drivers at the wheel.
Inside the hotel, two security guards accompanied the admiral and Kathy to their suite. Both men remained on duty outside in the corridor. There were two doors from the corridor, one of which led into the small drawing room, with the bedroom off to the left. The other led directly into the bedroom and had not been opened for about forty years. This was a suite much in demand, and it had never been necessary to turn the bedroom into a single room.
Admiral Morgan outlined his plan of battle to his wife. “Right now I’m going to sleep for two and a half hours. Then we will have a lavish breakfast delivered right here to the room — English bacon, eggs, and toast. My favorite, reminds me of the old days in the submarines, Holy Loch.
“Then we will venture out and take a stroll along Piccadilly to my favorite bookstore in all the world, Hatchards. We will browse in there, buy some books that we would not see in the USA, and have Hatchards send them all directly to Chevy Chase.
“I will then accompany you to Jermyn Street, where we will shop for a while at Fortnum and Mason’s and request that our food selections also be forwarded on to Chevy Chase, by courier, to arrive the day we get home.
“And then we will wander among the greatest shirtmakers in the world and place some orders for both of us, and likewise have them sent directly to the USA. Thereafter, we will cross to the north side of Piccadilly and I will permit you the freedom of the Burlington Arcade while I wander up to my longtime tailor, Gieves and Hawkes at the corner of Savile Row, to be measured for a couple of new suits. How’s that?”
“Not bad,” said Kathy. “What about lunch?”
“Forget that,” said the admiral. “I intend to eat such a gargantuan breakfast, it will not be necessary.”
“What about me?” asked Kathy. “How would it be if I didn’t want to feast like Henry VIII at ten o’clock in the morning? Imagine that I wanted only some fruit and coffee, and then a light lunch, perhaps a small fillet of Dover sole and some salad?”
“Then it would be my very great pleasure to provide it for you at Green’s restaurant, corner of Duke of York Street.”
“And what will you do while I eat my lunch?”
“Me? Oh, I’ll probably have the same.”
Kathy could not help laughing. She had never been able to resist laughing at this irascible titan of American foreign policy — his ups, his downs, his fury, his brilliance, and his wit; the way he answered to no man, the way he loved food and wine, his natural assumption that nothing short of the absolute best could possibly be good enough for him. And indeed for his wife.
Kathy smiled at him and asked if he intended to get right into bed, pajamas and all, or whether he was just going to lie on top of the spread.
“Christ, women!” he exclaimed. “These sheets are costing us about fifty bucks a square inch, and I’m taking total advantage.”
“You mean straight in?” said Kathy.
“Straight in,” he replied. “Coming?”
“Probably,” she laughed, somewhat sassily.
Across the street, Ravi was trying to commit to memory the images still clear in his mind of the four bodyguards who had surrounded the admiral as he entered the hotel. They were all six-footers, taller than Morgan, and the one certainty of the morning was that at least one of them would step outside before Arnold and Kathy.
Like the admiral himself, all four agents had their hair cut closely. One of them was virtually bald, one of them was black, and the other two were fair-skinned with light-colored hair. From this distance, Ravi could not tell if either of them was gray. From the shape of their jackets, the Hamas chief was sure they all wore shoulder holsters, and likely knew how to shoot straight.
He could no longer see the U.S. embassy cars, but there was a police car down Arlington Street beyond the Blue Posts. At the bottom of the steps, on the sidewalk, the doorman was speaking to a uniformed London cop.
The traffic was still light, but it was now flowing along Bennett Street, through Arlington to the Piccadilly throughway. Ravi permitted himself three guesses — a luxury in which he rarely indulged. The first was that the police snipers were still on duty on the roof of the building; the second was that Reggie was at his desk in the foyer. The third was that Admiral Morgan’s car would be summoned by phone when he left the Ritz, and that the security detail would make certain that he and his wife were quickly into the vehicle. His fourth thought was an assumption, not a guess: that his “window” of opportunity would again be very short-lived, but less crowded.
It was only just 8 A.M., but people were beginning to arrive. Ravi could hear the elevator creaking as it went up, but it made no noise as it descended. If the two cops, the ones he assumed were still on the roof, left via the elevator, he would not know they had gone.
Equally, Reggie did not know Ravi was in the building. No one did, and the last image Reggie had in his mind, concerning Mr. Fretheim, was from yesterday, of a man in a loose-fitting dark blue tracksuit, wearing sneakers and carrying a sports bag. Images were critical in operations like this, because they affected the memory, shaded the truth, and distorted the reality.
Ravi poured himself the last of his coffee and ate the remaining two chicken sandwiches. He did so in front of the window, from an area to which he had shifted his chair. When he stood up, he slipped the window catch and pushed upward. The old-fashioned lower section rose, and Ravi kept pushing until it was open all the way.
If the security men were scanning the front of this building, they would not notice the lower open window, because it was fully open. He adjusted the Venetian blind so the light breeze from the southwest would not cause the laths to rattle.
While Arnold and Kathy slept, Ravi made his final preparations. He realized the Americans might not leave the hotel until after lunch, maybe not until tomorrow, and during this time he would be a virtual prisoner in this office. He resolved to change clothes at 10:30 A.M. and take up his position at the window immediately afterward. He would not move again.
And now he peeled off his tracksuit and sneakers. He pulled a dark gray suit out of his bag, plus a new shirt, tie, and shiny black loafers. He dressed carefully and slung the suit jacket over the back of his chair. Everything else, except for the briefcase, he crammed into the duffel bag, which he left behind the office door.
Inside the suit pockets he had crammed cash, an English driver’s license in the name of Michael Barden, and a British passport to match. It stated his birthplace as Maidstone, Kent. In the wallet was an American Express card under the same name, on an account registered, if anyone was looking, to the attache at the Jordanian embassy in Paris. Credit limit: 100,000 euros.
Ravi would need only to dispose of the duffel bag, and now he went to the briefcase, released the catch, and opened it wide on the desk. He took out the barrel of the SSG 69 and carefully began to assemble the rifle. He handled it lovingly, the instrument of his holy mission. The pieces slotted and screwed together perfectly.
When it was completed, he loaded the six silver-headed bullets, five into the breech, one into the firing position in front of the bolt. His last actions were to clip on the telescopic sight and the silencer, which he did with practiced expertise. He balanced the weapon in his hands and smiled at the memory of the final shots in the Long Wood out in Oxfordshire. If he could get a clear view, with this rifle he could not miss.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and still Ravi stood motionless before the window, staring at the Ritz entrance, watching hotel guests come and go, up those six steps. Taxis came. Taxis went. Chauffeurs pulled up, helped people with baggage, and departed.
At 11:30, Admiral Morgan’s bald bodyguard stepped out of the hotel. He said one quick word to the doorman, who immediately stepped out into the street, raised his arm, and signaled for a car. Ravi heard him blow hard on a whistle.
From way down Arlington Street, the embassy car with the darkened windows came sliding along to the Ritz. Four police outriders led the way. Inside the lobby, Admiral Morgan was telling his other three agents that it was such a beautiful morning, he and Kathy would prefer to stroll along to Hatchards. All three of them objected, telling him that with a terrorist alert in progress, it would make everyone much happier if he were given safe passage in the big bulletproof embassy car.
“Goddamned Ramshawe still causing trouble,” said Arnold ruefully. “He’s been waiting for this moment for a
