crossed the rocks at top speed, then abseiled down the last section to the ground. Back at the top, Ravi waited. The formations were slightly more ragged now, simply because some of the troops had been faster than others, and the ropes supported uneven numbers across the battery wall as each man descended.
There were only six men left up there in the darkness, and Ravi suddenly emerged from the shadows and ran in toward the battlements with the others. He had selected his rope and arrived simultaneously with two others.
“Righto, mate, after you,” one of them snapped, barely looking at the Hamas chief.
And Ravi grabbed the rope. He’d done this a hundred times in the SAS and, perhaps more expert than all these young commandoes, he swung over the battlements and bounced his way down, backward, the way a trained Special Forces officer is expected to complete this discipline.
Seconds later, he was on the rocks, running over to the last descent and abseiling onto the Esplanade. In front of him, the troops were lining up on the ground. Ravi moved back against the wall. There were essentially two differences between him and the rest. He was not lying flat on the ground, and his standard issue SA80 semi- automatic rifle was loaded with live ammunition, as opposed to the blanks the demonstration team would fire.
The last two men were down, and the subdued backlighting up ahead on the Royal Box was still silhouetting Admiral Morgan, sitting in the front row, four seats from the left. The VIPs were standing now, applauding the breathtaking display. Ravi could see Admiral Morgan, with Sir Iain to his right and Kathy in her green linen suit to his left.
Commander Rick Hunter was standing away to the right, on the end of the front row, when the first line of Marines opened fire into the air, demonstrating their opening assault on the enemy.
Rick’s mind raced. He had always hated this darkened castle, with his man plainly visible out in front. A thousand instincts honed on the battlefield with his brave and beloved SEALs crowded into his thoughts. He braced himself for the attack, thinking only that this stadium was right now in darkness, and men were firing rifles and he could not see them, and he had no idea who was shooting at what.
Ravi Rashood, two hundred yards away, steadied himself on the wall, and, from out of the night, he aimed his SA80 directly at Admiral Arnold Morgan’s chest.
He held his breath and pressed the trigger. But Rick was about a hundredth of a second faster. He bounded two strides forward and launched himself sideways across the front of the Royal Box. He hit Arnold Morgan with a full-blooded rugby tackle that flattened the great man to the floor. They hit Kathy on the way down and flattened her too. Rick tried desperately to protect the admiral, raising himself and instinctively covering Morgan’s body with his own.
Women screamed. The gunfire continued. The police ran in to break up what looked like a fight between two Americans. And as the guns were finally silenced, everyone stood up and dusted themselves off.
No one spoke, but Arnold and Rick could see a line of 5.56mm bullets studded into the back of Arnold’s seat. Directly behind, the provost of Edinburgh University, covered in blood, was slumped dead in his chair.
Rick helped Kathy to her feet. Neither she nor Arnold was hurt, but they were both very shaken. Arnold stared in disbelief at the bullets lodged in his chair. The police called for an ambulance, and the main lights came on. An announcement was made that owing to an unfortunate incident, the remainder of the Tattoo had been called off because of the suspected murder of the provost of Edinburgh University.
The 10,000-strong crowd was told to leave in an orderly manner and that either their tickets would be renewed or their money refunded.
And down behind the left-hand grandstand, in the dark, under the seats, Ravi was tearing off his army clothes and returning to civilian life. As suspected by Commander Hunter, he had bolted through that gap between the grandstand and the back wall. And now he dumped the trousers, jacket, and hat into a trashcan and walked out with everyone else, taking a circuitous route around to Princes Street. For the moment, he abandoned the Audi and walked back to the Cavendish, wearing his suede jacket, with the short-barreled rifle tucked underneath, half down his trousers, out of sight.
He had missed for the second time, and he knew it. He had seen the schemozzle in the front row of the Royal Box, seen the admiral go down just as he had fired. For a split second he’d thought the bullet had hit home, but Special Forces commanders have an instinct about these things. And in his heart he knew he’d missed the admiral.
The important thing, however, was that he was still free, on the loose and able to fight another day. Except that, in this particular case, it would be this day. He said hello to the doorman and headed straight up to his room, hoping to hell Shakira would contact him and finalize their arrangements.
It was after 10:30 now, and Shakira took half an hour to call. Ravi answered the phone and she just said, “They are all arriving. I’ll be down.”
Two minutes later she let herself into the room, having just seen Admiral Morgan and his wife, and having ascertained that, again, her husband had missed the target for which they had both strived for so long.
“Darling,” she said, “can we go home now? Let’s just get away. We have the car, we can make it.”
Ravi shook his head. “This is not a military mission,” he said. “This is the sacred work of Allah. I cannot abandon it. I would burn in hell if I did that. We must complete what we began.”
“But why? We’ve both tried so hard. Maybe this is not meant to be. Why can’t we just go?”
Again, Ravi shook his head. “Is everything ready on the roof?” he asked. “Yes, but I don’t want you to go.”
“Can’t you see that I must?” And Ravi’s voice began to rise.
Ravi was shouting now, and Shakira was frightened someone would hear. Worse yet, she was afraid of Ravi now, afraid he had lost all sense of reason.
“Go,” he commanded her. “GO! And do the bidding of Allah, as I must. Now GO!”
He watched her walk through the door, and minutes later he followed her along the corridor to the fire escape. He took with him a balaclava and goggles he had bought in the same army surplus store where he purchased his boots.
He climbed the stone steps, fourteen floors, to the stairwell of the sixteenth. He was standing inside the door Shakira had opened earlier that evening. The last short flight of stone steps led to the roof. Ravi checked his watch; three minutes later, Shakira came in.
Ravi told her they were each precious messengers of Allah, and that this task tonight might be the last time they would see each other on this earth. They would, however, be united in the arms of Allah, who would surely welcome two of his finest Holy Warriors into everlasting paradise.
“Besides,” he added in conclusion, “there is nothing here for us any more. Nowhere to go, to live. We’d be hiding for all the days of our lives. Tonight Allah will decide for us.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. Together they’d risked everything for the
He kissed her good-bye and said quietly, “Shakira, you know what to do. And if I can make this work tonight, we will still have a chance to escape. If I can’t, we’ve had many wonderful years together, and Allah will unite us soon.”
And with that, General Rashood climbed the stone steps to the roof, and there, standing hidden in the shadow of the air-conditioning unit, was the seaman’s bag containing the dock lines and the harness. He fixed the ends around a thick water pipe which was cemented into the wall, and ran them both through their shackles.
He slipped the safety harness on and fastened it tightly, attaching it to the second line with the rock-climbers’ clips which he could adjust on the way down, playing out the line. And then he waited for Shakira’s call.
In the meantime, over at the castle, the police were trying to make up for lost time. They sent a detail to the Marine commando headquarters and checked every man who had gone over the wall. Everyone was present, every man still had his rifle, and every rifle was empty, having fired only blanks. The police stationed officers at every door, and they began to search people as they left the Tattoo.
Finally they had the CO summon the guard and conduct a roll call of the men who had been on duty. There was, of course, one missing, a 23-year-old Scots guardsman who had been armed with an SA80 semi-automatic,
