifically to find out when the admiral and Kathy would be leaving for a vacation. Yes, the murder of Matt Barker had been a somewhat unforeseen circumstance. Yes, Carla had fled to Ireland carrying a different passport to meet the landed terrorist Rashood in Dublin. And here they both were, entering England to murder Arnie.

And what now? So far as Jimmy was concerned, the Brits could begin a nationwide search for Ravi and Shakira, but they probably would not find them. So far as Jimmy could tell, the only way to snuff out the danger was to persuade Arnold not to go to London under any circumstances whatsoever. And he still had no hopes of that, despite this blazing new evidence which was, in his mind at least, decisive. Hamas had decided that Arnie must go.

He came in to land at Fort Meade and was driven to the parking lot. There he boarded his Jaguar and headed downtown to the Watergate, where Jane awaited him. She poured him a beer and told him she had successfully launched a raid on the Australian embassy kitchens and left with a couple of prime-cut New York sirloins, which she would grill on the balcony while he had another row with Arnold Morgan.

The steaks were perfect, and the row was predictable. Arnold would not hear of canceling his trip, Ravi Rashood or no Ravi Rashood. “You can’t run your life around these bastards, kid,” he said. “If this character wants to have a shot at me, he’ll have to get past the best security agents in the world. I’ll brief them, and they’ll be waiting for anyone who thinks they can carry out an assassination.”

He added that he was not worried, and that he would keep a sharp lookout all through his forthcoming trip. Cancellation? Out of the question.

The search for the general, Jimmy knew, would now turn out to be a rare marriage between local civil authorities and military personnel. Shakira was wanted for murder in Brockhurst, Virginia, and that was Joe Segel’s territory, and Ravi was wanted for murder in West Cork, which was where Ray McDwyer was still in charge. Concurrently, both Ravi and his wife were wanted by the Mossad for murder, treason, and God knows what else; Ravi was wanted by the SAS for murder and desertion; and the British government wanted him for murder and treason against the state.

After dinner, Jimmy and Jane sat and watched the television news, sipping glasses of his father’s vintage port. Finally Jane asked, “Do you really think someone is going to try and kill Arnold?”

“I know they’re going to try, babe. It’s only a matter of whether they can shoot straight.”

They brought Shakira’s car around to the front of the Syrian embassy shortly after breakfast. Ravi and his wife ran down the steps into the car, and the general drove them around Belgrave Square and out along Pont Street to Knightsbridge, just below Harrods.

Here they turned left and headed out, against the morning traffic, along the tree-lined Cromwell Road toward the western suburbs of the capital city of the United Kingdom. The road followed the River Thames for two miles and then veered upward onto the long, perpetually busy M-4 motorway to South Wales. Ravi, however, did not veer upward. He ducked off, expertly, and drove along the gloomy old road beneath the freeway, running left of the massive gray stone pillars that support the Chiswick flyover.

When the motorway swung slightly north, Ravi headed due west, turning onto the Great West Road for another couple of miles before the Heston junction. And there he turned north, through an area that often looks like a suburb of Calcutta rather than London. Out here, in the colorful suburb of Southall, migrating Asians have built an entire community.

There are three-generation families living here, all tracing their blood roots back to the Subcontinent, to the Punjab, Bombay, Karachi, Jaipur, Bengal, and Bangalore, many of them hardworking families who resolutely faced the hundred-year struggle to fit in, to be accepted, to be British.

And a high percentage prospered as natural businessmen. The entire area is redolent with shops and stores, open all the hours God made. Southall is a thousand light-years from Belgrave Square and London ’s West End -but it lives and it thrives, an Indian and Pakistani enclave-a modern reminder of the price of empire.

Ravi headed straight along Merrick Road, crossed the railroad near Southall Station, and plunged into a labyrinth of side streets full of row-houses. Finally, he turned onto a quiet residential avenue. He checked a piece of paper that Shakira handed him and headed for number 16.

They pulled into the wide driveway and parked close to the front door of a big double-fronted Victorian house. Ravi noticed a new BMW parked around the far side of the property. But that measure of opulence did not extend to the garden, which was heavily overgrown. The grass needed a lawnmower, the bushes were too tall and overhanging the drive, there was not a flower planted, and the general effect was an unkempt section of wild woodland.

The house, however, was immaculately painted, with white window frames and trim and a shiny, jet-black double front door. Ravi left Shakira in the car and knocked.

It was answered by an elderly man of Indian appearance. He was wearing a turban and the kind of short gray work jacket a butler might use for cleaning the silver.

“Good morning, sir. Mr. Spencer?”

Ravi nodded.

“Please come this way.”

Ravi followed him down the hall to a small padded leather door, which opened softly when the Indian inserted a credit card-shaped key into the lock. A green light flashed, and Ravi was faced with a well-lit staircase going downward, with deep steps carpeted in dark green pile.

From below came a voice with an Indian inflection. “Please come down, Mr. Spencer. I am of course expecting you.”

Ravi descended and shook hands with his host, Mr. Prenjit Kumar, whom he understood to be one of the best private gunsmiths in England. There was no one else in the basement workroom, but there were three definite work areas, each one illuminated by a bright overhead light, slung low over a surface that looked like dark red baize. The place was much more like a jeweler’s than an armament factory.