Day. Gold Cup. Assassination. England. Danger. Terrible danger. Was it worth it? Why? Time. Eight days from now. Planning. Assistance. No time. And yet, perhaps the finest hours lay just ahead… a dagger to the very heart of the Great Satan?
At this precise moment, Ravi was stopped dead in his tracks. He recalled his final farewell to his mother, and the pain was as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. He doubted a day went by without her thinking of him. His father's hurt was probably worse. They, who had never wished anything but the best for him. He doubted God would lightly forgive him for this flagrant violation of their trust and hopes.
Ravi committed the E-mail to memory, erased it from the computer, and retired to the kitchen to brew some tea. As if tuned in to the raging neurons in his brain, Shakira joined him, alert to his mood, dressed in a long white robe. She was sensational upon the eye, beneath her tousled jet black locks.
'What's happened?' she said.
'Oh, nothing. Just making some tea.'
'Yes, but… what's happened?'
'Nothing, really. I had an E-mail from Bandar Abbas, and it made me wonder again whether I should try to find my parents at Ascot on the day of the horse race.'
'What did the E-mail say that made you wonder?'
'Oh, it just mentioned a certain U.S. diplomat who might be in London in late June.'
'Surely no one you might want to meet.'
'No. Not really. Someone I might want to assassinate.'
'Wow! You mean personally? Or on behalf of a government?'
'On behalf of the Nation of Islam.'
'Will you take him out before the horse race, or after?' Shakira spoke with complete seriousness, and Ravi laughed.
'Oh, I shan't be involved myself. But I think they might like me to try to hire someone.'
'Good. Can I come?'
'No. But I may take you some of the way.'
'Meaning?'
'We might both go to Paris. Where I will leave you for two or three days.'
'And you go to London to the horse race and the assassination without me?'
'More or less.'
'What's that? Yes or no?'
'Yes. I would have to leave you because my mission may be dangerous, and I don't want you to end up in a British jail. Even if I do.'
'Oh.'
'And we don't have much time to make our arrangements. Later today, I must call Admiral Badr, and the Syrian Embassy in London. It's in Belgrave Square. I need to fix a badge for the horse races. The Syrian diplomats are more acceptable to the British than the Iranians.'
'But I thought we said you did not need one to see the horses before they race?'
'No. You said that. But I know I must have a proper badge. Royal Ascot is like a club for some people, the English upper classes. Without that little colored badge I'd feel half dressed. And if I did need to talk to anyone, the badge will give me status, make me look bona fide, as if I am there legally, still a part of the regiment. But this is not a military place. And you see very few serving officers. It's too expensive.'
'What about Frederick Astaire's morning clothes?'
'I need my morning coat, top hat, and tails. That way I can relax, properly dressed, with proper credentials. Nothing suspicious. I'll just be a smart public school-educated Army Officer enjoying a day at the races.'
'What will it say on your badge?'
'The least possible. Just R. Kerman, Esq. Unobtrusive. And I'm not going into the Enclosure, so I won't have to run the gauntlet with those bloody gatemen.'
The Air France Boeing 737 from Damascus touched down at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, nineteen miles northeast of Paris, two and a half hours late at four o'clock in the afternoon. Ravi and Shakira hurried through Terminal Two and picked up a cab, directing it to the long narrow Rue du Bac in the Saint Germain area of the city, on the Left Bank.
In moderate traffic, they pulled up outside the Hotel Bac St. Germain forty minutes later. To Shakira it seemed she was visiting the City of Light with the most sophisticated man in the entire world. But Ravi's hotel selection was made from horizons more narrow than she knew.
He had only ever been to one hotel in Paris in his life. And this was it, his parents' favorite, a charming, moderately priced, twenty-one-room establishment that served breakfast in the summer months high on a rooftop terrace with a grand fountain in the center.
Richard Kerman always stayed here, mainly because he liked the terrace and the discreet, semiluxurious nature of the place. Young Ravi had never forgotten the sweeping views over the city he saw as he tackled his first-ever croissant and poured himself hot chocolate from a special pot with sideways handles.
Behind him to the west, jutting into the sky above the grand buildings of the French Government Ministries, was the Eiffel Tower. Out in front, a few hundred yards away was the Cathedral of Notre Dame set on its ancient island in the middle of the River Seine. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the chocolat chaud to the twelve-year- old Ravi. 'This,' he had muttered, 'is plainly the life for me.'
Twenty-four years later, he was back, under very different circumstances, some of which were markedly better, such as the beautiful Palestinian girl with whom he would sleep and have breakfast. Some were sharply worse, like the need for secrecy, the false name, the forged passport, the wariness, the need to remain separate from other guests.
In general terms, Ravi was pleased to be here, however briefly. And she, in turn, was breathtakenly awed by the size and beauty of the French capital.
They checked into the Bac, as the French call the hotel, without incident or questions, as Ravi took the greatest care not to reveal he was the son of one of the hotel's best and most long-standing clients. He thought he recognized the proprietor from all those years ago, but he betrayed nothing and wondered cheerfully whether the same lady still mixed the chocolat chaud. He certainly hoped so.
Shakira was thrilled by the mass of foreign satellite channels on the television in the room, and had to be coaxed away to dine on that Monday night. It was raining lightly, and they were both tired, gladly accepting the recommendation of the hotel doorman to try, just a few doors away, the Gaya Rive Gauche, the Left Bank outpost of the famous Paris seafood restaurant on the Rue Duphot.
They ate tiny clams prepared with thyme as a first course, and then a superbly grilled fresh sole for Ravi, and turbot with hollandaise sauce for Shakira. The maitre d' recommended a bottle of 1998 Chablis from the impeccable Tonnerre estate of Monsieur Jean-Marie Raveneau. At the conclusion of their dinner, the vivacious freedom fighter and bank robber from the backstreets of the Jerusalem Road in Hebron found herself echoing the distant sentiments of General Rashood. 'This is, quite probably, the life for me.'
And so it was. But not for long. The next morning, Tuesday, time was short. The rain had stopped and the weather was bright. They had a hurried breakfast on the roof, croissants and fresh fruit, and Ravi was nearly certain the same lady had made the chocolat chaud.
But he had to leave. Back in their room, he packed quickly and gave Shakira one thousand Euros to sustain her in Paris until Friday evening, when he would hopefully return with the love of his parents rekindled and the elimination of Arnold Morgan among his list of achievements.
He settled the hotel bill in Euros, cash, and handed Shakira a piece of paper containing the name of a contact in the Syrian Embassy to whom she should report in any crisis or in the event of his death or capture.
He kissed her lovingly good-bye, and took a cab straight along the river and up the wide Boulevard Sebastopol to the Gare du Nord train station, a ten-minute ride. His booking on the eleven o'clock Eurostar Express to London's Waterloo Station was confirmed, and he slept most of the three hours it took to cross northern France, traverse the tunnel under the English Channel, and then charge through the county of Kent at high speed into Central
