drove slowly along the Outer Circle, all around, past the zoo, and then back to Belgrave Square.
Before midday, General Ravi was on his way to the Gold Cup, dressed immaculately, with the little cardboard pink badge, acquired easily by the Ambassador, pinned to his lapel. The inscribed words r. kerman, esq. were written beneath the date, June 22, and the day, Thursday. Tomorrow's badge would be green.
He made the journey to Ascot in a taxi. After the last race, he would walk down the road to the forecourt of the train station and pick up a different one. Today, he was anonymous, dressed identically to about 5,000 other men. But he deliberately did not speak to the driver on the way to the racecourse, burying himself in a corner of the backseat, studying the Racing Post, attempting to spot the dangers to his father's second-favorite for the big race. He read with some satisfaction that the early favorite, High Five, was withdrawn, injured. Homeward Bound, beaten by Persian Lady at Sandown, was now favorite, regarded as more likely to last out the marathon than the stamina- suspect Kerman mare.
They hit heavy traffic as soon as they left the M4 Motorway, crawling in a long queue toward Windsor Castle, but Ravi had left plenty of time, and they drove slowly along the straight road bordering the western edge of the racecourse, arriving at the main intersection just after 1:25.
Ravi jumped out and headed across Number One car park, entering the racecourse at the less busy end, God's little acre where English families had for generations occupied the same picnic spots. The place was awash with champagne. There were small trestle tables, set behind large Mercedes and Rolls-Royces, groaning under the weight of mighty plates of poached salmon, hauled out of the Scottish rivers, drenched in mayonnaise, and now consumed boldly with cold new potatoes, the standard rations of the British establishment at play.
Ravi strode through the morning suits, looking neither left nor right. He reached the ticket checkpoint and walked past the gateman, his badge plain to see. Inside, he purchased a racing form, and stood under a towering oak tree, finding his bearings.
He sensed a determined movement of the swarming crowd around him, heading for the Royal Enclosure. He checked his watch, which showed 1:40, and as he did so, he heard the distant announcement that the horse-drawn Royal carriages were now inside the gates and proceeding up the racecourse toward the Enclosure.
The nineteen-year-old Queen Victoria made that same procession in the first year of her reign back in 1838, and it looked much the same now, the reigning Monarch in the lead carriage, drawn by four Windsor grays, followed by an assortment of Royal Princes, Princesses, Dukes, and Duchesses. The Gold Cup itself has a similar pedigree dating back to 1807. Ravi Rashood, terrorist, killer, and danger to society, felt an overwhelming lack of empathy toward the pageantry of England.
He checked out the saddling enclosure, then strolled down to the main parade ring, where, he knew Persian Lady would make her entrance at around 3:10, walking from the upper paddock, down the broad, grassy, white- fenced walkway, in the hoofprints of the mighty.
He considered he would need to be in place by then, perhaps walking down behind the mare with his parents. He resolved then to see them at the saddling boxes, where Charlie McCalmont would be tightening the girths, and his parents would be waiting outside, hopefully alone. Luckily, he had never met Charlie.
His plan laid out, Ravi sat quietly on one of the little round stools leaning on the fence, watching the first arrivals for the Ribblesdale Stakes, a high-class twelve-furlong contest for fillies. As the space around the ring filled up with throngs of racegoers, he stood up and walked back through the crowd. But then fate struck a near-mortal blow.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, and a very cultured, very English voice said cheerfully, 'Ray… Ray Kerman. Christ, old boy, I thought you were dead!'
Ravi half turned and found himself staring into the pink, round, smiling face of Rupert Studley-Bryce, resplendent in a black silk top hat, and gray morning coat, a scarlet carnation half concealing his little pink badge. He and Rupert had shared a study for two years at Harrow.
Ravi smiled carefully, overwhelmingly pleased that his badge was engraved with his correct name. 'Hello, Rupe,' he said. 'What a surprise. Didn't know you were a racing man.'
'Well, I'm not really. But I usually have a day at Ascot. But gosh, it must be twenty years… not since we left Harrow. Last time I heard about you there was a worldwide hunt going on. What was it, missing in action somewhere in Israel? People thought you were dead.'
'Not quite. But it was bit close. Actually, I've been on a highly classified mission for the Regiment in the Middle East — been back for about six months.'
'Look, forget this bloody fillies race. Come and have a drink in the White's Club tent, just over there.' Rupert was a big man, and he steered Ravi so determinedly forward, the ex-SAS officer found himself en route to the private Ascot oasis of the world's most eminent, and oldest, men's club, as if dissent was out of the question.
White's main building stands in unannounced glory at the top of St. James's Street, around the corner from the Ritz. It was founded in 1693, a haven for the English aristocracy, cabinet ministers, and great business leaders — men who prefer the company of their own kind. Its doors are, broadly, closed to show business, bookmakers, professional sportsmen, Flash Harrys, and other persons of low rank and breeding.
The Club's Committee has erected its private marquee just above the parade ring at Ascot for the better part of a century. The caterers serve a very good lunch, and copious amounts of alcohol. Television sets line the inside for those disinclined to watch the races live. White's stands as an unashamed bastion of privilege and elitism, members only, and even they have to give prior notice of intent to attend.
There are wealthy men who would kill to be invited for membership. General Ravi Rashood was probably the first person in White's history to be absolutely appalled at being invited inside the sacred tent flaps.
But inside he was. 'Couple of glasses of champers,' Rupert called to the barman. 'Krug. Large.'
Then to Ravi, who had removed his hat, 'This is really nice, old chap. I remember distinctly being very upset at the reports of you going missing. You sure you're okay?'
'Never better, Rupe,' replied Ravi, slipping easily into that old-public-schoolboy mode of speech, perfected at Harrow, and nurtured by some for all the days of their lives.
'Well, you know about me. Dull army officer, scratching around the desert looking for terrorists. How about you?'
'Well, if you've been back in England for a few months, you must know I'm a Member of Parliament? Last election. Nice safe seat in Buckinghamshire.'
'Yes. Of course,' said Ravi, hastily. 'Absolutely. I just meant lately, any great excitement? We get pretty insular down at Hereford, dealing with military matters we think are important when no one else gives a damn.'
'You sure you've been here six months? I like to think my maiden speech in the Commons caused a national uproar,' said Rupert, quaffing deeply the magic bubbles from Rheims.
'Well, I've been here on and off. I'm involved in heavily classified work, and I can never talk about it.'
'Turned you into a bloody spy, eh? Anyway, I expect you remember the bit where I said the Labor Government was the least able, the worst group of would-be executives ever to attempt to run anything? You must remember… I said they had never made one single correct executive decision in nine years, and that I would hesitate to ask any one of them to take charge of a country pub, never mind a country. It was all over the front pages and the television.'
'Oh, of course, Rupe. I'd just forgotten it was you. I remember the bit about the country pub.'
'I hope you haven't forgotten that three national newspapers came out and said that here at last was a fighting Conservative who might one day lead the Tory Party. Your old roommate, eh? Future Prime Minister.'
'Can't say I recall that part,' said Ravi, with care, but smiling.
'Well, never mind that, old boy. It's damn nice to see you. Just having a drink together, after all these years. Takes you back. Remember that little room in the old Dog and Fox, eh? Remember when we used to sneak out to that pub?'
'God, do I. Those were the days, right? Away from the cares of the world. Tell you what, how about some dinner next week. I'll be at the MOD for another couple of weeks.'
'Perfect. I'd really enjoy that. I'm mostly on my own during the week, in the London flat. You know, wife and kids at the old family home in Bedfordshire. I usually get down there on Friday nights. How about Tuesday?'
'I'm sure that'll be fine. Let me have your office number, will you? I'll confirm it with your secretary tomorrow.'
'Great. Call 0207-555-4337. Ask for Lizzie: She'll probably answer the phone. Why not come over for a drink
