To the Death полностью

“I can only repeat what I said before. I have too much to lose in terms of reputation, and in case you had forgotten, I am still an English national, and that will always cast a shadow over me among some Muslims. There would be suspicions about my commitment. You make me say it again. This one is to the death.”

They finished their lunch, and Shakira went up to their room. Ravi kissed her and said he treasured her above all else, and then he walked into the communications room.

He sat in front of one of the computers and, after a quick Google search, connected to the Web site of Glasgow’s excellent newspaper The Herald. And there he typed the words Admiral Arnold Morgan, waiting patiently while a search was carried out for any mention of the American during the past few weeks. In the end there was nothing.

He tried Web sites for the submarine service, for Holy Loch, the old U.S. base. And for Royal Navy reunions. All in the vain hope that somewhere, somehow, Admiral Morgan’s name would pop up. It didn’t. But then Ravi decided there needed to be a change of tack, since he was working on the pure assumption that Arnold was returning to his old stomping ground in the west, around the Clyde estuary.

But perhaps he wasn’t. Perhaps he was coming to Scotland for entirely different reasons. Maybe Glasgow was a waste of time. Perhaps Admiral Morgan was going to the capital city, Edinburgh. And perhaps it would be better to search through Scotland’s other national newspaper, The Scotsman, which was based in Edinburgh.

Ravi switched Web sites and tapped in the name Admiral Arnold Morgan and waited. Nothing came up. He decided to scroll through some recent editions and see if he could find some inspiration. His luck turned with last Monday’s newspaper, which had an entire page on the forthcoming Edinburgh International Festival, an annual August event, to which 500,000 people were expected.

The chairman of the Festival was someone called Lady MacLean, married to a retired Royal Navy admiral, Sir Iain MacLean. Her name was Annie, and there was a substantial interview with her about the wide-ranging aspects of the Festival, the films, the plays, the ballet, the chorale, and finally the Military Tattoo, which began on Saturday.

Lady MacLean had revealed a list of high dignitaries who would sit in the Royal Box at Edinburgh Castle and take the salute. The fourth one down, in extremely small type, was Admiral Arnold Morgan, U.S. Navy (ret.).

The reporter who compiled the page must have been struck by the unusual nature of a U.S. admiral showing up for this very British event. And he had plainly pressed her on the subject. Lady MacLean had rewarded his persistence by explaining that this former presidential staff member was a very old friend of her husband’s, and would be staying with them at their home in Inveraray before attending the Festival. Both Sir Iain and Admiral Morgan had commanded nuclear submarines.

Each night, a different person takes the salute at the Tattoo, and Admiral Morgan would have the honor on Tuesday, August 7. Ravi could hardly believe his luck. He felt so relieved, he did not even take into consideration that Admiral Morgan, during his tenure on the Castle Esplanade, would be surrounded by heavy personal security plus half the British Army.

His initial thought was to attempt to shoot Arnold Morgan while he was at the house in Inveraray. If that proved impossible, he would have another chance at the Tattoo. Five minutes ago, he had had no chances whatsoever, and now he had two. Ravi sensed that his luck had turned around.

He made two short notes in his leather book and then took the elevator to the sixth floor, where Shakira was asleep. He woke her gently and told her that he was attending afternoon prayers at the Central Mosque of Glasgow, which stands on four acres right by the river. He did not tell his wife, but he was feeling in urgent need of spiritual reinforcement, so cutting had her words been earlier in the day.

The flat brand of logic that was Shakira’s specialty had, in a sense, gotten to him. Because there was of course much truth in her argument. Why should he and this beautiful Palestinian girl continue to risk their lives, or at best face life imprisonment, when no one else seemed to be doing anything?

He needed encouragement, and although Muslims do not communicate directly with God — not even the ayatollahs do that — Ravi usually felt an affinity with Allah inside the mosque, and, as the Chosen One, he lived in hope that one day he would hear the voice of the Great One.