For my wife and me, this is the thrill of a lifetime.'
Last night Ladbrokes was offering 6–1 against the compact, bay Persian Lady. Prince Abdullah Salman's rangy grey five-year-old High Five remained 3–1 favorite in all offices.
The newspaper made no connection to the mystery of Richard Kerman's son, Raymond, the missing SAS Officer who had occupied front pages all over the country a couple of years ago. Right here they were dealing with the Ascot Gold Cup, the Holy Grail for the stamina racehorse. Hebron? Where the hell's that? Sports departments are inclined to be insular places.
Meanwhile, 3,000 miles from London, Ravi stared at the story. He was overjoyed at his father's success, and handed the newspaper to Shakira, pointing out the headline.
'That's my father's horse,' he said. 'I remember her when she was a two-year-old. Dad bred her out of an elderly mare by High Line. He's always wanted a staying horse, but he never thought he'd get one this good.'
Shakira read the few paragraphs, understanding little of the jargon that racing people take for granted. Then she said, quite suddenly, 'Do you miss your parents?'
'Sometimes,' Ravi replied.
'You've never contacted them, have you?'
'No. I couldn't, really. It would have put the most awful pressure on them. They would have felt obliged to inform the authorities I was alive, and then there would have been a desperate investigation. Phone-tapping, mail- searching, and God knows what else. I didn't want to put them through it.'
Shakira sipped her beer. 'I suppose the only way you could ever see them would be to meet them somewhere.'
'But that would mean contacting them prior to the meeting, and I'd never quite trust someone not to find out. In the end, I probably wouldn't turn up.'
Shakira persisted. 'But what if you were to meet them without contacting them?'
'Well, then they wouldn't know how to find me. Nor I them.'
'I know how you could find them without a single word to anyone.'
'Lay it on me.'
'Royal Ascot, or whatever it is. Thursday, June 22. They'll be there. And easy to find. Especially if Persian Lady wins.'
'If she wins, they'll probably have tea with the Queen or something. That'd be harder than getting next to Admiral Morgan.'
'Then you better meet them before she wins. I expect they'll be watching the horses before the race.'
'Shakira,' he said, smiling. 'Have you ever been to Royal Ascot?'
'Of course not.'
'Then I will tell you about it. First of all, there's about ten zillion people in attendance. Everyone in the Royal Enclosure wears a little colored badge with their name on it. Each man is required to wear morning dress… '
'I thought it was in the afternoon?'
Ravi knew the girl he loved was just joshing him, and he carried on regardless. 'Morning dress is just an English expression. It means top hat and tails… '
'Like Frederick Astaire?'
'Precisely. He'd fit in a treat, especially since he married a jockey.'
'A JOCKEY!'
'Lady jockey, dingbats. Super rider, and a very beautiful one. American.'
'Anyway, Mr. Astaire is dead.'
'And his morning suit wouldn't fit me. So I'd have to get my own. But what I'm trying to tell you, in this ocean of irrelevance, is that Ascot is literally crawling with security guards, officious men in top hats and green uniforms as I remember, checking people's badges, making sure the person wearing it is the person who's name is written on it.'
'How do they know?'
'They don't. But they can make some very shrewd guesses. They're always catching someone wearing a badge issued to someone else. And they take it damn seriously. Those Royal Enclosure badges are precious and nontransferable. Are you really suggesting I could get a hold of a false badge, and then pull off a meeting with the owners of one of the main horses in the Ascot Gold Cup? I'd get caught and probably end up in the Tower of London before standing trial for murder.'
'Is the place where the horses go before the race in the Royal Enclosure?'
'No. It's outside down the lawn, where everyone can see them parade. Before that, there's a kind of saddling paddock with boxes where trainers fix the girths and stuff.'
'And is that in the enclosure?'
'Well, no. No, it's not.'
'So you wouldn't even need one of those badges?'
'I suppose not. But I am on the Ascot list. I've been on it since I was at Harrow. I'd have to have a badge… And that badge would probably finish me.'
'Ravi, my darling, you're going to talk to your parents, to give them reassurance, just for a little while, just to put their minds at rest, to let them know you're not dead. Nothing else is important. Anyway I would like to come too… '
'Shakira. I'm not going. You're not going. I love you, and I'm not taking you into England. It's too dangerous.'
'So it might be. But I still think a big crowd is a very good way for you to disappear, then make contact and spend a half hour with your mother and father before you vanish from their lives again… perhaps forever.'
'Maybe,' said Ravi. 'But it's a risk I cannot take. Putting my mother's mind at rest is not worth the sacrifice of my own life. And that's what it would mean. They'd almost certainly make me stand trial for treason, killing two serving SAS NCOs in cold blood, to save a Palestinian girl. I don't think so.'
Shakira put her arm around his shoulder. 'It's nice to know we are safe here, though,' she said. 'Safe from the horrible English. I do love you.'
The days in Syria were long and growing hotter. Ravi and Shakira had been given a large, rambling, eighteenth-century house around the corner from the Elissar restaurant in the eastern part of the old city. They had air-conditioning installed and settled into a relaxed and pleasant life in their new country.
Most weeks they hosted at least two Hamas meetings, and most days they wandered around the covered bazaar. Sometimes Shakira cooked for just Ravi, other times for friends. They kept a near-permanent private table at the Elissar, which served the best food in the city, and they used her brother as a paid general helper, delivering messages, chauffeuring their medium-range Ford car, occasionally collecting visitors from the airport.
Ravi had no money problems. He had been awarded 'prize money' of $2 million after the two sensational bank heists in Israel, the $250,000 'expenses' had been wired into his account by the Iranians, and his annual 'General's' salary of $100,000 was wired into an account he kept in Switzerland, approximately $2,000 a week. There was no question of tax.
The house, on Sharia Bab Touma, was rapidly filling with travel books that contained information on all United States Embassies, Consulates, and Military garrisons, in Europe, South America, and Asia, and in far-flung outposts in the South Pacific, New Zealand, and Africa.
With no active operations, they moved through the month of June calmly, even discussing their forthcoming marriage.
But on Tuesday morning, June 13, he picked up an encrypted E-mail on his laptop computer direct from Iranian Naval HQ, which jacked Ravi's pulse up by several notches.
'To General Rashood. FYI. Admiral Arnold Morgan believed to fly to London, Thursday, June 22, 1800 hours, Andrews Air Force Base-Northolt. Air Force One, ETA 0500 Friday, June 23. Staying privately, U.S. Ambassador, Regents Park. Funds, if necessary, through Iranian Embassy, 27 Prince's Gate. Prefer you employ third party. Adm. B.'
Shakira was asleep when he read it, at 5 a.m., and thoughts tumbled through his mind. Parents. Ascot. Same
