Patrick Robinson - To The Death

In the meantime, General Rashood had completed his walk up Dover Street and had turned left down Hay Hill and into Berkeley Street. He crossed and strolled into the narrow walkway of Lansdowne Row, where he was when the police began their search of his office building.

He knew Lansdowne Row mostly because it contained one of the best newspaper shops in London. Ravi used to go there with his father occasionally to pick up Middle Eastern publications.

He bought the London Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail and then walked into the café next door and ordered some coffee and buttered toast. He took off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair, and put down his briefcase. He’d been here before, in another life, and it looked much the same, but better. It seemed bigger, and Ravi thought they must have purchased the flower shop next door.

Anyway, it felt like a haven right now, and happily he did not recognize the proprietor. Calmly he sipped his coffee and read the newspapers. It was a busy place, filled with shirtsleeved young advertising and financial executives. Ravi fitted right in, and outside, to the south, he heard the constant wail of police sirens. And the distant clatter of a helicopter swooping low over the city.

It was a little after 12:30 when he left. He put on his jacket and walked into Berkeley Square, which was lunchtime busy. He made his way up the west side of the square, past the distinctive awning of Annabel’s, the world’s most exclusive nightclub, and then turned left into Mount Street.

Up ahead he could see the Audi, Shakira at the wheel. He watched her step out and walk around to the front passenger seat. Casually, he made his way to the driver’s side, tossed his jacket and briefcase in the back, and positioned himself behind the wheel. Without a word, he drove down the north side of Berkeley Square and then swung left, heading up the one-way system in fast-moving traffic. He neither stopped nor spoke for fifteen minutes. Shakira knew everything had gone wrong, but at least he had not been shot, and in a sense she felt an overwhelming feeling of relief.

The helicopter he had heard was currently standing on the Horse Guards parade ground. Arnold and Kathy were aboard, along with two of the secret agents. They were just waiting for the luggage to arrive from the now-besieged Ritz Hotel, which currently contained more policemen than guests.

The body of Big George had been removed by ambulance to St. Mary’s Hospital. And before it left, the police pathologist had confirmed that the bullet had been fired from a height and had hit George at a shallow angle to the horizontal.

The westbound lanes of Piccadilly were still blocked, and the hotel staff car containing the Americans’ luggage was forced to take a circuitous route to Horse Guards. When it arrived, the loadmaster packed the suitcases into the hold, and the helicopter from the Queen’s Flight took off, heading west. Destination: classified.

The Royal Air Force pilot followed the River Thames all the way, flying at around ten thousand feet. Putney Bridge, Hammersmith Bridge, Barnes Bridge, and Chiswick all passed beneath them. They continued on to the Berkshire town of Maidenhead, then Henley-on-Thames, where Arnold could still see the famous blue-and-white tents at the end of the Royal Regatta course.

This had once been familiar territory for the Big Man. He’d rowed here in an Annapolis crew more than forty years before, got beat by the Harvard lightweights. “Bastards,” muttered Arnold.

“Sorry?” said Kathy.

“Bastards,” repeated Arnold wistfully. “They got a half length at the start, beat the umpire’s call. We never pegged ’ em back. Finished only a canvas down.”

“Who did?”

“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I was just reliving one of my early disasters, when the Naval Academy got beat down there at the Henley Regatta. See those blue-and-white tents? Where the river runs straight? Right there.”

“Were you rowing?”

“Stroke. But I can’t talk about it. It’s too painful.”

“You mean you can talk about some lunatic almost blowing your head off, but you can’t speak about a boat race?”

“Correct. The lunatic missed, so it’s just a fantasy. But the boat race was real. Oh boy, was it ever real.”

Kathy shook her head, and the helicopter kept going west until it swung right just before the market town of Wallingford, with its thirteenth-century bridge over the Thames. And now the pilot began to lose height, dropping down and flying a hundred feet above the river, following it downstream.

To the left were the Chiltern Hills, to the right the Berkshire Downs, and along the lonely river valley, clattering noisily in the soft summer air, came the helo from the Queen’s Flight, bearing the admiral to a place of safety. You could search for a hundred years and never find him here.

The GPS numbers in the cockpit finally signaled their arrival, and the pilot slewed the helicopter in the air, making it almost stationary forty feet above the water. And there before them, on the banks of the river, was the picturesque Leather Bottle, except it was spelled differently-The Leatherne Bottel.

“Jesus,” said Arnold, staring at the lettering on the sign. “These guys can’t even spell, never mind cook!”

“Olde English,” yelled the loadmaster. “This place has been here for centuries.”

The pilot dropped down almost to water level and then edged forward, landing on the concrete parking lot, with the tail jutting out over the river. The admiral and Kathy disembarked with the two agents, who unloaded the baggage, and the four of them walked across the stone terrace and into the bright, low-ceilinged restaurant with its stunning views across the river to the Downs. Way along the summit, it was just possible to see one of the fabled Long Woods.

“Beautiful place,” said Admiral Morgan to James, the young man who was supervising the luggage.

“One of the best views in England,” he said. “Shall I take your bags up to your room? We’re not really a regular hotel, just two suites for VIPs, which I imagine you must be.”

“Not us,” said Arnold. “We’re just a couple of strays with no other hotel room, looking for a place to stay for two or three days.”

“Absolutely,” chuckled James. “Nearly everyone who comes here arrives in a Royal Air Force private helicopter from the Queen’s Flight.”

At this moment, a police car came swiftly down the steep, winding approach to the Leatherne Bottel to check that all was well. The sergeant asked to see the manager, to stress the importance of privacy and secrecy for the guests. He told her that a limousine from the U.S. embassy would be arriving shortly, with two more security men, and that the four agents would share the second suite.

James led the admiral and Kathy back out to the terrace and seated them at a table right on the riverbank beneath a pergola. It was just one o’clock and the sun was high. Only an hour and forty minutes had elapsed since the Hamas general had tried to assassinate Arnold Morgan.

“I’ll bring you some lunch, if you wish,” said James. “How about some fillets of plaice and spinach? Chef’s just cooking it now.”

“Perfect,” said Kathy.

“How about a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard?” asked the admiral.

“Shut up, darling,” said Kathy, and then, turning back to James, “Two plaice and spinach. Ignore him.”

Arnold chuckled. He was always amused at being bullied by the only person in the world who even interrupted him, never mind argued.

James hesitated, but Arnold confirmed, “She’s the boss. Well… mostly. And would you give the guys whatever they want? Everything’s on my tab.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” he replied. “We were told specifically that every last charge would be handled by the U.S. ambassador’s office in London.”