To the Death

River. Iain stays there when he comes south, says it’s his favorite restaurant.”

Arnold pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, and asked to be put through to the U.S. ambassador’s office in Grosvenor Square. When his old pal Sandra King, ex-White House, answered, he asked her to somehow trace the restaurant for him and see if he could get rooms there for a couple of nights.

As one might expect from the secretary to one of America’s most important ambassadors, Sandra called back within ten minutes and told him the place was called the Leather Bottle, downstream from Wallingford on the Goring Reach. She’d booked him and Kathy in for two nights, in the new bridal suite.

“Attagirl,” said Arnie.

Meanwhile, the police were swarming into Ravi’s office block. They told Reggie to lock the door. “No one leaves until we’re done,” said the Metropolitan Police detective sergeant. “We need to speak to every tenant, every staff member of every corporation with space in here.”

They started on the ground floor and questioned everyone. On the second floor, they found three offices locked, but spoke to everyone else. On the fourth floor, they found Ravi’s office locked. By the time they reached the top floor, they had interviewed all the tenants except for seven where the offices were locked and no one was in.

The detective sergeant asked Reggie if they could enter the locked premises, and Reggie said he was sure that would be fine and he would get the keys. When he unlocked the door to Mr. Fretheim’s room, he was quite surprised at how thoroughly empty the place looked.

He had never been in there when the accountant with the Finland Farms Marketing Board was working, but still he imagined there would be the usual office paraphernalia, computers, writing pads, pens, books, ledgers, maybe a couple of cups or a coffeepot. But this place was desolate.

The detective looked quizzical. “How long’s this character been here?” he asked.

“’Bout a week, I suppose,” replied Reggie. “Seemed a nice sort of bloke. I saw him yesterday lunchtime. He was in his tracksuit, said he was going jogging later. I expect in the park.”

“What did he look like?”

“Youngish. About thirty. Fair hair. Moustache and goatee beard. Spectacles. Not very tall — less than six feet. Spoke with a Finnish accent.”

“Do you know what a Finnish accent sounds like?” asked the policeman.

“’Course not,” said Reggie. “Never spoke to one of ’em, have I? ’Cept for Santa Claus — and Mr. Fretheim.”

“What I mean, Reggie, is, was that a Finnish accent, or could it have been French, or German, or Arabian?”

“Beats me, guv’nor. Could have been anything. I just assumed it was Finnish, because he said that’s where he was from.”

The detective smiled. “Anything else about him?”

“Not really. But I had the impression he was an athletic sort of bloke. I mean he was always dressed very casual, jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.”

The detective nodded. “Did he keep regular hours?”

“Well, I can’t rightly say about that. Our shifts change at 2 P.M., so we don’t really know if people are in or out when we come on afternoon duty.”

“Did he ever come in at unusual times, like evenings or anything?”

“I don’t think so. I never saw him here in the evening. Matter of fact I haven’t seen him since yesterday lunchtime.”

“And you never saw him leave?”

“No. But I wouldn’t, would I? Don did the afternoon shift and locked up last night.”

“Could Fretheim have been in the building overnight?”

“No. Don would have known that. You always know if someone’s here in the evening. Tell you the truth, we usually nip out for a pint around nine o’clock, and the first thing you’d notice would be a light on at the front of the building.”

“Perhaps Mr. Fretheim was sitting in the dark,” said the detective. “Thank you, Reggie. Tell Don we’d like a word this afternoon.”

“Righto, sir.”

At that moment, the two police marksmen were making their way down from the roof. When they reached the detective sergeant, one of them said, “We just heard, on the phone, sir. But neither of us saw a thing, and we never heard anything either. Me and Brian here were watching the area around the hotel all the time. Whoever fired must have done it from somewhere in here. But it was a damn quiet gun, I’ll say that.”

In the meantime, General Rashood had completed his walk up Dover Street and had turned left down Hay Hill and into Berkeley Street. He crossed and strolled into the narrow walkway of Lansdowne Row, where he was when the police began their search of his office building.

He knew Lansdowne Row mostly because it contained one of the best newspaper shops in London. Ravi used to go there with his father occasionally to pick up Middle Eastern publications.

He bought the London Daily Telegraph and Daily Mail and then walked into the cafe next door and ordered some coffee and buttered toast. He took off his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair, and put down his briefcase. He’d been here before, in another life, and it looked much the same, but better. It seemed bigger, and Ravi thought they must have purchased the flower shop next door.

Anyway, it felt like a haven right now, and happily he did not recognize the proprietor. Calmly he sipped his coffee and read the newspapers. It was a busy place, filled with shirtsleeved young advertising and financial executives. Ravi fitted right in, and outside, to the south, he heard the constant wail of police sirens. And the distant clatter of a helicopter swooping low over the city.

It was a little after 12:30 when he left. He put on his jacket and walked into Berkeley Square, which was lunchtime busy. He made his way up the west side of the square, past the distinctive awning of Annabel’s, the world’s most exclusive nightclub, and then turned left into Mount Street.

Up ahead he could see the Audi, Shakira at the wheel. He watched her step out and walk around to the front passenger seat. Casually, he made his way to the driver’s side, tossed his jacket and briefcase in the back, and positioned himself behind the wheel. Without a word, he drove down the north side of Berkeley Square and then swung left, heading up the one-way system in fast-moving traffic. He neither stopped nor spoke for fifteen minutes. Shakira knew everything had gone wrong, but at least he had not been shot, and in a sense she felt an overwhelming feeling of relief.

The helicopter he had heard was currently standing on the Horse Guards parade ground. Arnold and Kathy were aboard, along with two of the secret agents. They were just waiting for the luggage to arrive from the now- besieged Ritz Hotel, which currently contained more policemen than guests.

The body of Big George had been removed by ambulance to St. Mary’s Hospital. And before it left, the police pathologist had confirmed that the bullet had been fired from a height and had hit George at a shallow angle to the horizontal.

The westbound lanes of Piccadilly were still blocked, and the hotel staff car containing the Americans’ luggage was forced to take a circuitous route to Horse Guards. When it arrived, the loadmaster packed the suitcases into the hold, and the helicopter from the Queen’s Flight took off, heading west. Destination: classified.

The Royal Air Force pilot followed the River Thames all the way, flying at around ten thousand feet. Putney Bridge, Hammersmith Bridge, Barnes Bridge, and Chiswick all passed beneath them. They continued on to the Berkshire town of Maidenhead, then Henley-on-Thames, where Arnold could still see the famous blue-and-white tents at the end of the Royal Regatta course.

This had once been familiar territory for the Big Man. He’d rowed here in an Annapolis crew more than forty years before, got beat by the Harvard lightweights. “Bastards,” muttered Arnold.

“Sorry?” said Kathy.

“Bastards,” repeated Arnold wistfully. “They got a half length at the start, beat the umpire’s call. We never pegged ’em back. Finished only a canvas down.”

“Who did?”