“Then,” said Jimmy, “if it all goes wrong, it’s totally
“You got it. Trouble is, I’m real stretched at the minute. We got guys all over the place, Iraq, Iran, Burma, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain. And you want a top guy, like a full SEAL commander. And we don’t have that many. But I do have a guy in mind.”
“Who’s that?”
“I’m considering our old friend Commander Rick Hunter. And I’m considering him for several reasons, the first and main one being he’s probably the best we ever had. Secondly, he is a great fan of Arnold Morgan’s. And thirdly, he’s retired and could easily take the time.”
“Has he stayed fit?”
“Hell, yes. He has a private gym at his home, and he runs around that darned great farm of his every day.”
“Is that SEAL-fit, combat-fit?”
“That’s Hunter-fit, which is almost certainly better.”
“Where does he live?”
“Kentucky.”
“Oh, yes; I remember now. His family runs a thoroughbred horse-breeding farm, right?”
“That’s him. And quite honestly, I don’t think his wife — Diana — would allow him to go into combat again. But this is not combat, is it? He’s just got to go with the admiral and make sure no one tries to kill him. It’s nothing like the danger level he’s used to.”
“Who should ask him, sir? You, I hope.”
“You, I’m afraid,” said the admiral. “I asked him once before to undertake a special mission, and he got shot in the thigh. I think Diana might hang up on me if I called.”
Jimmy laughed. “Well, I can’t just phone him and suggest that he load his machine gun, can I?”
“Certainly not. You need to go and see him, and you’ll find it harder getting Diana to agree. She’s very protective and senses, but does not know, just how important a warrior her husband is.”
“Sir, will you call him and tell him I’m on my way to see him, and I should be treated with consideration?”
“Not me. But I’ll send him an E-mail and tell him he should at least see you.”
“Tomorrow, sir. This is urgent. None of us wants Arnie to get killed.”
“You got it, Jimmy. I’ll send it now. By the way, Rick’s address is Hunter Valley Farms, Lexington, Kentucky. Better get out there.”
President Bedford already had an E-mail requesting that he speak to Admiral Morris at the National Security Agency at 9:45. Even presidents tend to hop to it when Crypto City comes calling. Because Crypto City does not usually bother the president unless it’s a five-alarmer.
When the admiral came on the direct line, Paul Bedford was both polite and extremely curious. When George Morris began to explain the situation and the clear and present danger to Arnold, Bedford was appalled.
“We have to bring him home,” he said. “These people are killers. And we cannot mount proper security in another country — not even with our friends in Great Britain.”
“That’s half the trouble, sir,” replied George. “We’ve been trying to curtail this trip for several weeks. He won’t give it up. And he always says the same thing, about giving in to the goddamned terrorists. You know what he’s like.”
“But surely he feels differently now, with George Kallan being murdered.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. You see, Arnold hardly knew George. Met him for the first time at Dulles Airport and never really spoke to him again. George was not on his regular Secret Service detail. This was his first assignment with Arnold.”
“Yes, but what about bringing him home, the funeral and everything?”
“According to Al, his chief bodyguard who’s spoken to Lt. Commander Ramshawe, the admiral said the one place in all the world he would never go would be to Kallan’s funeral. He thinks that’s where the killer is most likely to strike again.”
“Where’s Kallan from?”
“Peru, Indiana.”
“Birthplace of Cole Porter,” replied the president.
“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, that’s a truly remarkable piece of information. I thought he was from Long Island, New York.”
“So do most people,” said the president, grinning down the phone. “Guess that’s why I’m. er. sitting in this chair, et cetera, et cetera.”
Admiral Morris laughed. He really liked Paul Bedford. “Anyway, sir, the purpose of my call is to request your help in protecting Arnold from further attempts on his life. We’re trying to recruit a Navy SEAL, a combat veteran, to fly to England and take up position beside Arnold at all times.”
The president instantly approved of that. “Great idea, George. We got John Bergstrom on the case?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll get the best man we can. But he’s got to be armed, and able to shoot if necessary. That’s probably against the law in England, and we need you to get special permission for our man to be permitted to do everything in his power to protect Arnold.”
“No problem,” said the president. “I’ll call the British PM right away. He’ll fix it at the highest level, not because he wants to, but because it’ll take the heat off them if anything else happens.”
“My assessment precisely, sir. But we are in a bit of a hurry — could you help get our man there in the fastest possible time?”
“Let me know when he can leave. I’ll take care of it.”
The U.S. Navy’s Lockheed Airies came swiftly in over Bourbon County, high above some of the most renowned racehorse farms in the world. Blue Grass Field was out on the west of the town, and the Navy pilot, who had made it in just over seventy-five minutes from Andrews Air Force Base, could see the runway up ahead.
He banked around to the south of Lexington, flared out, and landed the Airies immaculately in Kentucky. There was one passenger only in the aircraft, and the navigator walked back to let him out.
The uniformed Lt. Commander Ramshawe thanked him and climbed down the steps to a waiting farm truck, which had the words HUNTER VALLEY inscribed on the door, above a picture of a mare and foal. Jimmy Ramshawe had no luggage, and the truck driver just held the door open and let him in.
He introduced himself as Olin and revealed that he worked in the coverin’ barn all winter and spring, then took care of the farm vehicles all summer and autumn.
“Is Hunter Valley a big place?” asked Jimmy.
“Hell, yes,” said Olin. “Hundreds of acres. Around seventy mares and foals in residence. A lot of ’em born here.”
“That’s a big operation, right? Does Mr. Hunter run the whole thing himself?”
“Well, he’s the boss. But a lot of the staff here worked for his father. That makes a big difference. The department heads know as much about the place as he does. But Mr. Rick is the main man. And he’s got his daddy’s touch with a breeding stallion.”
Lt. Commander Ramshawe was not exactly certain what that last part meant. But it sounded important, and for a moment it crossed his mind that Commander Hunter might be altogether too busy to save Arnold’s life. However, he understood that, somehow, breeding racehorses was a seasonal business; and he asked if August was a busy time of the year.
“Not really. Thoroughbred stallions cover mares between February and July at the very latest,” he said. “Their foals gotta be born in the new year, up through May. No one wants what we call a June foal.”
“How long are the mares pregnant for?” asked Jimmy.
“Eleven months. And that means we don’t really want them going in foal too late.”
“Why don’t people want a June foal?” said Jimmy.
“Well, all racehorses have their birthday on January 1. On that day, any foal born two years previously becomes two. They are young and immature, still growing; but the horse who was born in January really is two, where the one born in June is only nineteen months. And that makes a difference when they get on the track. The
