take care of the rest.”
“Did you read that bit about he’s supposed to have killed the Irish farmer, sir?”
“Not yet. What did it say?”
“Well, he used our regular unarmed combat blow. You know, smashed forehead bone and upward drive on the nose. I seem to remember from the report, he used that very same method to kill Sergeant Fred O’Hara in Hebron.”
“After eight years with the enemy, he’s probably getting careless. Thinks he’s safe. Looks like he’s getting so confident, he thinks he can move in and out of England any time he wants to.”
“Do you think we’ll ever catch him, sir?”
“Possibly. But we’d need a hell of a bit of luck.”
The Mossad communique, via the CIA, landed in Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s computer at 4 P.M. It was accompanied by an urgent phone call from his pal at the CIA, and then another call from Army Intelligence. General Rashood and his wife had been photographed at the English ferry port.
And at that moment, a thousand questions that had been swirling in Jimmy’s mind were answered. In fact,
There were only a very few people in the world who could tell him. One of them was Emily Gallagher; another was Jim Caborn, manager of the Estuary Hotel; and, of course, there were Matt Barker’s buddies.
In Jimmy’s judgment, this required a further visit to Brockhurst. But the game had now changed drastically from a very local murder hunt to a hunt for an international terrorist with the most serious implications.
Jimmy seized the picture, and the reports from the Mossad and the Irish police, and proceeded in a major hurry to the office of the director, Admiral George Morris. The somewhat lugubrious ex-battle group commander was studying a copy of
Big George knew urgency when he saw it. He looked up and said quietly, “Steady, Jimmy. What’s going on?”
“Every damn thing in the world, if you ask me,” he replied. “You know all that business I was telling you about a terrorist group trying to locate and then assassinate Admiral Morgan?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, it’s happening. Everything just sprang into place. And you’ll never guess who’s at the back of it.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Hamas. General Ravi Rashood. And his wife. Take a look at this picture.”
He handed it to Admiral Morris, who said, “From what I remember, that’s him. I’ve never seen a picture of her. Tell you what, run me through it quickly, will you? Refresh my memory.”
Jimmy did so, fast, recounting the chain of circumstances that led to Carla’s sudden vanishing, in full possession of the admiral’s ETA and hotel in London. Then he reconstructed Ravi’s trip to Ireland, the murder of the farmer, and the police hunt for the master terrorist, which apparently had ended in the ferry port.
“And here they are,” he said, waving the photograph, “after their rendezvous in Dublin, arriving in England, where Ravi will attempt to blow Arnie’s brains out without getting caught.”
Admiral Morris nodded thoughtfully. “One thing, Jim,” he said. “Why Ireland? Why did they not just go to England?”
“Even with forged passports, that would be very risky. There’s nowhere hotter than London for a terrorist to make port of entry. My guess is that Ravi went to Ireland, landed on one of the loneliest coasts in the world, probably from that missing Iranian submarine, and then tried to sneak into England through the back door, the Irish ferry.”
Admiral Morris was thoughtful. “And what do you need to find out? What brought you in here with such obvious urgency?”
“Sir, I need to know whether that girl in the photograph is definitely Carla Martin from the Estuary Hotel.”
“Well, is that difficult?”
“No. Not as soon as I can get down to Brockhurst. And I was wondering if I could take a helicopter, right now.”
“You may. And then we better meet right here in the morning to plan some kind of strategy, stop Arnie from going to England. At least stop him from sticking to his original schedule.”
“Okay, I’ll get going. And be warned — Arnie is not going to take kindly to this interference with his plans.”
One hour later, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe came in to land on the grassy banks of the Rappahannock River, at the north end of the township of Brockhurst.
Still just in his shirtsleeves and still holding the picture, he walked up to the main road and turned left toward the house owned by Mrs. Emily Gallagher. If she was not in, he would make straight for the hotel. If she was at home, he might not need to bother with a further personal call, because he could probably get Jim Caborn to walk up the street to Emily’s house.
Which was how it turned out. Emily welcomed Jimmy warmly and immediately went to make some tea. Then she took the photograph, placed her spectacles at the end of her nose, and stared at the images.
“My goodness, yes,” she said. “That is very definitely my friend Carla. Where on earth was this photograph taken? She’s never bothered to contact me, you know. So disappointing, so very disappointing.”
She then telephoned the Estuary, and Jim Caborn said he was on his way. Ten minutes later, he arrived and confirmed precisely what Mrs. Gallagher had said. Yes, that was Carla Martin, and no, she had never been in touch.
The three of them sat quietly sipping tea, and Jimmy told them that Carla was almost certainly married to General Rashood, perhaps the most wanted terrorist in the world. Emily and Jim were astounded but seemed grateful for the knowledge, as if a dark cloud had been removed from their lives, some final clarification as to the identity of the girl they had both befriended and whose mysterious disappearance now seemed to make more sense.
Emily remained puzzled why Carla had found it necessary actually to murder Matt Barker, rather than just fight him off. And Jimmy tried to explain to her the mantra of the international terrorist. How, in their minds, there can be nothing to draw attention from anyone.
No matter who gets too close, they must be eliminated. They cannot be allowed to live. And there was no question of just stabbing Matt Barker somewhere on his body where death would not result. Carla could not risk Matt Barker, dripping blood, chasing her down the street like a bull elephant, with all the attendant publicity and questions that would cause. Stealth was her watchword. Matt must die.
Emily seemed to accept this. And it was soon time for Jimmy to leave. Since Detective Joe Segel had never met Carla, he was out of the loop so far as Lt. Commander Ramshawe was concerned. He decided to chat with him on the telephone tomorrow. Meanwhile he said his good-byes to Emily and Jim, and walked back up the street, to board the U.S. Marine helicopter for the ride back to Fort Meade.
All his suspicions were now confirmed. Yes, Carla Martin had journeyed to Brockhurst specifically to find out when the admiral and Kathy would be leaving for a vacation. Yes, the murder of Matt Barker had been a somewhat unforeseen circumstance. Yes, Carla had fled to Ireland carrying a different passport to meet the landed terrorist Rashood in Dublin. And here they both were, entering England to murder Arnie.
And what now? So far as Jimmy was concerned, the Brits could begin a nationwide search for Ravi and Shakira, but they probably would not find them. So far as Jimmy could tell, the only way to snuff out the danger was to persuade Arnold not to go to London under any circumstances whatsoever. And he still had no hopes of that, despite this blazing new evidence which was, in his mind at least, decisive. Hamas had decided that Arnie must go.
He came in to land at Fort Meade and was driven to the parking lot. There he boarded his Jaguar and headed downtown to the Watergate, where Jane awaited him. She poured him a beer and told him she had successfully launched a raid on the Australian embassy kitchens and left with a couple of prime-cut New York sirloins, which she would grill on the balcony while he had another row with Arnold Morgan.
