To the Death

In Shakira’s opinion, this was all connected to that terrible night in Damascus when their house had been flattened by a bomb and she had been so lucky to get out. She’d never really gotten to the bottom of that, but she had asked Ravi, and he had been very vague except to say that he suspected the Israelis, under American guidance. Especially under Arnold Morgan’s guidance.

But it had all taken so long. They had journeyed so far. And now they were off on some wild-goose chase to find the admiral, and they did not even know his address. They did not even know what town he was in, never mind what country. And there was an unreasonable determination about her husband. He was a man possessed. Nothing else mattered to him. Shakira had never seen him like this before.

She sat disconsolately in an armchair in their room at the Claymore. For a while she read Vogue, then she switched to the more gossipy Marie Claire. But she could find nothing of interest in either of them. She walked across the room and picked up a brochure about the town of Penrith and noted there was a castle on the outskirts that had been built in the fourteenth century.

Against all Muslim teaching, she felt like a glass of wine; she phoned down, asking someone to bring up two glasses and to reserve a table for two in the dining room for 7:30 this evening.

Ravi awakened at seven and without a word went into the bathroom to take a shower. He was totally preoccupied and was becoming almost distant. Shakira did not for one moment believe he was losing interest in her, but she was beginning to worry about this obsession that had taken over his life. Because it was an obsession to kill not an opposing force, but one single man whom he had never even met.

Generally speaking, Shakira did not believe this was a healthy situation. And she did not believe commanders of serious military organizations should behave in that way. It seemed both unnatural and unnecessary.

But Ravi maintained a passionate hatred for the American admiral, and when he came out of the bathroom, as if reading her mind, he said, “I’m not giving up, Shakira. If I have to pursue him to the ends of the earth, I will do so.”

Dinner that evening was thus fraught, and the tension between them seemed to grow, as Shakira harbored more and more doubts about this very personal vendetta in which her husband was involved.

Ravi, for his part, was more determined than ever to end the admiral’s life, but he sensed that his wife did not wish to hear any more about it. Shakira wished only to tell her husband yet again that she wanted to call the entire thing off, but did not dare to do so. As silent dinners go, this one was right up there.

They were only around thirty miles short of the Scottish border, but it was another ninety miles to Glasgow, which was their vague destination. The truth was, Ravi did not know where the hell he was going. All he knew was that Great Britain’s submarine roads were out to the west of Scotland’s second city, and that was where Admiral Morgan had served as captain of a nuclear boat out of the American base at Holy Loch.

Emily Gallagher had confirmed that her daughter was going to Scotland, but the rest was pure guesswork on Ravi’s part. His game plan was to check into a hotel in Glasgow, one with access to the Internet, and start searching for any shred of evidence that a former NSA to the American president was expected in the area.

He and Shakira once more drove with hardly a word spoken. They reached the outskirts of Glasgow around noon and moved fast around the city on the freeway. Ravi followed the signs to the city center, crossed the River Clyde, and pulled up outside the Millennium Hotel in George Square, Glasgow’s focal point.

Ravi had not been here for many years, but he remembered Scotland’s last great shipbuilding city, and he smiled for the first time this week when the receptionist told him there was a large double room which he and Mrs. Barden could have for two nights. And yes, there was a communications room for visiting businessmen who wanted access to the Internet. There were four desktop Apple Macintosh computers in there, and it was open twenty-four hours.

Ravi and Shakira checked in, and immediately his mood began to lighten. He took Shakira down to the hotel’s conservatory, which looks out onto the square, and ordered coffee and chicken sandwiches for lunch.

He apologized for his melancholy demeanor and tried to explain that he had taken a sacred oath, among his peers in the Hamas High Command, that he would rid the Jihad of its most sinister enemy. For him, it would be the most terrible loss of face to fail. And there was no turning back. He must assassinate the admiral or die in the attempt.