calls of his jockey, trying to shake off the outsider, Madrigal, running the race of his life.
Inside the final quarter of a mile, the favorite collared Richard Kerman's mare. Racing fiercely on the outside, the big gray gelding matched strides and then took a half-length lead. Madrigal was not out of it either, and as they raced into the bedlam of the massive crowd, there were three in a line, driving for the eighth pole, 200 yards from where Ravi was standing.
Right there, Madrigal had had enough. That left Persian Lady, with a half length to find, as they hurtled toward the wire. Jockey Jack Carson, nineteen, went to the whip, slashing Persian Lady three times on her left quarter. But she was already digging deep, racing to within an inch of her life.
Again Carson hit her, and now she shied from the whip, slashing her tail, but she still kept running gallantly, struggling to level with Homeward Bound. The giant grandstand literally shook from the deafening roar of the crowd, as the mare went after the favorite, fighting her way home, coming again in the dying strides.
There was pandemonium in the announcer's voice as they charged past the winning post. And like him, Ravi could not separate them when they crossed the wire. He just heard: '… THEY'VE GONE PAST TOGETHER… PHOTOGRAPH… '
They waited, Richard and Naz Kerman up in the owners and trainers stand, Ravi in the infield, and the connections of Homeward Bound standing near the winners' enclosure.
It took six minutes. Result of the photograph… first, number two, Homeward Bound. Second, number eight Persian Lady. The third horse was number 14, Madrigal. Distances, a short head, and nine lengths.
The mare lost nothing in defeat, save for around $150,000. And when her owners finally walked to the meeting place they found their son still breathtakenly awed at the formal drama of the contest. He shook his head and said, 'This is a helluva day. You lose the Gold Cup but you regain a son.'
Then he stood by to cope with a blizzard of questions, all on the same theme. Where have you been? What have you done wrong? How long will you stay? Does the Army realize you are here? Have you given yourself up?
Most of them he could not answer. But he explained they must never admit he had been to England, and that he doubted he would ever return. He plainly could never contact them. He was settled in a Middle Eastern country, though not in the land of his birth. He hoped soon to marry, and he had a prosperous career in front of him.
His father, of course, wished to know what had really happened in Hebron, but that was something they could never discuss. Ravi had much explaining to do, but his parents understood the high stakes. To discuss their son with anyone might cost him his life. After one hour, they parted with immense sadness. Ravi assured them he would find them again, probably in an equally unguarded moment, as this had been. Possibly in Paris.
Confident their secrets were safe, he ordered them to return to the Royal Enclosure, and he stood under the tree watching them walk away. He could see them making for the Enclosure gate, and as they entered, his mother turned around, just fleetingly, and waved in a halfhearted way up toward the paddock where he stood. He tried to raise his own hand, but it didn't work, and his eyes were suffused in tears, as indeed were the eyes of Naz Kerman.
Ravi stood alone for a while, but the last race was starting and he decided to leave before the crowds. He left the way he had come, through the top gate, and then he turned left, down toward the train station, where he found a taxi. They pulled up outside the Syrian Embassy at 6:45.
He had dinner at around eight with the Security Chief with whom he would work in Regent's Park the following morning. But at ten o'clock he left through the main door and hailed a cab in the square, instructing the driver to take him to Marsham Street, SW1.
It took just a very few minutes and it was growing dark by the time they arrived. Ravi paid the driver and walked slowly down one side of the street, the side with the even numbers. Prior's Court was about halfway along the rather gloomy road. He pushed open the swing doors, presenting himself to the doorman.
'Good evening,' he said. 'I'm meeting Mr. Studley-Bryce. If he's not in, he'll be back shortly. He's given me a key.'
The doorman gazed at the immaculately dressed man who stood before him. 'Sir, I'm sure he's not in yet,' he said. 'But if you have a key, please go up. You know the number?'
'Nine B,' said Ravi.
'The lift is just across there, sir. Ninth floor.'
Ravi, thanking God for the curious authority his formal morning clothes gave him, entered the lift and stepped out on the correct floor. He walked to 9B, and opened the lock with a credit card. If Rupert had double-locked it with the other key, flicking the safety steel bolt into place, he was out of luck. But Rupert had not bothered. And the door swung open, and Ravi Rashood entered the flat, sitting down in a large comfortable chair to await his old friend.
He did not turn on the light, but he did turn on the television, watching the ten o'clock BBC News and cheering silently as Persian Lady once more set about trying to cut down the lead of Homeward Bound.
There was another half hour to wait before he heard the obvious sound of a key in the lock. A slightly drunk Rupert came into the room, swaying lightly and demanding to know if anyone was in here or has the bloody doorman gone mad?
Ravi came at him from behind the sofa, and the Member of Parliament just had time to cry out 'RAY, WHAT THE HELL…?' They were the last words he ever would utter. Ravi slammed a small onyx ashtray right between his eyes, splintering the bone in the center of his forehead.
Then he rammed the butt of his right hand with all of his force into the nostril end of Rupert's nose, driving that bone deep into his brain.
'Sorry about that, old chap,' he muttered, lowering the body to the floor. Then he slipped into the kitchen, selected a ten-inch-long steel carving knife from a rack above the wooden work surface, picked it up with a dishcloth and left the apartment holding the weapon inside his jacket.
The ground floor was deserted as he crossed the floor toward the entrance, but he could see the doorman watching a small television behind a glass door. He stopped and beckoned him to come out, which he did, sharply, as if obeying a command from a superior officer.
Ravi killed him on the spot, instantly plunging the knife deep into the man's heart, all the way in, right between the ribs. He pushed the still-standing body back into.the little anteroom beyond the desk, turned out the light and the television, shut the door, and left, wiping his hands on the dishcloth and taking it with him. The knife remained embedded in the heart of the security chief of Prior's Court, though no one could see the body, now crumpled on the floor behind the door.
He waited on the embankment for a cab, and went straight back to the Embassy, which was quiet now. All of the Ambassador's staff were sound asleep, and Ravi let himself in the little side door with a key presented to him by the sniper.
It was almost midnight, and he placed his cell phone on the charger before grabbing four hours' sleep. They called him at run down 4 a.m., and he packed his suitcase before writing careful instructions to a staff officer to deliver it personally to Waterloo Station, outside Coach Five, Eurostar Express, 8 a.m. to Paris.
Once more General Rashood stepped outside the Syrian Embassy, into Belgrave Square, an hour before dawn. He called Northolt Airport, and in an American accent, informed them he was the United States Military Attache in Grosvenor Square, and could someone give him the ETA of Air Force One?
'This morning sometime, sir. Not allowed to give details to anyone.'
'Thanks, pal,' said Ravi, briskly. And to himself, Well, he's not here yet. But 'this morning'? What the hell does that mean… 5:00 or 11:30?
Twenty minutes later, he was at the edge of Regent's Park looking along the line of houses where the United States Ambassador lived. It was just about 5:00 and the sky was growing lighter to the east, but the streetlights were still on. He could see a detail of four U.S. Marine Guards in tight formation outside the building. Four London policemen, visibly armed with submachine guns, waited on each corner of the block. Another four were outside the Residence talking with the Marines. Every light was on in the front of the building.
'Shit!' cried Ravi. 'This does not look promising.' He tuned his little shortwave radio into that of the sniper, who was currently hiding somewhere across the lawns near the boating lake, lining up his sights. He signaled two blips — Hold everything! Then he walked back westward, not especially noticeable because of his dark gray suit and light briefcase.
He reached Clarence Gate, and there at the entrance were six more armed policemen. Worse yet, he could
