To the Death

No one noticed, except Rick Hunter. And Shakira never had time to take aim at Admiral Morgan. Rick blew her away, studding her perfect face with a line of bullets that knocked her backward into the corridor, blood pumping from her head.

“JESUS CHRIST!” bellowed Arnold Morgan. “THIS IS LIKE THE FUCKING WILD WEST!”

By now there were about twenty more policemen thundering along the corridor. Squad cars, blue lights flashing, sirens howling, were pulling up outside the hotel’s main entrance. Lady MacLean had almost fainted with terror, and Kathy Morgan, as white as the tablecloth, was holding Arnold’s hand while her husband griped and moaned about too much fuss being made about a small incident.

It was after two o’clock when the room was restored almost to normal. The body of Ravi was hauled back onto the roof, and once more his lines held fast. They wheeled Shakira out on a hospital gurney, and the police summoned a doctor and three nurses from nearby Edinburgh Royal Infirmary to tend Arnold’s mercifully superficial wound.

“I’d prefer you to be treated in the hotel,” the chief superintendent told America’s former national security adviser. “I just have a feeling that if you step outside the door, another bloody gun battle might break out.”

Admiral Morgan chuckled and said, gruffly, “Words of appreciation don’t come naturally to me. But I would like to say ‘thank you’ for everything you all have done for me. I’ve been a very stubborn old man, and I’ve put a lot of good people in great danger.”

“For the last time,” responded Kathy. “Because you, Arnold Morgan, are retired — no more advising, no more telling presidents what to do. Your service to your country is over. That’s if you want to stay married.”

EPILOGUE

0730 Wednesday 8 August Edinburgh Airport

Air Force One was refueled. The stairway was in place, and the Royal Navy staff car pulled up twenty yards away. Admiral Morgan, with his arm around Kathy, stepped out and climbed the steps to the giant presidential aircraft, right behind Commander Hunter. The four American agents were already on board.

The huge door was immediately closed and the Boeing 747 that bore the Presidential Seal of the United States of America began to push back, ready to taxi down to the end of the runway.

Little was yet known about the identity of the two would-be assassins, but the communications officer was instructed to stand by for information from the Lothian and Border Police in Edinburgh.

Somewhat poignantly, they were thirty thousand feet above West Cork at around 9 A.M. when the coded communiqué came through:

Dead assassin identified as Major Ray Kerman, deserted from Great Britain’s Special Air Service eight years ago. Dead hotel maid believed to be his Palestinian wife, Shakira Rashood. Search of her luggage, in Kerman’s room, revealed five different passports, one of them American in the name of Carla Martin. Both the deceased are believed to have been Islamic extremists operating on behalf of the terrorist organization, Hamas.”

“Goddamned towelheads,” growled Arnold Morgan.