To the Death

“This is kid’s stuff to him,” interjected Arnie. “I’ll deny ever saying this, but Commander Hunter and his men once blew up an entire oil refinery in Iran. Now that was exciting.”

Rick chuckled. “Can’t live on past glories, sir. Right now I have to make certain that Admiral and Mrs. Morgan come to no harm in the city of Edinburgh. I understand you will be returning to the United States immediately after the Military Tattoo?”

“Guess they forced that on me,” replied Arnold. “Wrecked my vacation, worried Kathy to death, and ordered me home immediately. It’s amazing what I have to put up with.”

“I hear you’re taking the salute at the Tattoo on Tuesday night, sir?” said Rick. “And that’s where we need to be very careful. Two things I did want to ask: How dark is it in there? And how many people are expected?”

“There are around ten thousand each night for three weeks,” said Lady MacLean. “And mostly it takes place on the main Castle Esplanade. Sometimes it is quite dark with spotlights on the performers, like a theatre. But for the main event, the demonstration by the Marine Commandoes, almost all the lights will be lowered.”

“What’s it like in the Royal Box where Admiral Morgan will be?”

“The lights are always on there,” Lady MacLean continued. “Subdued lights from the rear, but brighter than the other seating areas.”

“So we have a darkened stadium where no one can see anything except the Royal Box and the people in it?” said Rick. “Hmmmmm.”

“Well, not exactly. The spotlights constantly illuminate various parts of the performance, all over the castle, especially down on the Esplanade where the massed military bands will be playing.”

“Is access to the Royal Box easy? I mean, can anyone get in?”

“Absolutely not,” said Sir Iain. “There are armed guards at both entrances and all around. You need a VIP ticket to get anywhere near.”

“I’d like to scout the place out for a while tomorrow, if that would be okay,” said Rick.

“No problem. The helicopter will pick you up here in the morning.”

900 Sunday 5 August Glasgow

Ravi and Shakira checked out of the Millennium Hotel early, drove out to the M-8 motorway through West Lothian, and set off for Edinburgh, a distance of forty-six miles. They arrived before 10 A.M., and Ravi, who had read every word written about the Edinburgh International Festival in the past week, drove straight to the Caledonian Hilton at the end of Princes Street behind the castle.

Brimming with confidence, he parked outside, asked the doorman to keep a watch on the car for a few minutes, and walked inside to speak to the receptionist.

“Good morning,” he said politely. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’m Captain Martin, ADC to the CO of 42 Marine Commando. Could you possibly tell me, are the head honchos of the Military Tattoo staying here this week? I appear to have lost the boss.”

The girl behind the desk laughed, and replied, “Sadly not this year, sir, though they often do. But I believe they are all in the new Cavendish Hotel, right on Princes Street and closer to the castle than we are.”

“I’m grateful,” said Ravi. “You’ve probably saved my career.”

Back outside, Ravi once more settled behind the wheel and drove into Princes Street, moving slowly along Edinburgh’s main thoroughfare until he saw the high rise of the Cavendish on the left-hand side. He pulled over around a hundred yards from the main entrance, and Shakira jumped out, wearing an inexpensive black dress and carrying a large too-expensive handbag which she hoped no one would notice.

She walked up to the doorman and asked him who to see about a job. “Go straight to reception, young lady,” he said, “and ask to see Mrs. Robertson. She’s the undermanager.”

Shakira did as she was told, and five minutes later was sitting in a small first-floor office with a stern, neatly dressed Scottish lady of around fifty, Janet Robertson, gray-haired, currently at her wits’ end with staff shortages in the busiest month of the year.

She was polite but businesslike. “Have you experience?” she asked. And, seeing Shakira nod, proceeded to ask her in which department she would like to work.

“We have vacancies in housekeeping and room service, and we need two waitresses in the restaurant, and in the residents’ lounge. But we do need references.”

“I can do anything, and I have references,” said Shakira. “I’ve worked in several hotels, in Ireland, London, and the United States.”

“Do you mind shift work? That’s evenings and early mornings.”

“Not at all.”

“Do you require room and board?”

“No. I’m living locally with my sister.”

Mrs. Robertson had already noted Shakira’s neat appearance and respectful manner, and she scarcely looked at her Irish passport in the name of Colleen Lannigan, nor at the reference from a central London bar in Covent Garden.

“Very well, let’s give it a try, shall we?” said Mrs. Robertson. “I’d like you to start as a maid on the twelfth floor, where we are very short of help. And this evening, if possible, I’d like you to assist in room service.