To the Death am-10 Page 40

  The news reached Jimmy Ramshawe at 5 P.M. (local) at Fort Meade. It came in the form of a private signal from one of his buddies in the CIA: Jim, someone tried to assassinate Admiral Arnold Morgan at the front door of the Ritz Hotel in London today. The bullet missed, but hit one of the admiral’s bodyguards, George Kallan, killed him instantly.

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe went white. He felt no sense of triumph, no feeling of exoneration for all the grief he had been given by the admiral. He actually felt scared, for Arnold and for Kathy. This represented all his dreads. And it was not the stray rifle shot across Piccadilly that bothered him. It was the fact that this organization, to which General Rashood belonged, had very obviously decided the time had come to eliminate the Big Man.

  They had, Jimmy was certain, gone to the most enormous amount of trouble and expense to mount this operation, and it had plainly gone wrong. He, Jimmy, had been on to them from the start, and in his opinion they were not the kind of guys to quit. They would regroup and start again, searching for the man who had been their bête noire for so long.

  He touched base with the CIA’s London desk, and they informed him that the admiral and Kathy were quite safe and in hiding somewhere west of London, under heavy CIA and police protection. There were two Flying Squad cars on permanent station outside the small hotel where the Morgans were staying. That was a total of seven armed British officers. There was Arnold’s regular Secret Service detail, and an armed boat from the London River Police was on its way up through the locks and expected to arrive before midnight. If Hamas, or whoever, was planning to try again, this would not be an ideal time.

  Nonetheless, Jimmy was extremely worried. Despite all the warnings and alerts received by the security authorities, this character Rashood had slipped through the net and had actually managed to park himself in a building opposite the admiral’s hotel and open fire on him the first time Arnie set foot outside the door. And then get away!

  This was no ordinary assassin, Jimmy decided. This was a top-of-the-line professional, Rashood, the former SAS commander, a man once headed for the very top in Britain’s most elite branch of Special Forces.

  If Admiral Morgan was to be protected, he would need at his side a man of comparable talents, not some half-trained London bobby. And Jimmy did not know what to do about that. He called Admiral Morris, his boss, who told him to come along to the director’s office immediately. George had not yet heard the news.

  And when Jimmy arrived, Morris listened wide-eyed while his assistant recounted the events in London earlier that day.

  “Sir,” said Jimmy, “we got to get him a bodyguard. Not a cop, or an agent, a Special Forces guy, someone like an ex-Navy SEAL or a Green Beret. Someone who can shoot, fight, or kill if necessary.”

  Admiral Morris nodded sagely, and wondered if it had occurred to Jimmy that such a man might not be allowed to operate with impunity in a foreign country.

  “There are such things as laws, Jimmy,” he said. “Particularly in a socialist country like England. And those laws prevent ex-Navy SEALs from opening fire on wandering terrorists, whatever their crimes. The Brits have been neurotic about the human rights of criminals ever since that cream-puff Blair and his lawyer wife smooth-talked their way into 10 Downing Street.”

  “Couldn’t we fix something with the Brits?”

  “I think that’s very possible, if we can get the president on our side. Arnold obviously needs specialized protection, and the Brits won’t relish getting the blame if anything should happen to him while he’s in their country.”

  “Can you talk to President Bedford?”

  “Well, not right now. He’s fishing up in Kennebunkport with George Bush. But he’s coming back in the morning. I’ll catch him then.”

  “Okay, sir. Let’s assume something can be arranged. You want me to talk to John Bergstrom, see if he can suggest anyone?”

  “Good idea, Jimmy. We don’t want anything to happen to our guy, right? Let’s start things moving right away.”

  Jimmy returned to his office, checked his watch—2:30 P.M. in California — and punched in the numbers for SPECWARCOM in Coronado, San Diego. It took the assistant to the director of the National Security Agency approximately three minutes to be put through to Vice Admiral John Bergstrom, who was in the final weeks of his tenure as head of Special War Command.

  He and Lt. Commander Ramshawe had met previously and shared in common a profound admiration for Admiral Morgan. It took Jimmy only two or three minutes to outline the events in London that morning, and the potential danger to Arnold, for the king SEAL to offer his undivided attention.

  Finally Jimmy came to the point. Both he and Admiral George Morris were convinced that Arnold now required a very special bodyguard. Jimmy pointed out the skill and devilish determination of the assassin who everyone now assessed as the C-in-C of Hamas in person.

  “He’s a highly trained SAS commander, Admiral,” said Jimmy. “And the truth is, he’s been a couple of jumps in front of us ever since we first suspected there was a Middle Eastern agent who’d been tracking down Kathy’s mom.”

  “Did he actually get inside a building opposite the Ritz Hotel and then open fire on Arnold?” asked Admiral Bergstrom.

  “He sure did,” said Jimmy. “We’re working with the London police to try to identify and then locate him. But I’m highly unhopeful.”

  “You mean this bastard is still on the loose?”

  “Correct. And, so far, the best we’ve been able to do is surround Arnie with a group of London bobbies. And that’s not anything like good enough. Not with a trained Special Forces assassin like this guy on his trail.”

  “What do you need, Jimmy?”

  “Ideally I’d like one of your top guys. Maybe a recently retired SEAL. Someone who’s fit, hard-trained, and savvy, a guy who’s worked in the hot-spots, who knows what to watch for, who can spot danger before it arrives.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the admiral. “We got guys like that. But let me ask you one thing — will the Brits allow us to move in an armed warrior to protect one of our own?”

  “Admiral Morris says yes. Mainly because they will not want to get the blame if anything happens to the Big Man.”

  “Who’s asking them? That’s important.”

  “George says President Bedford will do it.”

  “That’s good, because if he asks, they’ll say yes. It’s one of those perfect situations. You ask for that kind of favor, and they say no, then you’ve got ’em by the ears, because if something goes wrong it’s obviously their fault. I should think they’d be delighted to hand Arnie’s security over to us.”

  “Then,” said Jimmy, “if it all goes wrong, it’s totally our fault, right?”

  “You got it. Trouble is, I’m real stretched at the minute. We got guys all over the place, Iraq, Iran, Burma, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain. And you want a top guy, like a full SEAL commander. And we don’t have that many. But I do have a guy in mind.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I’m considering our old friend Commander Rick Hunter. And I’m considering him for several reasons, the first and main one being he’s probably the best we ever had. Secondly, he is a great fan of Arnold Morgan’s. And thirdly, he’s retired and could easily take the time.”

  “Has he stayed fit?”

  “Hell, yes. He has a private gym at his home, and he runs around that darned great farm of his every day.”

  “Is that SEAL-fit, combat-fit?”

  “That’s Hunter-fit, which is almost certainly better.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Oh, yes; I remember now. His family runs a thoroughbred horse-breeding farm, right?”

  “That’s him. And quite honestly, I don’t think his wife — Diana — would allow him to go into combat again. But this is not combat, is it? He’s just got to go with the admiral and make sure no one tries to kill him. It’s nothing like the danger level he’s used to.”r />
  “Who should ask him, sir? You, I hope.”

  “You, I’m afraid,” said the admiral. “I asked him once before to undertake a special mission, and he got shot in the thigh. I think Diana might hang up on me if I called.”

  Jimmy laughed. “Well, I can’t just phone him and suggest that he load his machine gun, can I?”

  “Certainly not. You need to go and see him, and you’ll find it harder getting Diana to agree. She’s very protective and senses, but does not know, just how important a warrior her husband is.”

  “Sir, will you call him and tell him I’m on my way to see him, and I should be treated with consideration?”

  “Not me. But I’ll send him an E-mail and tell him he should at least see you.”

  “Tomorrow, sir. This is urgent. None of us wants Arnie to get killed.”

  “You got it, Jimmy. I’ll send it now. By the way, Rick’s address is Hunter Valley Farms, Lexington, Kentucky. Better get out there.”

  0930 Wednesday 1 August The White House

  President Bedford already had an E-mail requesting that he speak to Admiral Morris at the National Security Agency at 9:45. Even presidents tend to hop to it when Crypto City comes calling. Because Crypto City does not usually bother the president unless it’s a five-alarmer.

  When the admiral came on the direct line, Paul Bedford was both polite and extremely curious. When George Morris began to explain the situation and the clear and present danger to Arnold, Bedford was appalled.

  “We have to bring him home,” he said. “These people are killers. And we cannot mount proper security in another country — not even with our friends in Great Britain.”

  “That’s half the trouble, sir,” replied George. “We’ve been trying to curtail this trip for several weeks. He won’t give it up. And he always says the same thing, about giving in to the goddamned terrorists. You know what he’s like.”

  “But surely he feels differently now, with George Kallan being murdered.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. You see, Arnold hardly knew George. Met him for the first time at Dulles Airport and never really spoke to him again. George was not on his regular Secret Service detail. This was his first assignment with Arnold.”

  “Yes, but what about bringing him home, the funeral and everything?”

  “According to Al, his chief bodyguard who’s spoken to Lt. Commander Ramshawe, the admiral said the one place in all the world he would never go would be to Kallan’s funeral. He thinks that’s where the killer is most likely to strike again.”

  “Where’s Kallan from?”

  “Peru, Indiana.”

  “Birthplace of Cole Porter,” replied the president.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, that’s a truly remarkable piece of information. I thought he was from Long Island, New York.”

  “So do most people,” said the president, grinning down the phone. “Guess that’s why I’m. er. sitting in this chair, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Admiral Morris laughed. He really liked Paul Bedford. “Anyway, sir, the purpose of my call is to request your help in protecting Arnold from further attempts on his life. We’re trying to recruit a Navy SEAL, a combat veteran, to fly to England and take up position beside Arnold at all times.”

  The president instantly approved of that. “Great idea, George. We got John Bergstrom on the case?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll get the best man we can. But he’s got to be armed, and able to shoot if necessary. That’s probably against the law in England, and we need you to get special permission for our man to be permitted to do everything in his power to protect Arnold.”

  “No problem,” said the president. “I’ll call the British PM right away. He’ll fix it at the highest level, not because he wants to, but because it’ll take the heat off them if anything else happens.”

  “My assessment precisely, sir. But we are in a bit of a hurry — could you help get our man there in the fastest possible time?”

  “Let me know when he can leave. I’ll take care of it.”

  1130 Same Day Blue Grass Airport Lexington, Kentucky

  The U.S. Navy’s Lockheed Airies came swiftly in over Bourbon County, high above some of the most renowned racehorse farms in the world. Blue Grass Field was out on the west of the town, and the Navy pilot, who had made it in just over seventy-five minutes from Andrews Air Force Base, could see the runway up ahead.

  He banked around to the south of Lexington, flared out, and landed the Airies immaculately in Kentucky. There was one passenger only in the aircraft, and the navigator walked back to let him out.

  The uniformed Lt. Commander Ramshawe thanked him and climbed down the steps to a waiting farm truck, which had the words HUNTER VALLEY inscribed on the door, above a picture of a mare and foal. Jimmy Ramshawe had no luggage, and the truck driver just held the door open and let him in.

  He introduced himself as Olin and revealed that he worked in the coverin’ barn all winter and spring, then took care of the farm vehicles all summer and autumn.

  “Is Hunter Valley a big place?” asked Jimmy.

  “Hell, yes,” said Olin. “Hundreds of acres. Around seventy mares and foals in residence. A lot of ’em born here.”

  “That’s a big operation, right? Does Mr. Hunter run the whole thing himself?”

  “Well, he’s the boss. But a lot of the staff here worked for his father. That makes a big difference. The department heads know as much about the place as he does. But Mr. Rick is the main man. And he’s got his daddy’s touch with a breeding stallion.”

  Lt. Commander Ramshawe was not exactly certain what that last part meant. But it sounded important, and for a moment it crossed his mind that Commander Hunter might be altogether too busy to save Arnold’s life. However, he understood that, somehow, breeding racehorses was a seasonal business; and he asked if August was a busy time of the year.

  “Not really. Thoroughbred stallions cover mares between February and July at the very latest,” he said. “Their foals gotta be born in the new year, up through May. No one wants what we call a June foal.”

  “How long are the mares pregnant for?” asked Jimmy.

  “Eleven months. And that means we don’t really want them going in foal too late.”

  “Why don’t people want a June foal?” said Jimmy.

  “Well, all racehorses have their birthday on January 1. On that day, any foal born two years previously becomes two. They are young and immature, still growing; but the horse who was born in January really is two, where the one born in June is only nineteen months. And that makes a difference when they get on the track. The older ones are stronger and bigger, and usually faster. No June foals, sir. No June foals.”

  “So there’s no action in August. The stallions are resting.”

  “Correct, sir. We have the usual anxiety about mares in foal. But it’s not like the spring, when everyone’s giving birth. And the stallions are working day and night. And the staff are often up all night.”

  “Including Mr. Hunter?”

  “Oh, sure. He’s a real hands-on kind of guy.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Olin drove the truck through big stone gates, in front of which was a two-ton rock with HUNTER VALLEY carved smoothly on its surface. The drive was long, lined with lime trees and carefully trimmed grass.

  At the end was another pair of stone pillars, set to the left. And beyond there was the main house, standing back across a wide lawn. There were Doric columns on either side of the front door, and to the left was a three-acre paddock in which there were three mares, two of them with foals at foot.

  Diana Hunter saw the truck arrive and came out to meet the naval officer from Fort Meade. She was dressed in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a white shirt, and her accent was English. She was a great-looking horsewoman, slender, with swept-back blonde hair, light blue eyes.

  “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe?” she said. “Hello, I’m Diana, Rick’s wife. He’ll be here in a few minut
es. Come on in and have some coffee.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said Jimmy. “This is a very beautiful place you have here. Olin’s been trying to educate me about racehorses.”

  “He’ll be pretty good at that,” she laughed. “His family’s been in the business for five generations, like mine. He’s our head stallion man — and he’s the great-great-grandson of the man who looked after Black Toney.”

  “Black Tony!” exclaimed Jimmy. “We had a Black Tony back home in Australia.”

  “Was he a thoroughbred?”

  “Not likely. He was a bank robber.”

  Diana Hunter laughed, already taking to the intelligence officer who sounded like the Man from Snowy River. “Out here, Black Toney was a great Kentucky stallion,” she said. “Sired two winners of the Kentucky Derby in the 1920s and ’30s. Probably not as interesting as your Black Tony.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Jimmy, earnestly. “Our Black Tony was Tony McGarry, knocked over the Sydney National Bank for a million dollars and shot four cashiers dead. They hanged him about sixty years ago. He was no relation.”

  Diana Hunter laughed loudly this time. “I didn’t think he was,” she said. “Your name’s not McGarry.”

  “No, but my grandma’s was. I forgot to mention that.”

  Just then, Commander Rick Hunter came in. “Okay, you guys,” he grinned, “what’s so funny? I could do with a joke.”

  “Oh, nothing,” said his wife. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe just thought Black Toney was a bank robber who was hanged for murder.”

  Rick Hunter walked over with his right hand outstretched. “Hi,” he said. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe? Admiral Bergstrom refused to tell me what you wanted, so I’ll get a cup of this coffee and you can fill me in.”

  The ex-Navy SEAL commander stood a little over six feet, five inches tall. He was built like a stud bull, carried not one ounce of fat, and looked as if he could pick up a thoroughbred stallion with his bare hands.