Patrick Robinson - To The Death

“Guess I’m more popular than I thought,” said Arnold.

Meanwhile, Ravi and Shakira were still driving north and had reached the Hertfordshire town of Baldock, where he pulled into the parking lot of the King’s Arms Hotel. Ravi took out his cell phone and tapped in the numbers for the Ritz Hotel.

“Would it be possible to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan?” he said.

The operator was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, sir. The admiral and Mrs. Morgan checked out more than an hour ago.”

“Did they leave a forwarding number or address?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We have no further information on that.”

Ravi, who had been timing the call on his watch, clicked off his phone. It had taken twenty-five seconds, and Ravi knew full well it would have taken the police around fifteen seconds to log into the call, and perhaps trace geographically the cell phone’s position.

He knew it had run too long, but he needed to know the admiral had left the hotel. The police, who he guessed correctly were already tapped into the Ritz switchboard, probably now knew someone had called the admiral from the Hertfordshire area.

This meant he had to get out of the area, and he backed out onto the main road, and headed up to Cambridge, to a city he knew slightly, and to an anonymous hotel. They had to go somewhere, and he had to find out the whereabouts of the admiral. Otherwise everything would have been for nothing.

The journey took around an hour, and they located the Sheraton out on the edge of the city, checked in for the night under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Barden. Ravi ’s impeccable English accent eliminated the need for passports. They ordered coffee and biscuits in their room, and sat down to work out a plan to locate Admiral Morgan.

After a half hour, there was only one name that had not been discarded. It was that of Emily Gallagher, who a) obviously knew where the Morgans were going and b) might tell a friend of the admiral’s. She would most definitely not tell Carla Martin, who had let her down so badly over Charlie and Kipper and who might have murdered the owner of the Brockhurst garage.

So far as Ravi could tell, either he located the admiral and his wife, or the entire mission, with its vast expense and three murders, was on the verge of being aborted. Arnold Morgan could be anywhere. Maybe even at another hotel in London. But wherever he was, security would surround him. In Ravi’s opinion, there was not much difference from trying to take him out in England or in the USA. The risks were huge, there was an American security presence, and everyone involved was taking the matter extremely seriously. Especially the British police.

Ravi wrote off the possibility of using official channels. Anyone making any inquiries whatsoever would immediately come under suspicion by those hard-eyed London cops. The only chance was family, and that meant Emily Gallagher.

He told Shakira he would make one call only, since he was confident that Emily’s phone would now be tapped by the FBI. He had no idea how long he would have before they located his cell phone, and there was no point trying to make the call on a land line from the hotel. They’d pinpoint that in under ten minutes.

Somehow he had to make the call from out in the open and see if he could outfox the old lady. Shakira said she didn’t much like the idea of involving Emily again, of forcing her to play a part in the smashing of her own daughter’s happiness.

But Ravi was becoming fixated by the thought of Arnold Morgan. It was as if there was nothing beyond the American admiral. Shakira thought he was possessed by some kind of obsession about Arnold Morgan, and she was afraid that obsession would lead to his own death.

She noticed how withdrawn he had become, how reluctant he was to talk to her. And now, in the teeth of the gravest danger, he wanted to make a personal phone call to Emily. In Shakira’s opinion, they had both done their very best and should now retreat, back to Gaza where it was relatively safe. It was time to let someone else try their luck. This was becoming, in her opinion, ominously beyond the reasonable call of duty.

Ravi paced the room. He checked his watch. It was almost five o’clock, noon in Virginia. They were on the top floor of the Sheraton Hotel, and he had noticed a sign for the roof terrace. He told Shakira somewhat curtly to “wait here.” Then he left the room, walked along the corridor, and stepped out onto the deserted terrace.

He tapped in the numbers-zero-zero-one. Then area code 703, then the number. It rang three times, and then a voice said, “Hello, this is Emily Gallagher speaking.”

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Gallagher. This is Commander Toby Trenham, of the Royal Navy in London. I’m a very old friend of Admiral Morgan’s from our days in Holy Loch. And he gave me this number to call if I missed him while he was staying in the Ritz.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, Commander. I only know about the Ritz and I thought he was there today. If they aren’t, I really have no idea where they’ve gone.”

“Oh, gosh. How disappointing. I was going to give them dinner at Admiralty House. You have no clues where I might pick up their trail?”

“Commander, I really don’t. Except Arnold did say something about going to Scotland for a few days.”

“No idea where, I suppose?”

“Not really. It’s a very big place, you know, all those Highlands, and Lowlands, and Western Isles, and Loch Lomond, and Loch Ness where that frightful underwater creature lives.”

“It doesn’t sound promising, Mrs. Gallagher, I agree. I think I’d better abandon it. If you do hear from the admiral, you might just tell him I called. Trenham, Commander Toby Trenham.”

“I’ll be sure to. Good-bye, Commander.”

Ravi walked back into the room and instructed Shakira to pack and be prepared to leave.

“But we only just arrived,” she said. “Aren’t you tired? You haven’t been to bed for two days.”

“I am tired. But we are both on a mission for our people.”

“I know that. But where are we going?”

“ Scotland,” he replied.

“Where’s that?” asked Shakira.

“About four hundred miles north of here. It’s the top part of England.”

“Why are we going there?”

“Because Emily Gallagher just told me that’s where Admiral Morgan is headed, and we don’t have one single other clue about his whereabouts.”

“But Scotland ’s a whole country, right? With towns and everything?”

“It sure is. And we don’t have any idea which part he’s visiting.”

“Well, where do we start?”

“I don’t know. All I do know is we either go there and try to find him, or go home-wherever that is.”

“But how do we get to Scotland?”

“Drive. Airports are out of bounds for us.”

“How about a train?”

“Same. And anyway we’ll need a car, and I don’t want to risk renting again. In case it slipped your mind, darling Shakira, I am wanted in the British Isles for two murders.”

Arnold and Kathy sat on the banks of the Thames in the warm embrace of the Leatherne Bottel and its staff. The admiral had ordered dinner for 8:30, and now he and Kathy were sipping a superb white Burgundy, a 2004 Corton-Charlemagne made by the maestro, Franck Grux, for Olivier Leflaive Frères. This bottle is widely regarded as one of the longest-lived, most delicious wines in the world.

Arnold considered it perfect for the first evening of their vacation, the best kind of soothing elixir to steady the nerves after someone has just made a bold attempt to blow your head off.

The Thames is wide along this reach, and the occasional boat chugs by on its way down to the lock at Goring. Ducks meander along the riverbank, and the views are always wondrous with the changing light of a summer evening.