To The Death, page 41
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 minutes. 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.
Jimmy Ramshawe knew all about him, having checked out the commander’s biography on the Navy networks. Rick had served on SEAL teams all over the world—Burma, Iran, Russia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Argentina. He’d been in sole command six times, fought, been wounded, and always come out on top. He would have received the Congressional Medal of Honor for valor but for a sudden and premature retirement from the Navy after his best friend and colleague was unjustly brought before a court-martial six years previously.
There were still very senior officers in the United States Navy who would have moved mountains to get Rick back into the SEALs. But he was a rather unusual member of the armed forces. His family was long-established Bluegrass horse breeders, and the young Rick Hunter had wanted more excitement in his life than waiting months on end for thoroughbred mares to produce expensive foals.
However, when the Navy disgraced Commander Dan Headley by finding him guilty of mutiny, despite overpowering mitigating evidence, Rick never felt the same. He resigned with his buddy, and the two of them retired to Kentucky to run the farm. Both of them were married within two years, Rick to one of the daughters of the revered Jarvis horse-training family in Newmarket, England. It was a dazzling match. Diana’s younger brother was a major in Great Britain’s SAS.
And now the towering former SEAL stood before Lt. Commander Ramshawe, wondering what on earth the National Security Agency could want from him. Jimmy took a sip of coffee. Diana motioned for everyone to sit down and made it perfectly clear that she was not going anywhere at this particular moment.
“Rick,” said Jimmy, “you are, I believe, acquainted with the president’s closest friend, Admiral Arnold Morgan?”
Commander Hunter nodded.
“Well,” said Jimmy, “he is in England right now, and for some weeks we have been concerned there would be an attempt on his life. And then yesterday morning, outside the Ritz Hotel in London, someone tried to kill him. It was a high-powered rifle shot to the head, and it killed one of his bodyguards instead of him. But it was close.”
“Was the shot from street level?” asked the ex-SEAL team leader.
Jimmy shook his head. “So far as we can tell, the killer fired from high up, from a building on the other side of the street.”
And from there Jimmy took the story through from the beginning, from the barmaid-agent in Brockhurst, to the submarine, the subsequent murder of the Irish farmer who got in the way, and finally the sighting of the Hamas chief, in the ferry terminal in Holyhead, with the barmaid.
“Jesus,” replied Rick, “that does not sound in any way good. Because you’re not dealing with some nutcase, you’re dealing with a professional operation from the Middle East. If they can knock down the Towers, I guess they can knock down Arnold.”
“Not if we can help it,” said Jimmy. “And it has now been agreed that we will call in either a U.S. Navy SEAL, or a Green Beret, or a Ranger, to stand personal guard over the admiral. Obviously we want a real combat veteran, preferably a man who has fought with our Special Forces not only in a remote and rural environment, but also in an urban theater.”
Rick got it. And he raised his eyebrows. “And that’s why you’re here? To ask me to rejoin the Navy and fly to Europe to protect Arnold Morgan?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Out of the question,” said Diana.
“I guess you heard the lady,” added Rick. “I couldn’t possibly do that. I have vast responsibilities here, I couldn’t just up and leave.”
“Not even for two or three weeks?” said Jimmy. “I know August is your least busy month. Now the covering season is over.”
“How can a man who thinks Black Toney is a bank robber possibly know that?” asked Diana, smiling.
“Olin told me,” said Jimmy, simply. “But I don’t think I have explained very well how important this is. As you doubtless know, Admiral Morgan is closer to the president than anyone else in the country except for his wife. Paul Bedford relies on Arnold for all advice on global problems and threats to the United States.
“He is well acquainted with the grave danger this General Rashood poses. And he immediately suggested that Admiral John Bergstrom be brought into the equation. You are Admiral Bergstrom’s choice. And by now the president knows full well, and approves, that you should be the chosen man.”
“Hmmmm,” said Rick, his mind racing. “Under no circumstances can I undertake this, but no one likes to personally turn down the President of the United States.”
“Rick, this thing is going higher than even I know. President Bedford is speaking to the British prime minister today, requesting special permission for an armed American bodyguard to have free choice in the matter of Arnold’s safety . . . to legally open fire if necessary.”
“Guess the guy’ll need that,” said Rick. “These things are always split-second. You spot something and act instantly. If you don’t, the target’s dead.”
“And of course,” said Jimmy, smoothly, “you would not be the target.”
“Neither,” said Diana, sweetly, “was this George Kallan. But he’s still dead.”
“Rick, if you were to accept this assignment, you would look back in years to come. And you won’t remember the inconvenience. Only the honor of being chosen by the U.S. president to carry out a mission that close to his heart.
“Right now, you are hearing it from this lowly lieutenant commander from the National Security Agency. If I go back and say you’ve refused, you’ll be in the Oval Office tomorrow, trust me.”
“Well, even the president can’t force us to agree, can he?” said Diana.
But Rick added, “He probably couldn’t force you, Diana. But you’re not an American, and sometimes I think you don’t quite understand what that office means to all of us. Especially if you’ve served in the military.”
And Rick turned to Jimmy and said, “I have to admit, I would find it very difficult to tell the President of the United States that I would not answer his call to protect his closest friend, who just happens to be one of America’s finest strategists and greatest patriots.”
Jimmy nodded, unsmiling. “I can’t stress this too much, Rick—the highest powers in this country want you to go to Great Britain, on behalf of the president, and do everything you can to prevent this terrorist from killing Arnold Morgan.”
“It’s so unfair,” interjected Diana. “Rick’s not even in the Navy any more. Why should he have to step in when there are so many young guys who would be honored to go on a mission like that?”
“Mostly because Rick is the best Navy SEAL there’s ever been,” said Jimmy. “At least that’s what the Navy high command thinks. And that’s what the president believes. That’s why I’m here. And you can turn me down. But that won’t be the end of it. The president will want to see you.”
“And what will Rick get out of it, apart from the honor?”
“I’d guess anything he asks for,” replied Jimmy. “But if there was an incident, and he managed to save the admiral, I’d guess you’d be looking at the Congressional Medal of Honor. Since Rick would officially be in the Navy for the three-week length of the mission.”
“You mean the president could deem that Rick was a serving Navy officer and facing an enemy?” asked Diana.
“The president can deem anything he darn well pleases,” said Jimmy. “He’s the commander in chief. No one can argue.”
“Including me,” said Rick. “You are making this very difficult.”
He turned to his wife and added, “I do understand, Diana, that as a civilian you cannot quite tune in to . . . well . . . a warrior’s call to the flag. It’s not easy.”
“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.”
0930 Thursday 2 August Goring-on-Thames England
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.
