To the Death

Kathy shook her head, and the helicopter kept going west until it swung right just before the market town of Wallingford, with its thirteenth-century bridge over the Thames. And now the pilot began to lose height, dropping down and flying a hundred feet above the river, following it downstream.

To the left were the Chiltern Hills, to the right the Berkshire Downs, and along the lonely river valley, clattering noisily in the soft summer air, came the helo from the Queen’s Flight, bearing the admiral to a place of safety. You could search for a hundred years and never find him here.

The GPS numbers in the cockpit finally signaled their arrival, and the pilot slewed the helicopter in the air, making it almost stationary forty feet above the water. And there before them, on the banks of the river, was the picturesque Leather Bottle, except it was spelled differently — The Leatherne Bottel.

“Jesus,” said Arnold, staring at the lettering on the sign. “These guys can’t even spell, never mind cook!”

“Olde English,” yelled the loadmaster. “This place has been here for centuries.”

The pilot dropped down almost to water level and then edged forward, landing on the concrete parking lot, with the tail jutting out over the river. The admiral and Kathy disembarked with the two agents, who unloaded the baggage, and the four of them walked across the stone terrace and into the bright, low-ceilinged restaurant with its stunning views across the river to the Downs. Way along the summit, it was just possible to see one of the fabled Long Woods.

“Beautiful place,” said Admiral Morgan to James, the young man who was supervising the luggage.

“One of the best views in England,” he said. “Shall I take your bags up to your room? We’re not really a regular hotel, just two suites for VIPs, which I imagine you must be.”

“Not us,” said Arnold. “We’re just a couple of strays with no other hotel room, looking for a place to stay for two or three days.”

“Absolutely,” chuckled James. “Nearly everyone who comes here arrives in a Royal Air Force private helicopter from the Queen’s Flight.”

At this moment, a police car came swiftly down the steep, winding approach to the Leatherne Bottel to check that all was well. The sergeant asked to see the manager, to stress the importance of privacy and secrecy for the guests. He told her that a limousine from the U.S. embassy would be arriving shortly, with two more security men, and that the four agents would share the second suite.

James led the admiral and Kathy back out to the terrace and seated them at a table right on the riverbank beneath a pergola. It was just one o’clock and the sun was high. Only an hour and forty minutes had elapsed since the Hamas general had tried to assassinate Arnold Morgan.

“I’ll bring you some lunch, if you wish,” said James. “How about some fillets of plaice and spinach? Chef’s just cooking it now.”

“Perfect,” said Kathy.

“How about a roast beef sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard?” asked the admiral.

“Shut up, darling,” said Kathy, and then, turning back to James, “Two plaice and spinach. Ignore him.”

Arnold chuckled. He was always amused at being bullied by the only person in the world who even interrupted him, never mind argued.

James hesitated, but Arnold confirmed, “She’s the boss. Well. mostly. And would you give the guys whatever they want? Everything’s on my tab.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” he replied. “We were told specifically that every last charge would be handled by the U.S. ambassador’s office in London.”

“Guess I’m more popular than I thought,” said Arnold.

Meanwhile, Ravi and Shakira were still driving north and had reached the Hertfordshire town of Baldock, where he pulled into the parking lot of the King’s Arms Hotel. Ravi took out his cell phone and tapped in the numbers for the Ritz Hotel.

“Would it be possible to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan?” he said.

The operator was silent for a few seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, sir. The admiral and Mrs. Morgan checked out more than an hour ago.”

“Did they leave a forwarding number or address?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We have no further information on that.”

Ravi, who had been timing the call on his watch, clicked off his phone. It had taken twenty-five seconds, and Ravi knew full well it would have taken the police around fifteen seconds to log into the call, and perhaps trace geographically the cell phone’s position.

He knew it had run too long, but he needed to know the admiral had left the hotel. The police, who he guessed correctly were already tapped into the Ritz switchboard, probably now knew someone had called the admiral from the Hertfordshire area.

This meant he had to get out of the area, and he backed out onto the main road, and headed up to Cambridge, to a city he knew slightly, and to an anonymous hotel. They had to go somewhere, and he had to find out the whereabouts of the admiral. Otherwise everything would have been for nothing.