The steaks were perfect, and the row was predictable. Arnold would not hear of canceling his trip, Ravi Rashood or no Ravi Rashood. “You can’t run your life around these bastards, kid,” he said. “If this character wants to have a shot at me, he’ll have to get past the best security agents in the world. I’ll brief them, and they’ll be waiting for anyone who thinks they can carry out an assassination.”
He added that he was not worried, and that he would keep a sharp lookout all through his forthcoming trip. Cancellation? Out of the question.
The search for the general, Jimmy knew, would now turn out to be a rare marriage between local civil authorities and military personnel. Shakira was wanted for murder in Brockhurst, Virginia, and that was Joe Segel’s territory, and Ravi was wanted for murder in West Cork, which was where Ray McDwyer was still in charge. Concurrently, both Ravi and his wife were wanted by the Mossad for murder, treason, and God knows what else; Ravi was wanted by the SAS for murder and desertion; and the British government wanted him for murder and treason against the state.
After dinner, Jimmy and Jane sat and watched the television news, sipping glasses of his father’s vintage port. Finally Jane asked, “Do you really think someone is going to try and kill Arnold?”
“I know they’re going to try, babe. It’s only a matter of whether they can shoot straight.”
They brought Shakira’s car around to the front of the Syrian embassy shortly after breakfast. Ravi and his wife ran down the steps into the car, and the general drove them around Belgrave Square and out along Pont Street to Knightsbridge, just below Harrods.
Here they turned left and headed out, against the morning traffic, along the tree-lined Cromwell Road toward the western suburbs of the capital city of the United Kingdom. The road followed the River Thames for two miles and then veered upward onto the long, perpetually busy M-4 motorway to South Wales. Ravi, however, did not veer upward. He ducked off, expertly, and drove along the gloomy old road beneath the freeway, running left of the massive gray stone pillars that support the Chiswick flyover.
When the motorway swung slightly north, Ravi headed due west, turning onto the Great West Road for another couple of miles before the Heston junction. And there he turned north, through an area that often looks like a suburb of Calcutta rather than London. Out here, in the colorful suburb of Southall, migrating Asians have built an entire community.
There are three-generation families living here, all tracing their blood roots back to the Subcontinent, to the Punjab, Bombay, Karachi, Jaipur, Bengal, and Bangalore, many of them hardworking families who resolutely faced the hundred-year struggle to fit in, to be accepted, to be British.
And a high percentage prospered as natural businessmen. The entire area is redolent with shops and stores, open all the hours God made. Southall is a thousand light-years from Belgrave Square and London’s West End — but it lives and it thrives, an Indian and Pakistani enclave — a modern reminder of the price of empire.
Ravi headed straight along Merrick Road, crossed the railroad near Southall Station, and plunged into a labyrinth of side streets full of row-houses. Finally, he turned onto a quiet residential avenue. He checked a piece of paper that Shakira handed him and headed for number 16.
They pulled into the wide driveway and parked close to the front door of a big double-fronted Victorian house. Ravi noticed a new BMW parked around the far side of the property. But that measure of opulence did not extend to the garden, which was heavily overgrown. The grass needed a lawnmower, the bushes were too tall and overhanging the drive, there was not a flower planted, and the general effect was an unkempt section of wild woodland.
The house, however, was immaculately painted, with white window frames and trim and a shiny, jet-black double front door. Ravi left Shakira in the car and knocked.
It was answered by an elderly man of Indian appearance. He was wearing a turban and the kind of short gray work jacket a butler might use for cleaning the silver.
“Good morning, sir. Mr. Spencer?”
Ravi nodded.
“Please come this way.”
Ravi followed him down the hall to a small padded leather door, which opened softly when the Indian inserted a credit card-shaped key into the lock. A green light flashed, and Ravi was faced with a well-lit staircase going downward, with deep steps carpeted in dark green pile.
From below came a voice with an Indian inflection. “Please come down, Mr. Spencer. I am of course expecting you.”
Ravi descended and shook hands with his host, Mr. Prenjit Kumar, whom he understood to be one of the best private gunsmiths in England. There was no one else in the basement workroom, but there were three definite work areas, each one illuminated by a bright overhead light, slung low over a surface that looked like dark red baize. The place was much more like a jeweler’s than an armament factory.
Mr. Kumar was a tall, slender Indian from Bengal. He wore dark blue pants and a white shirt beneath a dark blue sweater. Almost covering his entire wardrobe was a large green apron, like that of a freemason. He wore no turban and stared evenly at Ravi through slim wire spectacles. His eyes were almost black, and his expression was wary.
“You come highly recommended as a client,” he said. “And I understand you require a custom-made piece, a one-off, tailored to your precise requirements.”
“Correct,” replied Ravi. “A sniper rifle, which you’ll probably reconstruct from the Austrian SSG 69.”
Mr. Kumar smiled. “You like that old design?”
“I have never really used anything else.”
“No need, Mr. Spencer. It is a superb piece of engineering. No one has ever built a better rifle — and a lot of people have tried.”
Ravi nodded. And Mr. Kumar smiled. “I know better than to ask,” he said. “But perhaps you were in the SAS in another life.”
“Perhaps I was. But now I must be more careful. And I think our biggest problem may be that I need to dismantle the weapon and carry it in a briefcase, no larger than, say, twelve inches by eighteen. About four wide, maximum.”
“You are not thinking of trying to transport it through an airport, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You understand that I must be very guarded, Mr. Spencer. In certain quarters, my work is well-known, even though I would not engrave this rifle with a serial number. It would not be in either of our interests for you to be. er. apprehended.”
“I understand that, of course,” replied Ravi. “You have my assurance that the rifle will never leave the UK.”
“You understand the SSG 69 fires only one single highly accurate shot, although it has a five-round feed magazine?”
“I do, and despite the rather laborious reloading process, it can still achieve a shot-grouping of less than forty centimeters from eight hundred meters.”
“It’s nice to speak to someone who understands the excellence of the rifle. Do you have precise measurements written down for me?”
“I do. And I will require a silencer and a telescopic sight, 6 x 24 ZFM.”
“That will not be a problem, but I do anticipate, given the restrictions on storage and carrying, that your barrel cannot realistically be longer than, say, thirteen inches. Naturally, you have no choice but to go to a bolt action. You have no room for a gas chamber, or anything else to give you a repeater.”
“I anticipate firing only once.”
“Range?”
“No more than a hundred yards. And I must ask you, can you purchase a brand-new SSG 69 and then make the adjustments?”
“People in my trade, Mr. Spencer, can purchase anything.”
“Are you confident about a removable stock?”
“Yes. I am sure of that. But you will not want the regular Cycolac stock, which is rounded and firm and will take up too much room. I will cut and remove it and build you a slim screw-in stock made of aluminum that will fit
