“Well, I came down from Oxford seventeen years ago. And we did have a reunion for several years at the public schools golf…You know, the Halford-Hewitt Tournament down at Royal Cinque Ports in Deal. Of course, we were all playing for different schools, but at Oxford, when we were together, we did beat Cambridge twice, and we’re all rather proud of that.”
“You stopped going to the Halford-Hewitt?”
“Not entirely. But my Navy career here prevented me from playing for Charterhouse for many years. Matter of fact, I’m going back next year. It’s funny, but you see the same chaps, year after year, playing for their old schools. We’ve been in three semifinals against Harrow and I don’t think either team hardly changed.”
Ravi stiffened at the mention of his old school, but the chatter-box Captain of the Senegalese Navy had seized the moment to expound on his golfing career to someone who appeared to know what he was talking about.
“Great matches we had against the Harrovians,” he said. “Chap called ‘Thumper’ Johnston was their captain. His real name was Richard Trumper-Johnston, but he was a very fine player. He beat me twice, both times 2 and 1, dropped long putts on the eighteenth…he wasn’t so good at foursomes.”
Again Ravi found himself nodding off. But he jolted back, trying to sound as if he’d been listening. And uncharacteristically he came out with an unguarded sentence, “Thumper Johnston? Yes, he went back to Harrow as a housemaster, taught maths.”
“You sure you didn’t go to school in England?” asked the Captain. “I know you Middle Eastern officers, very secretive men. Reveal nothing. But many of you went to school in England, especially Harrow…Thumper Johnston and King Hussein, eh? Ha, ha, ha.”
Captain Camara’s wide face split into a huge grin. “I think I catch you, General. But any friend of Thumper’s is a very good friend of mine. I keep your secret.”
“I didn’t say I knew him,” said Ravi. “I just know of him. My father knew him.”
“Then your father went to Harrow?” said the Captain. “
Ravi smiled, and he knew he had to admit something. Anything to shut this idiot up. “My father was English, and I think he played against Johnston in the Halford — Hewitt. I just remember his name.”
“Your father played for Harrow?” asked Captain Camara.
This was a critical moment. “No, he played for Bradfield,” said Ravi.
The Captain pondered that for a moment, doubtless, thought Ravi, assessing the absurd notion that an Englishman named Rashood was sufficiently impressed by the play of an opponent, Thumper Johnston, in the Halford-Hewitt to regale his son with the man’s career as a schoolmaster.
And sure enough, Captain Camara came back laughing. “Ahhah,” he said. “I think I find you out. You are a highly classified Old Harrovian Submarine Commander…You come out of nowhere…out of the ocean…and I check you out in England next year, maybe with Thumper in person…now I give more tea to my friends from deep waters.”
Shakira, who was even more tired than Ravi, had actually fallen asleep, and had missed the entire conversation. She awoke just in time to hear Ravi say, “You should have been a detective, Captain, but you have this case wrong…”
“Then how come you know Thumper, the Harrovian maths master!” cried Captain Camara, laughing loudly. “You are rumbled — by the Black Man from Oxford…Ha, ha, ha!”
Even Ravi laughed, silently cursing himself for his carelessness. He declined more tea, and asked if they might make their way to the airport. Since Shakira was so tired, she would probably sleep all the way home.
“Of course,” said the Captain, jumping energetically to his feet. “Come…I’ll call Tomas to carry the bags to the car…It’s parked just over there.”
They walked across the quay to a black Mercedes-Benz Naval staff car that carried small flags fluttering in the evening breeze on both front wings — the green, yellow, and red tricolor of Senegal with its single green star in the center.
Captain Camara drove to the airport in a leisurely manner, out to the Atlantic Peninsula north of the dockyard where a Lockheed Orion P-3F in the livery of the Iranian Air Force awaited them. The Captain parked the car and insisted on walking out to the aircraft and carrying Shakira’s bag. She climbed up the steps to board and Ravi followed her, now carrying both bags.
They waved good-bye to their escort and watched him stride away towards the car. And quite suddenly, Ravi moved back to the top of the aircraft steps and called out…“Captain…come back…I have a small gift for you in my bag…I forgot about it.”
Captain Camara grinned broadly and turned back towards the aircraft, as Ravi knew he would. He ran swiftly up the steps. They were agile, nimble strides, the last he would ever make. They were the strides that would end his life.
He entered the cabin and made his way to the rear of the aircraft where Ravi was fumbling in his bag. And with the speed of light, the Hamas assault chief whipped around and slammed the hilt of his combat knife with terrific force into the space between the Captain’s eyes, splintering the lower forehead.
Then he rammed the butt of his right hand straight into the nostril end of the Black Man’s nose, driving the bone into the brain. Captain Camara had played his last round. He was dead before he hit the floor. Shakira stood staring in amazement at the departed three-handicapper, spread-eagled in the aisle, presumably already on his way to the Greater Fairways.
The pilot, who had not seen all of this action, was fairly astonished too, and he walked down the center aisle in company with his first officer.
“General Rashood?” he said, saluting. No questions. Military discipline.
“Sorry for the mess,” said Ravi. “Put his head and shoulders in a garbage bag, will you? We’ll throw him out either over the desert or in the Red Sea. I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Captain. You’ll understand this was a classified operation. This man knew too much about us. He was a menace to Iran, and a danger to Islam. Also he was about to reveal my identity as a Hamas Commanding Officer to the British. That was out of the question. Plainly.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. But I’ll have to slow down and lose a lot of height if we’re going to open the rear door. Just let me know when you’re ready. We fly at around 28,000 feet. I have some hot coffee on board, and some sandwiches. We can get something better around 0100 when we refuel at Aswan.”
“Thank you, Captain. I think we better get the hell out of here now. Before someone starts looking for the head of the local Navy.”
He and Shakira returned to the front of the aircraft and strapped themselves into the deep leather seats usually occupied by observers and computer technicians on the Orion’s early warning missions over the Arabian and Persian Gulf areas.
The pilot, Captain Fahad Kani, drove the aircraft swiftly into the takeoff area, scanned the deserted runway in front of him, and shoved open the throttles without even waiting for clearance. The Orion rumbled forward, gained speed, and climbed into the early evening skies, out over the Atlantic.
He banked right, to the north towards Mauritania, then banked again to a course a few degrees north of due west, aiming the aircraft at the southern Sahara. It was a course that would take them across the hot, poverty- stricken, landlocked African countries of Mali, Niger, and Chad, and then the northern Sudan. An hour later, they would drop down into the green and fertile Nile Valley, way upstream from Cairo at Aswan, home of the High Dam.
Ravi was unable to make up his mind whether to deposit the body of Captain Camara in the burning sands of the Sahara, hoping it would either be devoured by the buzzards or be covered forever by the first sandstorm; or to go for the ocean, where the blood from the Captain’s shattered nose would ensure the sharks would do his dirty work on a rather more reliable basis.
Trouble was, he was not sure if there
