To the Death

With the most profound regret, Ravi finally realized that he was an outlaw in a once-friendly city, an outcast in his own land, an enemy of the people. And at that moment, if he could have turned the clock back and been allowed to do things differently, he would most certainly have done so. Except for Shakira. Always Shakira. Surely, he thought, no man had ever lived with a greater, more perplexing conundrum.

Greater love hath no man than this, muttered Ravi, adjusting the Gospel of Saint John, that he would lay down his country for his wife.

Grinning at the dexterity of his own words, he walked calmly up the steps to the Syrian embassy and rang the bell, as arranged. He was ever the visitor, never a resident. And the lady for whom he had laid down his country welcomed him as if he had been away for six months rather than four hours.

For Shakira, the presence of her husband was the only solace for the long lonely hours she spent in the gilded splendor of the embassy. Occasionally she would be offered lunch or perhaps tea with a visiting Arab sheik, and they would speak politely about the political situation in the Middle East. But on each of the next two days, Ravi would leave in the morning and go to his office, always acquainting himself with fellow tenants if possible, and especially with Don and Reggie the doormen.

He normally lunched at the embassy, but in the afternoons he made another visit to Dover Street, and on Friday evening he was there yet again at 8 P.M., leaving at 9:30, carrying his briefcase, still dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, still wearing his blond wig, moustache, and goatee. Still speaking in what he guessed, wrongly, was a Finnish accent, but in truth sounded more like Trinidad than Helsinki.

Nonetheless, the farm marketing executive from Northern Europe, Haakon Fretheim, quickly became a familiar figure in the building, perceived as a busy, industrious, and courteous gentleman who worked erratic hours for an accountant.

0900 Saturday 28 July Southall, West London

Ravi drove out to the workshops of Prenjit Kumar alone. He parked the car in the same spot and was led down to the basement by the gunsmith himself. And there, lying open on the red baize beneath the light, was a hand-tooled brown leather case containing all the parts of an Austrian SSG 69 sniper rifle, each one set into precision grooves carved into a black velvet interior.

The barrel rested in its own groove, above the main firing section, which contained the bolt and the magazine, plus the trigger and guard. The silencer also had its own section, around which were set the light metal components which would form the newly designed stock, made specifically to fit General Rashood’s shoulder and arm length. Along the bottom part of the interior were spaces for six of the exploding bullets, and the gunsights.

“Problems?” asked Ravi.

“None,” replied Kumar, “except that I have had no sleep for a week.”

“Then you have earned your money,” he said. “Perhaps you would assemble the rifle and then I’ll dismantle it and put it together myself.”

“Of course,” replied the Bengali gunsmith. “And I hope you agree, this is the most beautiful object, a work of art. Very light and very deadly.”

He removed the main firing section from the case and picked up the barrel carefully, as if he were handling precious gems. Expertly he screwed the barrel into place, and then clipped in the sights.

He took out the metal plate that screwed into the neck behind the trigger guard, and then took two silver struts for the stock and screwed each one into place, using just his fingers. The top one went out straight, perpendicular. The second was set at more of an angle, but finished level at the end. Then he took the cast-bronze base of the stock, made to fit Ravi’s shoulder precisely, and clipped it onto the struts, forming the outline shape of a rifle stock, but without the bulk. Ravi looked on approvingly.

Above the magazine there were two clips, set five inches apart. To these Kumar attached the telescopic sight, sliding it into place and locking it securely. Finally he screwed the silencer into the barrel. And then he held the rifle at arm’s length and said, admiringly, “Magnificent, hah?”

Ravi took it from him and held it against his shoulder, staring into the telescopic sight, straight at the crosshairs. Then he relaxed and held the rifle in the palms of both hands, away from his body, as if weighing it, balancing it. During his years in the SAS, this weapon, or one precisely like it, had been like an old friend — super accurate, super quiet, and super reliable, all the qualities a professional sniper requires.

This SSG looked different now. But it felt the same, a little lighter, but with the same familiar well-balanced deadliness about it.

“Can we try it?” he asked.