Patrick Robinson - To The Death

“And it would be even less easy if you managed to get killed,” she retorted.

“Diana, that’s the one thing I’m not too worried about. An assassin usually has to spend a lot of time lining up his position and his shot. The best sniper rifles don’t have automatic loading, which means he only gets one shot, if he intends to escape.

“And the guy involved in this case is not some kid high on opium and happy to commit suicide. At least it doesn’t look that way. From what Jimmy says, this assassination will be carried out by the top commander in Hamas or Hezbollah, a guy we’ve never arrested or even gotten a chance to kill. We know he’s ex-SAS, so he’ll be damn good at his job.

“Jimmy, my biggest hesitation is that I might fail. And then have to live with the blame.”

“Rick, that’s not going to happen. Everyone agrees: if you can’t do it, it can’t be done. There will be no announcements, no one will ever know you were there. This mission is just about as classified as anything can get. You will travel in secret, operate in secret, and return home in secret. If you should fail, no one will ever know.”

“I’ll know,” said Commander Hunter. “And that’s why I can’t allow anything to happen.”

Jimmy, recognizing the superior rank, asked flatly, “Sir, does that mean you’ll except the assignment?”

“Affirmative,” replied the SEAL.

Diana stood up. “I know when I’m beaten,” she smiled. “And I’m comforted by only one thing-this assassin’s not firing at Rick, is he?”

“He won’t have time,” replied Jimmy. “Not if he hopes to get away.”

“When do you guys need me on station?” asked Rick.

“Certainly in the next few days,” said Jimmy. “The trouble is, no one quite knows where Arnold is going. Since he left the White House, he’s been pretty secretive. My boss, Admiral Morris, has spoken to the CIA, and they think he’s going to Scotland.”

“I have met him, you know,” said Rick. “A couple of times. Only briefly, but he’s a damned impressive guy. He was talking to me about the Middle East, and Jesus, he really knows his stuff. In just a few minutes he let me know why he can’t stand Arabs or Russians. Doesn’t trust ’em, any of ’em.”

Jimmy then told Rick that he could expect a call from Admiral Bergstrom, and probably from the president, before he left. “You’ll fly direct to Andrews Air Force Base from here in a Navy jet. And from there you’ll fly private to either Edinburgh or Glasgow, if Arnie’s in Scotland, or RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire, England. All your gear will be preloaded. Do you have a weapon you prefer?”

“I’ll need a short-barreled CAR-15 automatic rifle. I’m used to it, and it’s the best I’ve ever used, probably the best military weapon ever made-fires a.223-caliber cartridge at high velocity. It has a thirty-round magazine. It’s very powerful, hits with enormous force. Just a small bullet, but it would stop a mountain lion dead in its tracks.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, tell ’em I’ll also take a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol. That’s standard issue for SEALs. And let me have a couple of extra fifteen-round magazines. If I’m on duty, I’d feel half-dressed without it.”

Jimmy made a note in his small brown leather book. “I don’t think you’ll take combat clothing, Rick. George Morris told me this morning you’d be operating disguised as a London policeman.”

“Good idea,” said Rick. “It’ll make me a lot less conspicuous.”

“You just need your regular street clothes,” said Jimmy. “Anything else, the Brits will take care of it. They, by the way, are going to be thrilled you’re coming. Because your presence means they don’t have to take the blame for anything.”

Rick chuckled. “You staying for lunch?”

“Not this time. I need to get back.”

“Okay, I’ll whistle up Olin. He’ll take you to the airport.”

“Thanks, Commander. I appreciate that. Sorry to disrupt your life like this.”

“The whole operation sounds like a real challenge. Tell the truth, I’m quite looking forward to it.” The big Navy SEAL was grinning. “And, as you know, August is the least busy month.”

The admiral and Kathy slept late and decided to stay another day at the Leatherne Bottel. And, in the meantime, Ravi and Shakira continued to head north to Scotland.

The general had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend Tuesday night in the Cambridge Sheraton. And they had begun the long drive on Wednesday morning, cutting west across to the A-1 motorway just north of Huntingdon, and then running due north all the way to Yorkshire.

Ravi had decided to make for the more westerly city of Glasgow rather than the Scottish capital, Edinburgh, and that meant leaving the motorways that run up the eastern side of England and driving right across the Pennines, the range of mountains that runs down the backbone of the country.

The Hamas general had made the journey before, and decided to take the spectacular A-66 for fifty-five miles straight over the wild and glorious Yorkshire moors, across Stainmore Forest and into Cumbria.

They arrived in the town of Penrith, the gateway to the Lake District, shortly before 5 P.M. and pulled into the Claymore, a pleasant-looking inn situated in the historic town center.

Shakira, who had been very withdrawn throughout the entire journey, finally elected to engage in conversation, asking why her husband had elected to leave the fast, direct freeways on the east side in favor of a beautiful but time-wasting drive over the mountains.

Ravi, who was tired of her endless silences, explained carefully that Admiral Morgan’s biography had pointed out that he had served in the U.S. submarines in Holy Loch. “The whole area along the Firth of Clyde is full of ex-submariners,” he said. “And there’s a chance that Admiral Morgan might want to visit his old stomping ground. If he’s in the area, there might be a reference in the local paper. He’s a very influential person, former national security adviser to the president. He’s too big a man to get lost entirely.”

“Will you try to kill him again?”

“Certainly,” replied her husband. “That’s why we’re here, and in particular that’s why we switched to the east side of the country, where he’s most likely to be.”

They checked into the Claymore, and Ravi slept for two hours. Shakira went out and bought some magazines, which she came back and read. It was obvious to anyone, at least anyone who was awake, that she was sick and tired of this relentless chase to assassinate the American.

Shakira had a foreboding that it would end in tears. In her opinion, everything had gone wrong, right from the start-the ludicrous Matt Barker, the unlucky Jerry O’Connell, the equally unlucky George Kallan. They were all dead, and in Shakira’s mind she and Ravi would soon be dead if they didn’t call the whole thing off and leave for the Middle East forthwith.

Even Ravi had admitted that the amount of security surrounding the admiral was very intense. But as her determination waned, so Ravi ’s had increased. And Shakira was afraid he might be losing the cold-blooded streak of realism that had always kept him on the straight and narrow, no matter what the mission.

In Shakira’s opinion, this was all connected to that terrible night in Damascus when their house had been flattened by a bomb and she had been so lucky to get out. She’d never really gotten to the bottom of that, but she had asked Ravi, and he had been very vague except to say that he suspected the Israelis, under American guidance. Especially under Arnold Morgan’s guidance.

But it had all taken so long. They had journeyed so far. And now they were off on some wild-goose chase to find the admiral, and they did not even know his address. They did not even know what town he was in, never mind what country. And there was an unreasonable determination about her husband. He was a man possessed. Nothing else mattered to him. Shakira had never seen him like this before.