into your case.”
“Speaking of which, I was hoping you would also make the case.”
“Of course. I will build the rifle first and then build the case around it. And I must ask you now, will you be firing from a moving position? Or will you be still? I ask because it is important to know whether you anticipate reloading and firing once more.”
“I’ll be still. But I do not think there will be time. One single head shot is probably all I will get. I prefer the head because it may be several seconds before anyone locates the bullet hole in the skull. A chest shot always tends to be messy and very obvious.”
“Yes, and under such circumstances, the silencer needs to be effective. That way nobody hears, nobody can trace the direction, and you may get one more try if you miss, eh?”
“Mr. Kumar, we are both in a precision business. If the rifle is perfectly constructed, I will only need one shot.”
“Very well, Mr. Spencer. You would like me to build you one bolt-action sniper rifle, reconstructed on the lines of the SSG 69 Austrian masterpiece of the 1980s. Barrel hardened under the regular cold-forging method. A 7.62mm bullet, muzzle velocity 860 meters per second. Lightweight. Short barrel. Malfunction risk: zero.”
“Correct. With case.”
“And, Mr. Spencer, the payment method? After I tell you the cost.”
“Tell me.”
“Including everything. The purchase of the original. The hours of highly skilled work. The new materials, the practice bullets, the specialized target bullets. I would not touch it for under twenty thousand pounds.”
“Cash,” said Ravi. “Ten thousand now. Ten more when I pick it up. How long?”
“Three weeks.”
“Too long. I need it by Saturday morning next week.”
Prenjit Kumar was silent. “Mr. Spencer, I would have to work on that rifle night and day, to the exclusion of all else. There may be some adjustment in the cost.”
Ravi, however, knew one thing for absolute certain: he knew the hawk-faced Indian before him understood that there were ten thousand pounds in his pocket. Ten thousand pounds that he did not get offered every day.
“There will be no adjustment,” he said. “The time you work is not relevant. You know what I want. You have stated a price and I have agreed. It matters not whether it takes you one week or one year. The price is the same.”
“And what if you should arrive and the weapon is not completed?”
“In that case, I would have to make other arrangements and use a different rifle. One that might expose me to greater risk. And you would be very disappointed, and perhaps even resentful, and then I would have to kill you.”
Kumar was well used to dealing with the thugs of the international arms-dealing world, the occasional terrorist, and regular mercenaries. But the man standing before him was like no one he had ever met. To his dark eyes, Ravi was calm but menacing, confident but careful, and there was a coldness about him that had alarm bells ringing in the Indian gunsmith’s head.
“Your rifle will be ready, Mr. Spencer,” he said.
“Twenty thousand?”
“Twenty thousand,” he repeated. “And I am assuming you will want bullets that will explode on impact, making survival from a head shot impossible.”
“Yes,” said Ravi. “Those will do very well.” He reached into the right inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope which contained two hundred ?50 notes. He handed it to Kumar, who acknowledged the down payment with a smile and a respectful nod of his head. He did not count the banknotes.
Kumar escorted him to the front door, the two men shook hands, but before he left, Ravi had one last request.
“Kumar,” he said, “I would also like you to provide me with a pistol. Standard issue, but lightweight and terminally deadly with one shot.”
“That will not be a problem,” the Indian replied. “I’ll find you something, and there will be no further charge.”
The Hamas C-in-C smiled at this confirmation that ?20,000 had indeed proved ample payment. And he climbed behind the wheel of the Audi and headed out of the driveway. Hardly glancing to the left or right, he and Shakira drove straight back to the Syrian embassy, from which he would scarcely venture during the coming week.
Meanwhile, news of General Rashood’s sudden appearance in Holyhead flashed through the intelligence networks. New Scotland Yard in London, while anxious not to make a public manhunt out of it, pressed all the buttons to ensure that the archterrorist would not find it easy to leave the country.
The photograph was circulated to all seaports and airports. Serving officers and men from 22 SAS who had known Major Ray Kerman were seconded in teams of six to check passengers at every port of entry or exit in the country. They were detailed to find him at any cost, and not to allow him to slip through the net.
The police, customs officials, and security guards had their leaves canceled in the areas where General Rashood might show up. Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, and Manchester airports looked like military strongholds. The English Channel seaports were steel-ringed with military personnel and armed police who boarded the ferries, searched the freighters, and checked out private yachts.
Even the smaller airports, Bristol, Bournemouth, Southampton, New-castle, Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Prestwick, were inundated with police and antiterrorist officers. Most of the airport and seaport staff had no idea why there was this sudden red alert. But the atmosphere was so serious, everyone was happy to cooperate. Flights were delayed, ships were held up, and no one even caught a sniff of General and Mrs. Rashood.
This was mostly because they never again left the Syrian embassy for the first five days of their visit. They were officially on Syrian soil, even though it was in Belgrave Square, and all of those usual diplomatic taboos were strictly observed at the Court of St. James. The London police did not harass the embassies, because retaliation was too easy: give the Syrians a hard time in London, and the next thing would be some kind of a witchhunt at the British embassy in north Damascus.
Back in the USA, Lt. Commander Ramshawe was helpless. There was nothing the Americans could do except offer assistance if required. The Hamas military boss and his wife were in hiding somewhere in the UK, and no one knew any more. And with each passing day, Arnold and Kathy were one step closer to the assassination attempt Jimmy Ramshawe was certain would happen.
All week there was only one break. At 0630 (local) on Tuesday morning, July 24, the Royal Navy ops room at the Gibraltar Station detected the Iranian Kilo moving slowly through the Strait, a hundred feet below the surface. They picked her up again several hours later, snorkeling in the narrow seaway, and reported it back to COMSUBLANT.
Again there was nothing anyone could do. The Iranians, despite some hefty breaches of international law, were still entitled to send their navy anywhere they wished on the high seas, just so long as the Kilo did not open fire on anyone. In turn, for a Western power to attempt to sink the Iranians would have been a flagrant act of war, which no one felt like committing. At least not in the Mediterranean.
Jimmy Ramshawe, in receipt of the signal that pinpointed the Kilo, felt nothing but a sense of total frustration. The submarine had turned up where he said it would turn up, a bit late, but it was a long voyage from the south coast of Ireland. He was frankly astounded that his early diagnosis of the plot to kill the admiral was not now universally accepted. Of course the Kilo had dropped off General Rashood in County Cork, and of course Rashood was now in England with Carla Martin, awaiting the arrival of Arnold and Kathy.
He accepted the difficulty of arresting the terrorist couple, of finding them, and, with mounting anxiety, he once more called the admiral. And Arnold, for the first time, seemed to accept that Jimmy might very well be on to something. But he was not being ruled by a goddamned towelhead, nossir. Not even one as lethally dangerous as Ravi Rashood.
“When you have outstanding security, provided by the President of the United States of America, you gotta trust your guys,” he growled.
Jimmy, slipping into a broad Australian outback accent, retorted, “Kinda like JFK and Ronald Reagan.”
