To the Death

“As a nonresident, we’ll pay you £10 an hour, plus time-and-a-half for anything over seven hours’ work a day, not including a lunch break. We of course provide whatever meals you require while you are on duty. There’s a staff canteen on the basement level.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Robertson,” said Shakira. “Will I require a uniform?”

“Absolutely,” said the Mother Superior of the Cavendish Hotel. “I’ll call the housekeeper and she’ll arrange everything. Just take the service elevator to the twelfth floor, and someone will meet you.”

A half hour passed, and, as arranged, Ravi drove away. He took a spin around the enormous castle, set on its mighty black volcanic rock, and stopped to make a phone call, direct to the Cavendish Hotel.

He managed to book one of the last rooms, on the third floor of the hotel, thanks to a Sunday-morning cancellation. Then he found a parking lot and walked through Edinburgh’s Old Town into the precincts of the castle, across the Esplanade to the public entrance. There were two armed military guards on duty, watching carefully as members of the public paid to see the huge assemblage of historic buildings inside the ramparts of the twelfth-century fortress.

The castle has in its time been a royal palace, a military garrison, and a state prison. The Crown of Scotland is on display in the palace building, where, in the sixteenth century, Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to James, the future king of both Scotland and England.

Ravi, however, was not remotely interested in Scottish history, however rich and turbulent it may have been. Ravi was here to scout out the security that surrounded the Military Tattoo, because herein rested his last chance to kill Arnold Morgan, before the United States government would surely compel the admiral to return to Washington.

He paid £10 for his ticket and walked through onto the roadway that climbs right through the castle, way up to the high ramparts, from which there is the most spectacular view over the city. Ravi trudged all the way up to the One O’clock Gun, which is fired with a thunderous report every day except Sunday, frightening tourists to death.

Ravi walked the ramparts, past ancient St. Margaret’s Chapel, along the Argyle Battery, past the Governor’s House and the prison and the Great Hall. He stared down over the great curved front of the Half-Moon Battery where, in the sixteenth century, artillery was ranged to defend the eastern wing of the castle. It was steep. Everywhere was steep. The castle rose up, constructed layer after layer onto its towering black crags, until it dominated the city. And this week, at least, it was as heavily patrolled as a U.S. Army garrison in Baghdad five years ago.

Everywhere Ravi walked, there were young soldiers, on duty, sometimes in groups, sometimes just in pairs. And all of them carried the standard weapon of the British Army, the SA80 semi-automatic short-barreled rifle, with its 25-round magazine, 5.56mm caliber.

As a pure precaution, Ravi stopped as he walked by and attempted, with only marginal success, to affect the wide-eyed blank stare of the truly ignorant.

“Excuse me,” he said to the Scots Guards corporal. “Is that gun loaded with real bullets?”

“Aye, sir, it is.”

“Well, that’s very dangerous,” replied Ravi.

“That’s the general idea,” said the corporal.

Ravi shook his head in mock exasperation, and continued his walk, going down now, back to the public entrance. And as he did so, a red Royal Navy helicopter circled briefly above the castle and slowly dropped down to land on the wide concourse behind the barracks, the biggest building in the ancient stone complex.

The area had been temporarily cleared by the military for the arrival of the American Navy commander, Rick Hunter, in company with Lady MacLean, the all-powerful chair of the entire Festival and Rick’s personal guide for the next hour.

Annie MacLean had made the decision to land on the higher level in order to point out to Rick the precise layout of the Tattoo. She showed him a view of the Esplanade from the heights, the temporary grandstands, and in particular the Royal Box where they would all be seated on Tuesday evening.

She showed him the huge sloping walls of the Half-Moon Battery, down which the warriors of 42 Marine Commando would abseil, before making a final descent to the Esplanade for their formation and finale.

Rick did not love it. “The whole place will be in darkness during this time?” he asked.

“Everywhere. Except for the Royal Box,” she told him. “The military will spotlight the Marines as they climb down the walls to the lower levels. Their display is designed to show how they capture a fortified garrison.”