Rain on the Dead
Rain on the Dead
Jack Higgins
A storm is coming for Sean Dillon & company in the mesmerizing new thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.It begins with the attempted assassination of the ex-President of the United States.Only the presence of Sean Dillon and the fellow members of the ‘Prime Minister’s Private Army’ prevents it becoming a bloodbath. Soon they are on the trail of the perpetrators, confident they will catch them.What Dillon & Co don’t realize is that they have just sprung a trap that will lead them to almost certain death.For there is a new Master pulling the strings for al Qaeda in London, and this time he’s going to make sure the hated enemy is destroyed once and for all.A storm is coming for Sean Dillon…
Copyright (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Copyright © Harry Patterson 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Jacket photographs © Slow Images/Getty Images (lighthouse and sea); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images)
Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007585847
Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780007585854
Version: 2014-12-02
Dedication (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
In fond memory of my dear mother-in-law,
Sarah Palmer
Rain on the dead
and
wash away their sins
–IRISH PROVERB
Contents
Cover (#u92eda5c1-005e-5833-a395-4f2b9546ff23)
Title Page (#u8b1ed38f-b063-575a-8292-20254ef0e869)
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph (#u18465728-ce00-5ee1-8a40-f188547f01fa)
Nantucket
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
New York, London, Ireland
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Washington, Paris, London
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Also by Jack Higgins
About the Publisher
NANTUCKET (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
1 (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
The island of Nantucket, Massachusetts – high summer, the western end of the harbour crowded with boats, many tied up at the jetty. Among them was a scarlet-and-white sport-fisherman named Dolphin. On the flying bridge, a grey-haired man sat at the wheel playing a clarinet, something plaintive and touching. He was around sixty, a white curling beard giving him the look of an old sailor.
The man who joined him from below, wearing swimming trunks, had dark tousled hair and the beard of some medieval bravo. He was fit and muscular, his smile pleasant enough, his only unusual feature two scars on his left chest which any doctor would have recognized as relics from old bullet wounds.
He spoke in Irish. ‘Big night, Kelly!’
The other answered in the same. ‘You could say that. It’ll be dark soon, Tod – if you’re going to grab that swim, it’d better be now.’
‘I will. Keep your eye out for that kid, Henry, from the harbourmaster’s office. He’s bringing our passports and the credit card, so don’t forget to speak like the Yank your passport says you are.’
He slid down the ladder, vaulted over the rail, and swam away. Kelly heard a call from the dock.
‘Mr Jackson, are you there?’
Kelly descended the ladder. ‘He’s having a swim. I’m his partner, Jeremy Hawkins.’
Henry handed over the two passports. ‘There you go, sir, Mr Jackson’s credit card is in the envelope and your mooring licence covers you until Friday.’
Kelly took the package. ‘Thanks, son.’
‘That’s great clarinet I just heard. Kind of sounds like Gershwin, though I don’t recognize the tune.’
‘It’s an Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”. And you’re right, I did put a bit of Gershwin in there.’
‘I think he would have been pleased, sir. Are you and your friend professional musicians?’
‘I was for a while and he does play decent piano, but on the whole we found other things kept getting in the way.’
‘Well, that seems like a damn shame to me,’ Henry said, and walked away, calling at another boat.
Kelly turned and looked out over the harbour to see how Tod was getting on, and saw him swimming towards a round buoy floating on a chain. Many people were diving or jumping off the boats, some in wet suits, generally having a good time while the light still held.
For his part, Tod stroked the last couple of yards, then grabbed onto the chain, aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter descending somewhere in the distance.
He hung there, listening, and two young men erupted from the water, like black seals in their wet suits. They were like twins, darkly handsome, the same wildness apparent in their faces.
The nearest one grabbed the chain and laughed as his brother joined them. ‘Mr Jackson, I recognize you from your photo. We’re the ones you came to meet. The Master sends his regards and hopes that success in our venture will make us your favorite Chechens. I’m Yanni and this is Khalid.’
He had no accent, which his brother explained in a rather mocking tone. ‘Our parents were killed by barbaric Russian soldiers in the Chechen war. The wonderful American Red Cross saved us and our grandparents, and gave us a new life in good old New York.’
‘Where thanks to the public school system, we emerged as normal American teenagers,’ Yanni said.
‘Creating a problem for Westerners who expect Muslims to look and sound like Arabs,’ Khalid said.
‘So what can Muslims who look like Westerners do?’ Yanni added.
‘Why, serve Allah as undercover warriors in the great struggle,’ his brother said. ‘And here we are. We’ve already checked out the house of our target. It’s just off the beach, surrounded by trees – no problem. An easy one, this.’
Tod said, ‘Except that every security camera on every property you passed walking along that beach probably has your faces now.’
‘So we’ll wear ski masks for the hit,’ Khalid said. ‘Why should it matter as long as the target is dead? That’s all that counts.’
They were no longer smiling. Their faces were like death masks, their eyes pinpricks. They were obviously on drugs, which exasperated Tod, though there was no point in mentioning it now.
‘I’m going back to that boat.’ He indicated the Dolphin.‘I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes.’
They didn’t reply, simply turned and swam away, and so did he.
Hawkins was Tim Kelly, and Jackson, Tod Flynn, both of them Provisional IRA who had served sentences in the Maze Prison in Northern Ireland for many killings. Released during the peace process, they had become mercenaries. The situations in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and elsewhere offered highly paid security work and sometimes rather more than that, for Flynn had been a top enforcer with the IRA, and reputation was everything in the Death Trade. It brought the cautious phone calls, the offers of the big money that went with them, and the offer for this present job had been very big.
In the cabin belowdecks, he had a large whiskey, feeling strangely cold, and told Kelly about his meeting with the Chechens. Kelly said, ‘I knew it was a mistake to get involved with sodding Muslims. What are we going to do?’
‘There’s not much we can do, but I’ll tell you this. I’m putting a pistol in my pocket for when they come, just in case it gets nasty. You should, too,’ and he hurried away to his cabin.
He showered and dressed, and as he did so, remembered the first time he’d heard the Master’s voice, filled with quiet authority, and a touch of English upper class.
‘Would that be Mr Tod Flynn?’ the voice had asked.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’ve just credited your bank account with a hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself, and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
Tod frowned, but called his bank and received the happy news that the money had indeed been deposited from a Swiss bank in Geneva.
When the second call came, he said instantly, ‘Who is this?’
‘People know me as the Master. That will do for the moment.’
‘Al Qaeda,’ Tod said. ‘Everyone in the business knows about you guys and the way you operate. Don’t you have enough of your own people to call on? What do you want me for?’
‘Oh, I’m a great admirer. That finance man in Nigeria you took care of – five hundred yards through an open window of a car doing seventy. Splendid work. I have a list. My favourite was the Russian paratroop general who glanced out of the turret of his tank for a moment during a street battle and you took him at five hundred yards.’
‘Four hundred,’ Tod said. ‘And it was snowing. So what do you want?’
‘I have a target, living quietly in a house on the island of Nantucket with a manservant. I’m sending in a couple of Chechen boys to knock him off. All I need from you is to keep an eye on things and pick them up when they’re done. You’ll be waiting in a boat off the beach and they’ll swim out to you.’
‘So I’m the getaway driver, is that it?’ Tod laughed harshly. ‘What’s he done, this target?’
‘No need for you to know. Let’s just say he’s an old enemy.’
Tod nodded. ‘And what would be in it for me?’
‘You’ve already got one hundred thousand. That’s for you and your friend Kelly. I’ll give you another hundred afterwards and take care of your expenses.’
As usual, greed won the day. ‘Add another fifty thousand,’ Tod said. ‘Which rounds it to a quarter of a million, and I expect the full advance before we go.’
The man who called himself the Master paused, then said, ‘Agreed.’
And Tod, some part of him already regretting it, said, ‘Done. When do we meet?’
‘That will never happen, my friend. You’ll have to be content with my voice on the phone. I’ll send you a coded mobile with the tickets.’
Tim Kelly was shocked when Tod told him about the call. ‘Holy Mary, do we have to get involved with a bunch of Muslims like Al Qaeda?’
‘You’ll dance a jig when that money turns up in your bank account,’ Tod said. Later, he did wonder why the Master wanted him at all. The mystery man had made all the arrangements and the plan itself was simple enough. It was the height of tourist season, and the two assassins would be just another couple of people strolling along by night, carrying beach bags that would contain a couple of silenced Glocks, more than adequate to handle the situation. When they were done, they could just walk away from the scene of silent slaughter, which wouldn’t be discovered until morning, long after they had swum out to sea, each with a phosphorescent signalling ball held in his palm to guide in the waiting Dolphin.
It seemed too simple, and Tod couldn’t think why, still couldn’t as he finished dressing now, and then he heard a disturbance above. He hurried through the cabin, went on deck, and found Kelly switching on all the lights against the hurrying dark. The Chechens were there.
‘What’s going on?’ Tod demanded.
‘These two bastards are cracked, if you ask me,’ Kelly said. ‘They were sharing a bottle as they came along the jetty. That young guy from the harbourmaster’s office remonstrated with them as they were boarding.’ He pointed at Khalid. ‘This one told him to fuck off.’
Tod grabbed Khalid by the front of his shirt. ‘Stupid bastard, are you crazy? That kind of trouble is the last thing we need.’
Yanni reached in his beach bag and produced a silenced Glock. ‘Touch my brother again and I’ll kill you.’
Kelly, standing behind them, drew a Walther, but Tod released Khalid, laughing harshly. ‘Go on, do it. Kill both of us, why don’t you? Then tell me who’s going to wait off that beach to pick you up.’
Yanni put the Glock away and smiled falsely. ‘Hey, can’t you take a joke, Mr Jackson? Khalid was having a laugh. Like boxers going in the ring for a big fight. You get kind of nervous waiting for the action.’
‘Then I suggest you go, find the action, and get on with it, and we’ll get on with our part of the job.’
Yanni laughed out loud. ‘You know something, you’re a real funny man, Mr Jackson. I like you, I really do …’
He gave his brother a push and they scrambled up onto the jetty. Khalid took a bottle from his pocket, held it up, then tossed it into the harbour. ‘Just kidding, Mr Jackson,’ he said, and they walked away.
‘Total fruitcakes,’ Kelly said in disgust. ‘Where the hell did this Master find them? Don’t tell me he didn’t know they had problems.’
‘Never mind that for now. We’ve got half an hour to spare before we have to cast off and go round the coast to wait for them. I could do with coffee and a sandwich,’ Todd said.
He led the way below, and as they reached the kitchen area, the coded mobile phone the Master had given him trembled. He took it out and switched it to speaker. He turned to Kelly, touched a finger to his lips and waited.
‘Mr Flynn, I’m afraid something’s come up that affects our plans,’ the voice said.
‘And what would that be?’ Tod demanded.
‘I’ve just heard from a source that the target is receiving guests tonight by helicopter.’
‘We heard one arriving somewhere in the island not long ago,’ Tod told him.
The Master’s voice was unemotional. ‘Probably the one delivering them.’
‘They’ll get a shock when they find themselves invaded by two crazy Chechens.’
‘It’s the Chechens we need to worry about,’ the Master said. ‘His guests are General Charles Ferguson – who commands the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad – and two of his top people, a Captain Sara Gideon and one Sean Dillon, a notorious IRA gunman who now works for Ferguson.’
‘But I know these people, everyone in the Death Trade does.’ Flynn was angry now. ‘Why the hell would they be here?’
‘It’s time to tell you who our target is. It’s the former President of the United States, Jake Cazalet.’
Tod was shocked. ‘You lousy bastard.’
The Master continued. ‘You must cancel the operation. I can’t do it. Yanni and Khalid have no phone.’
‘I see,’ Tod said. ‘You knew they were wild cards and too untrustworthy to handle your special phone.’
‘You must try and stop them. Surely there’s still time?’
Tod was so angry he switched off.
Kelly said, ‘Christ, what a cockup. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch them walking the beach to Cazalet’s house.’
‘No, we won’t,’ Tod told him. ‘I don’t want anything more to do with this. We’ll cast off right now, sail overnight to Long Island, and leave the boat at Quogue. Then we’ll head straight to the airport and find the first plane that’ll take us back to Dublin.’
‘And not even try to pick the boys up?’
‘Do you really think there’ll be anyone to pick up? Sean Dillon is a bloody living legend of the IRA, as no one knows better than you, and this Sara Gideon lass has a Military Cross for killing Taliban. Not to mention Ferguson himself. No, those Chechens are dead meat. And frankly, I couldn’t care less.’
The house stood in trees behind a vast beach reaching out from town. The helicopter had landed some distance away, where Cazalet’s Secret Service man, Dalton, waited in a Jeep. He went to greet Ferguson and his people, who walked to meet him.
Ferguson shook hands. ‘Here I am again, Agent Dalton. Nice to see you.’ They waited as the helicopter drifted away.
Dalton said, ‘It’ll be back in the morning.’ He eased Sara’s bag from her hand and led the way to the Jeep.
‘President Cazalet’s really pleased to be seeing you. Mrs Boulder has left out a lovely supper in the conservatory.’
‘The President? Is that how you still address him?’ Sara asked.
Ferguson said, ‘Technically, all former holders of the office retain the title for life, but I think it’s a matter of individual choice. Cazalet says there can only be one Mr President and asks that I call him Jake. I could never bring myself to do it, so I make do with “sir”.’
‘Then “sir”’ it will be for me also,’ Sara said.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Murchison again,’ Ferguson said. ‘That’s the dog of the house, Sara, a wonderful flat-coated retriever.’
‘Who once saved the President’s life, as I recall,’ Dillon said. ‘Although there’s no official documentation of that.’
‘Too bad he isn’t here tonight,’ said Dalton. ‘Mrs Boulder has taken him home with her. She gets lonely since her husband died last year, and the President doesn’t mind.’
He turned off the road at a point where high-wire fencing fronted the trees. He paused, waiting for a ten-foot gate to open slowly between stone pillars, and drove through, pine trees and lots of shrubbery crowding in from both sides. To the left, they could see a terraced conservatory and they continued, circling around to a formal garden that fronted the old Colonial-style house with steps leading up to a pillared entrance, the door standing open, light pouring out, and Jake Cazalet waiting to greet them.
‘Charles, my dear old friend,’ he cried. ‘Marvellous to see you, marvellous to see all of you.’
Then he rushed down the steps to greet them, arms outstretched.
After embraces, Ferguson said, ‘Now, this was all most mysterious. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir, but why were we summoned?’
Cazalet said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing dire. The President wanted to invite you to the Oval Office, but couldn’t because of the publicity such a visit would have caused. He said you were in New York to meet the British ambassador and proposed that we kidnap you for a night so that I could say a heartfelt thanks on his behalf for your handling of the Husseini affair. If Iran had been able to use his work to perfect their nuclear bomb – well, it wouldn’t bear thinking of. All three of you did a remarkable job, and we are in your debt.’
‘Please tell the President how grateful we are,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s all in the game these days, and a damn ugly game it is.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ Cazalet said. ‘It’s a complete mess. Jihadists allied to Al Qaeda have infiltrated international terrorism like the plague, linking groups worldwide, each controlled by that anonymous leader always known as the Master, a shadowy figure, a voice on the phone. Backed by millions obtained from oil-rich states in the Middle East. They’re extremely dangerous.’
‘As Captain Gideon can attest to first-hand,’ said Ferguson.
Cazalet turned to Sara, who said, ‘Dillon and I were targeted by Al Qaeda in London, with orders to dispose of us.’
‘I notice you’re still here,’ Cazalet said.
‘You should see her in action, sir,’ Dillon told him.
‘So there’s a Master responsible for London?’
‘He also handled affairs in Paris,’ Dillon said. ‘And later in Beirut.’
‘And turned out to be General Ali ben Levi, the commander of the Iranian Army’s Secret Field Police.’
‘He was killed in London, though we weren’t responsible,’ Ferguson said. ‘But we had his body disposed of. We couldn’t see the point of sending the details to the Iranian military, and they’re still looking for him. They had no idea of his Al Qaeda connection.’
‘And I’m sure he has already been replaced,’ said Cazalet. ‘That there’s a new Master out there now. Terrorism has completely changed warfare as we know it. Enemies without uniforms, bombs everywhere.’ He shivered. ‘End of an era. But enough of that for this one night. Tonight, let’s go out on the terrace and have some champagne. Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of port, Charles?’
‘Now you’re talking, sir,’ Ferguson said, and led the way out.
The dining room opened into the conservatory, where great sliding doors gave access to the terrace with tables and lounging chairs, the garden crowding in, flowering shrubs of every description, tall pines and palm trees that someone had experimented with over many years. The scent of flowers, the sound of grasshoppers chirping in the lights, all combined to create a kind of tropical splendour.
‘Wonderful,’ Sara said. ‘I love the smell of it.’
Cazalet said, ‘It’s a bit of a jungle really, but at my age I can do as I please, so I let it run riot. Reminds me of my tours in Vietnam. Come, have something to eat.’
2 (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
Yanni and Khalid had reached the house without the slightest trouble, following the beach, passing the occasional barbecue, sometimes a fire. There were lots of other people in the darkness, laughter, guitar music, but there was no one by the Cazalet house.
They passed it, turning up the left side of the estate through a marshy area with reeds growing high, found a place where the fencing gaped and squeezed into the garden. They could hear conversation and laughter, light through the trees and shrubbery.
They had taken pills before leaving the cottage and were feeling the effects. ‘Are you getting high, brother?’ Yanni whispered.
‘I’m floating, man,’ Khalid told him.
‘Then put on your face.’
Yanni pulled the ski mask on, and grinned as his brother did the same. ‘You look like a clown.’
‘So do you,’ Khalid told him, and took his Glock out and dropped the shoulder bag to the ground. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Yanni, and led the way cautiously.
On the terrace, they were at the coffee stage, Ferguson and Cazalet sitting down and Dalton pouring it out. Dillon was standing by the open window, enjoying a cigarette. There were three stone steps leading up to the terrace crowded with overgrown shrubbery, and Sara stood there waiting for her coffee. Yanni crouched, watching her admiringly. His brother stood a few feet away in heavy bushes behind the balustrade.
They could have killed everyone if they’d fired without hesitating, but the drugs had taken full control and they were shaking with excitement, and it was Yanni who made the first move.
‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and took three quick steps up to the terrace. Sara half turned and he hit her sideways in the face, pulled her against him, and rammed the barrel of the Glock into her side. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’
‘Oh God,’ she moaned, as if terrified, and closed her eyes, apparently fainting, starting to slide to the floor so that he was losing his grasp.
Dalton was already drawing his weapon and jumping in front of Cazalet. Khalid stepped out of the bushes and shot him in the chest. In the same moment, Dillon drew the Colt .25 he always carried in a rear belt holder and fired rapidly three times, the hollow-point cartridges tearing Khalid apart, hurling him back into the shrubbery.
Yanni howled in rage, allowed Sara to slide, and fired once at Dillon, denting the wall. Sara withdrew the flick knife from the sheath she always wore around her right ankle, sprang the blade, and stabbed him under the chin. He dropped his weapon, fell back down the steps, and lay in the middle of rosebushes, kicking as he choked to death.
There had been surprisingly little sound, just the dull thud of silenced weapons, and Cazalet was already on his knees with Ferguson, examining Dalton, Dillon standing over them, his gun still in his hand. Dalton groaned and Cazalet looked up in relief.
‘Thank God, he was wearing his vest. I’ll leave him to you, Charles, while I raise the alarm.’
He found Dalton’s cell phone and called in. ‘This is Cazalet. Empire down. Two intruders down. Request Nightbird Retrieval.’
He said to the others, ‘Which means a cover-up job by the CIA. It should be easy enough, since all the weapons were silenced, so the neighbours shouldn’t have any idea what’s been going on, and as you know, the occasional helicopter landing is nothing new here.’ He turned to Sara. ‘I can see why they awarded you a Military Cross in Afghanistan, but your suit will never be the same again. It’s badly bloodstained.’
‘No problem, sir, I have another in my luggage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room to shower and change.’
‘Of course,’ he said.
As she moved out, Dillon murmured, ‘Are you okay?’
She held up a bloodstained hand. ‘As usual, not even shaking.’
‘Just like in the Bible. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’
‘Which doesn’t help me in the slightest,’ she said, and went out.
Cazalet eased Dalton onto a chair and gave him some brandy to sip. Dillon poured champagne for himself and Ferguson, who said, ‘God knows why we’re drinking this, but it’s a pity to waste good stuff.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Dillon toasted him.
Cazalet cut in: ‘Did you two hear what the one she killed said to her?’
Dillon nodded. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’
‘It appears that Al Qaeda has found us, right here in Nantucket.’
The Nightbird was of medium size, black in colour, the engine noise remarkably quiet. A dozen men in black overalls got out. The officer in charge, wearing the same black uniform, was calm and efficient.
‘Colonel Sam Caxton, Mr President. We’ll be treating this as a crime scene, although it’s not a police investigation. If you would, I’d like you all to wait inside and two of my men will record interviews with you, both individually and together, to cover all the bases. We also have a doctor with us, just to check you all out.’
‘We’re at your service, Colonel,’ Cazalet said.
‘If you could move in, we’ll get started. It goes without saying that we’re delighted to find you in one piece.’
He went out, and Cazalet said to Dalton, ‘How do you feel, Frank?’
‘The vest I’m wearing can stop a forty-four.’
‘You deserve a medal, jumping in front of me like that.’
‘That’s what I’m paid to do, sir.’
Cazalet clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s all return to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’
On the Dolphin out at sea, the lights of Nantucket had faded when Kelly entered the wheelhouse with two mugs of tea and gave one to Tod, who was listening to a jazz trio.
‘Sounds good. Who is it?’ Kelly asked.
‘No idea. It’s Nantucket local radio. I was waiting to hear if there were any news reports.’
‘What are you going to tell the Master?’
‘I’ll think of something.’ He sighed. ‘Probably better get it over with.’
‘I’d like to hear that,’ Kelly said. ‘Put it on speaker.’
In a moment, they were connected.
‘This is Tod Flynn.’
‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Are you still in Nantucket?’
‘We’re at sea. Couldn’t contact the Chechens, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of action at the Cazalet house. Nothing on local news, either, so I decided the smart thing to do was leave.’
The Master cut in. ‘Then I have news for you. Yanni and Khalid are dead, bagged, and waiting to be flown away.’
Shocked, Tod made an instinctive response. ‘That’s impossible. How could you know that?’
‘Because I provided backup that even the Chechens did not know about. A woman sympathetic to our cause that I had in place. After I phoned you, I called her. She had seen you casting off to go to sea and smelled a rat, went after the Chechens herself, and was right behind when they entered Cazalet’s jungle of a garden. There was no time to warn them.’
‘So what happened?’ Tod asked.
‘The Chechens were butchered. Dillon shot Khalid, and the Gideon woman stabbed Yanni with a knife. When a CIA black unit arrived by helicopter, she slipped away.’
‘A hell of a cool customer,’ Tod said.
‘Yes, a remarkable lady – but to business. Admit it, you were doing a runner. You never even attempted to warn those boys.’
‘Okay, we were. We know Dillon from way back in the Troubles. Nobody messes with him, he’s a killing machine and the Gideon woman is the same. If we had tried to find them, we’d be lying dead next to the Chechens.’
‘Nevertheless, that was your charge. You owe me a quarter of a million dollars.’
Tod said, ‘We didn’t sign up for any of this. You lied about everything. It wasn’t our fault that things turned out the way they did.’
‘Don’t think you can shirk your responsibility. Everybody is accountable. But you can keep the money.’
Tod was astonished. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Kelly are men of a mercenary persuasion, as the song goes. Go home to Drumgoole, to your horses and the stud and your aunt Meg – she runs things there, correct? Oh, and you’ll be losing your niece Hannah; she just heard yesterday that she’s been accepted by the Royal College of Music in London.’
‘Damn you, how do you know all this?’
‘I know everything, Tod, I thought you knew that. I just want to make sure you realize that there is nowhere that you – and yours – can go that I can’t touch. Now, I have tickets waiting for you at the airport. When you get home, shave off the beards and it will be as if you never left Ireland, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty of friends to swear you never did. Good luck and try to stay sober. I’ll be in touch soon, and this time you are going to earn the money you have from me.’
He faded away, the Dolphin plowed on, rain bouncing off the screen. Kelly said, ‘Is he for real?’
‘Oh, yes, and a barrel of laughs, too. I admire his fine turn of phrase.’
‘Well, he’s going to want something for his quarter of a million bucks, God knows what. Here, you take the helm. I’m going below to try to get a little shut-eye.’
Sara Gideon lay in bed in a dressing gown, unable to sleep. Outside, the wind howled, rain rattled against the window. There was a knock at the door, which opened and Dillon peered in. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Ferguson and Cazalet are downstairs and there’s an intermittent flow of information about the two people we knocked off. They’re Chechen brothers, but American, brought into the country as refugees with their grandparents, who have since died. Shouldn’t be long before we know everything about them.’
‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘Why?’
‘It was all so wild, weird even. It was as if a piece of foolish nonsense came to an unlooked-for end.’
‘That’s really quite literary,’ Dillon told her. ‘Are you by chance regretting the fact that you had to kill that maniac?’
‘Not at all, he’d have finished us all off. Dammit, Sean, he got a shot off at you that just missed.’
‘And you put the knife in to save my life, girl,’ Dillon said. ‘So bless you for that.’
‘Anything else happening?’
‘Well, Ferguson’s spoken to Roper in London, and I’m sure he’s been put to work. You can feel free to contact him on your mobile if you want.’
In the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, wearing a dressing gown, a towel about his neck, his bomb-ravaged face shining with sweat. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey when Sara called.
‘My goodness, love, so you’ve been playing executioner again?’
‘No choice, Giles, not this time. Sean was his usual deadly self.’ She shivered. ‘Seconds, Giles, just seconds. It could have turned out so badly for all of us.’
‘Well, it didn’t, and that’s all that counts.’
‘So who do you think was behind them? You’re the best that I know at squeezing answers out of cyberspace.’
‘I have to agree with you, but these things take time. Besides, you have to remember that what happened tonight in Nantucket didn’t happen. Nobody heard a thing, nobody saw a thing. And if nothing happened, then no one can claim responsibility. I’m certainly not going to go online saying there’s a rumour that there was an assassination attempt on former President Jake Cazalet. Then everyone would know – and all the wrong sort of people would claim responsibility.’
‘So what can you do?’
‘Just wait and watch, see if anything unusual pops out. You never know. Anyway, get some sleep. I’ll see you when you get back.’
Dalton had reluctantly gone to sleep on a couch in the sitting room, and Cazalet and Ferguson sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and turning things over between them.
‘I’m almost flattered that someone feels I’m worth being a target,’ Cazalet said.
‘Nonsense, you were a great President. Your death would have made headlines around the world.’
‘Maybe,’ Cazalet admitted grudgingly. ‘Anyway, there was one matter I was asked to raise with you before you leave.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Colonel Declan Rashid. He was an enormous help in the Husseini business, so disgusted at the way Husseini was treated by the Iranian government that he deserted their army and supported your people in everything.’
‘And took a couple of bullets in the back doing it. He’s agreed to work for us when fit again,’ Ferguson added.
‘Well, apparently the CIA would like to talk with him. They’re really quite keen on it, though I expect I know your answer. I told them I’d pass it along, but wouldn’t promise anything.’
‘And you were right. You know Rashid’s history. He was a paratrooper at sixteen and, during Iran’s war with Saddam Hussein, made his first jump into action without training. Over the years, he has been wounded many times, and now his doctors, including our own Professor Bellamy, say enough is enough. He needs time to recuperate. The CIA will just have to retire gracefully from the conflict.’
Cazalet laughed out loud. ‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, let me just check my office messages. I’ve given Mrs Boulder the morning off, so when it comes to breakfast, we’ll all have to pitch in.’
He went out. Ferguson boiled the kettle, made tea, and Dillon entered. ‘You look fit,’ the general said.
‘Didn’t sleep worth a damn, but I dry-shaved and had a cold shower. I could kill for a cup of tea.’
‘Help yourself,’ Ferguson told him. Cazalet came in. ‘Your helicopter arrives at eleven. Also, photos of the Chechens have just come through. The machine’s pumped out some extra copies.’
‘Goodness me,’ Ferguson said. ‘They look like any young convicts from about a century ago.’
Dillon helped himself, took one of the sheets and slipped it in a pocket. Cazalet said, ‘Right, who’s for bacon and eggs?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Ferguson replied, but Dillon said, ‘I think I’d prefer a last walk on the beach, sir. I can get something down there.’
So he left them to it, tiptoeing past Dalton – still sleeping heavily on the couch – and letting himself out on the drive, and was soon walking along the beach. Plenty of tourists were out already, for it was a particularly fine day.
He wandered through them, uncertain about what it was he was looking for. The Chechens fascinated him. Two real wild boys, and how had they got to Nantucket? Looking at the crowded harbour, he found a very possible answer. The sea, because that’s what he would have done.
He went up on the jetty and started to walk along past people working on the decks of the boats, others diving into the harbour and swimming. A young man with a money satchel around his neck and a register in his hands was working his way along the line of boats. The name tag on his shirt said ‘Henry’.
Dillon said, ‘Can you help me? Have you ever seen these guys?’
He unfolded the sheet with both photos. Henry stopped smiling. ‘What have they done, are you a cop?’
‘I work for a security firm,’ Dillon said. ‘They’ve been leaving unpaid bills all over the place.’
‘Sure, I’ve seen them. Yesterday evening, they were around here really high on something and drinking booze, and they had an argument with people on one of the boats. Went off making a hell of a row.’
‘Show me the boat involved.’
‘I saw it leave last night as it was getting dark, which was strange, because the mooring fee was paid until Friday. It was a sport-fisherman, a rental from Quogue. Two guys on board named Jackson and Hawkins. I brought them passports. Maybe they’re just cruising about out there.’
‘I don’t think so. Did you do any copying of their passport details, photos and so on?’
‘No, that would be illegal. Anyway, the national agency just tells me either it’s okay or not okay.’
‘It’s just that I’d been wondering whether you could use a fifty-dollar bill.’
Henry smiled. ‘Only if you’d be happy with a picture I took of them on my phone. They were chatting on deck.’ He took the phone out of his pocket.
‘Why did you take it?’
‘Because jazz and swing are my thing, and Mr Hawkins plays a great clarinet. He turned an old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, into pure Gershwin, special enough to bring tears to the eyes. That’s him with the white beard.’
The disguises, which in effect the bearded faces were, had succeeded brilliantly. Not for a moment had Dillon recognized them from the photo, but Henry’s musical anecdote was unique. It related to the deepest and most poignant moment in Dillon’s life, which meant the man in the white beard was Tim Kelly and the other was probably Tod Flynn.
‘Does it ring any bells, sir?’
‘Not really, it was a hell of a long time ago. I’d like to have a copy of the photo anyway, if that’s okay with you. Can you email it to me?’ Dillon held out the fifty and gave Henry his number.
‘You’re more than welcome, sir.’ Henry sent it and slipped the bill into his pocket. ‘Have a nice day.’
Dillon walked away, his mind in a turmoil, never so conflicted. It was obvious that he should tell Ferguson what he had discovered, but it was impossible to discuss why at the moment, and certainly not with Sara around. She served the Crown, wore the uniform. On the other hand, they were returning to Roper, the bomb-scarred hero trapped in his wheelchair. He nodded to himself. Roper would know what to do. He hurried along the beach.
At the end of the strand across from the house, a mobile beach concession had appeared, a sandwich and burger bar on wheels with canvas chairs and fold-up tables, most of which were taken. Dillon stopped and ordered tea and an egg sandwich, sitting close to the bar.
The woman sympathetic to the Cause whom the Master had mentioned to Flynn sat not too far away, keeping an eye on the situation over the road where the helicopter had just drifted in behind the house. Her name was Lily Shah, and she worked in the dispensary at the Army of God headquarters in London.
She was quite small, wore sandals, a Panama pushed down over fair hair, her blue linen shirt loose over khaki shorts. She removed her Ray-Bans to scratch her nose, revealing a calm, sweet face. She was forty-five and looked younger. On seeing Dillon, she replaced her Ray-Bans, took a sound enhancer from her shirt pocket, slipped it into her right ear, and adjusted it as Sara Gideon crossed the road.
‘Anything special happen while I’ve been out?’ Dillon asked as he finished his tea.
Lily could hear perfectly as Sara answered. ‘The President wants Cazalet safe. The black team from last night is coming in tomorrow to start doing all sorts of security things to the house. Since it’s been in the family since before the Civil War, Cazalet is not pleased. Even more, the staff have been suspended. Dalton’s going to hang on to hand over to the team, and Mrs Boulder keeps Murchison, bless her. And I’m here to tell you to get a move on – we’re boarding the helicopter in minutes.’
They hurried across the road and entered the drive, cutting it very fine, for it seemed no more than five minutes later that the helicopter lifted above the trees and turned away, causing a certain excitement among the tourists.
Once things settled down, Lily wandered along the beach, turned across and down the side of the house, the marshy area with the reeds growing high. She stood looking at the place where the fencing gaped and, on impulse, scrambled through into the garden, and then ventured a little further cautiously to where the carnage had taken place.
The windows on the terrace slipped open and Dalton walked through, comfortable in shirtsleeves, a can of beer in one hand, and sat down on the swing chair. He opened the newspaper, and she pointed her right index finger at him, thumb raised, then smiled, eased back through the jungle of the garden, and left.
Walking back to town, barefoot at the sea’s edge, she phoned the Master and told him what happened. ‘So Ferguson and company will be back to trouble you again very soon.’
‘And trouble is the right word. He’s been a thorn in our side for much too long. I’m sure he was responsible for the disappearance of General Ali ben Levi. We know that he flew in here, to Northolt, in pursuit of the traitor Declan Rashid. This is a fact.’
Referring to Ali ben Levi as flying ‘in here, to Northolt’ Airport had been an unfortunate slip, for his choice of words had indicated that the Master was speaking in London. Come to that, Lily was sure she’d once heard Big Ben chiming in the background of one of his calls. Lily was intrigued, but concentrated on the matter at hand.
‘The Russians tried to eradicate Ferguson and his Prime Minister’s private army some years ago. All they got was a bloody nose,’ she said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Dr Ali Saif, when he was head of education at the Army of God.’
‘What a damn traitor he turned out to be. Another turncoat.’
‘But not to Ferguson. As far as I know, MI5 claimed him. Perhaps he found it preferable to facing twenty-five years in Belmarsh under anti-terrorism laws,’ Lily said.
‘A traitor is a traitor. And as far as Ferguson goes, I’ve received an order from the Grand Council. They want revenge for ben Levi. Nothing less than assassination. Bullet or bomb, I’m open to either.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose I could put it to Tod Flynn.’
Lily was shocked at the implication. ‘The political upheaval would be enormous.’
‘And so it should be. That would be the point. That no one is safe, not even those working at the highest level for the Prime Minister himself, and there’s a thought.’
Lily tried to sound enthused, but managed only a muted ‘I hear what you say.’
‘Good. With luck, you should be back in London tomorrow. Give my sincere thanks to Hamid Bey for allowing you the few days’ leave to assist me as you have. He has been a revelation once he took over as imam. AQ acknowledges its debt.’
‘I’ll speak to him as soon as I get back. Is there anything more I can do for you?’
‘Yes, I’d like you to look up Tod Flynn’s niece at the Royal College of Music. She interests me. It seems that when she was fourteen, she lost her parents to a car bomb on a trip to Ulster and was crippled.’
‘Dear God,’ Lily said, genuinely shocked.
‘Her father was Flynn’s elder brother, Peter. Flynn became her legal guardian, and she’s been raised by him and her great-aunt. I want to know more about her. Something tells me it’ll come in handy for keeping Mr Flynn in hand.’
‘The usual file?’
‘Exactly, now be on your way. God go with you.’
She continued to walk at the water’s edge, thinking of Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now converted to the mosque and the headquarters of the Army of God charity. She was a cockney girl who from childhood had only wanted to be a nurse, had qualified against the odds and then joined the Army Medical Corps. In the seven years that followed, one war after another had given her an unrivalled experience of the barbarism, the butchery, that people could inflict on one another.
In Bosnia, she’d seen open graves with hundreds of Muslim bodies tumbled into them, as if the Nazis had returned to haunt Europe. In Kosovo, you had to get out of the ambulances to pull the corpses of mothers and their children to one side of the road so you could continue. In northern Lebanon, she had served with the Red Cross and UN with only a handful of soldiers to try to control the rape and pillage outside the mission hospital.
It was the only time she’d fought, and that was in desperation, picking up a dead soldier’s Browning pistol and emptying it into savage faces one after another, and then the trucks had roared up with the men and rifles. Al Qaeda, ruthlessly shooting wrongdoers, bringing order where there was none.
Two years later and out of the army, a nursing sister at the Cromwell Hospital in London, she’d met the love of her life, Khalid Shah, a handsome Algerian charge nurse, married him, and they’d moved to the dispensary at Pound Street, where it became clear that he was a follower of Osama bin Laden.
It was a year later that the cruelty of life took him away from her, when Al Qaeda called him in for service in Gaza, an Israeli air strike a month later ensuring his stay was permanent. She couldn’t hate Jews because of what had happened, for her dark secret, even from Khalid, was that she was only a Christian through her father, because her mother was a Jew and had married out. Hamid Bey, the imam at Pound Street Mosque, seemed a reasonable man, and as the dispensary was multi-faith, Lily’s Christianity caused no problem. The fact that he also looked the other way where Al Qaeda was concerned was understandable, when one considered that the greater part of his congregation supported it. She had yet to realize that she was entirely wrong in her assessment of Hamid, a savage zealot, who supported the Cause as much as the Master.
As her husband Khalid had been very open about his dedication to Al Qaeda, Lily had, to a certain extent, been drawn in. After all, it was the ruthless actions of Al Qaeda in Lebanon, saving many lives, including her own, which had made it possible for the most important relationship of her life to take place. And when that had ended, the telephone call from the Master to commiserate had opened a door into what followed. When General Ali ben Levi had been killed, she had not wondered why the Master’s voice had suddenly become different, for it was her place to serve without question.
But what had taken place here in Nantucket was like a bad dream that wouldn’t go away and not like anything that had happened before. Not even like Lebanon and the massacre and the intervention of Al Qaeda, which had saved so many lives.
She glanced at her watch and saw the time. If she was going to catch the ferry, she’d have to run. She slung her beach bag over her shoulder and started to do just that.
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The helicopter was comfortable enough, three tables with bench seats around the windows and a room in the back for privacy, into which Cazalet and Ferguson vanished on boarding. A young man and woman were in attendance, wearing identical dark blue suits and ties, and they ushered Dillon and Sara to one of the tables, belted themselves up for takeoff, and afterwards indicated that coffee or tea and a selection of sandwiches were available.
‘Would there be anything stronger?’ Dillon asked the woman, her colleague having gone off to serve the back room. ‘Like Bushmills, or would that be too much to ask?’
‘Of course not, sir, we keep a full range of spirits. And you, Captain?’
‘You must forgive my friend being so particular, but he’s Irish and not as other men. I’m probably being just as awkward by asking if you have any English breakfast tea.’
There was the ghost of a smile as the woman said, ‘Of course, Captain, I think I can manage that.’
She returned with their drinks on a tray and served them, and Sara thanked her. There were three double miniatures on Dillon’s small tray, a glass, but no water. ‘That should make you happy,’ Sara said as she poured her tea. ‘It’s almost as if she knows you.’
Dillon had opened his first miniature as she spoke, poured it, and tossed it down. ‘Maybe she does,’ he said as he opened another.
‘I don’t understand you, Sean,’ Sara said. ‘You were fine earlier when you came to tell me you’d had a word with Roper and so on, but now you’re in another place.’ She drank some of her tea. ‘You seemed okay when you went off to have a walk on the beach, but since then, not even a smile. What’s wrong? Are you upset about something?’
‘You mean like shooting a guy three times in the head last night? Why should I let a little thing like that bother me? You, on the other hand, the sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’ He picked up the third miniature, started to open it, and slammed it down.
Sara reached over and put her hand on his. ‘What is it, love? This isn’t you. Just tell me. It’s what friends are for.’
‘Damn you, Sara, for being so bloody nice. I’m truly sorry, but let’s leave it. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the toilet.’
She sat there thinking about it, thoroughly worried, then he returned fifteen minutes later, a fresh face on him, hair combed. He smiled. ‘If I do that again, punch me in the mouth. I don’t usually stress up that easily, but I seem to have done so this trip.’
Not that she believed him, but she couldn’t take the matter any further when the young man appeared from the back room and told them that Cazalet wanted to see them.
It was comfortably furnished, some chairs clamped to the floor, a desk, a large television screen, a computer. Cazalet sat behind the desk, Ferguson to one side. Ferguson said, ‘We’ll be in New York pretty soon, so this is the last chance for the four of us to discuss what’s happening. Sit down.’
Which they did, and Cazalet said, ‘The President has decided to be guided by the CIA in this matter, and their advice is this. They agree that the attack was sponsored by Al Qaeda, but they want to keep it under wraps. They’ll immediately start investigating, but want to keep Al Qaeda off balance by not saying a word about it publicly. All they’ll know is that I’m obviously alive and walking around. Al Qaeda won’t know what to make of it, won’t know what did occur.’
‘Only that their two assassins have gone missing?’ Sara nodded. ‘That makes for an interesting situation.’
‘Well, they love their martyrs,’ Ferguson said. ‘We all know that, so handled this way, it denies AQ the oxygen of publicity.’
Cazalet said, ‘Maybe they’ll slip up, make a mistake, try to communicate with each other. That’s helped us before.’ Cazalet smiled grimly. ‘And we have a lot of drones.’
‘Which still requires us to know where the bastards are in the first place,’ Dillon said. ‘To be able to score.’
There was a slight pause. Sara glanced at Dillon, then said, ‘Thank you for being so clear, sir.’
‘Very weird.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘We were in New York at the UN to discuss the Husseini affair with the British ambassador, then got yanked out for an evening with you, and it was that which screwed up Al Qaeda’s plan. I’m surprised they didn’t get wind of our trip to Nantucket. The UN’s a sieve, all those countries crammed into that building on the East River. Don’t tell me Al Qaeda doesn’t have its fingers in that pie.’
‘That may be,’ Ferguson said. ‘The point is how we handle it now. I’ve had word from London. It seems the President has spoken to the Prime Minister, who has agreed to all this but with some reluctance. So that settles it. As far as the public is concerned, none of this ever happened.’
He turned to Dillon. ‘Have you anything to say? You usually do.’
‘About the dream I had last night? It’s fading rapidly.’
‘Go on, back to your seats. We need a last few words together, don’t we, sir?’ he said to Cazalet.
Dillon and Sara turned to go. He had his hand on the door handle when Cazalet called, ‘Just a moment, you two.’
They turned, and Sara said, ‘Yes, sir, was there something else?’
‘Yes.’ Cazalet was smiling. ‘Very private and between us. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about the CIA. Thank God you were there last night. It’s people like you who guard the wall for all of us, and I, for one, am extremely grateful.’
There was a silent moment as his words sank in, and then Sara smiled and said, ‘It’s been a privilege to serve, Mr President,’ and she followed Dillon out.
Later that day, in the Gulfstream heading home, Ferguson stayed towards the front of the cabin video-conferencing while Flight Lieutenant Parry moved along from the cockpit, visited the kitchen area, and came out with coffee.
‘We’ve got some storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so make sure you belt up if you go to sleep. And’ – he looked a little uncomfortable – ‘could you advise Dillon to watch his drinking?’
He and Sara exchanged a look, then he moved back towards the cockpit. She reached up to a locker and found a couple of blankets, and Dillon, who’d been to the toilet, returned with a glass in one hand. She tossed one blanket to him and draped herself in the other.
‘I’d be careful with your booze intake, Sean,’ she advised. ‘Rough weather forecast.’
They sat with their backs against the rear bulkhead on either side of the aisle, and he touched her. ‘Just the one, and then I’ll probably have a sleep.’
‘So you’ve still got problems?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about what Cazalet said about people like us guarding the wall.’
‘That was a fine thing for him to say, but then he’s a fine man.’
‘I agree, but it made me feel ashamed.’
She frowned. ‘But why should it do that?’
‘Oh, not living up to the image, in my case allowing a mental aberration to cloud my judgment, but I see sense now. I’ve been wrong, but at least when you see you have, you can put it right.’
‘Are you going to talk to Ferguson about it?’
‘Eventually, but I need to consult Roper first.’
Ferguson switched off the screen, turned, and called to them, ‘That’s it for me. I’m taking a pill. With any luck, I’ll sleep through to Farley Field,’ and he pulled out a blanket and settled down.
Sara lowered her voice. ‘Come on, Sean, what’s going on?’
‘Well – I believe I know the identity of two people involved in the Nantucket business.’
She was astonished. ‘But you haven’t said a word of this to anyone. Why not?’
‘There’s an Irish connection, a question of mistaken loyalty to family on my part. It has to do with the death of my father in Belfast in 1979, when he blundered into a firefight with British paratroopers and was killed. I can see now I was wrong. It will be put right, that’s all that counts. God knows what Ferguson will do, but I’ll take that as it comes.’
‘Sean, what are you talking about?’
‘Well, if you’ll shut up for a while, girl dear, I’ll tell you,’ Dillon said. ‘In my early years in Collyban, my father in London trying to make a place for us, I was raised by my uncle, Mickeen Oge Flynn. His son Tod and I were like brothers. We tackled the old upright in the front parlour together, learned to play passable barroom piano, accompanied by our friend, Tim Kelly, on clarinet. A boy with a real gift, believe me. Then I went to London and got involved with the theatre, as you know.’
‘Sean, what on earth has this to do with anything?’
‘It has to do with everything,’ Dillon said. ‘Be patient. What with the Troubles, we just kept in touch with the family by phone from London, and I knew that Tod and Tim Kelly had made something of their music, played in bars and clubs, and it was Uncle Mickeen who phoned me with the news of my father’s death. He said that nobody from Collyban would be going up to Belfast for the funeral, as it would be too dangerous.’
Sara said, ‘And I imagine he thought the same for you.’
‘I suppose so, but I told him I’d be there, and he said he ought to warn me that Tod and Kelly, who were going to take care of the funeral, were Provisional IRA and on the run as far as the army and police were concerned.’
Sara shook her head. ‘So, needless to say, you went?’
‘A rushed flight, Belfast greeted me with pouring rain. Taxis were available, though expensive. I was dropped at St Mary the Virgin Church in Samson Street near the docks. Three vans had men standing around them under umbrellas, watching. I hurried through a decaying graveyard and entered the church.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘It was like most of them, half dark, burning candles, an effigy of Mary and the Christ child by the door. I remember putting my fingers in the holy water – habit, I suppose. There was the aisle between the pews towards the altar, a closed coffin on trestles, an old priest in a cassock, no vestments. Tod stood there, obviously startled by the door opening, a Browning ready, and Tim Kelly was opposite, a clarinet in his hands.’
‘“God in heaven, you’ve come.” Tod stepped forward and gave me a hug.
‘“It’s where I should be,” I told him, “But there are vans outside, and we seem to be attracting attention.”
‘“UVF Protestant bastards,” Kelly told me. “They’d hang the lot of us if they could.”
‘“Never mind that now,” Tod said. “Father Murphy’s done with his prayers and will see to the burial with the sexton after we’ve gone. It only remains for Tim’s tribute.”’
‘Tribute?’ Sara said. ‘What was that?’
‘My father had a favourite old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, and the sound of that clarinet played in the Gershwin style, soaring up to the roof, was the most poignant thing I’d ever heard, has remained with me forever. There were voices outside, but the music stilled them. There was a moment of silence as Kelly finished – then a brick came in through a window. Tod pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver out of his pocket and pushed it into my hand. I’d done a training course on the use of weapons on stage.’
‘Which was your only experience of handling a gun?’ Sara said.
‘Exactly. Father Murphy shouted, You know the way out, boys. Don’t worry about me. They wouldn’t dare to harm a priest. The church door swung open, men burst in, the first one already firing a pistol,’ Dillon continued. ‘He hit me in the left shoulder. I staggered back, firing blindly, and caught him in the throat. Tod shot the man behind them, driving the others back, then got an arm around me, hustled me into the vestry, Kelly following, down some steps to a cellar. There was a manhole in a corner, they opened it, and we scrambled into a sewage tunnel, big enough to walk along, all the way down to the docks.’
‘And obviously, you got away,’ Sara said.
‘That part of the city is an underground network of similar tunnels. I remember us surfacing in some sort of large garage full of trucks and vans, and then I blacked out, so I can only tell you what I was told later.’
‘And what was that?’
‘The Provos had the trick of using ambulances they’d got their hands on, manning them with their own people wearing hospital uniforms. Tod told me they had a real nurse pump me full of morphine, then he and Kelly scrambled in the back wearing hospital scrubs and we were away, sailing through every roadblock.’
‘To where?’ Sara asked.
‘Over the border into the Republic, to a charity hospital called St Mary’s Priory run by the Little Sisters of the Poor, a nursing order.’
‘Strictly speaking, that was illegal.’
‘Of course, but how far do you think they’d get putting nuns in court in Ireland? Tod and Kelly left me to it, then came back three weeks later when I was fit to leave.’
‘An amazing story, the whole business, changing your life like that. You were forced into killing that UVF man, I can see that, but why did you join the PIRA and set foot on such a course?’
‘It was nothing to do with the death of that UVF man, everything to do with what happened to Father Murphy. He and the sexton buried my father as he had promised. A week later, somebody ran him down one night, left him dead in the road.’
Sara was distressed. ‘It could have been an accident, Sean.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I did at the time. But never mind. You’ve been so gripped by my story that you’ve lost sight of why I told it to you.’
‘What are you saying?’ she asked.
He showed her the photo on his phone. She examined it, frowning. ‘Who on earth are these two?’
‘Supposedly their names are Jackson and Hawkins, two Americans visiting Nantucket in a sport-fisherman out of Long Island. I got that photo of them from a nice kid named Henry working out of the harbourmaster’s office. Remember I went for a walk on the beach down to the harbour? I found Henry checking boats and showed him the Chechen photos. He recognized them as having had a row with Jackson and Hawkins the previous evening, told me he was surprised to find that they had already left in their boat, which was booked to stay until Friday.’
‘Are you trying to say you know these men?’
‘I certainly don’t recognize them, but beards and bushy hairdos are a very successful disguise, so I’ve always found. But some things can’t be disguised. What if I told you that Henry’s a jazz enthusiast and heard Hawkins, the one with the white hair, playing the finest clarinet he’d ever heard but didn’t recognize the music. When he asked what it was, Hawkins told him it was an old Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”, which he’d played in the style of George Gershwin.’
Her eyes widened as she stared at him, stunned. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘Yes, my love, my cousin and Tim Kelly can disguise themselves as much as you like, but no one could disguise that music from me, wouldn’t you agree after hearing my story?’
‘But what would they be up to?’
‘Obviously I don’t know, but what I do is that they were both released from the Maze Prison during the peace process. I heard some talk of them being in the security business, so called. As we know, that could mean anything. It gave me the greatest shock of my life when Henry spoke to me. It was so strange, brought everything back. My first thought was that I’d have to turn them in. I couldn’t face that, but I’ve got my head round it now. I’ll have to tell the General and face the consequences.’
There was a stirring up in front of them and Ferguson looked around. ‘No need, Dillon, I heard the whole bloody saga – taped it, as a matter of fact. How lucky for me that my pill box was empty so I hadn’t been knocked out as I usually am on these flights.’
‘So it’s the Tower of London, next stop?’ Dillon said.
‘You certainly deserve it. You’ve given me all sorts of problems now. What do I do about the CIA, what will the Prime Minister have to say? I’m going to send it all on for Roper to digest. In the meantime, we have another four hours to Farley. May I suggest we dim the lights and try to get some sleep?’
At the Holland Park safe house, Roper, seated in his dressing gown in his wheelchair in the computer room, was ecstatic and laughing to himself as he reached the end of the recording. He reached for the Bushmills Irish whiskey bottle and poured a large one.
He tossed it back, broke into laughter, and said, ‘God bless you, Sean Dillon. When my day is dull, I can always rely on you to brighten it up.’
Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, had just pushed in a trolley with bacon sandwiches and a tea urn, his bomb-devastated boss being unable to drink coffee any longer.
‘You’re a happy man, Major, what’s caused that? Have there been developments?’
He had been in the computer room the previous night with Roper when Ferguson had come on screen from Nantucket to mention the assassination attempt and Dillon and Sara’s part in it. The Holland Park safe house operated outside the normal security services such as MI5 and 6, who hated the fact that, thanks to Roper’s genius, a great deal that passed through his coded computers stayed private except to Ferguson and his people, all sworn to secrecy.
Roper said, ‘You’ve got to hear this, Tony, fresh from the Gulfstream. Pass me a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No pictures, just audio.’
When it was finished, Tony Doyle shook his head. ‘That was a bad thing some bastard did to Father Murphy.’
Roper, taking a more sober attitude now, agreed. ‘The Troubles were not only hell on earth, they were disgusting morally.’
‘Yes, but you only realized that by being there,’ Doyle said. ‘Take me. A Jamaican Cockney born and bred in London. I wanted to see the world, so I joined the British Army, and what did I get?’
‘Seven tours of duty in Northern Ireland.’ Roper took another sandwich. ‘And what did I get out of it? This wheelchair.’ He switched on multiple screens. ‘Let me see if there’s anything interesting I can find about the Flynn clan.’
Doyle said, ‘Yes, Major, you really are a casualty of war.’
‘So are you,’ Roper told him, not looking at him but scanning the screens. ‘And so were Dillon and Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly, who marched to the beat of the wrong drum. Hmm. Apparently, the only person in this affair who showed good sense was Tod’s elder brother by ten years, Peter. He avoided the Troubles by moving to the Republic to work for a distant relative on his horse farm and stud at a place called Drumgoole.’
‘A sensible option, I’d say.’
‘I’d agree, especially as seven years later, the relative died of a heart attack and left the farm to Peter and his wife, on the condition that they gave a home to his widowed sister, Margaret Flynn, known to the family as Aunt Meg.’
‘Some people have all the luck,’ Doyle said.
‘Especially when Tod and Kelly were released from the Maze and he was able to offer them a home.’
‘To work on the farm?’
‘Some of the time. It’s also the address of a security firm. Obviously, it didn’t take them long to get down to business.’
‘So you think Nantucket was part of their agenda?’
‘I don’t know.’ Roper was frowning, manipulating his control. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘That was unfortunate. There’s a daughter, Hannah, who was eighteen in June. Four years ago, on a trip to Belfast, she lost her parents to a car bomb. She was badly injured and in hospital for months. Her father died intestate.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘No will. She inherited everything, but as she was only fourteen, the court appointed Tod and Aunt Meg as joint guardians.’
‘Well, as I wouldn’t trust that Provo bastard an inch, I’m happy the aunt’s around to keep an eye on him,’ Doyle said.
‘There’s some personal stuff here on her Facebook page,’ Roper said. ‘Good news. She must be a real hotshot on the piano. She’s just been accepted as a student at the Royal College of Music.’
‘Sounds like you’re taking a personal interest.’
Roper switched off most of the screens, leaving only one, the emergency cover. ‘Enough already. I could do with a steam, shower and shave and fresh clothes, then I’ll doze until our lord and master appears.’ He was very cheerful. ‘Can you assist me, Sergeant?’
‘That’s what I’m here for, Major,’ Doyle told him, and followed as Roper switched on his wheelchair and led the way out.
And in Ireland, high on a hill that loomed above Drumgoole Place, Hannah Flynn reined in a mare named Fancy as she saw the Land Rover approaching the house in the far distance. It was raining lightly, evening drawing in, and she wore an Australian drover’s coat, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over auburn hair that framed a calm and serious face. She spoke into a cell phone.
‘They’re here, Aunt Meg.’
Margaret Flynn took the call in the kitchen. At seventy-six, she was a handsome woman still, in jerkin and riding breeches, hair white, face tanned. There was still a hint of the actress she had been in her youth.
‘Wonderful, but when your uncle Tod called from Dublin Airport, he said they wanted to change as soon as possible.’
‘More cloak and dagger again,’ Hannah said. ‘When are they going to learn that the IRA is past its prime and nobody wants to know any more?’
‘Of course, love, Tod and Kelly know that. It’s just security work they do these days. Anyway, I’ve given the stable hands the night off, so you get here when you can. We’ll have dinner a little later.’
There had long been a dark suspicion that the car bomb which had killed Hannah’s parents and injured her so badly had been meant for Tod. Perhaps someone was settling an old score? Hannah frequently remembered that possibility with some bitterness.
She sat there for a moment longer, stroking and patting the mare. ‘That’s men for you, Fancy, still playing games in the schoolyard and then never seeming to learn that sometimes people get hurt.’ She shook her head. ‘Security, my arse,’ and she rode away.
Tod and Kelly showered in the wet room on the ground floor of Drumgoole Place, then set about shaving their beards, which took quite some time. After that, they sat side by side and Meg cut their hair in turn.
‘Will ye watch what you’re doing, woman?’ Tod said.
She cuffed him. ‘You’re in good hands. I learned everything there is to know about hairdressing in my theatre days. I’ll see to the cuts first, then use the right solvents to treat the colour.’
Hannah moved in from the corridor, limping, a walking stick in her right hand. ‘What a couple of beauties.’
‘You show some respect, girl,’ Tod told her. ‘We’ve been away earning a crust. Takes money to run this place.’
‘Where to this time?’
Kelly looked hunted, but Tod said, ‘Nothing much, just inspecting the security system for the company that runs the ferries from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. No big deal.’
‘A pity.’ She tossed some matches into Tod’s lap. ‘I found those in the kitchen. They advertise a café in Nantucket. That would have been much more exciting.’
She went out, and Meg picked up the matches.
‘I wonder where these came from?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Tod said. ‘I don’t know.’
She said, ‘You told me you were dressing up to put one over on a rival firm for someone you were working for?’
‘So we were,’ he said. ‘Just business, Meg. Is she pleased about the Royal College of Music?’
‘I’m not really sure. It’s not residential, so accommodation is going to be a problem with it being London.’
‘Don’t worry, these days we’ve got plenty of money. Just keep on cutting and bring back my auburn hair.’
Which she did, cut Kelly’s very short and darkened the white to grey.
‘Marvellous,’ Tod said. ‘I feel human again. Let’s have dinner.’
Ferguson’s Daimler and driver were waiting when the Gulfstream landed at Farley. Dillon had left his Mini Cooper there, but Sara had nothing.
‘I’ve decided not to go home tonight,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’d like to have words with Roper sooner rather than later, so I’ll stay in the guest wing at Holland Park.’
Dillon often did the same, and said, ‘I’d like to join you.’
‘That’s fine by me, but I expect you’ll be wanting a lift to Highfield Court to see your grandfather?’ he said to Sara.
‘He won’t be there, he’s touring the lecture circuit. “God and the Mind of Man,” his favourite topic. Everyone wants Rabbi Nathan Gideon these days.’
‘And so they should,’ Dillon told her. ‘He’s a great man.’
‘Actually, I’d welcome your input, Captain,’ Ferguson said, ‘So jump in and we’ll be on our way. We’ll see you there, Dillon.’
When Roper returned from the shower, it was to find that Ferguson and the others had arrived and had gone upstairs to unpack, but he had another visitor waiting.
Dr Ali Saif was an Egyptian with an English grandmother who’d not only sent him to Eton but supplied him with a UK passport under filial law. A brilliant scholar, a senior lecturer in archaeology at London University, he had initially found Osama’s message attractive enough for him to offer his services to the Army of God charity. As with others, one could be drawn into the activities of Al Qaeda without realizing it, especially with the hypnotic tones of the Master on the telephone to guide you.
He’d been caught in a bad situation, however, and his decision to act on the side of right had not only saved lives but impressed Ferguson enough to save him from prison and find a use for his talents as an interrogator of Muslims suspected of terrorism, at Tenby Street safe house run by MI5.
‘Have they arrived?’ Ali enquired, and before Roper could answer him, Ferguson, Sara, and Dillon walked in.
‘Ali, it’s you,’ Ferguson said in surprise.
‘We were talking earlier,’ Roper told him. ‘He’s been fully informed about the latest development. After his past services to us, I felt he could be trusted to keep it to himself.’
‘Your account of Belfast 1979 was extraordinary, Mr Dillon,’ Ali said. ‘It’s certainly possible that these men, Flynn and Kelly, could have something to do with the affair. I’ve already learned in my short time at MI5 that individuals from dissident Irish groups have used their past experience in all kinds of violent situations, from Eastern Europe to the Middle East. Does anyone else know?’
‘No, actually, which is rather interesting.’ Ferguson said. ‘I haven’t mentioned them to anybody, not even the Prime Minister.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Roper asked. ‘Keeping the PM uninformed seems risky to me.’
‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ He turned to Ali Saif. ‘I need hardly remind you that what you’ve heard is privileged and not for your masters at MI5. Now, meanwhile, you’ve had personal experience with AQ in London. What’s your take?’
Sara said, ‘Considering it’s not very long since the last Master died, this new one seems to have got to work pretty quickly.’
‘But Al Qaeda is organized for such situations,’ Ali told her. ‘There is a Grand Council, nobody knows where, which issues its decisions in Paris. General ben Levi was killed in London, and nobody outside the Council knew his true identity until the day he died. His replacement, from what little we have discovered about this worldwide cult, will have been put in place instantly.’
‘So what was the purpose of the attempt on Jake Cazalet’s life?’
‘He looked like easy meat, and they would have destroyed an American icon, shown the world they could get away with it, given two fingers to the Great Satan.’
‘Only they didn’t,’ Ferguson said.
Ali nodded. ‘Because of the coincidence of your visit, General.’
‘Ironic, really,’ Dillon said. ‘If the President hadn’t decided to have us privately thanked, Cazalet would be dead now.’
‘Exactly.’ Ali shrugged. ‘Of course, the Grand Council will want revenge. They will attack us here in London, a spectacular, perhaps. You notice I say us because I must include myself now. I’m a turncoat of the first order, as far as they’re concerned. If I dared to show my face at Pound Street, I’d be stoned.’
‘Come, come, Ali, we mustn’t exaggerate. The Army of God is a legally organized charity. Their dispensary serves all denominations, and the imam of the mosque, Hamid Bey, is highly respected.’
‘Smoke and mirrors, General. As you say, I have had personal experience with AQ. The City Corporation, the police, tread carefully for political reasons. In my time when I was on the wrong side, the Master spoke to me on a regular basis, and I’m not naive enough to think I was the only one. As for Hamid Bey, he is a dog and not to be trusted.’
‘All right, I’ll take your word for it,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ll have to take extra care from now on.’
Ali opened his jacket to show a Walther in a shoulder holster. ‘I’m also wearing a nylon-and-titanium vest. I hope the rest of you are.’ He smiled, leaned down, and kissed Sara’s hand gallantly. ‘You always astonish one, Captain Gideon. God is good to you.’ He nodded to the others. ‘If you’ll excuse me, General, I’m on night duty at Tenby Street.’ He turned and walked out.
‘My goodness,’ Ferguson said. ‘He’s really come on. It was a wise choice to take a chance on him. I’m sure you’ll all take heed of his advice. His experience with this cult of the Master thing is obviously unique. Anyway, I think we could also do with some supper. Let’s see what the kitchen’s got for us. As for Hamid Bey, I always thought the bastard was too good to be true.’
There was a loud bang, the front door crashed open, and Doyle shouted, ‘Help, man down!’
Dillon and Sara ran out into the hall, to find Doyle dragging a hospital trolley out of the hallway and outside.
The Judas gate had swung open and Ali Saif was lying half outside it. As they raced toward him, Doyle said, ‘He told me he was going to walk back to Tenby Street, so I accompanied him, opened the Judas gate, and somebody shot him. He bounced off the gate, half turning. There was a second shot, he staggered into me and went down. Silenced weapon, just a couple of coughs. God knows I’ve heard enough of those in my time.’
Sara appeared with two wound packs and ripped one open as she examined Ali, who was obviously in shock, eyes staring.
‘The vest seems to have stopped one round, but the other has ploughed into his right thigh, no protection there.’ She staunched the blood flow as best she could. ‘Help me, Sean, there are morphine ampoules in the pack, get one into him.’
Ferguson was talking briskly into his phone, and Ali reached and clutched Sara. ‘You must take care, Sara. I told you the Grand Council wants revenge and I’m the first to be punished. The traitor …’
He fainted, and Ferguson said, ‘Rosedene’s alerting Professor Bellamy. Let’s get Saif into the Land Rover and get him up there.’
A couple of hours later, the matron at Rosedene, Margaret Duncan, approached the group, still in theatre scrubs and looking tired. ‘My goodness, General, another one. When will somebody say enough is enough?’
‘Not in the world as it is today, I’m afraid. How is he?’
Professor Charles Bellamy walked in and answered for her. ‘Alive, and that is one good thing. The vest did exactly what it was supposed to and stopped a heart shot.’
‘Which, if successful, would have killed instantly, but Ali started thrashing around, so the shooter put a random round into him and cleared off,’ Dillon said. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘A serious wound in the left thigh, damage to bone and sinew,’ Bellamy told him.
‘Just how bad?’ Ferguson asked.
‘He’ll be here for several weeks, and recovery and therapy will take some time.’ He smiled at Sara. ‘As you know only too well, Captain, better than anyone else here, including myself.’
‘God help him,’ Sara said. ‘While I’m here, can I ask how Declan is?’
‘He’s asleep. You can see him tomorrow.’
‘We’ll leave them both in your good hands.’ Ferguson turned to the others. ‘Back to Holland Park, I think, and may I point out that we still haven’t had any supper.’
It was much later that they rejoined Roper in the computer room and discussed the attack.
‘Takes me back to Afghanistan,’ Sara said. ‘All the trappings of high security mean nothing once you step outside base where some fifteen-year-old with an AK can take a pop at you at any moment.’
‘And get away with it,’ Dillon said. ‘Though I’d say in this case whoever was responsible tonight was aware of Ali’s habit of walking to Tenby Street after visiting us. It’s not much more than a mile. Lots of trees on the other side of the road.’
‘I agree,’ Roper said. ‘Looks like the work of a silenced AK with a folding stock, probably carried in an ordinary supermarket shopping bag.’
‘A reinforcement of Ali’s warning earlier about Al Qaeda’s Grand Council seeking revenge, and that means full alert, people,’ Ferguson said.
There were a few moments of silence as they all thought about it, and it was Sara who spoke first. ‘There is the business of Flynn and Kelly, sir. What are we going to do about that?’
‘Yes, you left it hanging,’ Roper pointed out.
‘Perhaps somebody should go and see them,’ Sara said.
‘Maybe we all should.’ Ferguson laughed out loud. ‘That could be fun.’
‘You mean just turn up at Drumgoole out of the blue?’ she asked.
‘It’s a thought.’ Ferguson was considering it, a slightly wicked smile on his face. He looked at his watch. ‘Just after eleven. A man like Flynn’s bound to be up. Find the number, Major. I’ll leave it to you what to say, Dillon.’
In the parlour at Drumgoole Place, they were sitting by a log fire, Tod Flynn and Kelly, Aunt Meg and Hannah, a film just finishing on television. Hannah was nearest to the house phone when it rang, and she answered.
‘Drumgoole Place.’
‘Put me on to Tod,’ Dillon said.
She bridled. ‘And who the hell are you, mister?’
Dillon laughed. ‘From the sound of you, you’d be Hannah.’
‘Aren’t you the cheeky one.’ Meg had turned off the television and they were staring at Hannah. ‘I’ll only ask you once more, then I’m putting the phone down. Who are you?’ She put it on speaker so they could all hear.
‘Your second cousin, girl dear, Sean Dillon. Now, put him on.’
The look of incredulity on her face was quite something as she held out the phone to her uncle. ‘He says he’s Sean Dillon.’
There was silence for a moment, Kelly in immediate shock, but Tod took a deep breath and the phone. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No, it is me, you old sod. How did you enjoy Nantucket?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Stop being stupid, it doesn’t suit you. Tell Kelly if he’d not been noticed playing “The Lark in the Clear Air” on his clarinet, I’d never have known you were there. I work for Charles Ferguson these days, but I’m sure you know that.’
‘Sold out to the Brits, Sean, didn’t you?’ Tod said.
‘Oh, we all sold out to somebody, in your case the Master and Al Qaeda. We’ll be over to see you in a few days, and don’t try to run away. There’s nowhere to go.’
He cut off the call, leaving Tod sitting by the fire, numb with shock, the others staring at him. It was Meg who shook her head and spoke first. ‘The Lord help us, Tod, what have you done now?’
But Hannah was already on her feet, leaning on her walking stick. ‘The glory days are back, is that it, Uncle Tod? Well, you and the damn IRA and Al Qaeda can go to hell,’ and she limped out of the room, banging the door shut behind her.
In the computer room, it was all smiles. ‘Good work, Sean, you’ve stirred the pot there,’ Roper said.
‘Excellent, Dillon, you really put the boot in,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I would judge he’s in a state of total shock, but we must strike while he’s still off balance, give him time to get really worried, then we’ll take the Gulfstream to Ireland and descend on him.’
‘On them, sir,’ Sara said. ‘I thought the young girl was pretty feisty. I liked the sound of her.’
‘Well, just remember she might be the enemy, Captain, but I’m for bed. It’s been a rough old week.’
‘Tomorrow is always another day,’ Sara said. ‘Hang on to that thought.’ They filed out, leaving Roper to doze in his wheelchair, his screens still on.
4 (#ulink_ad87aaf5-d94a-5816-93b2-bbe3c119cea0)
Half past midnight, Hannah sat on a stool in Fancy’s stall in the stud stable at Drumgoole, a horse blanket over her shoulders, the mare content with an occasional glance at her. It had been a refuge during four years of pain from the car bomb – the dim lights, the stable smell of fourteen horses, always had a deeply calming effect. She leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing her rage to ebb away, heard the door open at the other end of the stables, then voices.
Kelly said, ‘What happens now?’
‘You’re forgetting he presented us with one of his coded mobile phones.’ Tod’s smile was mirthless. ‘I’m going to call him right now.’
‘At this time in the morning?’
‘He boasts that he can operate from anywhere, doesn’t he? Let’s see if he does.’
Kelly laughed harshly. ‘Put it on speaker, I don’t want to lose a word.’
A couple of minutes, no more, and then the voice echoed, calm and full of authority. ‘Say who you are.’
Tod told him. ‘So we can cut the crap.’
‘Why, Mr Flynn, you’re angry,’ the Master replied. ‘An emotion that leads to stupidity, and that’s not to be recommended in our line of work. Is there a problem? If so, tell me.’
‘With pleasure,’ Tod said. ‘What would you say if I’d had a phone call from Sean Dillon a couple of hours ago, asking me if we’d enjoyed Nantucket? They know about you, Master-whoever-you-are, and the Al Qaeda connection – everything.’ There was a perceptible pause. ‘Are you there?’
‘Oh, I’m here, Mr Flynn, and considering what act of human stupidity has brought us to this situation.’
Kelly broke in, shouting, ‘Trying to find somebody to blame, are you?’
‘Because there usually is,’ the Master said calmly. ‘Do get your friend to shut up, Mr Flynn, then you provide me with a sane explanation and don’t leave anything out.’
Which Tod did, and when he was finished, said, ‘And that’s the truth of it, so what do you think?’
‘That it was just bad luck. It was pure chance that sent them to Cazalet’s house, and pure chance that Dillon made the connection to the two of you.’
‘One hell of a coincidence,’ Tod said.
‘Chance, Mr Flynn – life is, in many ways, ruled by it. Of course, sometimes it’s fate. It wasn’t by chance that your father was Sean Dillon’s uncle. There’s something almost karmic about it.’
Kelly intervened again. ‘We’ve no time for all this shite. What do we do when Ferguson and his crew turn up here?’
‘Wrong question,’ the Master told him. ‘It should be, What can they do? There’s no evidence the attack even took place, and Cazalet’s walking around as if nothing had happened. So what can they do to you? It’s rather amusing when you think of it, Ferguson couldn’t even get you arrested.’ Somewhere in his background was an unmistakable sound.
At that, Hannah erupted from Fancy’s stall and took a few steps toward them, leaning heavily on her walking stick.
‘There’s nothing amusing about it, because I’ve heard everything.’
Kelly tried to grab her, and she slashed the walking stick across his shoulders. Tod dropped the phone on the table and caught her as she tried to get past him to the door.
‘It’s all right, Hannah love, I’ll handle it.’
‘It’s not and you won’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who this Master of yours is, Uncle Tod, but I’ve heard enough to recognize an evil bastard when I hear one.’ She raised her voice. ‘A bastard who lives in London! You should keep your window closed. Everybody knows the sound of Big Ben.’
She pulled away from him and returned to the other end of the stable, leaning heavily on her stick, and disappeared into Fancy’s stall. Kelly watched her go, then picked up the mobile and handed it over.
‘Are you still there?’ Tod asked.
The Master replied calmly, ‘Do we have a problem with your niece?’
‘No, I promise you. Since the car bomb that took her parents four years ago, pain has been her constant companion. She’s stressed about it, and now this. I’ll take care of it.’
‘Such sentimentality comes rather late in the day from a man who has been responsible for as many deaths as you have. But it’s understandable, considering there are those who think the bomb which killed her parents and crippled her was meant for you.’
Tod said gravely, ‘There was always that possibility.’
‘Not in this case, Mr Flynn. In fact, I know the names of the two men who set that bomb.’
Tod was very still. ‘And what must I do for those names?’
‘Dillon told you he’d be coming within the next few days. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gideon woman and possibly even Ferguson himself came with him. Those people have been a running sore in Al Qaeda’s side for long enough. I’m sure a man of your expertise, and Kelly’s, can find a way to dispose of them one way or another.’
Kelly shook his head. ‘The man’s crazed, Tod.’
‘Not at all,’ the Master said. ‘I happen to know that at the back of Drumgoole Place, at the foot of the mountain, is a bog – the Bog of Salam, isn’t that what they call it? According to legend, it could swallow a regiment.’
‘And it could swallow you,’ Kelly told him.
‘Or Hannah Flynn. I trust we’re clear on that. Now, Ferguson and company, can I tempt you?’
Tod’s face was bone white, eyes dark. ‘Not in a million years. But I’ll tell you what I will do. Never leave Hannah’s side for a moment, as long as you walk this earth. And I’m keeping your money. So to hell with you, Master-whoever-you-are, and bring it on as soon as you like.’
He switched off, slipped the phone into his pocket, turned and found Hannah, standing outside Fancy’s stall, face tear-stained. He walked toward her, passing Kelly, who simply smiled grimly and nodded.
She managed a smile. ‘That was telling him.’
He put an arm round her. ‘You know what I’ve been, girl, the terrible things I did. My excuse was that I was fighting for a cause. True or not, it made a bad man out of me, but as far as this bastard is concerned, I’ll be his worst nightmare.’
She nodded, then hugged him suddenly so that she dropped her stick. ‘Dammit to hell,’ she moaned, and tried to bend.
He picked it up and gave it to her. ‘A nice Catholic girl and such language. Come on, child, we’ll find Aunt Meg and see you both to bed. Things will look better in the morning.’
Not that he believed it, not for a single moment.
On the Belfast waterfront the following day, it had rained early and the fog came later, rolling across the docks into Cagney Street, the Orange Drumat one end. The pub was long past its prime, a leftover from the great days of the Victorian era. It would be a haven for hard drinkers and drug users later that day, but it was empty at that moment except for Fergus Tully, drinking scalding-hot tea laced with Irish whiskey at the end of the bar. He was reading the Belfast Telegraph,while Frank Bell, the publican, worked his way through the sports pages.
They had served time together in the Maze Prison for multiple murders, men of a Protestant persuasion, the PIRA’s bitterest enemies, Tully of such fearsome reputation that newspapers nicknamed him the Shankhill Butcher. The peace process had unleashed them into the world again.
Tully emptied his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘I’ll have another, Frank,’ and his mobile phone sounded.
‘Is that Mr Frank Tully?’
‘Who the hell wants to know?’ Tully said, immediately offended by the English accent.
‘I’ve just credited your bank account with one hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.’
Tully banged his fist down on the bar. ‘Stupid bastard.’
‘What was all that about?’ Bell asked, and when Tully told him, said, ‘Well, all you have to do is call the bank. They opened at nine.’
Which Tully did, and was staggered to be told that such a sum had only just been deposited from a bank in Geneva. He barely had time to inform Bell, when his phone rang again.
‘Who are you?’ Tully demanded.
‘The people I serve had dealings with you some years ago. If I say AQ, do you understand me?’
‘I certainly do,’ Tully said. ‘Al Qaeda. I dealt with the Master then, four years ago, but he wasn’t you from the sound of it.’
‘He has passed on, I have replaced him. You were given the task of disposing of a man named Tod Flynn. Instead, you car-bombed his elder brother Peter, killing him and his wife and injuring the daughter.’
Tully was immediately indignant. ‘I don’t know who told you that, because it’s completely wrong. I’d have loved to have stiffed Tod Flynn. He gave us hell during the Troubles, but my orders from the other Master were quite clear. Peter Flynn was trying to take over the drug scene in Belfast and was seriously displeasing a lot of people. Al Qaeda wanted it sorted, and me and my friend Frank Bell took care of it as ordered.’
‘I get the impression that the family and those around them have always believed Tod Flynn to have been the intended target, especially as his brother had borrowed his car for the trip to Belfast.’
‘Are you saying it left Tod feeling guilty? If that’s true, you’ve made my day.’
‘Did your orders include the girl?’
‘No, and they didn’t include her mother either,’ Tully said. ‘Fortunes of war. They’re always going on about collateral damage these days, aren’t they? Anyway, what’s this all about?’
‘You’ve already got one hundred thousand dollars in your account, and it’s yours if you and your friend get yourselves down to Drumgoole Place and take out Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly.’
The look on Tully’s face was pure delight. ‘You’ve no idea how much of a pleasure that would be.’
‘And another hundred thousand if you dispose of the girl.’
Tully stopped smiling. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘She could be a serious threat to us. If there is a difficulty here, I must go elsewhere.’
Bell was looking grim, ran a finger across his throat and nodded slightly. Tully said, ‘No problem, we can see to the girl, too.’
‘I’ll place the second hundred thousand in your account and on hold for three days. After that, all bets are off. In the glove compartment of your Jeep at the pub, you will find a package containing a mobile linked only to me. It also contains photos of everyone who could be linked in any way to Tod Flynn.’
‘What a bastard,’ Tully said when the call ended. ‘He sounded just like one of those Brit judges who used to sentence us.’ He laughed harshly and reached to take the very large whiskey that was pushed across the bar.
‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’ Bell was smiling. ‘He can look like the Queen of Sheba, as far as I’m concerned. Happy days, my old son.’ He raised his glass and then emptied it in one quick swallow.
Hannah Flynn was a remarkable young woman harmed by life, but she had threatened to expose Al Qaeda and had to be eliminated. Which still allowed the Master to feel nothing but distaste where Tully and Bell were concerned. It was time to move on, so he tapped in a highly secret number in Tehran.
With his blue suit and striped tie, the Iranian Minister of War, seated behind the mahogany desk in the comfortably furnished room, would not have been out of place in the White House or Downing Street. But this was Tehran, his phone number so secret that when it rang, it was usually a matter concerning the highest levels of government.
He picked up the phone and said in Farsi, ‘Yes, what is it?’
The Master replied in English, ‘You’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of General Ali ben Levi since his disappearance.’
The minister said, ‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘I am the man who replaced him. He was killed on a private mission to London in pursuit of his deputy, Colonel Declan Rashid, a traitor to his country and its army.’
The minister was aghast. ‘Rashid! His father was a fine general, but that Irish wife of his … Where is the colonel now?’
‘He was badly wounded in London. General Charles Ferguson is holding him in a private hospital at the moment.’
‘Was Ferguson responsible for what happened to ben Levi?’
‘I wish I could say that he was, but the general was shot by one of our own people, a malcontent who has since paid the penalty.’
‘So why are you calling?’
‘Because I believe Declan Rashid should be punished. And Charles Ferguson and his people finished off for good.’
‘I suppose that would be because of their success against Al Qaeda,’ the minister said. ‘Sorry that I can’t help you there, but my government would really prefer to rule Iran ourselves.’
‘There may come a time when you regret it,’ the Master told him.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I already have so many regrets. What’s one more?’ But he was deep in thought.
‘Did you know that there are scores of language schools in London? It’s true. The system is wide open if you want to pose as a student, which illegals do who simply want to live in England. We’ve sent young officers to such places for some time, to perfect their language skills and learn to adapt to Western society. They’ve all had special forces training, of course.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘I like to think of them as foot soldiers, men who can handle any dirty work which comes along. Now, I am not a religious man. I am indifferent to the message of Osama bin Laden. However, we live in a world of change, and who knows what may happen politically?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take care of Ferguson and his people. You take care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honour, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.’ He followed with a phone number. ‘I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.’
Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the UK.
There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the fireplace in the parlour of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.
The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.
‘Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.’ Ali shook his head. ‘His record in the Iraq war was amazing.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ Khalid said. ‘The man is a true hero.’
‘That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,’ Ali told him.
The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.
‘Holland Park,’ Khalid said. ‘We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.’
‘An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,’ Ali told him. ‘This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.’
‘And usually does,’ Khalid pointed out. ‘Gangsters play an active role, too – this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.’
‘Obviously much in demand,’ Ali said. ‘But let’s not forget the lady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.’
‘Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,’ Khalid told him.
‘Well, we don’t need to argue about it.’ Ali shrugged. ‘If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.’
‘You’re on.’
It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. ‘Umbrella time,’ Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside, and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling a joke and stopped as the Iranians approached.
‘Look what we’ve got here, a couple of bleeding nancy boys.’ His companions roared with laughter.
Ali said, ‘Isn’t nature wonderful? That thing can actually talk.’
The youth ran up behind, grabbing him by the shoulder. ‘Come here, you.’
Khalid dodged out of the way with the umbrella, leaving Ali to turn, grab the youth’s wrist, twist it into a rigid bar, and run him into the yellow van. The nose crunched, the youth cried out, falling to his knees, rain washing the blood down over his face.
There was a roar of anger from the two men. The first out of the doorstep reached for Ali, who spun around and stamped on his kneecap. As the man started to go down, Khalid raised a knee into the descending face, lifting him back to fall across the youth. The other man retreated.
Ali said, ‘Chalk it up to experience, boys. Now, if I were you,’ he said to the standing man, ‘I’d shove them in the back of your van and get round to accident and emergency at St Wilfred’s. They do a lovely job, and it’s for free.’
Khalid was already behind the Mini Cooper’s wheel, and he started the engine. Ali climbed in beside him.
‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the Ivy for a bite to eat and a discussion on a plan of campaign.’
At the same time, the Master was phoning Hamid Bey. ‘I bring you some interesting news, An attempt was made on the life of Dr Ali Saif last night as he was leaving the Holland Park safe house.’
‘Allah be praised,’ the imam said. ‘Who was responsible?’
‘Better not to know,’ the Master said. ‘There’s such wildness around these days, and so many of our young people become angry and disturbed when they hear what is happening to our people in Syria, Somalia or Egypt.’
‘I agree wholeheartedly, but Allah will forgive me for branding Ali Saif as a black-hearted traitor to his religion and people.’
‘To put it mildly, he has faltered on his spiritual journey, but he may yet be saved, and I believe you could assist in this regard.’
‘I am at your command.’
‘He was badly wounded and is at present in a private hospital named Rosedene, where General Charles Ferguson provides treatment for those injured in his service.’
‘Ferguson, as I hardly need to remind you, is one of Al Qaeda’s most implacable enemies, he’s done great harm to us on occasion,’ Hamid Bey said. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘Ask to see Ali Saif. A not-unreasonable request. As imam, you were his spiritual guide.’
‘Until he betrayed the Cause,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘Yes, but you will put Ferguson on the spot with your request. He looks upon the Army of God and the Brotherhood that goes with it as the enemy.’
‘Which we are,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘You are missing the point. We must at all times appear to be what we claim, which is a spiritual and educational organization, offering the services of a multi-faith dispensary to the local population. I also suggest you take Lily Shah with you.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Hamid asked.
‘Because the fact that she is a Christian may smooth the way, indeed make things rather awkward for them. She is already something of a saint in Muslim eyes. All this helps to wrong-foot the police and the city authorities. A whole range of municipal workers are members of the Army of God Brotherhood – a Muslim trade union, if you like – but to us, a private army. And there is little they can do about it.’
‘I am proud to serve,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘Prove it by having one of your vans call on Captain Sara Gideon at Highfield Court tonight,’ the Master told him, and switched off.
Next, he phoned Lily Shah. ‘There’s something I want you to do,’ and he told her what he had just arranged with the imam.
‘What will be the purpose of this?’ she asked. ‘If Ali Saif has gunshot wounds, he will be laid low for some time, but when he left the Army of God to join Ferguson, he must have been an invaluable source of information. About me, for instance.’
‘Every embassy in London has an intelligence unit. People like us know who they are and they know who we are. The real work is trying to find out what the other people are up to and what their next move will be.’
‘I see, so it doesn’t matter that Ali Saif has told Ferguson what kind of people we are at Pound Street?’
‘Exactly, because that’s quite different from knowing what we intend to do next. So you’ll help?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just keep your eyes open, if indeed you are allowed in to Rosedene. Any information about the place could be important. Another patient there and suffering gunshot wounds is Colonel Declan Rashid, once deputy commander of the Secret Field Police, now a traitor to Iran and an associate of Ferguson’s. I especially want to know about him.’
He sauntered off, leaving her anxious and troubled, mainly because she was no longer sure that she wanted to do this and was beginning to query what was happening. It was a new experience, but it was real enough. She shook her head, pulled herself together, and moved downstairs to reception, where help was always needed.
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Jack Higgins
A storm is coming for Sean Dillon & company in the mesmerizing new thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.It begins with the attempted assassination of the ex-President of the United States.Only the presence of Sean Dillon and the fellow members of the ‘Prime Minister’s Private Army’ prevents it becoming a bloodbath. Soon they are on the trail of the perpetrators, confident they will catch them.What Dillon & Co don’t realize is that they have just sprung a trap that will lead them to almost certain death.For there is a new Master pulling the strings for al Qaeda in London, and this time he’s going to make sure the hated enemy is destroyed once and for all.A storm is coming for Sean Dillon…
Copyright (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Copyright © Harry Patterson 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Jacket photographs © Slow Images/Getty Images (lighthouse and sea); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images)
Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007585847
Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780007585854
Version: 2014-12-02
Dedication (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
In fond memory of my dear mother-in-law,
Sarah Palmer
Rain on the dead
and
wash away their sins
–IRISH PROVERB
Contents
Cover (#u92eda5c1-005e-5833-a395-4f2b9546ff23)
Title Page (#u8b1ed38f-b063-575a-8292-20254ef0e869)
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph (#u18465728-ce00-5ee1-8a40-f188547f01fa)
Nantucket
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
New York, London, Ireland
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Washington, Paris, London
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Also by Jack Higgins
About the Publisher
NANTUCKET (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
1 (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
The island of Nantucket, Massachusetts – high summer, the western end of the harbour crowded with boats, many tied up at the jetty. Among them was a scarlet-and-white sport-fisherman named Dolphin. On the flying bridge, a grey-haired man sat at the wheel playing a clarinet, something plaintive and touching. He was around sixty, a white curling beard giving him the look of an old sailor.
The man who joined him from below, wearing swimming trunks, had dark tousled hair and the beard of some medieval bravo. He was fit and muscular, his smile pleasant enough, his only unusual feature two scars on his left chest which any doctor would have recognized as relics from old bullet wounds.
He spoke in Irish. ‘Big night, Kelly!’
The other answered in the same. ‘You could say that. It’ll be dark soon, Tod – if you’re going to grab that swim, it’d better be now.’
‘I will. Keep your eye out for that kid, Henry, from the harbourmaster’s office. He’s bringing our passports and the credit card, so don’t forget to speak like the Yank your passport says you are.’
He slid down the ladder, vaulted over the rail, and swam away. Kelly heard a call from the dock.
‘Mr Jackson, are you there?’
Kelly descended the ladder. ‘He’s having a swim. I’m his partner, Jeremy Hawkins.’
Henry handed over the two passports. ‘There you go, sir, Mr Jackson’s credit card is in the envelope and your mooring licence covers you until Friday.’
Kelly took the package. ‘Thanks, son.’
‘That’s great clarinet I just heard. Kind of sounds like Gershwin, though I don’t recognize the tune.’
‘It’s an Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”. And you’re right, I did put a bit of Gershwin in there.’
‘I think he would have been pleased, sir. Are you and your friend professional musicians?’
‘I was for a while and he does play decent piano, but on the whole we found other things kept getting in the way.’
‘Well, that seems like a damn shame to me,’ Henry said, and walked away, calling at another boat.
Kelly turned and looked out over the harbour to see how Tod was getting on, and saw him swimming towards a round buoy floating on a chain. Many people were diving or jumping off the boats, some in wet suits, generally having a good time while the light still held.
For his part, Tod stroked the last couple of yards, then grabbed onto the chain, aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter descending somewhere in the distance.
He hung there, listening, and two young men erupted from the water, like black seals in their wet suits. They were like twins, darkly handsome, the same wildness apparent in their faces.
The nearest one grabbed the chain and laughed as his brother joined them. ‘Mr Jackson, I recognize you from your photo. We’re the ones you came to meet. The Master sends his regards and hopes that success in our venture will make us your favorite Chechens. I’m Yanni and this is Khalid.’
He had no accent, which his brother explained in a rather mocking tone. ‘Our parents were killed by barbaric Russian soldiers in the Chechen war. The wonderful American Red Cross saved us and our grandparents, and gave us a new life in good old New York.’
‘Where thanks to the public school system, we emerged as normal American teenagers,’ Yanni said.
‘Creating a problem for Westerners who expect Muslims to look and sound like Arabs,’ Khalid said.
‘So what can Muslims who look like Westerners do?’ Yanni added.
‘Why, serve Allah as undercover warriors in the great struggle,’ his brother said. ‘And here we are. We’ve already checked out the house of our target. It’s just off the beach, surrounded by trees – no problem. An easy one, this.’
Tod said, ‘Except that every security camera on every property you passed walking along that beach probably has your faces now.’
‘So we’ll wear ski masks for the hit,’ Khalid said. ‘Why should it matter as long as the target is dead? That’s all that counts.’
They were no longer smiling. Their faces were like death masks, their eyes pinpricks. They were obviously on drugs, which exasperated Tod, though there was no point in mentioning it now.
‘I’m going back to that boat.’ He indicated the Dolphin.‘I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes.’
They didn’t reply, simply turned and swam away, and so did he.
Hawkins was Tim Kelly, and Jackson, Tod Flynn, both of them Provisional IRA who had served sentences in the Maze Prison in Northern Ireland for many killings. Released during the peace process, they had become mercenaries. The situations in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and elsewhere offered highly paid security work and sometimes rather more than that, for Flynn had been a top enforcer with the IRA, and reputation was everything in the Death Trade. It brought the cautious phone calls, the offers of the big money that went with them, and the offer for this present job had been very big.
In the cabin belowdecks, he had a large whiskey, feeling strangely cold, and told Kelly about his meeting with the Chechens. Kelly said, ‘I knew it was a mistake to get involved with sodding Muslims. What are we going to do?’
‘There’s not much we can do, but I’ll tell you this. I’m putting a pistol in my pocket for when they come, just in case it gets nasty. You should, too,’ and he hurried away to his cabin.
He showered and dressed, and as he did so, remembered the first time he’d heard the Master’s voice, filled with quiet authority, and a touch of English upper class.
‘Would that be Mr Tod Flynn?’ the voice had asked.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’ve just credited your bank account with a hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself, and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’
Tod frowned, but called his bank and received the happy news that the money had indeed been deposited from a Swiss bank in Geneva.
When the second call came, he said instantly, ‘Who is this?’
‘People know me as the Master. That will do for the moment.’
‘Al Qaeda,’ Tod said. ‘Everyone in the business knows about you guys and the way you operate. Don’t you have enough of your own people to call on? What do you want me for?’
‘Oh, I’m a great admirer. That finance man in Nigeria you took care of – five hundred yards through an open window of a car doing seventy. Splendid work. I have a list. My favourite was the Russian paratroop general who glanced out of the turret of his tank for a moment during a street battle and you took him at five hundred yards.’
‘Four hundred,’ Tod said. ‘And it was snowing. So what do you want?’
‘I have a target, living quietly in a house on the island of Nantucket with a manservant. I’m sending in a couple of Chechen boys to knock him off. All I need from you is to keep an eye on things and pick them up when they’re done. You’ll be waiting in a boat off the beach and they’ll swim out to you.’
‘So I’m the getaway driver, is that it?’ Tod laughed harshly. ‘What’s he done, this target?’
‘No need for you to know. Let’s just say he’s an old enemy.’
Tod nodded. ‘And what would be in it for me?’
‘You’ve already got one hundred thousand. That’s for you and your friend Kelly. I’ll give you another hundred afterwards and take care of your expenses.’
As usual, greed won the day. ‘Add another fifty thousand,’ Tod said. ‘Which rounds it to a quarter of a million, and I expect the full advance before we go.’
The man who called himself the Master paused, then said, ‘Agreed.’
And Tod, some part of him already regretting it, said, ‘Done. When do we meet?’
‘That will never happen, my friend. You’ll have to be content with my voice on the phone. I’ll send you a coded mobile with the tickets.’
Tim Kelly was shocked when Tod told him about the call. ‘Holy Mary, do we have to get involved with a bunch of Muslims like Al Qaeda?’
‘You’ll dance a jig when that money turns up in your bank account,’ Tod said. Later, he did wonder why the Master wanted him at all. The mystery man had made all the arrangements and the plan itself was simple enough. It was the height of tourist season, and the two assassins would be just another couple of people strolling along by night, carrying beach bags that would contain a couple of silenced Glocks, more than adequate to handle the situation. When they were done, they could just walk away from the scene of silent slaughter, which wouldn’t be discovered until morning, long after they had swum out to sea, each with a phosphorescent signalling ball held in his palm to guide in the waiting Dolphin.
It seemed too simple, and Tod couldn’t think why, still couldn’t as he finished dressing now, and then he heard a disturbance above. He hurried through the cabin, went on deck, and found Kelly switching on all the lights against the hurrying dark. The Chechens were there.
‘What’s going on?’ Tod demanded.
‘These two bastards are cracked, if you ask me,’ Kelly said. ‘They were sharing a bottle as they came along the jetty. That young guy from the harbourmaster’s office remonstrated with them as they were boarding.’ He pointed at Khalid. ‘This one told him to fuck off.’
Tod grabbed Khalid by the front of his shirt. ‘Stupid bastard, are you crazy? That kind of trouble is the last thing we need.’
Yanni reached in his beach bag and produced a silenced Glock. ‘Touch my brother again and I’ll kill you.’
Kelly, standing behind them, drew a Walther, but Tod released Khalid, laughing harshly. ‘Go on, do it. Kill both of us, why don’t you? Then tell me who’s going to wait off that beach to pick you up.’
Yanni put the Glock away and smiled falsely. ‘Hey, can’t you take a joke, Mr Jackson? Khalid was having a laugh. Like boxers going in the ring for a big fight. You get kind of nervous waiting for the action.’
‘Then I suggest you go, find the action, and get on with it, and we’ll get on with our part of the job.’
Yanni laughed out loud. ‘You know something, you’re a real funny man, Mr Jackson. I like you, I really do …’
He gave his brother a push and they scrambled up onto the jetty. Khalid took a bottle from his pocket, held it up, then tossed it into the harbour. ‘Just kidding, Mr Jackson,’ he said, and they walked away.
‘Total fruitcakes,’ Kelly said in disgust. ‘Where the hell did this Master find them? Don’t tell me he didn’t know they had problems.’
‘Never mind that for now. We’ve got half an hour to spare before we have to cast off and go round the coast to wait for them. I could do with coffee and a sandwich,’ Todd said.
He led the way below, and as they reached the kitchen area, the coded mobile phone the Master had given him trembled. He took it out and switched it to speaker. He turned to Kelly, touched a finger to his lips and waited.
‘Mr Flynn, I’m afraid something’s come up that affects our plans,’ the voice said.
‘And what would that be?’ Tod demanded.
‘I’ve just heard from a source that the target is receiving guests tonight by helicopter.’
‘We heard one arriving somewhere in the island not long ago,’ Tod told him.
The Master’s voice was unemotional. ‘Probably the one delivering them.’
‘They’ll get a shock when they find themselves invaded by two crazy Chechens.’
‘It’s the Chechens we need to worry about,’ the Master said. ‘His guests are General Charles Ferguson – who commands the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad – and two of his top people, a Captain Sara Gideon and one Sean Dillon, a notorious IRA gunman who now works for Ferguson.’
‘But I know these people, everyone in the Death Trade does.’ Flynn was angry now. ‘Why the hell would they be here?’
‘It’s time to tell you who our target is. It’s the former President of the United States, Jake Cazalet.’
Tod was shocked. ‘You lousy bastard.’
The Master continued. ‘You must cancel the operation. I can’t do it. Yanni and Khalid have no phone.’
‘I see,’ Tod said. ‘You knew they were wild cards and too untrustworthy to handle your special phone.’
‘You must try and stop them. Surely there’s still time?’
Tod was so angry he switched off.
Kelly said, ‘Christ, what a cockup. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch them walking the beach to Cazalet’s house.’
‘No, we won’t,’ Tod told him. ‘I don’t want anything more to do with this. We’ll cast off right now, sail overnight to Long Island, and leave the boat at Quogue. Then we’ll head straight to the airport and find the first plane that’ll take us back to Dublin.’
‘And not even try to pick the boys up?’
‘Do you really think there’ll be anyone to pick up? Sean Dillon is a bloody living legend of the IRA, as no one knows better than you, and this Sara Gideon lass has a Military Cross for killing Taliban. Not to mention Ferguson himself. No, those Chechens are dead meat. And frankly, I couldn’t care less.’
The house stood in trees behind a vast beach reaching out from town. The helicopter had landed some distance away, where Cazalet’s Secret Service man, Dalton, waited in a Jeep. He went to greet Ferguson and his people, who walked to meet him.
Ferguson shook hands. ‘Here I am again, Agent Dalton. Nice to see you.’ They waited as the helicopter drifted away.
Dalton said, ‘It’ll be back in the morning.’ He eased Sara’s bag from her hand and led the way to the Jeep.
‘President Cazalet’s really pleased to be seeing you. Mrs Boulder has left out a lovely supper in the conservatory.’
‘The President? Is that how you still address him?’ Sara asked.
Ferguson said, ‘Technically, all former holders of the office retain the title for life, but I think it’s a matter of individual choice. Cazalet says there can only be one Mr President and asks that I call him Jake. I could never bring myself to do it, so I make do with “sir”.’
‘Then “sir”’ it will be for me also,’ Sara said.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Murchison again,’ Ferguson said. ‘That’s the dog of the house, Sara, a wonderful flat-coated retriever.’
‘Who once saved the President’s life, as I recall,’ Dillon said. ‘Although there’s no official documentation of that.’
‘Too bad he isn’t here tonight,’ said Dalton. ‘Mrs Boulder has taken him home with her. She gets lonely since her husband died last year, and the President doesn’t mind.’
He turned off the road at a point where high-wire fencing fronted the trees. He paused, waiting for a ten-foot gate to open slowly between stone pillars, and drove through, pine trees and lots of shrubbery crowding in from both sides. To the left, they could see a terraced conservatory and they continued, circling around to a formal garden that fronted the old Colonial-style house with steps leading up to a pillared entrance, the door standing open, light pouring out, and Jake Cazalet waiting to greet them.
‘Charles, my dear old friend,’ he cried. ‘Marvellous to see you, marvellous to see all of you.’
Then he rushed down the steps to greet them, arms outstretched.
After embraces, Ferguson said, ‘Now, this was all most mysterious. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir, but why were we summoned?’
Cazalet said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing dire. The President wanted to invite you to the Oval Office, but couldn’t because of the publicity such a visit would have caused. He said you were in New York to meet the British ambassador and proposed that we kidnap you for a night so that I could say a heartfelt thanks on his behalf for your handling of the Husseini affair. If Iran had been able to use his work to perfect their nuclear bomb – well, it wouldn’t bear thinking of. All three of you did a remarkable job, and we are in your debt.’
‘Please tell the President how grateful we are,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s all in the game these days, and a damn ugly game it is.’
‘You’ve got that right,’ Cazalet said. ‘It’s a complete mess. Jihadists allied to Al Qaeda have infiltrated international terrorism like the plague, linking groups worldwide, each controlled by that anonymous leader always known as the Master, a shadowy figure, a voice on the phone. Backed by millions obtained from oil-rich states in the Middle East. They’re extremely dangerous.’
‘As Captain Gideon can attest to first-hand,’ said Ferguson.
Cazalet turned to Sara, who said, ‘Dillon and I were targeted by Al Qaeda in London, with orders to dispose of us.’
‘I notice you’re still here,’ Cazalet said.
‘You should see her in action, sir,’ Dillon told him.
‘So there’s a Master responsible for London?’
‘He also handled affairs in Paris,’ Dillon said. ‘And later in Beirut.’
‘And turned out to be General Ali ben Levi, the commander of the Iranian Army’s Secret Field Police.’
‘He was killed in London, though we weren’t responsible,’ Ferguson said. ‘But we had his body disposed of. We couldn’t see the point of sending the details to the Iranian military, and they’re still looking for him. They had no idea of his Al Qaeda connection.’
‘And I’m sure he has already been replaced,’ said Cazalet. ‘That there’s a new Master out there now. Terrorism has completely changed warfare as we know it. Enemies without uniforms, bombs everywhere.’ He shivered. ‘End of an era. But enough of that for this one night. Tonight, let’s go out on the terrace and have some champagne. Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of port, Charles?’
‘Now you’re talking, sir,’ Ferguson said, and led the way out.
The dining room opened into the conservatory, where great sliding doors gave access to the terrace with tables and lounging chairs, the garden crowding in, flowering shrubs of every description, tall pines and palm trees that someone had experimented with over many years. The scent of flowers, the sound of grasshoppers chirping in the lights, all combined to create a kind of tropical splendour.
‘Wonderful,’ Sara said. ‘I love the smell of it.’
Cazalet said, ‘It’s a bit of a jungle really, but at my age I can do as I please, so I let it run riot. Reminds me of my tours in Vietnam. Come, have something to eat.’
2 (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)
Yanni and Khalid had reached the house without the slightest trouble, following the beach, passing the occasional barbecue, sometimes a fire. There were lots of other people in the darkness, laughter, guitar music, but there was no one by the Cazalet house.
They passed it, turning up the left side of the estate through a marshy area with reeds growing high, found a place where the fencing gaped and squeezed into the garden. They could hear conversation and laughter, light through the trees and shrubbery.
They had taken pills before leaving the cottage and were feeling the effects. ‘Are you getting high, brother?’ Yanni whispered.
‘I’m floating, man,’ Khalid told him.
‘Then put on your face.’
Yanni pulled the ski mask on, and grinned as his brother did the same. ‘You look like a clown.’
‘So do you,’ Khalid told him, and took his Glock out and dropped the shoulder bag to the ground. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Yanni, and led the way cautiously.
On the terrace, they were at the coffee stage, Ferguson and Cazalet sitting down and Dalton pouring it out. Dillon was standing by the open window, enjoying a cigarette. There were three stone steps leading up to the terrace crowded with overgrown shrubbery, and Sara stood there waiting for her coffee. Yanni crouched, watching her admiringly. His brother stood a few feet away in heavy bushes behind the balustrade.
They could have killed everyone if they’d fired without hesitating, but the drugs had taken full control and they were shaking with excitement, and it was Yanni who made the first move.
‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and took three quick steps up to the terrace. Sara half turned and he hit her sideways in the face, pulled her against him, and rammed the barrel of the Glock into her side. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’
‘Oh God,’ she moaned, as if terrified, and closed her eyes, apparently fainting, starting to slide to the floor so that he was losing his grasp.
Dalton was already drawing his weapon and jumping in front of Cazalet. Khalid stepped out of the bushes and shot him in the chest. In the same moment, Dillon drew the Colt .25 he always carried in a rear belt holder and fired rapidly three times, the hollow-point cartridges tearing Khalid apart, hurling him back into the shrubbery.
Yanni howled in rage, allowed Sara to slide, and fired once at Dillon, denting the wall. Sara withdrew the flick knife from the sheath she always wore around her right ankle, sprang the blade, and stabbed him under the chin. He dropped his weapon, fell back down the steps, and lay in the middle of rosebushes, kicking as he choked to death.
There had been surprisingly little sound, just the dull thud of silenced weapons, and Cazalet was already on his knees with Ferguson, examining Dalton, Dillon standing over them, his gun still in his hand. Dalton groaned and Cazalet looked up in relief.
‘Thank God, he was wearing his vest. I’ll leave him to you, Charles, while I raise the alarm.’
He found Dalton’s cell phone and called in. ‘This is Cazalet. Empire down. Two intruders down. Request Nightbird Retrieval.’
He said to the others, ‘Which means a cover-up job by the CIA. It should be easy enough, since all the weapons were silenced, so the neighbours shouldn’t have any idea what’s been going on, and as you know, the occasional helicopter landing is nothing new here.’ He turned to Sara. ‘I can see why they awarded you a Military Cross in Afghanistan, but your suit will never be the same again. It’s badly bloodstained.’
‘No problem, sir, I have another in my luggage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room to shower and change.’
‘Of course,’ he said.
As she moved out, Dillon murmured, ‘Are you okay?’
She held up a bloodstained hand. ‘As usual, not even shaking.’
‘Just like in the Bible. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’
‘Which doesn’t help me in the slightest,’ she said, and went out.
Cazalet eased Dalton onto a chair and gave him some brandy to sip. Dillon poured champagne for himself and Ferguson, who said, ‘God knows why we’re drinking this, but it’s a pity to waste good stuff.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Dillon toasted him.
Cazalet cut in: ‘Did you two hear what the one she killed said to her?’
Dillon nodded. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’
‘It appears that Al Qaeda has found us, right here in Nantucket.’
The Nightbird was of medium size, black in colour, the engine noise remarkably quiet. A dozen men in black overalls got out. The officer in charge, wearing the same black uniform, was calm and efficient.
‘Colonel Sam Caxton, Mr President. We’ll be treating this as a crime scene, although it’s not a police investigation. If you would, I’d like you all to wait inside and two of my men will record interviews with you, both individually and together, to cover all the bases. We also have a doctor with us, just to check you all out.’
‘We’re at your service, Colonel,’ Cazalet said.
‘If you could move in, we’ll get started. It goes without saying that we’re delighted to find you in one piece.’
He went out, and Cazalet said to Dalton, ‘How do you feel, Frank?’
‘The vest I’m wearing can stop a forty-four.’
‘You deserve a medal, jumping in front of me like that.’
‘That’s what I’m paid to do, sir.’
Cazalet clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s all return to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’
On the Dolphin out at sea, the lights of Nantucket had faded when Kelly entered the wheelhouse with two mugs of tea and gave one to Tod, who was listening to a jazz trio.
‘Sounds good. Who is it?’ Kelly asked.
‘No idea. It’s Nantucket local radio. I was waiting to hear if there were any news reports.’
‘What are you going to tell the Master?’
‘I’ll think of something.’ He sighed. ‘Probably better get it over with.’
‘I’d like to hear that,’ Kelly said. ‘Put it on speaker.’
In a moment, they were connected.
‘This is Tod Flynn.’
‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Are you still in Nantucket?’
‘We’re at sea. Couldn’t contact the Chechens, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of action at the Cazalet house. Nothing on local news, either, so I decided the smart thing to do was leave.’
The Master cut in. ‘Then I have news for you. Yanni and Khalid are dead, bagged, and waiting to be flown away.’
Shocked, Tod made an instinctive response. ‘That’s impossible. How could you know that?’
‘Because I provided backup that even the Chechens did not know about. A woman sympathetic to our cause that I had in place. After I phoned you, I called her. She had seen you casting off to go to sea and smelled a rat, went after the Chechens herself, and was right behind when they entered Cazalet’s jungle of a garden. There was no time to warn them.’
‘So what happened?’ Tod asked.
‘The Chechens were butchered. Dillon shot Khalid, and the Gideon woman stabbed Yanni with a knife. When a CIA black unit arrived by helicopter, she slipped away.’
‘A hell of a cool customer,’ Tod said.
‘Yes, a remarkable lady – but to business. Admit it, you were doing a runner. You never even attempted to warn those boys.’
‘Okay, we were. We know Dillon from way back in the Troubles. Nobody messes with him, he’s a killing machine and the Gideon woman is the same. If we had tried to find them, we’d be lying dead next to the Chechens.’
‘Nevertheless, that was your charge. You owe me a quarter of a million dollars.’
Tod said, ‘We didn’t sign up for any of this. You lied about everything. It wasn’t our fault that things turned out the way they did.’
‘Don’t think you can shirk your responsibility. Everybody is accountable. But you can keep the money.’
Tod was astonished. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Kelly are men of a mercenary persuasion, as the song goes. Go home to Drumgoole, to your horses and the stud and your aunt Meg – she runs things there, correct? Oh, and you’ll be losing your niece Hannah; she just heard yesterday that she’s been accepted by the Royal College of Music in London.’
‘Damn you, how do you know all this?’
‘I know everything, Tod, I thought you knew that. I just want to make sure you realize that there is nowhere that you – and yours – can go that I can’t touch. Now, I have tickets waiting for you at the airport. When you get home, shave off the beards and it will be as if you never left Ireland, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty of friends to swear you never did. Good luck and try to stay sober. I’ll be in touch soon, and this time you are going to earn the money you have from me.’
He faded away, the Dolphin plowed on, rain bouncing off the screen. Kelly said, ‘Is he for real?’
‘Oh, yes, and a barrel of laughs, too. I admire his fine turn of phrase.’
‘Well, he’s going to want something for his quarter of a million bucks, God knows what. Here, you take the helm. I’m going below to try to get a little shut-eye.’
Sara Gideon lay in bed in a dressing gown, unable to sleep. Outside, the wind howled, rain rattled against the window. There was a knock at the door, which opened and Dillon peered in. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘Ferguson and Cazalet are downstairs and there’s an intermittent flow of information about the two people we knocked off. They’re Chechen brothers, but American, brought into the country as refugees with their grandparents, who have since died. Shouldn’t be long before we know everything about them.’
‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘Why?’
‘It was all so wild, weird even. It was as if a piece of foolish nonsense came to an unlooked-for end.’
‘That’s really quite literary,’ Dillon told her. ‘Are you by chance regretting the fact that you had to kill that maniac?’
‘Not at all, he’d have finished us all off. Dammit, Sean, he got a shot off at you that just missed.’
‘And you put the knife in to save my life, girl,’ Dillon said. ‘So bless you for that.’
‘Anything else happening?’
‘Well, Ferguson’s spoken to Roper in London, and I’m sure he’s been put to work. You can feel free to contact him on your mobile if you want.’
In the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, wearing a dressing gown, a towel about his neck, his bomb-ravaged face shining with sweat. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey when Sara called.
‘My goodness, love, so you’ve been playing executioner again?’
‘No choice, Giles, not this time. Sean was his usual deadly self.’ She shivered. ‘Seconds, Giles, just seconds. It could have turned out so badly for all of us.’
‘Well, it didn’t, and that’s all that counts.’
‘So who do you think was behind them? You’re the best that I know at squeezing answers out of cyberspace.’
‘I have to agree with you, but these things take time. Besides, you have to remember that what happened tonight in Nantucket didn’t happen. Nobody heard a thing, nobody saw a thing. And if nothing happened, then no one can claim responsibility. I’m certainly not going to go online saying there’s a rumour that there was an assassination attempt on former President Jake Cazalet. Then everyone would know – and all the wrong sort of people would claim responsibility.’
‘So what can you do?’
‘Just wait and watch, see if anything unusual pops out. You never know. Anyway, get some sleep. I’ll see you when you get back.’
Dalton had reluctantly gone to sleep on a couch in the sitting room, and Cazalet and Ferguson sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and turning things over between them.
‘I’m almost flattered that someone feels I’m worth being a target,’ Cazalet said.
‘Nonsense, you were a great President. Your death would have made headlines around the world.’
‘Maybe,’ Cazalet admitted grudgingly. ‘Anyway, there was one matter I was asked to raise with you before you leave.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Colonel Declan Rashid. He was an enormous help in the Husseini business, so disgusted at the way Husseini was treated by the Iranian government that he deserted their army and supported your people in everything.’
‘And took a couple of bullets in the back doing it. He’s agreed to work for us when fit again,’ Ferguson added.
‘Well, apparently the CIA would like to talk with him. They’re really quite keen on it, though I expect I know your answer. I told them I’d pass it along, but wouldn’t promise anything.’
‘And you were right. You know Rashid’s history. He was a paratrooper at sixteen and, during Iran’s war with Saddam Hussein, made his first jump into action without training. Over the years, he has been wounded many times, and now his doctors, including our own Professor Bellamy, say enough is enough. He needs time to recuperate. The CIA will just have to retire gracefully from the conflict.’
Cazalet laughed out loud. ‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, let me just check my office messages. I’ve given Mrs Boulder the morning off, so when it comes to breakfast, we’ll all have to pitch in.’
He went out. Ferguson boiled the kettle, made tea, and Dillon entered. ‘You look fit,’ the general said.
‘Didn’t sleep worth a damn, but I dry-shaved and had a cold shower. I could kill for a cup of tea.’
‘Help yourself,’ Ferguson told him. Cazalet came in. ‘Your helicopter arrives at eleven. Also, photos of the Chechens have just come through. The machine’s pumped out some extra copies.’
‘Goodness me,’ Ferguson said. ‘They look like any young convicts from about a century ago.’
Dillon helped himself, took one of the sheets and slipped it in a pocket. Cazalet said, ‘Right, who’s for bacon and eggs?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Ferguson replied, but Dillon said, ‘I think I’d prefer a last walk on the beach, sir. I can get something down there.’
So he left them to it, tiptoeing past Dalton – still sleeping heavily on the couch – and letting himself out on the drive, and was soon walking along the beach. Plenty of tourists were out already, for it was a particularly fine day.
He wandered through them, uncertain about what it was he was looking for. The Chechens fascinated him. Two real wild boys, and how had they got to Nantucket? Looking at the crowded harbour, he found a very possible answer. The sea, because that’s what he would have done.
He went up on the jetty and started to walk along past people working on the decks of the boats, others diving into the harbour and swimming. A young man with a money satchel around his neck and a register in his hands was working his way along the line of boats. The name tag on his shirt said ‘Henry’.
Dillon said, ‘Can you help me? Have you ever seen these guys?’
He unfolded the sheet with both photos. Henry stopped smiling. ‘What have they done, are you a cop?’
‘I work for a security firm,’ Dillon said. ‘They’ve been leaving unpaid bills all over the place.’
‘Sure, I’ve seen them. Yesterday evening, they were around here really high on something and drinking booze, and they had an argument with people on one of the boats. Went off making a hell of a row.’
‘Show me the boat involved.’
‘I saw it leave last night as it was getting dark, which was strange, because the mooring fee was paid until Friday. It was a sport-fisherman, a rental from Quogue. Two guys on board named Jackson and Hawkins. I brought them passports. Maybe they’re just cruising about out there.’
‘I don’t think so. Did you do any copying of their passport details, photos and so on?’
‘No, that would be illegal. Anyway, the national agency just tells me either it’s okay or not okay.’
‘It’s just that I’d been wondering whether you could use a fifty-dollar bill.’
Henry smiled. ‘Only if you’d be happy with a picture I took of them on my phone. They were chatting on deck.’ He took the phone out of his pocket.
‘Why did you take it?’
‘Because jazz and swing are my thing, and Mr Hawkins plays a great clarinet. He turned an old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, into pure Gershwin, special enough to bring tears to the eyes. That’s him with the white beard.’
The disguises, which in effect the bearded faces were, had succeeded brilliantly. Not for a moment had Dillon recognized them from the photo, but Henry’s musical anecdote was unique. It related to the deepest and most poignant moment in Dillon’s life, which meant the man in the white beard was Tim Kelly and the other was probably Tod Flynn.
‘Does it ring any bells, sir?’
‘Not really, it was a hell of a long time ago. I’d like to have a copy of the photo anyway, if that’s okay with you. Can you email it to me?’ Dillon held out the fifty and gave Henry his number.
‘You’re more than welcome, sir.’ Henry sent it and slipped the bill into his pocket. ‘Have a nice day.’
Dillon walked away, his mind in a turmoil, never so conflicted. It was obvious that he should tell Ferguson what he had discovered, but it was impossible to discuss why at the moment, and certainly not with Sara around. She served the Crown, wore the uniform. On the other hand, they were returning to Roper, the bomb-scarred hero trapped in his wheelchair. He nodded to himself. Roper would know what to do. He hurried along the beach.
At the end of the strand across from the house, a mobile beach concession had appeared, a sandwich and burger bar on wheels with canvas chairs and fold-up tables, most of which were taken. Dillon stopped and ordered tea and an egg sandwich, sitting close to the bar.
The woman sympathetic to the Cause whom the Master had mentioned to Flynn sat not too far away, keeping an eye on the situation over the road where the helicopter had just drifted in behind the house. Her name was Lily Shah, and she worked in the dispensary at the Army of God headquarters in London.
She was quite small, wore sandals, a Panama pushed down over fair hair, her blue linen shirt loose over khaki shorts. She removed her Ray-Bans to scratch her nose, revealing a calm, sweet face. She was forty-five and looked younger. On seeing Dillon, she replaced her Ray-Bans, took a sound enhancer from her shirt pocket, slipped it into her right ear, and adjusted it as Sara Gideon crossed the road.
‘Anything special happen while I’ve been out?’ Dillon asked as he finished his tea.
Lily could hear perfectly as Sara answered. ‘The President wants Cazalet safe. The black team from last night is coming in tomorrow to start doing all sorts of security things to the house. Since it’s been in the family since before the Civil War, Cazalet is not pleased. Even more, the staff have been suspended. Dalton’s going to hang on to hand over to the team, and Mrs Boulder keeps Murchison, bless her. And I’m here to tell you to get a move on – we’re boarding the helicopter in minutes.’
They hurried across the road and entered the drive, cutting it very fine, for it seemed no more than five minutes later that the helicopter lifted above the trees and turned away, causing a certain excitement among the tourists.
Once things settled down, Lily wandered along the beach, turned across and down the side of the house, the marshy area with the reeds growing high. She stood looking at the place where the fencing gaped and, on impulse, scrambled through into the garden, and then ventured a little further cautiously to where the carnage had taken place.
The windows on the terrace slipped open and Dalton walked through, comfortable in shirtsleeves, a can of beer in one hand, and sat down on the swing chair. He opened the newspaper, and she pointed her right index finger at him, thumb raised, then smiled, eased back through the jungle of the garden, and left.
Walking back to town, barefoot at the sea’s edge, she phoned the Master and told him what happened. ‘So Ferguson and company will be back to trouble you again very soon.’
‘And trouble is the right word. He’s been a thorn in our side for much too long. I’m sure he was responsible for the disappearance of General Ali ben Levi. We know that he flew in here, to Northolt, in pursuit of the traitor Declan Rashid. This is a fact.’
Referring to Ali ben Levi as flying ‘in here, to Northolt’ Airport had been an unfortunate slip, for his choice of words had indicated that the Master was speaking in London. Come to that, Lily was sure she’d once heard Big Ben chiming in the background of one of his calls. Lily was intrigued, but concentrated on the matter at hand.
‘The Russians tried to eradicate Ferguson and his Prime Minister’s private army some years ago. All they got was a bloody nose,’ she said.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Dr Ali Saif, when he was head of education at the Army of God.’
‘What a damn traitor he turned out to be. Another turncoat.’
‘But not to Ferguson. As far as I know, MI5 claimed him. Perhaps he found it preferable to facing twenty-five years in Belmarsh under anti-terrorism laws,’ Lily said.
‘A traitor is a traitor. And as far as Ferguson goes, I’ve received an order from the Grand Council. They want revenge for ben Levi. Nothing less than assassination. Bullet or bomb, I’m open to either.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose I could put it to Tod Flynn.’
Lily was shocked at the implication. ‘The political upheaval would be enormous.’
‘And so it should be. That would be the point. That no one is safe, not even those working at the highest level for the Prime Minister himself, and there’s a thought.’
Lily tried to sound enthused, but managed only a muted ‘I hear what you say.’
‘Good. With luck, you should be back in London tomorrow. Give my sincere thanks to Hamid Bey for allowing you the few days’ leave to assist me as you have. He has been a revelation once he took over as imam. AQ acknowledges its debt.’
‘I’ll speak to him as soon as I get back. Is there anything more I can do for you?’
‘Yes, I’d like you to look up Tod Flynn’s niece at the Royal College of Music. She interests me. It seems that when she was fourteen, she lost her parents to a car bomb on a trip to Ulster and was crippled.’
‘Dear God,’ Lily said, genuinely shocked.
‘Her father was Flynn’s elder brother, Peter. Flynn became her legal guardian, and she’s been raised by him and her great-aunt. I want to know more about her. Something tells me it’ll come in handy for keeping Mr Flynn in hand.’
‘The usual file?’
‘Exactly, now be on your way. God go with you.’
She continued to walk at the water’s edge, thinking of Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now converted to the mosque and the headquarters of the Army of God charity. She was a cockney girl who from childhood had only wanted to be a nurse, had qualified against the odds and then joined the Army Medical Corps. In the seven years that followed, one war after another had given her an unrivalled experience of the barbarism, the butchery, that people could inflict on one another.
In Bosnia, she’d seen open graves with hundreds of Muslim bodies tumbled into them, as if the Nazis had returned to haunt Europe. In Kosovo, you had to get out of the ambulances to pull the corpses of mothers and their children to one side of the road so you could continue. In northern Lebanon, she had served with the Red Cross and UN with only a handful of soldiers to try to control the rape and pillage outside the mission hospital.
It was the only time she’d fought, and that was in desperation, picking up a dead soldier’s Browning pistol and emptying it into savage faces one after another, and then the trucks had roared up with the men and rifles. Al Qaeda, ruthlessly shooting wrongdoers, bringing order where there was none.
Two years later and out of the army, a nursing sister at the Cromwell Hospital in London, she’d met the love of her life, Khalid Shah, a handsome Algerian charge nurse, married him, and they’d moved to the dispensary at Pound Street, where it became clear that he was a follower of Osama bin Laden.
It was a year later that the cruelty of life took him away from her, when Al Qaeda called him in for service in Gaza, an Israeli air strike a month later ensuring his stay was permanent. She couldn’t hate Jews because of what had happened, for her dark secret, even from Khalid, was that she was only a Christian through her father, because her mother was a Jew and had married out. Hamid Bey, the imam at Pound Street Mosque, seemed a reasonable man, and as the dispensary was multi-faith, Lily’s Christianity caused no problem. The fact that he also looked the other way where Al Qaeda was concerned was understandable, when one considered that the greater part of his congregation supported it. She had yet to realize that she was entirely wrong in her assessment of Hamid, a savage zealot, who supported the Cause as much as the Master.
As her husband Khalid had been very open about his dedication to Al Qaeda, Lily had, to a certain extent, been drawn in. After all, it was the ruthless actions of Al Qaeda in Lebanon, saving many lives, including her own, which had made it possible for the most important relationship of her life to take place. And when that had ended, the telephone call from the Master to commiserate had opened a door into what followed. When General Ali ben Levi had been killed, she had not wondered why the Master’s voice had suddenly become different, for it was her place to serve without question.
But what had taken place here in Nantucket was like a bad dream that wouldn’t go away and not like anything that had happened before. Not even like Lebanon and the massacre and the intervention of Al Qaeda, which had saved so many lives.
She glanced at her watch and saw the time. If she was going to catch the ferry, she’d have to run. She slung her beach bag over her shoulder and started to do just that.
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The helicopter was comfortable enough, three tables with bench seats around the windows and a room in the back for privacy, into which Cazalet and Ferguson vanished on boarding. A young man and woman were in attendance, wearing identical dark blue suits and ties, and they ushered Dillon and Sara to one of the tables, belted themselves up for takeoff, and afterwards indicated that coffee or tea and a selection of sandwiches were available.
‘Would there be anything stronger?’ Dillon asked the woman, her colleague having gone off to serve the back room. ‘Like Bushmills, or would that be too much to ask?’
‘Of course not, sir, we keep a full range of spirits. And you, Captain?’
‘You must forgive my friend being so particular, but he’s Irish and not as other men. I’m probably being just as awkward by asking if you have any English breakfast tea.’
There was the ghost of a smile as the woman said, ‘Of course, Captain, I think I can manage that.’
She returned with their drinks on a tray and served them, and Sara thanked her. There were three double miniatures on Dillon’s small tray, a glass, but no water. ‘That should make you happy,’ Sara said as she poured her tea. ‘It’s almost as if she knows you.’
Dillon had opened his first miniature as she spoke, poured it, and tossed it down. ‘Maybe she does,’ he said as he opened another.
‘I don’t understand you, Sean,’ Sara said. ‘You were fine earlier when you came to tell me you’d had a word with Roper and so on, but now you’re in another place.’ She drank some of her tea. ‘You seemed okay when you went off to have a walk on the beach, but since then, not even a smile. What’s wrong? Are you upset about something?’
‘You mean like shooting a guy three times in the head last night? Why should I let a little thing like that bother me? You, on the other hand, the sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’ He picked up the third miniature, started to open it, and slammed it down.
Sara reached over and put her hand on his. ‘What is it, love? This isn’t you. Just tell me. It’s what friends are for.’
‘Damn you, Sara, for being so bloody nice. I’m truly sorry, but let’s leave it. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the toilet.’
She sat there thinking about it, thoroughly worried, then he returned fifteen minutes later, a fresh face on him, hair combed. He smiled. ‘If I do that again, punch me in the mouth. I don’t usually stress up that easily, but I seem to have done so this trip.’
Not that she believed him, but she couldn’t take the matter any further when the young man appeared from the back room and told them that Cazalet wanted to see them.
It was comfortably furnished, some chairs clamped to the floor, a desk, a large television screen, a computer. Cazalet sat behind the desk, Ferguson to one side. Ferguson said, ‘We’ll be in New York pretty soon, so this is the last chance for the four of us to discuss what’s happening. Sit down.’
Which they did, and Cazalet said, ‘The President has decided to be guided by the CIA in this matter, and their advice is this. They agree that the attack was sponsored by Al Qaeda, but they want to keep it under wraps. They’ll immediately start investigating, but want to keep Al Qaeda off balance by not saying a word about it publicly. All they’ll know is that I’m obviously alive and walking around. Al Qaeda won’t know what to make of it, won’t know what did occur.’
‘Only that their two assassins have gone missing?’ Sara nodded. ‘That makes for an interesting situation.’
‘Well, they love their martyrs,’ Ferguson said. ‘We all know that, so handled this way, it denies AQ the oxygen of publicity.’
Cazalet said, ‘Maybe they’ll slip up, make a mistake, try to communicate with each other. That’s helped us before.’ Cazalet smiled grimly. ‘And we have a lot of drones.’
‘Which still requires us to know where the bastards are in the first place,’ Dillon said. ‘To be able to score.’
There was a slight pause. Sara glanced at Dillon, then said, ‘Thank you for being so clear, sir.’
‘Very weird.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘We were in New York at the UN to discuss the Husseini affair with the British ambassador, then got yanked out for an evening with you, and it was that which screwed up Al Qaeda’s plan. I’m surprised they didn’t get wind of our trip to Nantucket. The UN’s a sieve, all those countries crammed into that building on the East River. Don’t tell me Al Qaeda doesn’t have its fingers in that pie.’
‘That may be,’ Ferguson said. ‘The point is how we handle it now. I’ve had word from London. It seems the President has spoken to the Prime Minister, who has agreed to all this but with some reluctance. So that settles it. As far as the public is concerned, none of this ever happened.’
He turned to Dillon. ‘Have you anything to say? You usually do.’
‘About the dream I had last night? It’s fading rapidly.’
‘Go on, back to your seats. We need a last few words together, don’t we, sir?’ he said to Cazalet.
Dillon and Sara turned to go. He had his hand on the door handle when Cazalet called, ‘Just a moment, you two.’
They turned, and Sara said, ‘Yes, sir, was there something else?’
‘Yes.’ Cazalet was smiling. ‘Very private and between us. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about the CIA. Thank God you were there last night. It’s people like you who guard the wall for all of us, and I, for one, am extremely grateful.’
There was a silent moment as his words sank in, and then Sara smiled and said, ‘It’s been a privilege to serve, Mr President,’ and she followed Dillon out.
Later that day, in the Gulfstream heading home, Ferguson stayed towards the front of the cabin video-conferencing while Flight Lieutenant Parry moved along from the cockpit, visited the kitchen area, and came out with coffee.
‘We’ve got some storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so make sure you belt up if you go to sleep. And’ – he looked a little uncomfortable – ‘could you advise Dillon to watch his drinking?’
He and Sara exchanged a look, then he moved back towards the cockpit. She reached up to a locker and found a couple of blankets, and Dillon, who’d been to the toilet, returned with a glass in one hand. She tossed one blanket to him and draped herself in the other.
‘I’d be careful with your booze intake, Sean,’ she advised. ‘Rough weather forecast.’
They sat with their backs against the rear bulkhead on either side of the aisle, and he touched her. ‘Just the one, and then I’ll probably have a sleep.’
‘So you’ve still got problems?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about what Cazalet said about people like us guarding the wall.’
‘That was a fine thing for him to say, but then he’s a fine man.’
‘I agree, but it made me feel ashamed.’
She frowned. ‘But why should it do that?’
‘Oh, not living up to the image, in my case allowing a mental aberration to cloud my judgment, but I see sense now. I’ve been wrong, but at least when you see you have, you can put it right.’
‘Are you going to talk to Ferguson about it?’
‘Eventually, but I need to consult Roper first.’
Ferguson switched off the screen, turned, and called to them, ‘That’s it for me. I’m taking a pill. With any luck, I’ll sleep through to Farley Field,’ and he pulled out a blanket and settled down.
Sara lowered her voice. ‘Come on, Sean, what’s going on?’
‘Well – I believe I know the identity of two people involved in the Nantucket business.’
She was astonished. ‘But you haven’t said a word of this to anyone. Why not?’
‘There’s an Irish connection, a question of mistaken loyalty to family on my part. It has to do with the death of my father in Belfast in 1979, when he blundered into a firefight with British paratroopers and was killed. I can see now I was wrong. It will be put right, that’s all that counts. God knows what Ferguson will do, but I’ll take that as it comes.’
‘Sean, what are you talking about?’
‘Well, if you’ll shut up for a while, girl dear, I’ll tell you,’ Dillon said. ‘In my early years in Collyban, my father in London trying to make a place for us, I was raised by my uncle, Mickeen Oge Flynn. His son Tod and I were like brothers. We tackled the old upright in the front parlour together, learned to play passable barroom piano, accompanied by our friend, Tim Kelly, on clarinet. A boy with a real gift, believe me. Then I went to London and got involved with the theatre, as you know.’
‘Sean, what on earth has this to do with anything?’
‘It has to do with everything,’ Dillon said. ‘Be patient. What with the Troubles, we just kept in touch with the family by phone from London, and I knew that Tod and Tim Kelly had made something of their music, played in bars and clubs, and it was Uncle Mickeen who phoned me with the news of my father’s death. He said that nobody from Collyban would be going up to Belfast for the funeral, as it would be too dangerous.’
Sara said, ‘And I imagine he thought the same for you.’
‘I suppose so, but I told him I’d be there, and he said he ought to warn me that Tod and Kelly, who were going to take care of the funeral, were Provisional IRA and on the run as far as the army and police were concerned.’
Sara shook her head. ‘So, needless to say, you went?’
‘A rushed flight, Belfast greeted me with pouring rain. Taxis were available, though expensive. I was dropped at St Mary the Virgin Church in Samson Street near the docks. Three vans had men standing around them under umbrellas, watching. I hurried through a decaying graveyard and entered the church.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘It was like most of them, half dark, burning candles, an effigy of Mary and the Christ child by the door. I remember putting my fingers in the holy water – habit, I suppose. There was the aisle between the pews towards the altar, a closed coffin on trestles, an old priest in a cassock, no vestments. Tod stood there, obviously startled by the door opening, a Browning ready, and Tim Kelly was opposite, a clarinet in his hands.’
‘“God in heaven, you’ve come.” Tod stepped forward and gave me a hug.
‘“It’s where I should be,” I told him, “But there are vans outside, and we seem to be attracting attention.”
‘“UVF Protestant bastards,” Kelly told me. “They’d hang the lot of us if they could.”
‘“Never mind that now,” Tod said. “Father Murphy’s done with his prayers and will see to the burial with the sexton after we’ve gone. It only remains for Tim’s tribute.”’
‘Tribute?’ Sara said. ‘What was that?’
‘My father had a favourite old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, and the sound of that clarinet played in the Gershwin style, soaring up to the roof, was the most poignant thing I’d ever heard, has remained with me forever. There were voices outside, but the music stilled them. There was a moment of silence as Kelly finished – then a brick came in through a window. Tod pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver out of his pocket and pushed it into my hand. I’d done a training course on the use of weapons on stage.’
‘Which was your only experience of handling a gun?’ Sara said.
‘Exactly. Father Murphy shouted, You know the way out, boys. Don’t worry about me. They wouldn’t dare to harm a priest. The church door swung open, men burst in, the first one already firing a pistol,’ Dillon continued. ‘He hit me in the left shoulder. I staggered back, firing blindly, and caught him in the throat. Tod shot the man behind them, driving the others back, then got an arm around me, hustled me into the vestry, Kelly following, down some steps to a cellar. There was a manhole in a corner, they opened it, and we scrambled into a sewage tunnel, big enough to walk along, all the way down to the docks.’
‘And obviously, you got away,’ Sara said.
‘That part of the city is an underground network of similar tunnels. I remember us surfacing in some sort of large garage full of trucks and vans, and then I blacked out, so I can only tell you what I was told later.’
‘And what was that?’
‘The Provos had the trick of using ambulances they’d got their hands on, manning them with their own people wearing hospital uniforms. Tod told me they had a real nurse pump me full of morphine, then he and Kelly scrambled in the back wearing hospital scrubs and we were away, sailing through every roadblock.’
‘To where?’ Sara asked.
‘Over the border into the Republic, to a charity hospital called St Mary’s Priory run by the Little Sisters of the Poor, a nursing order.’
‘Strictly speaking, that was illegal.’
‘Of course, but how far do you think they’d get putting nuns in court in Ireland? Tod and Kelly left me to it, then came back three weeks later when I was fit to leave.’
‘An amazing story, the whole business, changing your life like that. You were forced into killing that UVF man, I can see that, but why did you join the PIRA and set foot on such a course?’
‘It was nothing to do with the death of that UVF man, everything to do with what happened to Father Murphy. He and the sexton buried my father as he had promised. A week later, somebody ran him down one night, left him dead in the road.’
Sara was distressed. ‘It could have been an accident, Sean.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I did at the time. But never mind. You’ve been so gripped by my story that you’ve lost sight of why I told it to you.’
‘What are you saying?’ she asked.
He showed her the photo on his phone. She examined it, frowning. ‘Who on earth are these two?’
‘Supposedly their names are Jackson and Hawkins, two Americans visiting Nantucket in a sport-fisherman out of Long Island. I got that photo of them from a nice kid named Henry working out of the harbourmaster’s office. Remember I went for a walk on the beach down to the harbour? I found Henry checking boats and showed him the Chechen photos. He recognized them as having had a row with Jackson and Hawkins the previous evening, told me he was surprised to find that they had already left in their boat, which was booked to stay until Friday.’
‘Are you trying to say you know these men?’
‘I certainly don’t recognize them, but beards and bushy hairdos are a very successful disguise, so I’ve always found. But some things can’t be disguised. What if I told you that Henry’s a jazz enthusiast and heard Hawkins, the one with the white hair, playing the finest clarinet he’d ever heard but didn’t recognize the music. When he asked what it was, Hawkins told him it was an old Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”, which he’d played in the style of George Gershwin.’
Her eyes widened as she stared at him, stunned. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘Yes, my love, my cousin and Tim Kelly can disguise themselves as much as you like, but no one could disguise that music from me, wouldn’t you agree after hearing my story?’
‘But what would they be up to?’
‘Obviously I don’t know, but what I do is that they were both released from the Maze Prison during the peace process. I heard some talk of them being in the security business, so called. As we know, that could mean anything. It gave me the greatest shock of my life when Henry spoke to me. It was so strange, brought everything back. My first thought was that I’d have to turn them in. I couldn’t face that, but I’ve got my head round it now. I’ll have to tell the General and face the consequences.’
There was a stirring up in front of them and Ferguson looked around. ‘No need, Dillon, I heard the whole bloody saga – taped it, as a matter of fact. How lucky for me that my pill box was empty so I hadn’t been knocked out as I usually am on these flights.’
‘So it’s the Tower of London, next stop?’ Dillon said.
‘You certainly deserve it. You’ve given me all sorts of problems now. What do I do about the CIA, what will the Prime Minister have to say? I’m going to send it all on for Roper to digest. In the meantime, we have another four hours to Farley. May I suggest we dim the lights and try to get some sleep?’
At the Holland Park safe house, Roper, seated in his dressing gown in his wheelchair in the computer room, was ecstatic and laughing to himself as he reached the end of the recording. He reached for the Bushmills Irish whiskey bottle and poured a large one.
He tossed it back, broke into laughter, and said, ‘God bless you, Sean Dillon. When my day is dull, I can always rely on you to brighten it up.’
Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, had just pushed in a trolley with bacon sandwiches and a tea urn, his bomb-devastated boss being unable to drink coffee any longer.
‘You’re a happy man, Major, what’s caused that? Have there been developments?’
He had been in the computer room the previous night with Roper when Ferguson had come on screen from Nantucket to mention the assassination attempt and Dillon and Sara’s part in it. The Holland Park safe house operated outside the normal security services such as MI5 and 6, who hated the fact that, thanks to Roper’s genius, a great deal that passed through his coded computers stayed private except to Ferguson and his people, all sworn to secrecy.
Roper said, ‘You’ve got to hear this, Tony, fresh from the Gulfstream. Pass me a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No pictures, just audio.’
When it was finished, Tony Doyle shook his head. ‘That was a bad thing some bastard did to Father Murphy.’
Roper, taking a more sober attitude now, agreed. ‘The Troubles were not only hell on earth, they were disgusting morally.’
‘Yes, but you only realized that by being there,’ Doyle said. ‘Take me. A Jamaican Cockney born and bred in London. I wanted to see the world, so I joined the British Army, and what did I get?’
‘Seven tours of duty in Northern Ireland.’ Roper took another sandwich. ‘And what did I get out of it? This wheelchair.’ He switched on multiple screens. ‘Let me see if there’s anything interesting I can find about the Flynn clan.’
Doyle said, ‘Yes, Major, you really are a casualty of war.’
‘So are you,’ Roper told him, not looking at him but scanning the screens. ‘And so were Dillon and Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly, who marched to the beat of the wrong drum. Hmm. Apparently, the only person in this affair who showed good sense was Tod’s elder brother by ten years, Peter. He avoided the Troubles by moving to the Republic to work for a distant relative on his horse farm and stud at a place called Drumgoole.’
‘A sensible option, I’d say.’
‘I’d agree, especially as seven years later, the relative died of a heart attack and left the farm to Peter and his wife, on the condition that they gave a home to his widowed sister, Margaret Flynn, known to the family as Aunt Meg.’
‘Some people have all the luck,’ Doyle said.
‘Especially when Tod and Kelly were released from the Maze and he was able to offer them a home.’
‘To work on the farm?’
‘Some of the time. It’s also the address of a security firm. Obviously, it didn’t take them long to get down to business.’
‘So you think Nantucket was part of their agenda?’
‘I don’t know.’ Roper was frowning, manipulating his control. ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘That was unfortunate. There’s a daughter, Hannah, who was eighteen in June. Four years ago, on a trip to Belfast, she lost her parents to a car bomb. She was badly injured and in hospital for months. Her father died intestate.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘No will. She inherited everything, but as she was only fourteen, the court appointed Tod and Aunt Meg as joint guardians.’
‘Well, as I wouldn’t trust that Provo bastard an inch, I’m happy the aunt’s around to keep an eye on him,’ Doyle said.
‘There’s some personal stuff here on her Facebook page,’ Roper said. ‘Good news. She must be a real hotshot on the piano. She’s just been accepted as a student at the Royal College of Music.’
‘Sounds like you’re taking a personal interest.’
Roper switched off most of the screens, leaving only one, the emergency cover. ‘Enough already. I could do with a steam, shower and shave and fresh clothes, then I’ll doze until our lord and master appears.’ He was very cheerful. ‘Can you assist me, Sergeant?’
‘That’s what I’m here for, Major,’ Doyle told him, and followed as Roper switched on his wheelchair and led the way out.
And in Ireland, high on a hill that loomed above Drumgoole Place, Hannah Flynn reined in a mare named Fancy as she saw the Land Rover approaching the house in the far distance. It was raining lightly, evening drawing in, and she wore an Australian drover’s coat, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over auburn hair that framed a calm and serious face. She spoke into a cell phone.
‘They’re here, Aunt Meg.’
Margaret Flynn took the call in the kitchen. At seventy-six, she was a handsome woman still, in jerkin and riding breeches, hair white, face tanned. There was still a hint of the actress she had been in her youth.
‘Wonderful, but when your uncle Tod called from Dublin Airport, he said they wanted to change as soon as possible.’
‘More cloak and dagger again,’ Hannah said. ‘When are they going to learn that the IRA is past its prime and nobody wants to know any more?’
‘Of course, love, Tod and Kelly know that. It’s just security work they do these days. Anyway, I’ve given the stable hands the night off, so you get here when you can. We’ll have dinner a little later.’
There had long been a dark suspicion that the car bomb which had killed Hannah’s parents and injured her so badly had been meant for Tod. Perhaps someone was settling an old score? Hannah frequently remembered that possibility with some bitterness.
She sat there for a moment longer, stroking and patting the mare. ‘That’s men for you, Fancy, still playing games in the schoolyard and then never seeming to learn that sometimes people get hurt.’ She shook her head. ‘Security, my arse,’ and she rode away.
Tod and Kelly showered in the wet room on the ground floor of Drumgoole Place, then set about shaving their beards, which took quite some time. After that, they sat side by side and Meg cut their hair in turn.
‘Will ye watch what you’re doing, woman?’ Tod said.
She cuffed him. ‘You’re in good hands. I learned everything there is to know about hairdressing in my theatre days. I’ll see to the cuts first, then use the right solvents to treat the colour.’
Hannah moved in from the corridor, limping, a walking stick in her right hand. ‘What a couple of beauties.’
‘You show some respect, girl,’ Tod told her. ‘We’ve been away earning a crust. Takes money to run this place.’
‘Where to this time?’
Kelly looked hunted, but Tod said, ‘Nothing much, just inspecting the security system for the company that runs the ferries from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. No big deal.’
‘A pity.’ She tossed some matches into Tod’s lap. ‘I found those in the kitchen. They advertise a café in Nantucket. That would have been much more exciting.’
She went out, and Meg picked up the matches.
‘I wonder where these came from?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Tod said. ‘I don’t know.’
She said, ‘You told me you were dressing up to put one over on a rival firm for someone you were working for?’
‘So we were,’ he said. ‘Just business, Meg. Is she pleased about the Royal College of Music?’
‘I’m not really sure. It’s not residential, so accommodation is going to be a problem with it being London.’
‘Don’t worry, these days we’ve got plenty of money. Just keep on cutting and bring back my auburn hair.’
Which she did, cut Kelly’s very short and darkened the white to grey.
‘Marvellous,’ Tod said. ‘I feel human again. Let’s have dinner.’
Ferguson’s Daimler and driver were waiting when the Gulfstream landed at Farley. Dillon had left his Mini Cooper there, but Sara had nothing.
‘I’ve decided not to go home tonight,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’d like to have words with Roper sooner rather than later, so I’ll stay in the guest wing at Holland Park.’
Dillon often did the same, and said, ‘I’d like to join you.’
‘That’s fine by me, but I expect you’ll be wanting a lift to Highfield Court to see your grandfather?’ he said to Sara.
‘He won’t be there, he’s touring the lecture circuit. “God and the Mind of Man,” his favourite topic. Everyone wants Rabbi Nathan Gideon these days.’
‘And so they should,’ Dillon told her. ‘He’s a great man.’
‘Actually, I’d welcome your input, Captain,’ Ferguson said, ‘So jump in and we’ll be on our way. We’ll see you there, Dillon.’
When Roper returned from the shower, it was to find that Ferguson and the others had arrived and had gone upstairs to unpack, but he had another visitor waiting.
Dr Ali Saif was an Egyptian with an English grandmother who’d not only sent him to Eton but supplied him with a UK passport under filial law. A brilliant scholar, a senior lecturer in archaeology at London University, he had initially found Osama’s message attractive enough for him to offer his services to the Army of God charity. As with others, one could be drawn into the activities of Al Qaeda without realizing it, especially with the hypnotic tones of the Master on the telephone to guide you.
He’d been caught in a bad situation, however, and his decision to act on the side of right had not only saved lives but impressed Ferguson enough to save him from prison and find a use for his talents as an interrogator of Muslims suspected of terrorism, at Tenby Street safe house run by MI5.
‘Have they arrived?’ Ali enquired, and before Roper could answer him, Ferguson, Sara, and Dillon walked in.
‘Ali, it’s you,’ Ferguson said in surprise.
‘We were talking earlier,’ Roper told him. ‘He’s been fully informed about the latest development. After his past services to us, I felt he could be trusted to keep it to himself.’
‘Your account of Belfast 1979 was extraordinary, Mr Dillon,’ Ali said. ‘It’s certainly possible that these men, Flynn and Kelly, could have something to do with the affair. I’ve already learned in my short time at MI5 that individuals from dissident Irish groups have used their past experience in all kinds of violent situations, from Eastern Europe to the Middle East. Does anyone else know?’
‘No, actually, which is rather interesting.’ Ferguson said. ‘I haven’t mentioned them to anybody, not even the Prime Minister.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ Roper asked. ‘Keeping the PM uninformed seems risky to me.’
‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ He turned to Ali Saif. ‘I need hardly remind you that what you’ve heard is privileged and not for your masters at MI5. Now, meanwhile, you’ve had personal experience with AQ in London. What’s your take?’
Sara said, ‘Considering it’s not very long since the last Master died, this new one seems to have got to work pretty quickly.’
‘But Al Qaeda is organized for such situations,’ Ali told her. ‘There is a Grand Council, nobody knows where, which issues its decisions in Paris. General ben Levi was killed in London, and nobody outside the Council knew his true identity until the day he died. His replacement, from what little we have discovered about this worldwide cult, will have been put in place instantly.’
‘So what was the purpose of the attempt on Jake Cazalet’s life?’
‘He looked like easy meat, and they would have destroyed an American icon, shown the world they could get away with it, given two fingers to the Great Satan.’
‘Only they didn’t,’ Ferguson said.
Ali nodded. ‘Because of the coincidence of your visit, General.’
‘Ironic, really,’ Dillon said. ‘If the President hadn’t decided to have us privately thanked, Cazalet would be dead now.’
‘Exactly.’ Ali shrugged. ‘Of course, the Grand Council will want revenge. They will attack us here in London, a spectacular, perhaps. You notice I say us because I must include myself now. I’m a turncoat of the first order, as far as they’re concerned. If I dared to show my face at Pound Street, I’d be stoned.’
‘Come, come, Ali, we mustn’t exaggerate. The Army of God is a legally organized charity. Their dispensary serves all denominations, and the imam of the mosque, Hamid Bey, is highly respected.’
‘Smoke and mirrors, General. As you say, I have had personal experience with AQ. The City Corporation, the police, tread carefully for political reasons. In my time when I was on the wrong side, the Master spoke to me on a regular basis, and I’m not naive enough to think I was the only one. As for Hamid Bey, he is a dog and not to be trusted.’
‘All right, I’ll take your word for it,’ Ferguson said. ‘We’ll have to take extra care from now on.’
Ali opened his jacket to show a Walther in a shoulder holster. ‘I’m also wearing a nylon-and-titanium vest. I hope the rest of you are.’ He smiled, leaned down, and kissed Sara’s hand gallantly. ‘You always astonish one, Captain Gideon. God is good to you.’ He nodded to the others. ‘If you’ll excuse me, General, I’m on night duty at Tenby Street.’ He turned and walked out.
‘My goodness,’ Ferguson said. ‘He’s really come on. It was a wise choice to take a chance on him. I’m sure you’ll all take heed of his advice. His experience with this cult of the Master thing is obviously unique. Anyway, I think we could also do with some supper. Let’s see what the kitchen’s got for us. As for Hamid Bey, I always thought the bastard was too good to be true.’
There was a loud bang, the front door crashed open, and Doyle shouted, ‘Help, man down!’
Dillon and Sara ran out into the hall, to find Doyle dragging a hospital trolley out of the hallway and outside.
The Judas gate had swung open and Ali Saif was lying half outside it. As they raced toward him, Doyle said, ‘He told me he was going to walk back to Tenby Street, so I accompanied him, opened the Judas gate, and somebody shot him. He bounced off the gate, half turning. There was a second shot, he staggered into me and went down. Silenced weapon, just a couple of coughs. God knows I’ve heard enough of those in my time.’
Sara appeared with two wound packs and ripped one open as she examined Ali, who was obviously in shock, eyes staring.
‘The vest seems to have stopped one round, but the other has ploughed into his right thigh, no protection there.’ She staunched the blood flow as best she could. ‘Help me, Sean, there are morphine ampoules in the pack, get one into him.’
Ferguson was talking briskly into his phone, and Ali reached and clutched Sara. ‘You must take care, Sara. I told you the Grand Council wants revenge and I’m the first to be punished. The traitor …’
He fainted, and Ferguson said, ‘Rosedene’s alerting Professor Bellamy. Let’s get Saif into the Land Rover and get him up there.’
A couple of hours later, the matron at Rosedene, Margaret Duncan, approached the group, still in theatre scrubs and looking tired. ‘My goodness, General, another one. When will somebody say enough is enough?’
‘Not in the world as it is today, I’m afraid. How is he?’
Professor Charles Bellamy walked in and answered for her. ‘Alive, and that is one good thing. The vest did exactly what it was supposed to and stopped a heart shot.’
‘Which, if successful, would have killed instantly, but Ali started thrashing around, so the shooter put a random round into him and cleared off,’ Dillon said. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘A serious wound in the left thigh, damage to bone and sinew,’ Bellamy told him.
‘Just how bad?’ Ferguson asked.
‘He’ll be here for several weeks, and recovery and therapy will take some time.’ He smiled at Sara. ‘As you know only too well, Captain, better than anyone else here, including myself.’
‘God help him,’ Sara said. ‘While I’m here, can I ask how Declan is?’
‘He’s asleep. You can see him tomorrow.’
‘We’ll leave them both in your good hands.’ Ferguson turned to the others. ‘Back to Holland Park, I think, and may I point out that we still haven’t had any supper.’
It was much later that they rejoined Roper in the computer room and discussed the attack.
‘Takes me back to Afghanistan,’ Sara said. ‘All the trappings of high security mean nothing once you step outside base where some fifteen-year-old with an AK can take a pop at you at any moment.’
‘And get away with it,’ Dillon said. ‘Though I’d say in this case whoever was responsible tonight was aware of Ali’s habit of walking to Tenby Street after visiting us. It’s not much more than a mile. Lots of trees on the other side of the road.’
‘I agree,’ Roper said. ‘Looks like the work of a silenced AK with a folding stock, probably carried in an ordinary supermarket shopping bag.’
‘A reinforcement of Ali’s warning earlier about Al Qaeda’s Grand Council seeking revenge, and that means full alert, people,’ Ferguson said.
There were a few moments of silence as they all thought about it, and it was Sara who spoke first. ‘There is the business of Flynn and Kelly, sir. What are we going to do about that?’
‘Yes, you left it hanging,’ Roper pointed out.
‘Perhaps somebody should go and see them,’ Sara said.
‘Maybe we all should.’ Ferguson laughed out loud. ‘That could be fun.’
‘You mean just turn up at Drumgoole out of the blue?’ she asked.
‘It’s a thought.’ Ferguson was considering it, a slightly wicked smile on his face. He looked at his watch. ‘Just after eleven. A man like Flynn’s bound to be up. Find the number, Major. I’ll leave it to you what to say, Dillon.’
In the parlour at Drumgoole Place, they were sitting by a log fire, Tod Flynn and Kelly, Aunt Meg and Hannah, a film just finishing on television. Hannah was nearest to the house phone when it rang, and she answered.
‘Drumgoole Place.’
‘Put me on to Tod,’ Dillon said.
She bridled. ‘And who the hell are you, mister?’
Dillon laughed. ‘From the sound of you, you’d be Hannah.’
‘Aren’t you the cheeky one.’ Meg had turned off the television and they were staring at Hannah. ‘I’ll only ask you once more, then I’m putting the phone down. Who are you?’ She put it on speaker so they could all hear.
‘Your second cousin, girl dear, Sean Dillon. Now, put him on.’
The look of incredulity on her face was quite something as she held out the phone to her uncle. ‘He says he’s Sean Dillon.’
There was silence for a moment, Kelly in immediate shock, but Tod took a deep breath and the phone. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘No, it is me, you old sod. How did you enjoy Nantucket?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Stop being stupid, it doesn’t suit you. Tell Kelly if he’d not been noticed playing “The Lark in the Clear Air” on his clarinet, I’d never have known you were there. I work for Charles Ferguson these days, but I’m sure you know that.’
‘Sold out to the Brits, Sean, didn’t you?’ Tod said.
‘Oh, we all sold out to somebody, in your case the Master and Al Qaeda. We’ll be over to see you in a few days, and don’t try to run away. There’s nowhere to go.’
He cut off the call, leaving Tod sitting by the fire, numb with shock, the others staring at him. It was Meg who shook her head and spoke first. ‘The Lord help us, Tod, what have you done now?’
But Hannah was already on her feet, leaning on her walking stick. ‘The glory days are back, is that it, Uncle Tod? Well, you and the damn IRA and Al Qaeda can go to hell,’ and she limped out of the room, banging the door shut behind her.
In the computer room, it was all smiles. ‘Good work, Sean, you’ve stirred the pot there,’ Roper said.
‘Excellent, Dillon, you really put the boot in,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I would judge he’s in a state of total shock, but we must strike while he’s still off balance, give him time to get really worried, then we’ll take the Gulfstream to Ireland and descend on him.’
‘On them, sir,’ Sara said. ‘I thought the young girl was pretty feisty. I liked the sound of her.’
‘Well, just remember she might be the enemy, Captain, but I’m for bed. It’s been a rough old week.’
‘Tomorrow is always another day,’ Sara said. ‘Hang on to that thought.’ They filed out, leaving Roper to doze in his wheelchair, his screens still on.
4 (#ulink_ad87aaf5-d94a-5816-93b2-bbe3c119cea0)
Half past midnight, Hannah sat on a stool in Fancy’s stall in the stud stable at Drumgoole, a horse blanket over her shoulders, the mare content with an occasional glance at her. It had been a refuge during four years of pain from the car bomb – the dim lights, the stable smell of fourteen horses, always had a deeply calming effect. She leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing her rage to ebb away, heard the door open at the other end of the stables, then voices.
Kelly said, ‘What happens now?’
‘You’re forgetting he presented us with one of his coded mobile phones.’ Tod’s smile was mirthless. ‘I’m going to call him right now.’
‘At this time in the morning?’
‘He boasts that he can operate from anywhere, doesn’t he? Let’s see if he does.’
Kelly laughed harshly. ‘Put it on speaker, I don’t want to lose a word.’
A couple of minutes, no more, and then the voice echoed, calm and full of authority. ‘Say who you are.’
Tod told him. ‘So we can cut the crap.’
‘Why, Mr Flynn, you’re angry,’ the Master replied. ‘An emotion that leads to stupidity, and that’s not to be recommended in our line of work. Is there a problem? If so, tell me.’
‘With pleasure,’ Tod said. ‘What would you say if I’d had a phone call from Sean Dillon a couple of hours ago, asking me if we’d enjoyed Nantucket? They know about you, Master-whoever-you-are, and the Al Qaeda connection – everything.’ There was a perceptible pause. ‘Are you there?’
‘Oh, I’m here, Mr Flynn, and considering what act of human stupidity has brought us to this situation.’
Kelly broke in, shouting, ‘Trying to find somebody to blame, are you?’
‘Because there usually is,’ the Master said calmly. ‘Do get your friend to shut up, Mr Flynn, then you provide me with a sane explanation and don’t leave anything out.’
Which Tod did, and when he was finished, said, ‘And that’s the truth of it, so what do you think?’
‘That it was just bad luck. It was pure chance that sent them to Cazalet’s house, and pure chance that Dillon made the connection to the two of you.’
‘One hell of a coincidence,’ Tod said.
‘Chance, Mr Flynn – life is, in many ways, ruled by it. Of course, sometimes it’s fate. It wasn’t by chance that your father was Sean Dillon’s uncle. There’s something almost karmic about it.’
Kelly intervened again. ‘We’ve no time for all this shite. What do we do when Ferguson and his crew turn up here?’
‘Wrong question,’ the Master told him. ‘It should be, What can they do? There’s no evidence the attack even took place, and Cazalet’s walking around as if nothing had happened. So what can they do to you? It’s rather amusing when you think of it, Ferguson couldn’t even get you arrested.’ Somewhere in his background was an unmistakable sound.
At that, Hannah erupted from Fancy’s stall and took a few steps toward them, leaning heavily on her walking stick.
‘There’s nothing amusing about it, because I’ve heard everything.’
Kelly tried to grab her, and she slashed the walking stick across his shoulders. Tod dropped the phone on the table and caught her as she tried to get past him to the door.
‘It’s all right, Hannah love, I’ll handle it.’
‘It’s not and you won’t.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who this Master of yours is, Uncle Tod, but I’ve heard enough to recognize an evil bastard when I hear one.’ She raised her voice. ‘A bastard who lives in London! You should keep your window closed. Everybody knows the sound of Big Ben.’
She pulled away from him and returned to the other end of the stable, leaning heavily on her stick, and disappeared into Fancy’s stall. Kelly watched her go, then picked up the mobile and handed it over.
‘Are you still there?’ Tod asked.
The Master replied calmly, ‘Do we have a problem with your niece?’
‘No, I promise you. Since the car bomb that took her parents four years ago, pain has been her constant companion. She’s stressed about it, and now this. I’ll take care of it.’
‘Such sentimentality comes rather late in the day from a man who has been responsible for as many deaths as you have. But it’s understandable, considering there are those who think the bomb which killed her parents and crippled her was meant for you.’
Tod said gravely, ‘There was always that possibility.’
‘Not in this case, Mr Flynn. In fact, I know the names of the two men who set that bomb.’
Tod was very still. ‘And what must I do for those names?’
‘Dillon told you he’d be coming within the next few days. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gideon woman and possibly even Ferguson himself came with him. Those people have been a running sore in Al Qaeda’s side for long enough. I’m sure a man of your expertise, and Kelly’s, can find a way to dispose of them one way or another.’
Kelly shook his head. ‘The man’s crazed, Tod.’
‘Not at all,’ the Master said. ‘I happen to know that at the back of Drumgoole Place, at the foot of the mountain, is a bog – the Bog of Salam, isn’t that what they call it? According to legend, it could swallow a regiment.’
‘And it could swallow you,’ Kelly told him.
‘Or Hannah Flynn. I trust we’re clear on that. Now, Ferguson and company, can I tempt you?’
Tod’s face was bone white, eyes dark. ‘Not in a million years. But I’ll tell you what I will do. Never leave Hannah’s side for a moment, as long as you walk this earth. And I’m keeping your money. So to hell with you, Master-whoever-you-are, and bring it on as soon as you like.’
He switched off, slipped the phone into his pocket, turned and found Hannah, standing outside Fancy’s stall, face tear-stained. He walked toward her, passing Kelly, who simply smiled grimly and nodded.
She managed a smile. ‘That was telling him.’
He put an arm round her. ‘You know what I’ve been, girl, the terrible things I did. My excuse was that I was fighting for a cause. True or not, it made a bad man out of me, but as far as this bastard is concerned, I’ll be his worst nightmare.’
She nodded, then hugged him suddenly so that she dropped her stick. ‘Dammit to hell,’ she moaned, and tried to bend.
He picked it up and gave it to her. ‘A nice Catholic girl and such language. Come on, child, we’ll find Aunt Meg and see you both to bed. Things will look better in the morning.’
Not that he believed it, not for a single moment.
On the Belfast waterfront the following day, it had rained early and the fog came later, rolling across the docks into Cagney Street, the Orange Drumat one end. The pub was long past its prime, a leftover from the great days of the Victorian era. It would be a haven for hard drinkers and drug users later that day, but it was empty at that moment except for Fergus Tully, drinking scalding-hot tea laced with Irish whiskey at the end of the bar. He was reading the Belfast Telegraph,while Frank Bell, the publican, worked his way through the sports pages.
They had served time together in the Maze Prison for multiple murders, men of a Protestant persuasion, the PIRA’s bitterest enemies, Tully of such fearsome reputation that newspapers nicknamed him the Shankhill Butcher. The peace process had unleashed them into the world again.
Tully emptied his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘I’ll have another, Frank,’ and his mobile phone sounded.
‘Is that Mr Frank Tully?’
‘Who the hell wants to know?’ Tully said, immediately offended by the English accent.
‘I’ve just credited your bank account with one hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.’
Tully banged his fist down on the bar. ‘Stupid bastard.’
‘What was all that about?’ Bell asked, and when Tully told him, said, ‘Well, all you have to do is call the bank. They opened at nine.’
Which Tully did, and was staggered to be told that such a sum had only just been deposited from a bank in Geneva. He barely had time to inform Bell, when his phone rang again.
‘Who are you?’ Tully demanded.
‘The people I serve had dealings with you some years ago. If I say AQ, do you understand me?’
‘I certainly do,’ Tully said. ‘Al Qaeda. I dealt with the Master then, four years ago, but he wasn’t you from the sound of it.’
‘He has passed on, I have replaced him. You were given the task of disposing of a man named Tod Flynn. Instead, you car-bombed his elder brother Peter, killing him and his wife and injuring the daughter.’
Tully was immediately indignant. ‘I don’t know who told you that, because it’s completely wrong. I’d have loved to have stiffed Tod Flynn. He gave us hell during the Troubles, but my orders from the other Master were quite clear. Peter Flynn was trying to take over the drug scene in Belfast and was seriously displeasing a lot of people. Al Qaeda wanted it sorted, and me and my friend Frank Bell took care of it as ordered.’
‘I get the impression that the family and those around them have always believed Tod Flynn to have been the intended target, especially as his brother had borrowed his car for the trip to Belfast.’
‘Are you saying it left Tod feeling guilty? If that’s true, you’ve made my day.’
‘Did your orders include the girl?’
‘No, and they didn’t include her mother either,’ Tully said. ‘Fortunes of war. They’re always going on about collateral damage these days, aren’t they? Anyway, what’s this all about?’
‘You’ve already got one hundred thousand dollars in your account, and it’s yours if you and your friend get yourselves down to Drumgoole Place and take out Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly.’
The look on Tully’s face was pure delight. ‘You’ve no idea how much of a pleasure that would be.’
‘And another hundred thousand if you dispose of the girl.’
Tully stopped smiling. ‘Is that necessary?’
‘She could be a serious threat to us. If there is a difficulty here, I must go elsewhere.’
Bell was looking grim, ran a finger across his throat and nodded slightly. Tully said, ‘No problem, we can see to the girl, too.’
‘I’ll place the second hundred thousand in your account and on hold for three days. After that, all bets are off. In the glove compartment of your Jeep at the pub, you will find a package containing a mobile linked only to me. It also contains photos of everyone who could be linked in any way to Tod Flynn.’
‘What a bastard,’ Tully said when the call ended. ‘He sounded just like one of those Brit judges who used to sentence us.’ He laughed harshly and reached to take the very large whiskey that was pushed across the bar.
‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’ Bell was smiling. ‘He can look like the Queen of Sheba, as far as I’m concerned. Happy days, my old son.’ He raised his glass and then emptied it in one quick swallow.
Hannah Flynn was a remarkable young woman harmed by life, but she had threatened to expose Al Qaeda and had to be eliminated. Which still allowed the Master to feel nothing but distaste where Tully and Bell were concerned. It was time to move on, so he tapped in a highly secret number in Tehran.
With his blue suit and striped tie, the Iranian Minister of War, seated behind the mahogany desk in the comfortably furnished room, would not have been out of place in the White House or Downing Street. But this was Tehran, his phone number so secret that when it rang, it was usually a matter concerning the highest levels of government.
He picked up the phone and said in Farsi, ‘Yes, what is it?’
The Master replied in English, ‘You’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of General Ali ben Levi since his disappearance.’
The minister said, ‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘I am the man who replaced him. He was killed on a private mission to London in pursuit of his deputy, Colonel Declan Rashid, a traitor to his country and its army.’
The minister was aghast. ‘Rashid! His father was a fine general, but that Irish wife of his … Where is the colonel now?’
‘He was badly wounded in London. General Charles Ferguson is holding him in a private hospital at the moment.’
‘Was Ferguson responsible for what happened to ben Levi?’
‘I wish I could say that he was, but the general was shot by one of our own people, a malcontent who has since paid the penalty.’
‘So why are you calling?’
‘Because I believe Declan Rashid should be punished. And Charles Ferguson and his people finished off for good.’
‘I suppose that would be because of their success against Al Qaeda,’ the minister said. ‘Sorry that I can’t help you there, but my government would really prefer to rule Iran ourselves.’
‘There may come a time when you regret it,’ the Master told him.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I already have so many regrets. What’s one more?’ But he was deep in thought.
‘Did you know that there are scores of language schools in London? It’s true. The system is wide open if you want to pose as a student, which illegals do who simply want to live in England. We’ve sent young officers to such places for some time, to perfect their language skills and learn to adapt to Western society. They’ve all had special forces training, of course.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘I like to think of them as foot soldiers, men who can handle any dirty work which comes along. Now, I am not a religious man. I am indifferent to the message of Osama bin Laden. However, we live in a world of change, and who knows what may happen politically?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take care of Ferguson and his people. You take care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honour, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.’ He followed with a phone number. ‘I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.’
Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the UK.
There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the fireplace in the parlour of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.
The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.
‘Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.’ Ali shook his head. ‘His record in the Iraq war was amazing.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ Khalid said. ‘The man is a true hero.’
‘That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,’ Ali told him.
The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.
‘Holland Park,’ Khalid said. ‘We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.’
‘An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,’ Ali told him. ‘This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.’
‘And usually does,’ Khalid pointed out. ‘Gangsters play an active role, too – this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.’
‘Obviously much in demand,’ Ali said. ‘But let’s not forget the lady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.’
‘Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,’ Khalid told him.
‘Well, we don’t need to argue about it.’ Ali shrugged. ‘If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.’
‘You’re on.’
It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. ‘Umbrella time,’ Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside, and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling a joke and stopped as the Iranians approached.
‘Look what we’ve got here, a couple of bleeding nancy boys.’ His companions roared with laughter.
Ali said, ‘Isn’t nature wonderful? That thing can actually talk.’
The youth ran up behind, grabbing him by the shoulder. ‘Come here, you.’
Khalid dodged out of the way with the umbrella, leaving Ali to turn, grab the youth’s wrist, twist it into a rigid bar, and run him into the yellow van. The nose crunched, the youth cried out, falling to his knees, rain washing the blood down over his face.
There was a roar of anger from the two men. The first out of the doorstep reached for Ali, who spun around and stamped on his kneecap. As the man started to go down, Khalid raised a knee into the descending face, lifting him back to fall across the youth. The other man retreated.
Ali said, ‘Chalk it up to experience, boys. Now, if I were you,’ he said to the standing man, ‘I’d shove them in the back of your van and get round to accident and emergency at St Wilfred’s. They do a lovely job, and it’s for free.’
Khalid was already behind the Mini Cooper’s wheel, and he started the engine. Ali climbed in beside him.
‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the Ivy for a bite to eat and a discussion on a plan of campaign.’
At the same time, the Master was phoning Hamid Bey. ‘I bring you some interesting news, An attempt was made on the life of Dr Ali Saif last night as he was leaving the Holland Park safe house.’
‘Allah be praised,’ the imam said. ‘Who was responsible?’
‘Better not to know,’ the Master said. ‘There’s such wildness around these days, and so many of our young people become angry and disturbed when they hear what is happening to our people in Syria, Somalia or Egypt.’
‘I agree wholeheartedly, but Allah will forgive me for branding Ali Saif as a black-hearted traitor to his religion and people.’
‘To put it mildly, he has faltered on his spiritual journey, but he may yet be saved, and I believe you could assist in this regard.’
‘I am at your command.’
‘He was badly wounded and is at present in a private hospital named Rosedene, where General Charles Ferguson provides treatment for those injured in his service.’
‘Ferguson, as I hardly need to remind you, is one of Al Qaeda’s most implacable enemies, he’s done great harm to us on occasion,’ Hamid Bey said. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘Ask to see Ali Saif. A not-unreasonable request. As imam, you were his spiritual guide.’
‘Until he betrayed the Cause,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘Yes, but you will put Ferguson on the spot with your request. He looks upon the Army of God and the Brotherhood that goes with it as the enemy.’
‘Which we are,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘You are missing the point. We must at all times appear to be what we claim, which is a spiritual and educational organization, offering the services of a multi-faith dispensary to the local population. I also suggest you take Lily Shah with you.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Hamid asked.
‘Because the fact that she is a Christian may smooth the way, indeed make things rather awkward for them. She is already something of a saint in Muslim eyes. All this helps to wrong-foot the police and the city authorities. A whole range of municipal workers are members of the Army of God Brotherhood – a Muslim trade union, if you like – but to us, a private army. And there is little they can do about it.’
‘I am proud to serve,’ Hamid Bey said.
‘Prove it by having one of your vans call on Captain Sara Gideon at Highfield Court tonight,’ the Master told him, and switched off.
Next, he phoned Lily Shah. ‘There’s something I want you to do,’ and he told her what he had just arranged with the imam.
‘What will be the purpose of this?’ she asked. ‘If Ali Saif has gunshot wounds, he will be laid low for some time, but when he left the Army of God to join Ferguson, he must have been an invaluable source of information. About me, for instance.’
‘Every embassy in London has an intelligence unit. People like us know who they are and they know who we are. The real work is trying to find out what the other people are up to and what their next move will be.’
‘I see, so it doesn’t matter that Ali Saif has told Ferguson what kind of people we are at Pound Street?’
‘Exactly, because that’s quite different from knowing what we intend to do next. So you’ll help?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just keep your eyes open, if indeed you are allowed in to Rosedene. Any information about the place could be important. Another patient there and suffering gunshot wounds is Colonel Declan Rashid, once deputy commander of the Secret Field Police, now a traitor to Iran and an associate of Ferguson’s. I especially want to know about him.’
He sauntered off, leaving her anxious and troubled, mainly because she was no longer sure that she wanted to do this and was beginning to query what was happening. It was a new experience, but it was real enough. She shook her head, pulled herself together, and moved downstairs to reception, where help was always needed.
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Jack Higgins
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A storm is coming for Sean Dillon & company in the mesmerizing new thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.It begins with the attempted assassination of the ex-President of the United States.Only the presence of Sean Dillon and the fellow members of the ‘Prime Minister’s Private Army’ prevents it becoming a bloodbath. Soon they are on the trail of the perpetrators, confident they will catch them.What Dillon & Co don’t realize is that they have just sprung a trap that will lead them to almost certain death.For there is a new Master pulling the strings for al Qaeda in London, and this time he’s going to make sure the hated enemy is destroyed once and for all.A storm is coming for Sean Dillon…