Jimmy Ramshawe thought long and hard. He came for the MP, didn't he? And then he killed the only man who could possibly recognize him, or even identify him. Hmmm.
But what Jimmy wondered was why the doorman had let him in in the first place? But he did, because the guy went upstairs and entered the flat without busting down the door, killed Studley-Bryce, then nicked the bloody carving knife and hopped back downstairs and murdered the bloke behind the desk. Bloodthirsty little bastard. But efficient. Damned efficient. And I still wonder what the antiterrorists are doing in there.
Jimmy spent another fifteen minutes pondering this mystery. Then he decided to call an old Navy buddy at the CIA in Langley, Virginia, just to see if they knew what was going on over there in London.
He did not, however, hear anything back for twenty-four hours, but it was worth the wait.
'Jimmy, hi. Sorry to take so long. But our guys have been very interested in that murder case for one reason. Studley-Bryce was killed by a professional man, probably one who had served in Special Forces. It was a classic blow to the face, drove his nose bone right into the brain, killing him instantly. The Brits don't have a clue who might have done it, or why. But not many civilians know how to kill like that. And it's got a lot of people wondering.'
'Have they announced anything about this?'
'No. And they're not going to. Our guys know, because any murder that may have been committed by any person who could have been a terrorist is shared between Scotland Yard and the CIA. But, for Christ's sake, don't shout it around. This is supposed to be classified.'
'You can count on my discretion,' said Jimmy. 'Hey, thanks for that. It's damned interesting.'
Lieutenant Ramshawe had trouble remaining seated, there were so many antennae leaping out of his head. Only twice in his short career had he been told of men being killed by plain and obvious Special Forces unarmed combat techniques — once early last year when that SAS NCO's body was found in the rubble in Hebron, and now again today. New body, same technique.
There was something else that was itching his brain. Where the hell's that biography of Studley-Bryce? Here we are… Right here… He went to Harrow School and he's thirty-six years old. Now where's my file on Major Raymond Kerman?… Here we are… Right here…
Holy shit! Or, as that Greek bastard might have said, Eureka! They went to the same bloody school and they're the same age! They fucking knew each other. Woweee! I think this bastard killed him. Same as he killed the SAS Sergeant, same as he did everything else. But I'm buggered if I know why. I'd better tell Scotty and George.
Jimmy Ramshawe had taken a very short time to establish a significant reputation in the National Security Agency. He was obviously thorough to an extreme degree, and he was smart as hell, one of those most unusual young men, born to operate at the highest level of Military Intelligence. He was suspicious and cynical, with a memory like a bull elephant. He could match facts, recalling seemingly unconnected incidents. If three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles had been an Olympic sport, J. Ramshawe, representing either Australia or the United States, would have won a Gold Medal.
'My bloody oath,' he told Admiral George Morris. 'Did you ever see such a set of facts? We're damn nearly certain he murdered his SAS colleagues, one of 'em with a blow no civilian could deliver. And suddenly we've got another body, killed in precisely the same one-in-a-million way — and it turns out to be a bloke he actually went to school with, same age, must have known him well.'
Rear Admiral Morris grinned. 'Jimmy,' he said, 'I have the greatest respect for your powers of deduction. But I have a couple of questions: One, why do you think this wanted terrorist was in London? And two, if he was, what the hell's he doing wandering around murdering Members of Parliament? You wouldn't be in possession of anything so unusual as a motive, would you?'
'Gimme a break, Chief. I'm just getting bloody started.' In times of stress young Ramshawe was apt to become more Australian than Banjo Patterson. And he kept going: 'This is a very big guy in the terrorist world,' he said. 'And big guys tend to make big waves. You told me that yourself. And every instinct I have tells me to watch out for this character.'
'I don't disagree with any of that. And I think you could very usefully spend the rest of the day trying to shed a little more light on what we already know… Scotty?'
Capt. Scott Wade, sitting in on behalf of the Military Intelligence Division, nodded carefully to the Director. 'Admiral,' he said, 'we have taken this vanishing SAS Major very seriously since he first went missing. And we got a lot of alarm bells going off right now. If he really was in London, he was there for a darned good reason, running a big risk of capture. I don't know what that reason was, or why he killed a Member of Parliament, but I am completely in favor of Lieutenant Ramshawe going after some more facts… I mean, we know how dangerous he is… This guy could turn out to be a new Abu Nidal.'
No one smiled. And Admiral Morris murmured, 'We don't even know his goddamned name anymore.'
'Dollars to doughnuts he's gone back to his original name from Iran,' interjected Lieutenant Ramshawe. 'What was it… Ravi? Ravi Rashood?'
'Very likely, among his Middle East guys,' replied Admiral Morris. 'But there's no way he went to London using that.'
'Oh, no. He went into the U.K. as a Pom, in dress, voice, and attitudes. No doubt of that,' said Jimmy. 'Even the dead doorman wouldn't have let a robed Arab, a total stranger, into the apartment block, not without specific instructions from a tenant.'
'What's a Pom?' asked Scotty.
'That's Aussie for Brit,' said Jimmy. 'Usually whinging Pom. But in this case, just Pom. Major Kerman's no whinger.'
'Jimmy,' said Admiral Morris, good-naturedly interrupting this discourse on the finer points of outback elocution, 'you better get right back on the case. I don't know where you'll start. But I expect you have a few ideas.'
'Yes, sir,' said the Lieutenant. 'I'm on my way.' And with that he stood up and left, carrying a large file, heading right back to his post in Security Ops, his computer, and his phones.
A thought was already formulating in his mind and it concerned Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kerman. Everyone accepted their son had made no contact since his disappearance. After all, phones had been tapped, constant surveillance had been in place, and all mail to the Kermans' home had been monitored. And there had been no contact from the fugitive. But was that still true? Ramshawe ruminated.
Would have been just as bloody difficult to contact them from a London hotel as from a Jordanian hotel. The phone checks would have picked it up. Don't know about E-mail, but the Brits would be capable of intercepting. And a personal visit to the house would have been spotted by the surveillance guys.
Nonetheless, Jimmy believed that Major Kerman must have contacted his parents if he had been in London on some kind of a murder mission. Jimmy needed to know what Richard Kerman and his wife had been doing during the week of June 19, and whether it looked like a rendezvous had taken place.
He went on-line initiating a search for Richard Kerman. He was surprised at the list of headings that faced him: a catalog of newspaper articles about the father of the missing Army officer; another catalog of magazine articles and broadcast transmissions about the London shipping tycoon; more data involving the City, shares, and oil prices; and finally, a list of newspaper stories about his involvement with thoroughbred racehorses.
Jimmy elected to leave that one till last. But it would be only a few minutes away. He had read much of the other stuff, and took little time to insure nothing much had happened in the last four weeks.
The racehorse section was much more current, and it immediately revealed the second favorite for the Ascot Gold Cup, Persian Lady, was owned by Mr. Richard Kerman, the London shipping tycoon, and his wife, Naz.
Ramshawe's eyes opened wide. He jumped out of the Kerman file and keyed straight into Royal Ascot Results 2006. He searched for the Gold Cup, and found the two-and-a-half-mile marathon had been run on Thursday afternoon, June 22.
Jimmy prayed Persian Lady was 'in the bloody shake-up' — and there she was, placed second to a gray gelding called Homeward Bound… beaten a short head… ridden by Jack Carson… trained by Charlie McCalmont… owned by Mr. and Mrs. R. Kerman.
The Lieutenant scrolled down for a report on the race, looking for an interview, cast-iron confirmation that there had been no mix-up. The Gold Cup runner-up was indeed owned by the parents of the missing SAS man.
