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The Midnight Bell
Jack Higgins


“The bell tolls at midnight as death requires it.” But will it finally toll for Sean Dillon & company in the explosive new thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.In Ulster, Northern Ireland, a petty criminal kills a woman in a drunken car crash. Her sons swear revenge.In London, Sean Dillon and his colleagues in the ‘Prime Minister’s private army’, fresh from defeating a deadly al-Qaeda operation, receive a warning: ‘You may think you have weakened us, but you have only made us stronger.’In Washington, D.C., a special projects director with the CIA, frustrated at not getting permission from the President for his daring anti-terrorism plan, decides to put it in motion anyway.Soon, the ripples from these events will meet and overlap, creating havoc in their wake. Desperate men will act, secrets will be revealed – and the midnight bell will toll.























Copyright (#ulink_61bd0da4-abb2-533b-b20d-017230fb83fb)


HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

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: 9780008160272

Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008160296

Version: 2017-09-27




Dedication (#ulink_72284d49-bc1f-5143-b8aa-f1b8554fc254)


For Madeleine Cameron With love and grateful thanks




Epigraph (#ulink_00e91065-235d-5975-815b-658e2f0681fb)


The bell tolls at midnight, but only when Death requires it.

—Irish proverb


Contents

Cover (#u10f9e0ce-02e3-5665-971b-2d2abb37d312)

Title Page (#u52e54ad5-fb3c-593a-9f35-255729bf2087)

Copyright (#u54151b12-2c3c-5e11-8127-6f3271da92dd)

Dedication (#u8a173903-a1ff-52a6-a221-1ce6299a0791)

Epigraph (#uf9077d13-8336-54c2-bf08-34fd07ef536f)

Washington and London (#ucff6e160-81b3-5210-997b-1fd8129d85bd)

Chapter 1 (#u9cb0aba2-a025-5b6d-b670-cbe79a547651)

Chapter 2 (#u6c236967-9b9c-5c85-b09f-5b93568a2c65)

Chapter 3 (#u5df5e260-02e1-569e-8f20-2669b3bdbf6a)

Chapter 4 (#u0bee8f4c-181c-59ac-b103-209433da62ac)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



WASHINGTON AND LONDON (#ulink_be86924d-cd32-548e-9e57-23d7e3e6a35f)







(#ulink_ff63d7eb-2489-57e9-9da7-50820890d44c)


AN EAST WIND with driving rain and sleet pushed across the airport as the Gulfstream landed. It was immediately approached by a security limousine from the White House, which Blake Johnson, alighting from the plane, was surprised to see was being driven by his longtime secretary, Alice Quarmby. He opened the passenger door, tossed his valise inside, and joined her.

“What are you doing here?”

“Protecting your back, you idiot,” she told him, as she drove away. “You were supposed to bring Jake Cazalet back with you from London, and here you are, alone. I’m a nervous old broad when it comes to my boss, so I’d like to know why.”

“Sorry, Alice, it’s for the ears of the President only.”

“Well, it better be good. With his second term coming up, he needs to show who’s in charge, and here’s former President Jake Cazalet—a fine president in his day, mind you—dining with the Prime Minister and giving interviews to the media as if he’s the official mouthpiece for American foreign policy. You know the White House isn’t pleased about that.”

“I know—but enough about that. Anything else come up?”

“Apparently, the President has made a new friend.”

“Really? Who?”

“A Colonel Samuel Hunter. I did some research—don’t ask me where. He has a decent black-ops record in the army, nothing spectacular, and since then, he’s spent five years with the CIA, where he runs a Special Projects Department. He gets around a lot.”

“So what’s the ‘special project’ he’s come up with that appeals to the Oval Office?”

“The President has become interested in the private-army business since you were last here.”

“Mercenaries?” Blake was amazed. “What on earth for?”

“The new name for them is private military companies, so you might as well get used to it. It seems they’ve been having some success in Mali, and South African companies have been busy recruiting.”

“With plenty of casualties, no doubt?”

“No doubt. And some units have apparently done very well supporting the Nigerian Army in its struggle with al-Qaeda.”

“Aided by the military supplies we pump in there?”

“Not in Nigeria, I think. My research suggests the CIA wouldn’t touch this one with a barge pole if left to their own devices.”

“Like that, is it?” Blake said.

“That’s what they say, but who knows?”

“Exactly,” he said. “You’re an old cynic, Alice, but somehow you always get it right.”

“Blame it on the White House, Blake. I’ve been there longer than anyone else. It breeds cynicism.”

THEY WERE MOVING along Constitution Avenue toward the White House, where they found demonstrators in spite of the hour and the heavy rain.

“Try the East Entrance,” Blake suggested. Alice did, and a Secret Service man on duty saw to the Mercedes, then escorted them to the President’s secretary, who delivered them to the Oval Office and withdrew.

The inclement weather outside had darkened the room, and yet the President kept it in shadow, glancing up from papers now and smiling hugely.

“There you are at last. And you, Alice, it was way beyond the call of duty for you to pick this rascal up at such an hour.”

“I guess it’s gotten to be a habit, Mr. President, after all these years.”

“You’re the wonder of the world. Now, if you would, go and get yourself a coffee while Blake and I talk.”

Alice withdrew, and the President called, “Join us, Colonel Hunter. I’d like you to meet Blake Johnson.”

Hunter emerged from the chief of staff’s office, a man much as Blake had expected, around sixty, with a mustache, tanned face, and an expensive suit of blue flannel.

He held out his hand briefly. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Johnson.”

“Colonel,” Blake said formally.

Hunter’s smile was false and dismissive as he turned to a more important quarry. “As I was saying earlier, Mr. President, we must present our opponents with the unexpected and seize the day. It’s been one of the greatest precepts of warfare since Roman times.”

The President turned to Blake. “Would you agree?”

“My experience of warfare was being up to my armpits in some swamp in the Mekong Delta in Vietnam, so I guess I never had time to find out,” Blake said.

Hunter was annoyed and let it show. “We all have to move with the times,” he said to Blake. “Modern thinking, that’s what we need. For instance, I’m surprised that a man in your position has an elderly woman as his secretary. How computer savvy can she be?”

“She could write the book on the White House,” Blake said. “She’s better than any computer.”

“And apparently has been poking her nose into Langley’s business illegally for her department’s purposes,” Hunter said.

“That would be my personal security department,” the President said. “It’s called the Basement. Blake Johnson runs it, and Alice Quarmby has served every president in office since the Basement was first conceived.”

Hunter apologized hurriedly. “Of course you are right, Mr. President. Still, this unauthorized accessing of CIA files—it’s disturbing.”

“You may be right, Colonel, but as I am the president, I’m the one who’ll make the decision about it. If you’d show the colonel out, Blake.”

Blake was at the door in a moment. Hunter followed, hesitated, and turned. “And what we discussed, Mr. President—about Havoc and the support system?”

“We’ll see, Colonel,” the President said, and as Blake closed the door, he added, “Come and sit down and bring me up-to-date. Did you bring President Cazalet back?”

“Unfortunately, no, Mr. President. He said he’s agreed to deliver a lecture at the London School of Economics about terrorism and ISIS, and he can’t leave just yet.”

The President frowned. “You did give him the envelope that contained the presidential warrant ordering him home again?”

“Of course. He said he was going to leave, but then Downing Street informed him that they’d all be attending the lecture—so he felt he had to stay. The profits, by the way, are going to charity—the Children of Syria.”

“So how can I possibly complain about that?” the President said, then laughed reluctantly. “Damn you, Jake Cazalet, you’ve left me wrong-footed on this one.”

“Actually, Mr. President, if I could make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“Why don’t you send a message to the Cabinet Office congratulating the Prime Minister and President Cazalet on their joint efforts—and announcing that the U.S. will match the money raised for the Children of Syria. That way, it’s as if you’d been a part of it the whole time.”

The President was smiling now. “What a great idea. I’ll see to it at once. With one stipulation.”

“What would that be, Mr. President?”

“You climb in that Gulfstream, return to London tonight, and don’t show your face back here without him. When he’s finished his gig, I want him back, and no arguments, even if he is a billionaire. Let’s have a drink on it.” The President was smiling as he rose, went to a cupboard, and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses, one of which he handed to Blake. “Sit down for a moment.”

The President settled onto a couch. “I imagine you think I’m crazy, being so concerned about Cazalet, but I can’t help thinking about what happened last year.” The President had sent General Charles Ferguson, the head of the Prime Minister’s “private army,” and his people to Cazalet’s house on Nantucket, so that Cazalet could thank them on the President’s behalf for the success of a recent operation. But al-Qaeda assassins had been waiting for them. “Charles Ferguson, Sean Dillon, Captain Sara Gideon, and Cazalet himself, they could all have died.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Blake said. “None of it’s your fault. Besides, Sean Dillon is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. They picked the wrong target.”

“But they’ll try again. Especially after Dillon and company shot the al-Qaeda Master behind the attack.”

“I agree with you there. I’ve a feeling in my gut that al-Qaeda won’t let us forget that,” Blake said. “Which is why we’ve spent so much time keeping in touch across the Atlantic.”

“My Basement,” the President said. “And the Prime Minister’s private army.” He shook his head. “United by a common purpose and yet so far away from each other.”

Blake finished his drink and stood up. “Not in the world we live in, not these days. I’d better get going.”

“Of course. Take care.”

Blake turned. “Always do, Mr. President,” he said, and left.

The President sat there, thinking of what Blake had said. Not in the world we live in, not these days. For a moment, he was touched by despair, but that would never do. There was work to be done, and he sat at the desk and started to go through his papers.

FRANK DOLAN, once a master sergeant in the Rangers, now Hunter’s personal assistant and chauffeur, was waiting for the colonel as he left the White House, an umbrella high against the pouring rain.

“Everything go according to plan, sir?”

“Sergeant, some truly crazy people work in there, and that includes this president, his security guy, and the old bag working for them.”

“That must be her dozing in the Mercedes over there,” Dolan said, as he started to drive away. “I looked him up. Blake Johnson, right? Decorated three times in Vietnam.”

“Hell, they gave medals away like candy in those days,” Hunter said.

“He was FBI for a while, too. Took a bullet meant for Cazalet when Cazalet was a senator.”

“Well, bully for him,” Hunter said, staring out. “Washington in the rain. I loathe it.”

“Have we anything special planned this trip, sir?”

“London. I want to have another look at Hans Weber’s Havoc operation, the one working out of that old RAF base at Charnley. Maybe he’s found more planes from the Second World War.”

“More ghosts on the runways like those Dakotas of his. Piston engines, not even jets,” Dolan said.

“But just the thing for African rough spots. If they break down, they can be repaired just like you’d repair an old car, whereas a jet plane in the middle of Gambia would stand there and decay.”

“So there really could be money in these old planes?”

“More than you could imagine. It would depend on how they were handled, of course.”

“Some of the country the private military companies operate in is pretty rough. I imagine that’s why you’re interested in Havoc.”

“Why, Sergeant Dolan, you know my involvement in the company would preclude that,” Hunter said. “Not to mention my connection with the CIA. But if national security is at stake, well, we must be prepared, don’t you think?” and he laughed harshly.

AT THE AIRPORT, the Gulfstream waited in the rain as Alice and Blake parted. He’d told her of the President’s worries, and she nodded.

“I think there’s something else, too,” she said. “Even at sixty-five, Jake Cazalet is still full of incredible energy and, more than that, a touch of wildness. You never know what he’s going to do next. Presidents aren’t supposed to behave like that, even former ones.”

“I think I could mention a few who did, Alice, but you’re right—he’s unpredictable, likely to charge right at danger.”

“So bring him home safe,” she said.

He kissed her on the cheek, nodded to the flight attendant, and then ran to the Gulfstream. A few moments later, he was settled in his seat and peering out of the window, but Alice was no longer there.

The Gulfstream climbed very fast toward the Atlantic, leveling at forty thousand feet, and the second pilot visited the kitchen area, emerged with three coffees on a tray, and passed one to Blake.

“Six hours to arrival if we’re lucky. Storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so belt up if you want to sleep.”

Blake, however, didn’t feel like sleeping. His quick return to London might cause some surprise, so he realized he should give them a heads-up. There was one person available day or night at the Holland Park safe house, so he produced his Codex and called Roper. In spite of the hour, he knew that Major Giles Roper would be seated in his wheelchair in the computer room checking his screens, searching for intelligence. And Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, would be near. A Jamaican Cockney born in London, Doyle had joined the army to see the world but had got no farther than Belfast and the IRA. Now his mission was to take care of Roper—and supply him with endless tea, whiskey, and bacon sandwiches.

Roper had his phone on speaker so Tony could hear. “What’s going on, Blake? I’ve heard of quick returns, but this is ridiculous.”

“The President wants Cazalet back the moment he’s available, so he’s sent me to make sure. He worries about the free spirit gathering too much publicity.”

“He’s worrying too much,” Doyle called. “Jake’s doing just fine.”

“For a man who was once leader of the free world, Tony,” Blake called back, “he might just consider stepping away for a while and making himself less of a target.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Roper said. “But it will be great to see you back here. I’ll let you get a little shut-eye and check in later to see how you’re getting on.”

IT WAS QUIET except for the drone of the engines, and Blake lay back and dozed, thinking how first al-Qaeda and then ISIS had altered the world. International terrorism of the most murderous kind was the name of the game now, al-Qaeda disrupting the lives of millions, each of its branches controlled by an anonymous leader known as the Master. Ferguson and his people had been responsible for the death of two Masters, so al-Qaeda would want their revenge.

He got up and went to the kitchen area for the bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey he knew was kept there. As he opened it, rain hammered on the fuselage of the Gulfstream and there was the roll of distant thunder. He tossed his drink down and his Codex sounded.

“Who is this?”

The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew. It was cultured and mature, an older man, the English perfect with only the slightest of French accents. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Johnson. A dirty night to be crossing the Atlantic. I trust the President was in the best of health when you left Washington?”

“Who the hell are you?” Blake demanded, coldly aware that he probably knew the answer to that one already.

“Ah, don’t tell me you didn’t know I’d be calling sooner or later. There are debts to be paid. I intend to see they are.”

“So you’re the new Master?” Blake said. “I was wondering when another one would turn up. A voice on the phone trying to justify al-Qaeda and international terrorism. You guys never stop trying, do you?”

“And never will. I’m certainly not the easy marks my predecessors were. Technology changes by the week these days, and even the great Major Giles Roper will find me hard to handle. As for Ferguson—tell him it’s a different world. His time is done. Come to think of it, never mind. I’ll tell him myself.”

“I’m sure he’ll look forward to that.”

“And Jake Cazalet? Get him home while you can. His time is running out, too. Oh, and say hello for me to the lovely Captain Sara Gideon. I understand she has a birthday coming up soon. Give the captain my sincere good wishes and tell her I’ll see her soon.”

Blake called Roper and told him what had happened. “God knows what Ferguson is going to think.”

“Easy to ask him,” Roper said. “He’s staying in the guest wing. Were you surprised by the call?”

“No, I’ve always thought al-Qaeda would seek revenge. We’ve cost them two Masters already, so what would you expect?”

“Is the conversation recorded on your Codex?”

“Of course.”

“That should have Ferguson awake faster than a cold shower. We can all listen.”

Ferguson answered five minutes later. “Morning, Blake, are you linked in?”

“Ready and waiting, General.”

“So let me listen to what he’s got to say.”

When it was finished, Ferguson smiled. “Cheeky sod. Run it through again.”

Roper complied, and this time Ferguson didn’t smile. “He’s going to give us trouble, this one. The smooth approach, the familiarity, all designed to mask his true self.”

“I agree,” Roper said. “But he can’t believe his charming approach is going to fool anyone, so what’s his game?”

“Maybe it’s just meant to confuse,” Blake suggested.

Ferguson said, “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give you that. And well informed. Sara’s birthday, for example. Use the secure link to let all our people know a new Master is back to plague us and alert the Cabinet Office, Security Services, and MI5. I think that’s it.”

“What about President Cazalet, General?”

“Oh, certainly, him, too. Call him at the Dorchester. Ask him to join us for breakfast. But not a word on the matter to the White House. It’s exactly the kind of thing they want to avoid.”

“Leave it to me, General.”

“I fully intend to, because I’m going back to bed for a couple of hours.” He turned to Tony Doyle. “As for you, Sergeant, when it’s time, drive up to Farley Field and pick up Blake Johnson.”

“My pleasure, General,” Doyle told him.

“Drive carefully, you rogue. The hint of a scrape and I’ll have your stripes.”

Ferguson went out, and Doyle turned to Roper. “So we’re going to war again, Major?”

“So it would appear; I can smell the powder,” Roper said.

Doyle left, and Roper poured a large scotch, tossed it back, and lit a cigarette. The he pressed the master switch by his right hand, turning on everything in the computer room, and he sat there, brooding over dozens of screens.

“Don’t worry, Master,” he murmured softly. “I’ll find you in the end. I always do.”







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ON THE LONDON WATERFRONT, fog had descended early, rolling in across the Thames at Wapping, a mile downriver from Harry Salter’s place, the Dark Man, where an old pier jutted out from Trenchard Street, an early Victorian pub standing back from it.

There was a motor launch painted blue and white tied to the pier with two chains, giving it a permanent look yet allowing the launch to ease itself in the five-knot current that was running that morning.

The name of the boat was Moonglow, and the fact that the painted sign hanging outside the pub indicated that the landlord’s name was George Moon amused many people. It didn’t bother Moon, though. His family had owned the pub since Queen Victoria’s reign, which made him proud, and he liked sleeping on board the launch as he had the night before. But now there was work to be done, which meant a visit to his office.

He went up the steps from the pier, a small insignificant balding man in steel spectacles clutching his raincoat across his body, an umbrella over his head, and approached the front door of the pub. Two notices faced him, one of which said CLOSED FOR THE WINTER, the other, MOON ENTERPRISES LIMITED, and as he approached, the door was opened for him by his cousin Harold, a hard, brutal-looking man with the flattened nose of an ex-boxer.

“Late this morning, George. Posh geezer called twice on the house phone in the last half hour. Said he’d call back.”

“So it will keep,” Moon said. “I’ve told you before, you worry too much. I’d turned my mobile off.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on anything tasty,” Harold told him.

“I know, sunshine.” George tweaked the big man’s cheek. “Now get me a mug of scalding-hot tea and an Irish whiskey, and we’ll wait for your posh geezer to turn up again.”

It was quiet in the bar, everything peaceful, bottles lined up against the Victorian mirrors behind the bar. This type of establishment would usually be a thieves’ den for serious drinkers and drug users, but Moon had long since knocked that on the head. Development along the Thames had opened a whole new world, and his portfolio was considerable. Life was good.

His mobile sounded, and he answered, “Moon Enterprises.”

“How grand that sounds, Mr. Moon.”

Harold had been right, a posh geezer indeed. Moon beckoned, putting his mobile on speaker so Harold could listen.

“Who is this?”

“A Master who is looking for a willing servant. I’ve just deposited seventy-five thousand pounds in your bank account as evidence of good faith. There could be other payments later.”

“Do me a favor,” Moon said. “Go away and die somewhere. You think I believe that?”

“I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I can cancel the deposit, but as I can’t envisage your being that stupid, I don’t think it likely. I suggest that you check with your bank.”

“A crazy one, that,” Moon said, turning to Harold.

“How do you know?” Harold said. “You haven’t been in touch with the bank.”

“Okay, just to keep you happy. Waste of time though.”

He made the call, shrugging, and within minutes received the astonishing news. “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely to Harold. “What’s this geezer’s game?”

“George, I couldn’t care less. All I know is it’s real money. Here, let me get you another whiskey,” Harold said. “Put a little lead in your pencil for when he gets back to you.”

Which the Master did as Moon was drinking it. “Satisfied, Mr. Moon?”

“Who wouldn’t be? So who are you and what do you want?”

“What I want is your experience of the London underworld, like your family before you. Generation of thieves and river rats. How did Charles Dickens put it? Those who made a living finding corpses in the Thames on behalf of the River Police? There is not a criminal enterprise you’ve failed to touch on.”

“And proud of it,” Moon said.

“You’ve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europe—but no drugs, you’re too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. You’ve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time they’re needed.”

“And happy to do it, mister,” Harold called.

Moon said, “Okay, you know a lot about me, so what?”

“I know everything about you, my friend, even the fact that some years ago you were employed by Russian military intelligence, the GRU, making yourself useful in many ways right here in London. Remember your recognition code? ‘The midnight bell is ringing’? MI5 would have been interested. You could have got twenty-five years for treason.”

Moon was transfixed. “But how could you have known that?”

“You’ve heard of al-Qaeda, I’m sure. Our information system is as good as the CIA’s—better!—and I can access it by pushing a button.”

“So this is a Muslim thing?”

“Is that a problem?”

It was Harold who cut in then. “No problem at all, Master. Whatever you want, you get.”

“That’s good, because if I didn’t, I’d have to have you killed. Anyway, your first job for me will concern Harry and Billy Salter.”

Moon brightened up. “We have history, us and the Salters.”

Harold said, “What do you want us to do? Smash their restaurant up?”

“Not yet. Something more subtle. Give them just a hint of what we can do.”

“You can leave that to me,” Harold told him. “Mayhem is my specialty.”

“I’m delighted to know you can spell it,” the Master said.

“Well, I can, and it will be a pleasure to give the Salters a black eye.”

“To a fruitful association, then, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

MOON SAID, “He’s gone, but I can’t say I’m happy about working for a Muslim.”

“Didn’t you tell me that we had a great-grandfather who was an Indian seaman who jumped ship in the Pool of London?”

“True.”

“Then stop being racist, join me in the kitchen, and I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“I wonder where he lives,” Moon said.

“I wouldn’t mind betting that he’d rather you didn’t know. Besides, it could be anywhere—London, Madrid, Timbuktu!”

“You think so?”

“All you need these days is a coded mobile, and you can cover the world.”

HAROLD WAS RIGHT, of course, for the Master did move frequently, for obvious reasons. At that moment he was living in Paris on a furnished barge next to the other barges moored on the Quai des Brumes on the Seine.

The Master thought the business with the Moons had gone well. Despite a certain criminal cunning on their part, they had missed the fact that he had taken complete control of them. They’d sold their souls to the Devil, which amused him. Just like Faust. Life was all about power.

Things had gone well so far, and he could proceed with confidence to the next step, but there was always the unexpected in life—there’d just been a death in the family of the other people relevant to his plans. For the moment, he hesitated, waiting for God to select the right time to move for, as in all things, there was only one God and Osama was his Prophet.

But he decided the time was now, and he took out his coded mobile and made a call to Drumore House in County Down in Ulster, still the old family home, in spite of a certain decay, of the Magee family.

Finbar Magee, seated at the breakfast table in the farm’s kitchen, pushed away his plate and reached for the half glass of whiskey that his cousin Eli had shoved over to him.

“Who the hell is bothering me now?” Finbar said, taking out his mobile and putting it on speaker.

Eli, white haired and bearded, was pouring tea. “Answer it, for God’s sake.”

Finbar did. “Who the hell is this? I’m not in the best of moods.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be,” the Master told him. “I’ve heard about the accident that killed your wife. You’re being treated very unfairly. Come to London, and I’ll help make it right.”

“That takes bloody money, ye madman,” Finbar shouted.

“Which is why I’ve placed twenty thousand pounds in your bank account for traveling expenses.”

“Damn you, I’ve no time for jokes.” Finbar switched off. “Did you hear that idiot?”

“I did, but I didn’t hear you calling the bank to check the situation,” Eli said.

Finbar stared at him, frowning, then did just that. Minutes later, he was staring wild-eyed at Eli. “It’s true. The money’s been deposited.”

“Then you’ll have to hope he calls back.”

In the same moment, the Master did. “Are you happy now?”

“Why should I be?” Finbar said. “But how do you know about the accident, and why should it concern you?”

“I represent an organization that has had problems with a certain General Charles Ferguson and some people who work for him, including an IRA assassin named Sean Dillon.”

“That bastard!” Finbar slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “May he die before I do, so I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s dead.”

“I can imagine. I also know about the unfortunate business concerning your sons some years ago when he left one of your boys crippled for life. He’s given you a very rough time.”

“Too bloody true,” Finbar said, and shook his head. “How do you know so much?”

“Because I represent the most powerful organization of its kind in the world, al-Qaeda. Our access to information is limitless, and the money I have given you is just the beginning. I know you’ve got your phone on speaker—this concerns your cousin Eli as well.”

“And if I say no?” Finbar asked.

“That would prove how stupid you are, and I would have to arrange for your disposal.”

Finbar laughed harshly. “Well, we can’t have that. I’m in, and that includes Eli.”

“I knew you were a sensible man. Who knows, we might even solve the mystery of the Maria Blanco and its cargo.”

“You know about that, do you? Twenty-five million pounds in gold bars when it was taken. God knows how much that would be worth today.”

“A lot,” the Master said. “It could have kept the IRA going for years, and they let it slip through their fingers.”

“I think it was Dillon, the bastard. Could it have been?”

“Supposedly, he was in the deserts of Algeria at the time training new recruits for the IRA. But you never know for sure with a man like Sean Dillon.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Get yourself to London, and I’ll be in touch. But remember that you belong to us now. It would be unfortunate if you forgot.”

The Master was gone in a moment, and Eli said, “What was all that?”

“It was about us being in the money again, so happy days, old son. I’m on my way to London.”

AT THE SAME TIME, Sean Dillon was driving his Mini into the Holland Park safe house in response to Roper’s call about the arrival of a new Master and Ferguson’s suggestion of a breakfast meeting.

He went straight to the computer room, which was empty, but the sound of voices and laughter sent him through to the canteen, where Maggie Hall had provided breakfast and Tony Doyle was helping her serve it.

Blake was there, and Sara had brought Dillon’s cousin Hannah, and Harry and Billy Salter arrived, both in black tracksuits. Hannah was young, only nineteen, but she had grown up in an IRA family and knew how to handle a gun. She was also studying at the Royal College of Music, but Dillon worried sometimes that she was just a little too attracted to the outlaw life.

As for the Salters, they were gangsters who had discovered they could make millions legitimately in London these days—and young Billy had even gone so legit, he’d joined MI5.

“Turnup for the books, this, but the smell of your cooking always drives me potty, so let’s get to it, Maggie,” Harry Salter said.

They all started to eat, and Blake asked, “So what does everyone think about another Master on the scene?”

“I’d like to shoot the bastard,” Harry said, with feeling.

“You can hear a recording of him in the computer room,” Roper said. “What’s your take on all this, Billy?”

“As long as I have room for a pistol in my pocket, I’ll manage.”

“And you, Sean?” Sara asked.

“Well, it isn’t Afghanistan, where you won your medals, Sara, more like Belfast City during the Troubles, and I survived that.”

There was a somber moment as if no one knew what to say, and then came the sound of a car arriving outside, where it had started to rain. A moment later, Henry Frankel, the cabinet secretary, walked in, a navy blue trench coat draped over his shoulders.

He kissed Harry on the head. “Restore me to sanity, you old devil. No matter how well I do my job, it’s hell down there: Sunni or Shia, ISIS or ISIL, what is Hamas up to now, what is Iran going to do, will Yemen survive, is Palestine going to blow up again?” He threw up his arms.

“Take it easy, Henry,” Roper said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

“Giles, I may be cabinet secretary, but I’m just another bloody civil servant, a kind of superior office boy, passing to the Prime Minister news about what’s going on in the wider world and it ain’t good. Terrorism is creating havoc everywhere, we’re facing one war after another, and it all looks as if it could get worse. Our most senior politicians are beginning to feel that they can’t cope. Take the people I just left. There was Sir Charles Glynn, Director General of MI5; Ferguson representing your lot; the home secretary; the man from Scotland Yard; Uncle Tom Cobley, I swear; and we mustn’t forget Jake Cazalet.”

“So where is this tirade leading us?” Roper asked.

Jake Cazalet walked in at that moment and answered. “They don’t know what to do anymore, except to allow you people to shoot what we hope are the villains. The news that al-Qaeda has raised its head again in the shape of a new Master went down like a lead weight considering that the last one was barely dead.”

“I imagine it would,” Blake said.

Sara turned to Frankel. “Have a decent breakfast, Henry, and remember what Somerset Maugham said. ‘To dine well in England it’s necessary to have breakfast three times a day.’”

Henry laughed. “Ah, you always find a way to cheer me up. I shall follow your advice religiously.”

“So what’s Ferguson up to at the moment? Still at Downing Street?” Dillon asked.

“Ministry of Defence. An ad hoc committee with interested parties discussing how to keep things from getting out of hand.”

“Why aren’t you on it? Good God, Jake, with your experience as a soldier and president.”

“Don’t worry, the Prime Minister has made me a special advisor. I’ll find excuses to avoid going back to Washington, won’t I, Blake?”

“That’ll be the day,” Harry said. “So we really do have to stay close?”

“Within reason.”

“We do have the Dark Man to open, but I suppose young Hasim can manage in a pinch. He’s shown a lot of promise, that boy, and Dora thinks the world of him.”

“Then there’s things to be done at Harry’s Place,” Billy said.

“Have you got a wedding or something?” Sara asked.

“One or two things, that’s all, but stuff needs organizing. We can get back here soon enough if you have a problem.”

“Well, I do,” Dillon said. “I just heard yesterday that a dear friend of mine has been killed in a car crash on a visit to Ulster. A drunken driver was responsible. I need to pay my respects to the family, so I’ll have to go out for a while.”

“No problem,” Roper said.

Dillon nodded, staring into space, and Hannah said gently, “Is it help you need?”

There were others listening, as Dillon said, “And you the girl to see it. When I came to live in Kilburn with my father, my mother being dead, our next-door neighbors were Finbar and Eileen Magee, her the kindest woman I ever knew, him a drunken, unpleasant swine, a con man and petty criminal who had been to prison often.”

“So what did all that lead to?”

“Twin boys named Tad and Larry, who attended the same school I had, though twelve years later.”

“So what went wrong?” Sara asked. “Something obviously did.”

“The Magees, like me, came from County Down, had been a family of substance in earlier times, and they owned a farmstead above Drumore Bay. A cousin, Eli Magee, farmed it for them and ran a big old launch named the Maria Blanco from the jetty below in the bay.”

“Was Finbar IRA?”

“They wouldn’t have him. He was a braggart who claimed to be IRA to his sons and encouraged them to visit, which Eileen didn’t want because there was bloodshed and war over there. There were lots of guys like him, claiming a false glory when all they were doing was driving a truck by night, hauling groceries to supermarkets, booze to pubs, and delivering orders from the chief of staff on the way to local commanders.”

“Backed by documents that would satisfy the police?” Sara said. “If they were stopped?”

“Of course, but carrying a weapon was out because of the danger of police searches.” He shrugged. “It was a kind of IRA postal service delivering mail to its troops.”

“And you would know,” said Hannah.

“Of course, I’m the fella who’d dumped a promising career at the National Theatre two years earlier because his father, in Belfast for a family funeral, stumbled into a firefight between paratroops and an angry mob, and was shot by mistake. It was the Provisional IRA for me, the Provos, next stop, and I’d have thought you’d agree with that, Hannah, after what happened to you and your parents.”

“Nobody could understand more, Sean, and a hell of a choice to have to make.”

Sara said, “But what did Eileen think of Finbar’s persuading his sons to visit him in bandit country?”

“Her worst nightmare came true because the RUC began sniffing around Finbar, the man with the sons from London who kept visiting him.”

“I’d have been surprised if they hadn’t. What did it lead to?”

“He produced a Browning handgun from his pocket one night just to give himself the right kind of macho image, drunk as usual. Refused to stop for a police car, crashed in the chase.”

Hannah said, “So ten years in the Maze Prison?”

“No, because he was drunk, he had a problem handling his gun, and the police opened fire.”

“They shot the bastard?” Hannah said.

“No, but they did hit Larry Magee twice, one in the right leg, the other in the back, a legal response to attack, but as the police had done the shooting, it was an awkward one. They solved it for the moment by dropping the boys off at the local cottage hospital.”

“So obviously Finbar was arrested,” Sara said.

“Of course, but the doctors at the hospital, knowing which side their bread was buttered on, but not what to do with Larry, approached the IRA chief of staff for County Down, Hugh Tulley, who sent a top enforcer to clear things up, which he did.”

“Would that happen to have been you?” Hannah asked.

Sara cut in. “What did you do?”

“The IRA had plenty of money in those days, plus the right connections. I stole the boys from hospital one night, drove them to the home of a good friend, who flew us out to a small airfield in Kent. Using our connections, I’d been able to arrange a discreet private hospital to receive a young man who’d been in a car crash abroad, back injured, leg broken.”

“Very clever,” Hannah said. “So Ulster, the gunplay, never happened?”

“And Eileen?” Sara asked.

“Forever grateful.”

“Which only leaves Finbar,” Hannah said. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing,” Dillon said. “The RUC never brought a charge. They found him too useful as an informer.”

“The bastard,” Hannah said.

“Yes, he was and still is.” Roper smiled. “But at least it leaves us with Captain Wonderful here, who rights all wrongs.”

“Not really, Larry was crippled for life,” Dillon said. “But at least Eileen got her boys back home.”

Billy cut in. “All these years, Dillon, and you never mentioned you knew the Magees.” He appealed to Hannah. “They were the most famous gangsters in London when they were active.”

“Gangsters?” Hannah was astounded.

Harry said, “He’s right, Hannah. Only the best for them. Suits from Savile Row, shoes from Lobb’s, one of the nicest houses in Curzon Street, not too far from the Dorchester, which you’ve got to admit is rather convenient. The Green Harp near Shepherd Market, one of the best gaming clubs in London, with Tara Place on the upper floor specializing in Irish cooking.”

“Which I haven’t sampled since the improvements,” Dillon said. “But intend to.”

“What a story, Dillon, you’re always full of surprises. Come on, Billy, we’ve got work to do,” Harry told him.

Billy stood up, and said, “And Finbar, what’s happened to him?”

“Eileen was over in Ulster to discuss legal matters concerning the Magee farm, where he’d been living for years. He picked her up at the railway station, drunk as usual, had one of his crashes, and managed to kill his wife. Cuts and bruises where he was concerned, but it appears he’ll walk free.”

“Dear God.” Hannah crossed herself. “Damn him to hell.”

“A truly dreadful man,” Sara said. “But still their father, that’s the problem. What do you think the brothers will do?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “I don’t even know whether the funeral’s today or tomorrow. I’m going to see Tad and Larry now. How often do you see me in a black suit, but this one is just in case.”

“Can I go with you?” Hannah asked. “Mine’s dark blue, but acceptable.”

Roper said, “It’s okay by me, but if there’s a funeral, I want you back here as soon as it’s over.”

Dillon grabbed Hannah’s hand, they hurried out, and Roper turned to the Salters. “You are the only two I can accept living out, so off you go.”

Harry grinned, said, “Let’s move it, Billy,” and they were gone.

Blake, Henry Frankel, and Jake Cazalet had been talking quietly. They turned expectantly. “The guest wing can meet your needs unless you’d care to return to the Dorchester,” Roper said.

“I’ll hang on here for the moment,” Blake told him. “Any word from General Ferguson?”

“He’ll be here as soon as he can. Begs your indulgence.”

“How wonderfully British of him,” Cazalet replied. “So let’s have tea or something and resume our conversation.”

“I’ll join you in a few minutes.” Roper moved out into the computer room.

He was followed by Doyle with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich on a small tray.

“You haven’t eaten a thing, sir, too busy talking.”

Sara came in, and at the same moment Roper’s Codex sounded. He picked it up but didn’t answer at once, saying to Sara, “We need to talk about Highfield Court, your grandfather, and Sadie. Obviously, it’s a concern. Just give me a minute.”

He raised the phone in his hand. “Giles Roper. Who is this?”

“You know me as the Master. I thought it time we had a chat.”

Tony Doyle was shocked. “It’s him, all right, Captain Gideon. I recognize his voice from the recording.”

“Go and get the others now,” she said, and shoved him out of the door.

“A pleasure to hear your voice, Captain Gideon. I’m a great admirer.”

The others came in, Henry Frankel leading. “What in the hell’s going on?”

“Ah, the reinforcements have arrived,” the Master said. “Not necessary. I’d intended to speak to each of you individually, but I’m happy to tell all of you together: You’ll get no warning of the gun that barks at you from the darkness when you least expect it or the car bomb that will launch you into eternity.”

“I’m trembling in my boots,” Henry Frankel told him. “I can hardly stand.”

“Ah, Mr. Frankel. Your partner must have a permanent smile on his face. You’re such a funny little man. Why is that?”

“It’s the only way I can cope with the prospect of being bored to death by a creature like you.”

“Ah, you have claws. I’ll have to think of an answer to that. I’ll let you know next time.”

“And when will that be?” Roper asked.

“Whenever I want, wherever I want. I can find you, but you cannot find me. I have a network of true believers and criminals who will do anything for money. I am invisible.”

“So there you are, gentlemen,” Henry Frankel said. “On top of that, he won’t be happy until sharia law rules the roost at the Old Bailey.”

“An interesting thought,” agreed the Master.

Jake Cazalet said, “Do you think the people of the free world are going to stand by and just allow all this to happen?”

“Oh dear, the voice of America speaks. Go home, President Cazalet, while you will can.”

“Or what? You’ll declare jihad?”

Charles Ferguson, alerted by Tony Doyle on his arrival, had eased in quietly behind them and heard enough to realize what was going on.

“Why, yes. You have earned jihad,” said the Master.

Ferguson called, “Charles Ferguson here. On me, too, then?”

But the Master had switched off. There was quiet, then Ferguson said, “I think a drink is in order. Let’s all go get one, sit down, and decide what we’ve going to do about this creature.”

IN THE BARGE on the Quai des Brumes in Paris, the Master sipped coffee and considered the call. He had enjoyed baiting Ferguson and company at Holland Park, but it was time to get to business. He should speak to the new Army of God man at Pound Street, Yousef Shah, freshly arrived from Oxford University, where he had lectured in comparative religion.

As Dr. Yousef Shah sat at his desk in the office of the Army of God Charity, beginning the task of familiarizing himself with his many duties, he was shocked at what the quiet voice had to say when he answered the phone.

“There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

Yousef Shah’s reply was automatic. “Osama is risen.”

“This is the Master, wishing you well. Has the Grand Council in Paris warned you about what you will be up against in this appointment, supplied you with details of our particular enemies here?”

“Such material has been supplied to me in full, and I’ve already started to work through it.”

“You will find strong backing in the Army of God and the Muslim Brotherhood. Those numbers we gave you—call upon them in a time of need and the people will follow your orders without argument because they know the word of Osama is behind you.”

“May his name be blessed,” Yousef Shah answered automatically.

“And may it be so, but remember at all times that there is a particular danger there. We have had two Masters killed because of the activities of a British intelligence group led by Major General Charles Ferguson.”

“I shall take care at all times, I promise you, particularly with these people.”

“The blessing of Osama go with you,” the Master told him, and hung up.

Yousef Shah sat there, thinking about the call, then reached for the information file he’d been given and started to look for Charles Ferguson. He read the information he was seeking, then phoned the Brotherhood’s special number and identified himself.

“A house called Highfield Court at the end of South Audley Street. The people are Jewish, the name Gideon. Check the situation at night thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly.”

“At your orders, Imam.”

He sat back. He had no idea what he had done or intended, but it was a beginning.







(#ulink_79f29feb-3f9f-5053-9b0b-b126b1c71809)


UNAWARE OF THE HIGH DRAMA they had left behind them, Dillon and Hannah drove toward Hyde Park as it started to rain.

She said, “What exactly did the brother do? Not drugs, I hope.”

“No, Eileen wouldn’t have stood for it, and her voice was law in the home, especially after the marriage broke up and Finbar cleared off to Ulster.”

“Good for her.”

“Only an idiot chooses that game these days when ten or fifteen years’ hard time is what you draw.”

“But what about the other things?”

“Eileen’s family were bargees who worked the Thames from one end to the other and stole anything they could lay their hands on. A way of life.”

“I suppose to young boys it must have seemed normal,” Hannah said.

“Booze and especially cigarettes have always been much cheaper in Europe than Britain, where they’re heavily taxed, so that’s where they started, working for other smugglers until they saved enough for their own boat. The people in that game would raid other boats, there was open warfare, and the legend of the Magee brothers was born. A tough life, but that’s the way they all started on the Thames, even Harry Salter.”

“So they were thieves?”

“Still could be as far I know. Tad’s the hard man, Larry the brain. A few years ago, there was a rash of robberies in London involving gold, diamonds, and stuff like that, millions disappearing into the maw of Europe. Scotland Yard believed the Magees were responsible but could never prove it, and it’s too late now. They’re living on their reputation, part of the elite, too well-off to have to steal anymore.”

“What about women in their lives?”

“Tad was deeply in love some years ago, but she died of a brain tumor. He’s never taken another woman more seriously than a night out. As for Larry, I suppose the back-shooting took care of him.”

She was uncomfortable and it showed. “I suppose so, but I can’t wait to meet them.”

“I tell you one thing. They’re going to love you,” and Dillon turned out of Park Lane into Curzon Street, drove halfway down, and paused for the gates of the magnificent Georgian town house to swing open. He drove inside and parked beside an Aston Martin.

“What a contrast,” Hannah said, as she got out. “Your Mini and this Aston Martin.”

“Indeed so, but my old Mini is supercharged, and Tad Magee has been trying to buy it for years.”

They approached the front door, which opened, and a white-haired woman of sixty or so wearing a belted white smock over a blue dress stepped out smiling.

“I was hoping you would come, Sean,” she said, as she opened her arms to him.

He turned to Hannah. “Molly Ryan, a friend from my youth and the housekeeper here.”

Hannah held out her hand. “It’s grand to know you.”

Molly embraced her lightly. “What a lovely Irish girl. Where did you find her, Sean?”

“This is my second cousin, Hannah Flynn, she’s at college in London. Her uncle and I were young boys together in Collyban. Served in the Provos later.”

“My respects to him, my dear. He’s well, I trust?”

“Dead,” Hannah told her. “A UVF hit man finished him off.”

It was amazing how Molly’s face hardened. “May he rot in hell. But never mind—come away in and meet the boys. They’ve known Sean all their lives.”

She led the way, they followed, and Hannah was enraptured. The furniture, the carpeting, the pictures on the walls, it was serious art by any standard. An archway gave way to a conservatory crammed with tropical plants, small palm trees at the back, the two Magee brothers in elegant black suits seated at each end of a glass table, dark hair and tanned faces, with the look of highwaymen from some romantic tale about them.

Molly advanced, smiling, Dillon following. “Cheer up, darlings, for haven’t I got Sean Dillon with his cousin, Hannah Flynn. She’s at college here in London, although I don’t know what’s she studying.”

Hannah, who had held back, now showed them, with a touch of bravado, for there was a Bechstein grand piano beside the archway, the lid open. She remained standing, leaned down, and played one-handed the opening bars of a rather dashing Italian sonatina she was fond of.

Larry Magee pushed himself up in an instant, leaning on his walking stick, then came forward and held out his hand. “I don’t know where Sean’s been keeping you, but that was a wonderful intro.”

“Do you play yourself?”

“I did my poor best to please my mother but never got far and nowhere near your standard.”

“You wouldn’t, and her studying at the Royal College of Music,” Dillon told him.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it and hope to see a lot of you. I’m Larry Magee and the facsimile at the other end of the table is my twin brother, Tad, a fearsome creature with a bad reputation.” Magee smiled and gave her his hand.

“I’d tell you where to go, brother, but there’s a lady in the room,” Tad said. “Please join us, Hannah. I see you’re walking wounded, like Larry. With Sean involved, that smells like the Troubles to me.”

“Car bomb,” she said. “Took my parents and left me with the stick.”

“Are you from County Down, like Sean here and my own family?”

“No, I have a horse farm at Drumgoole in the Republic. Inherited, of course, and my aunt Meg is running it while I’m at college.”

“And what will you do when the concert halls start calling?” Dillon inquired.

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Well, as a man who has played good barroom piano all my life, I’d say it’s pretty certain.”

Molly, who had slipped out, returned now with coffee, which she poured out for everyone. “Is there anything else, Tad?”

“I don’t think so. Get yourself ready. We’re due at the church in an hour and a half.”

She retired, and Dillon said, “Kilburn?”

Tad nodded. “Mary and Joseph in Flood Street. It was her church for all those years, good and bad, so it seemed fitting. The present priest is a nice boy, but I’ve got old Father Sharkey to agree to take the service. Eighty-five, but he’s up for it. The organist’s in hospital and there’s no choir available, which is unfortunate.”

“I can manage the organ,” Hannah said. “I’ve been playing the one in my parish church in Drumgoole since I was fourteen. I can’t help with the choir. Was there any special piece of music your mother liked to hear?”

It was Larry who answered. “‘Danny Boy.’ She used to sing it around the house when we were boys.”

“I remember it well,” Dillon said.

“Then ‘Danny Boy’ is what you get.” Hannah turned to Dillon. “We’d better be off. We need to change into something suitable.”

“We’ll go to my place,” Dillon said. “There’s a boutique around the corner that can find something for you.”

Tad moved out ahead and went upstairs; Larry escorted them to the front door and opened it. “Our lawyers have made it clear to us that my father will be charged with only the minimal offense of drunk driving. That means he walks free.”

Dillon said, “It stinks, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“I could have him taken care of.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Hannah grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. “I imagine Special Branch at Scotland Yard will already be waiting to see if anything happens to him. Your mother wouldn’t like it, but they’d love catching a Magee at last.”

Dillon said, “Finbar’s not worth putting yourself in harm’s way over, Larry.”

“I know, but he’s never been able to get his head around the mystery of what happened to the Maria Blanco. Convinced you had something to do with it.”

“So how could I be in two places at once?” Dillon asked. “But never mind that. We’ve got a funeral to go to.”

He took Hannah down to the Mini, and they scrambled in. She said, “What was that all about?”

“It’s between me and my God, cousin,” Dillon said, and drove away.

THE RAIN HAD STARTED at the house just as Tad, Larry, and Molly were about to be picked up by their limousine. A quick check indicated that there were sufficient umbrellas and waterproofs on board, so they moved on.

“You’d think the Almighty could do better than this,” Tad grumbled. “The grave could flood.”

“Your mother would have said don’t be blasphemous,” Molly told him.

“I can’t help it, Tad. Let’s get inside and do right by her,” Larry said, and they got out quickly, pushing into the shelter of handheld umbrellas, making for the church door held open for them and moving in to find Dillon waiting. There was a good turnout, older people from another time who had known Eileen Magee well and remembered her kindly.

It was incredibly peaceful. Mary and the Christ Child in the chapel just inside the door, and as Hannah moved into that great hymn, “Abide with Me,” the undertakers started up the aisle to present the coffin to Starkey, Molly and the brothers keeping to the left, the bearded man who was Finbar Magee pacing them on the right.

Everyone sat as Starkey started the service. There was a hush as he extolled Eileen’s virtues and gave the blessing and the prayers for the dead, and then a wonderful thing happened. The organ started up, playing “Danny Boy,” and Hannah’s voice rose with it, and not one person moved until her music died away.

Molly was crying and so were others as people made their way out. It was still raining, and the undertaker whispered to Tad, “A bit of water in the grave, sir. We’ll take care of your mother tonight back at the Chapel of Rest and see what tomorrow brings.”

Hannah had closed up the organ and came across. “Best I could do.”

“And bloody marvelous,” Larry said. “Wasn’t she, Tad?”

“You really are quite a girl, Hannah.” Tad put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “We’re very grateful, and please tell Molly to stop crying.”

A voice echoed from the right, and they turned to see Finbar standing by the confessional boxes. “And what about me, your father? I came to face the shame of it, didn’t I, or doesn’t that count?”

“You devious bastard, I don’t believe you,” Tad replied. “You’re lucky I allow you to leave this place still walking. Never show your face here again.”

Larry added, “Get back to Ulster while you still can. That’s sound advice. You’re not wanted here and never will be.”

“Then damn the lot of you and go to hell,” his father replied, pushing his way through the thickening crowd and disappearing.

Larry turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Is there any chance we could have supper together?”

“Another time,” Dillon said. “But my masters call, and like a good boy, I obey. Sorry I can’t explain.”

“Seriously? We’re not supposed to know you’ve been working for British Intelligence for years now?”

“Okay, but we’ve got a real crisis facing us, believe me. We’ll see you when we can, but for the moment, it’s all hands to the pumps.”

“Which includes me,” Hannah called, as she followed Dillon to the Mini, jumped in, and they drove away.

“I like that girl,” Larry said.

“So do I.” Tad nodded. “A very special lady.” He sighed. “Let’s get out of here.” And he led the way to where Molly waited in the limousine.

DILLON TURNED INTO PARK LANE, driving toward Marble Arch, and Hannah said, “When you were speaking at Holland Park about the Magees at Drumore, you said that the Maria Blanco was a big old launch tied up to the jetty and used by Cousin Eli to fish from. I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Why don’t you tell me what all the fuss is about?”

“God help me, girl, why are women so persistent? You won’t leave me alone until I do, will you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then shut up and listen. I was called to Belfast and told by the Army Council that I was needed in Algeria by the Gaddafi training camp to help with new recruits for the IRA. I’d trained there myself, and so had my good friend after me, Daniel Holley, who you’ve not had a chance to meet.”

“Is he a Provo?”

“Oh, yes, but of a special kind. A Protestant.”

“Sweet Jesus.” She was shocked. “And what kind of a Provo would a damn Prod be?”

“The kind whose sweet young Catholic cousin was raped and murdered by UVF scum, so he executed the four who had done it. There was nowhere for him to go except to join the IRA after that.”

“Mother of God,” she said.

“But enough of his background. He works for Ferguson like the rest of us do, so you’ll be meeting him one of these days. He’s partner in a shipping line out of Algiers. He’s half Irish, and his mother is a decent Catholic woman from Crossmaglen, but never mind that. Do you want the rest of the Maria Blanco story?”

“Of course I do.”

“Hugh Tulley got word from an informer that one of the Belfast banks was sending twenty-five million pounds in gold bullion to Dublin concealed in a meat wagon that would be passing his way. A common enough trick in those days to avoid holdups.”

“So he decided to have a go?” Hannah said.

“You could say that. A brisk gunfight on a country road with night falling that left three policemen in plainclothes dead, Tulley wounded, and two of their own dead. The alarm was raised all over County Down, and the RUC swung into action.”

“So what happened next?”

“Tulley thought of Eli, on his own at Drumore, Finbar being in the Maze, and the answer to his problem seemed obvious. Get to Drumore as fast as possible, transfer the bullion to the Maria Blanco, and take to the seas.”

“And did that work?” she asked.

“With difficulty, because of people’s wounds, but they made Eli, a man of enormous strength, help them. They intended to sail away, but it became obvious that Tulley and one of the other men were close to death and they were all bleeding.”

“What did you do?” Hannah asked.

“Well, you have to remember that the RUC did not know where they were, so if they took Eli’s Land Rover, there was hope for them at the cottage hospital nearby, where the nuns were kind.”

“And come back for the bullion later?” Hannah asked. “That seems a thin chance to me. What about Eli? What was he up to?”

“Not much. They found some old-fashioned shackles in the boathouse hanging on a peg with two keys, which they were careful to take with them when they left him chained.”

“And Tulley’s boys?”

“The first roadblock was enough, and they held their hands up.”

“And Eli?”

“The police found him, still shackled. He said he heard the boat’s engines and managed to peer through a crack in the wall planking and glimpsed a shadow in the wheelhouse as the Maria Blanco moved out to sea.”

“And Tulley and company?”

“He was crippled. They were in the Maze together with Finbar when the legend of the Maria Blanco and its cargo was born.” Dillon shrugged. “The RUC looked at every possibility, turned the criminal underworld in Ulster inside out, but never got a hint, and that’s the way it is to this day.”

“I bet it is. So what happened to Eli?”

“Well, as he’d been a victim, life went on, Finbar serving his time in the Maze for another year, obsessed with the knowledge of what had happened. I think it was the fact of it all having taken place in Drumore and, because of that, having it somehow slip through his fingers that got to him.”

Hannah nodded. “I can see that.” She was frowning. “Sean, I hope you don’t mind my saying that you seem incredibly knowledgeable about the whole business. Did you by chance have anything to do with it?”

“Thank God I didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “Booked out of Belfast on the afternoon plane to London Heathrow, which I left the following morning on the ten-thirty flight to Algiers.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?” she said.

“Of course not. You can’t be in two places at the same time. So let’s leave the mystery of the Maria Blanco to continue to torment Finbar.”

“That’s all very well, cousin,” she replied. “But I think it will continue to torment a lot of people, including me. Twenty-five million in bullion, how much will that be now?”

“I wouldn’t think about that; it will ruin the rest of your day.”

Dillon laughed and turned into the safe house at Holland Park to find Ferguson’s Daimler parked there, and as he and Hannah got out of the Mini, Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake emerged from the main entrance.

Ferguson said, “Everything go all right at the funeral?”

“Not really,” Dillon said. “The father turned up, drunk as usual, and distinctly not wanted.”

“Always bad news, Finbar,” Ferguson said. “But we’ve been having a further development here. The Master’s on the phone again. Roper will fill you in. Henry Frankel’s returned to Downing Street, and we’re off to join him and the Prime Minister.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Dillon asked.

“Yes, actually. Since you’re an old IRA hand, the Prime Minister may value your opinion on al-Qaeda and ISIS and the possibility of them hitting the streets of London. If you can spare us the time, that is?”

Dillon, at his most Irish, said, “God save you, General, for giving me the opportunity to serve.”

“Get in, damn you,” Ferguson ordered, which Dillon did.

Ferguson turned, a smile on his face. “Impossible man, but what can one do? You’d better go and report to Major Roper, Hannah.”

He climbed in beside Doyle, the Daimler moved away, and Hannah turned and went in.

ROPER, SMOKING A CIGARETTE, a glass of whiskey in his hand, leaned back in his wheelchair, Sara sitting beside him enjoying a coffee.

“Where’s Dillon?” he asked.

“The general decided he should accompany them to Downing Street and that Sean might be useful because of his IRA experience.”

“Well, Dillon could certainly write the book on that.”

Hannah jumped to Dillon’s defense. “He had reason enough. His father died in a firefight in Belfast, so he was fighting a just cause.”

“So was I, defusing bombs all over Belfast, the kind that murdered your parents and crippled you.”

“I thought he was your friend.” Hannah was angry, face flushed.

“But he is,” Roper said. “Also an enigma. Fought the revolution worldwide, found it just as easy to work for the Israelis as he did the PLO. Learned Arabic when the IRA sent him to one of the Gaddafi training camps and discovered he had a gift for languages, and now he speaks several.”

She looked bewildered. “I didn’t know all of that.”

“And you probably don’t know this,” Roper said. “His attempt to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet almost succeeded. That was during the Gulf War.”

Hannah took a deep breath. “Damn him, he even plays the best barroom piano I ever heard.”

“A lively lad.”

They were on their way in to lunch, but they got no farther than the door when an alert call sounded. “Hang on,” Roper said. “Ferguson wants a word.”

Ferguson’s face came on the screen from his office on the third floor of the ministry. Hannah could see paneled walls, a picture or two, and a mahogany desk that somehow suited Ferguson’s personality. Henry Frankel and Dillon sat on either side of him.

Frankel said, “Just to let you know that President Cazalet has made it clear he intends to honor his speaking commitment, so we’ll need to keep the security high. He’s at Downing Street now with Blake Johnson, and I’ll be joining them soon.”

Sara said, “I imagine the White House will be annoyed that he’s not returning to the States.”

“Perhaps,” Ferguson told her. “But these are troubled times, and good friends need to stand together.”

“So what do we need to do? It’s like we’re going to war.”

Dillon cut in. “Someone once said that in war all a soldier knows is his own small part of the front. Al-Qaeda may be all over the world, but this is our part of the front. We’ve disposed of two Masters already, and now we have a third. Our battle is to give him what we gave them.”

“Well said, Sean,” Ferguson said.

“There you go,” Dillon said. “Calling me Sean again.”

“On your way, you rogue,” Ferguson told him. “And don’t forget to check underneath your car for bombs.”

“As if I would,” Dillon said, and the screen faded to black.

“ANY QUESTIONS?” Roper asked Sara, but it was Hannah who replied.

“If we’re going to war, who exactly are we going to war with?”

“You’ve got your studies,” Sara told her. “Nobody’s suggesting you should get involved in this.”

“But I live with you,” Hannah said. “For four years. That was the deal. I think I managed to prove myself last year when the going got tough.”

“You have a point,” Roper said. “And I know you also break the law by carrying a gun in your pocket. But your primary responsibility is the Royal College of Music, and don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t,” Hannah said. “But to take care, I need to know who the enemy is.”

“All right,” Roper said. “Besides the new Master, our own small part of the front, as Sean put it, has to do with the Muslim Brotherhood and the rascals at the Pound Street mosque. They had a go at us when Imam Hamid Bey was in charge there. His death was none of our doing—a car crash—but a new man has just moved in there. His name is Yousef Shah, an Oxford graduate and an unknown quantity. We’re going to be keeping a very close eye on him.”

“If I meet him, I’ll remember to give him Sean’s favorite greeting,” Hannah said. “God bless all here.”

Roper laughed, and said to Sara, “I think she’ll do just fine. But speaking of security, if we’re a target, then so are those close to us, probably. I think it’s time you checked in with your grandfather, Sara.”

SHE DID, but it was Sadie Cohen, the housekeeper, who answered the phone. “So you’ve finally remembered where you live.”

“We’ve been really busy, love,” Sara told her. “Things aren’t looking too good at the moment. General Ferguson was wondering whether you and Grandad would care to move in with us for a while just in case anyone might show an unhealthy interest.”

“You could be offering the Dorchester, but it wouldn’t do you any good. He’s on his way to Leeds. Some important person has taken ill, tickets sold out, could Professor Rabbi Nathan Gideon step in. He said he’d call you.”

“Well, he didn’t.”

“He has a lot on his plate.”

“I’m sure, but never mind. We can’t leave you alone. It won’t do, not the way things are at the moment.”

“So you and Hannah won’t be here tonight?” Sadie asked.

“Well, that is the general idea.”

“Leaving the house with no one in it? What nonsense; I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that. Now you take care of yourself, and we’ll see you when we can,” and she cut off.

Sara said to Roper and Hannah, “I can’t leave it like that. I must go and try to make her see sense,” and she made for the door.

Roper called, “Just watch your back.”

Hannah took the silenced Colt .25 from her pocket. “I’ll take care of that department.”

“Yes, but who’s going to watch your back,” Roper said. “You’re getting to be worse than Sara. Tell her to use the Land Rover and take care.”

Which sent Hannah running out of the door smiling.







(#ulink_75b38a07-5e10-5141-b024-2fbbaee34ed8)


THE LATE AFTERNOON RAIN came with a sudden rush at Highfield Court that sent Sadie Cohen running upstairs to see that no windows were open. She checked all the bedrooms, finishing with Hannah’s, where she found one open a little.

“Naughty girl,” she muttered. “Typical.”

Not that she meant it, for she had come to realize for some time now that Hannah was the daughter she’d never had. Hannah, who’d lost her mother and father to the car bomb in Northern Ireland that had killed them and crippled her, returned her affection completely. The fact that she was Catholic and Sadie Jewish was irrelevant.

Sadie slammed the window down, peering out because this was her favorite view, high up on the fourth floor of the house, the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square no more than a couple of hundred yards away.

It never failed to please, and she looked down at the garden, which was at its best, flowers in season, poplar trees swaying, but then she frowned at a flash of yellow down there. A man in an oilskin jacket stepped out of the rhododendron bushes, stood there in the rain, then stepped back into cover.

Sadie went downstairs, entered the kitchen, opened a large wooden drawer, and took out a sawed-off shotgun and a packet of cartridges. She loaded the weapon quickly, then went out in the hall, approached the front door cautiously, and waited, the shadow of a man outside.

Her Codex sounded, and as she pulled it out one-handed to answer, the shadow vanished from view.

“Sadie Cohen,” she said.

“Hi, love,” Hannah replied. “Sara and I are on our way. Should be with you in fifteen minutes.”

“You’ll be welcome,” Sadie told her. “Because we appear to have a guest in the garden. Could be others, too.”

“Remain inside,” Hannah told her. “Intruder,” she said to Sara, and called Roper. “Where’s Dillon?”

“When he turned up and found you gone, he said he’d join you,” Roper told her. “I’ll check and tell him to put his foot down.”

“Dillon’s on his way,” she told Sara, who said, “That’s a comfort. I bet it’s the Brotherhood. They’ve tried before, three or four pretending to be seeing to waterworks or drains or something like that.”

Hannah produced her Colt .25 and checked it. “Well, the bastards can bring it on as far as I’m concerned.”

“I couldn’t agree more, love.” Sara was smiling. “Isn’t it great to be a woman?”

“Absolutely,” Hannah told her.

“So as the great Bette Davis said, ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,’” and Sara put her foot down hard as they roared away.

SADIE TURNED OFF the hall light, but as the darkness had increased considerably and very quickly, she switched on the garden lights. The conservatory was in darkness, and she stood there beside the Schiedmayer concert grand in the study, waiting and watching.

There was some sort of movement out there. She waited, then switched on the conservatory lights, illuminating two men in yellow oilskin uniforms peering in the window.

They backed away hurriedly into the darkness, and Sadie was filled with fury, turned the key, and flung open the door.

“Who the hell are you?” she called. “Get out of this house.” She went down the terrace steps, cocking the sawed-off. “I’ll shoot without hesitation,” which she did, firing one barrel into the night sky.

One of the men jumped out of the thicket behind her, grabbing at her wrist, forcing the sawed-off up, and tearing it from Sadie’s grip. A second came to his aid, trying to control her as she kicked, and two more men in yellow oilskins ran in through the open gates to help them.

The Land Rover arrived just after that, swerving in, Sara braking so hard that she sprayed gravel over everyone. She slid from the driver’s side, drawing her Colt, and Hannah joined her on the other side, weapon in hand.

“All right,” Sara cried. “That’s enough.”

The one who had picked up the sawed-off said, “I don’t think so, Captain Gideon. If you and the girl don’t put down your weapons, I will blow your housekeeper’s head off.”

On the instant, Hannah shot off the lower half of his left ear.

He cried out, blood spurting, and dropped the shotgun, and Dillon seemed to slide in at the wheel of the Mini at the same time, spraying another wave of gravel.

“My goodness, but you girls have been having fun,” he said, as he got out.

“What kept you, cousin?” Hannah demanded.

One of the men reached down to grab the shotgun, and Dillon kicked him in the face. The man fell over, and the others cried out in protest.

Dillon said, “Line up and shut up, or someone else could lose half an ear.” He turned to Hannah. “There you go, stealing my favorite party trick.”

“It runs in the family,” she told him. “The way they treated Sadie, they got what they deserved.”

“On that point, I wouldn’t argue with you.” Dillon turned to the lineup. “Who’s going to tell me who sent you, although I don’t expect to be surprised.”

They stared at him stony faced, and no one said a word except Dillon, who told them exactly what he thought of them in harsh but fluent Arabic. They stared at him in astonishment, and he returned to English.

“So let’s try again, and I would suggest that one half ear a night is enough.”

The man with the ear bleeding into the handkerchief he held against it said, “Imam Yousef Shah, although I suspect you know that.”

“As it happens, I do, so what would your name be?”

“Hamid Abed.”

“Well, keep better company is my advice. Take them to their van, Hannah. Send them on their way, and you have my permission to shoot anybody who makes a false move. Keep an eye on her, Sara, while I help Sadie indoors. She’s shaking.”

Hannah shepherded them outside to their yellow van and waited for them to scramble in. Hamid still held the handkerchief to his ear as he turned to her.

“You use that gun like a soldier. Who taught you to do that, memsahib?”

“The Provisional IRA,” she told him.

“Allah preserve me.” He was shocked. “And the leg? You are crippled?”

“Car bomb,” she said. “When it comes down to it, you lot are just beginners. Off you go, Hamid Abed, and try to behave yourself in the future.”

The van drove away; Hannah turned and walked back to Sara, who said, “What was that all about?”

“He wanted to know where I learned to shoot.”

“And you told him the IRA?”

“Which shocked the hell out of him. He called me memsahib; I thought that was Indian?”

“So it is, and I’m surprised,” Sara told her, as they entered the house. “Their attitude toward women is different from ours, so when they meet someone like you and me, they don’t know how to handle us.”

“They’ll have to learn,” Hannah said, and followed Sara in, pausing at the umbrella stand, helping herself to one of the several walking sticks.

“Leg bad tonight?” Sara asked.

“You could say that.” Hannah grinned. “One cripple to another. You, too?”

“Yes, it’s an absolute bastard. The fruits of war.”

“Ah, for that I can only offer you this.” Hannah handed her a walking stick. “On the other hand, for the hero of Abusan, a Military Cross goes with it.”

Sara gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bless you, Hannah, for being you. I’m beginning to wonder how I ever got by without you. Let’s go and see what Sean’s up to.”

The door of the rabbi’s study stood open; Sadie had lit a fire in the magnificent Georgian grate. Dillon sat at one side, speaking to Roper, and he paused.

“Sadie went off to the kitchen to make tea and coffee. I think she’s upset,” he said.

Hannah had turned and was already on her way. Sara said, “We’ll handle it,” and hurried after her.

Sadie was sitting in a high kitchen chair sobbing, Hannah’s arm around her. “It’s okay,” Hannah told her. “I’m here now, and so is Sara.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sadie said. “I got the shotgun to chase them away, even fired a round into the sky, but it didn’t stop them. I was terrified, thinking they might be ISIS and knowing what terrible things they’ve done.”

“Well, Sara and I soon put them in their place,” Hannah said. “And as we know exactly who was responsible for the attack, we’ll be able to do something about it.”

Sadie brightened at that. “True enough.” She took a deep breath. “Go and see Sean in the study, and I’ll follow you with a trolley.”

Dillon was putting logs on the fire when they joined him. “How is she?” he asked.

“Nerves shot,” Sara told him. “Thank God we were able to get to her in time.”

“Too true, but I won’t allow it to happen again. I’ve just made that clear to Roper.”

“And what did he say?”

“Ferguson is still at Downing Street but sends his best. He’ll be with us soon, so let’s have a drink or sit down and have a cup of tea Irish-style and relax.”

At that moment, Sadie wheeled in the trolley, obviously trying to be brave. “Tea up. I’ve managed salad sandwiches and scones. Oh, I forgot to say ‘God bless all here.’ Is that right, Sean?”

“Sadie, you’re the wonder of the world.”

THE DAIMLER WAS ON THE ROAD, Sergeant Doyle at the wheel and Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake Johnson in deep discussion, when Ferguson’s Codex rang. He answered, his smile changing to a frown.

“Roper,” he said. “Let me put it on speaker. He has rather dramatic news for us.”

Roper then gave them a detailed account of the events at Highfield Court.

“The bastards,” Blake said. “Those Brotherhood guys.”

“I agree,” Cazalet told him. “But no match for a woman who is one of the few to be awarded a Military Cross in the British Army.”

Charles Ferguson chuckled. “Or an even younger one raised all her life in a household that was a hotbed of the Provisional IRA.”

“What do you want to do?” Roper demanded.

“We’ll call round to see them,” Ferguson said. “First—get me Imam Yousef Shah on the line.”

There was a pause, and then, “Shah here.”

“Charles Ferguson. I shouldn’t think any of the theology departments at Oxford would be too proud of you tonight, you and your Brotherhood.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Muslim Brotherhood has no connection with this mosque. You must look elsewhere for whatever disturbs you.”

“A nice turn of phrase, Imam, but I was actually considering what might be the best way of disturbing you.”

“I appreciate the warning,” the imam told him. “But take care—my appointment in Samarra could be yours. May Allah go with you.”

He went off, and Roper said, “Shakespeare would have loved him.”

“Good point. But we’ll be off to Highfield Court. Oh, and do a favor for me. Tell Sadie we’re coming and make it clear we aren’t expecting dinner or anything. She takes her hospitality very seriously, you know.”

“What a hypocrite you are, Charles,” Roper said.

“A fault I readily admit,” Ferguson told him. “But so useful in this game we play, Giles.”

IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon in Washington when Alice Quarmby, summoned by the President, arrived at the Oval Office.

“Do you have the slightest idea what it’s about?” she asked the secretary.

“Afraid not. It might be a minute, though. Colonel Hunter’s been in there for forty minutes.”

“Then it’s me for the powder room, Elsie. Be right back.”

IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President was sitting behind his desk, Hunter standing as he talked.

“The use of private military companies in the recent ISIS attacks in Mali certainly proves their worth.”

“As glorified security men, protecting business or preventing the theft of Muslim treasures, yes, I’ll grant you that. Meanwhile, the French flew a hit force of marines in a fleet of aircraft all the way from Paris by night and caught ISIS with its pants down. Rather more impressive, I’d say.”

There was little Hunter could say to that, but as he turned to leave, the President said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me, Colonel. You’re heading for London now, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now do me a favor and help Blake watch out for Cazalet over there. Don’t let them know, just be my extra eyes and ears. He’s putting himself in harm’s way. Too public, Colonel. I want him back here where we can protect him. The damn fool seems to court death every time he speaks in public.”

“Yes, I can see what you mean, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. You may need some extra authority, so I’ve made you a presidential aide with a pass to prove it. Don’t forget to call on the ambassador. He’ll be expecting you but won’t know why. Elsie has an envelope for you on the way out, and I’ll phone you from time to time. Remember: This must stay secret, even from the ambassador. Philip Hardy is a good man but has a mind of his own.”

“Of course, Mr. President, I understand perfectly now.”

Alice, standing in for Elsie for a few moments in the outer office, had heard everything as Hunter stood with the door ajar. She ducked into the filing cupboard a second before Hunter emerged from the Oval Office and Elsie entered.

“I believe you have an envelope for me?”

“Yes, I do, Colonel,” Elsie said, and passed it to him.

He hurried through the maze of corridors that was the White House, opening the letter and taking out the card and marveling at the gold edges with OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND COLONEL SAMUEL HUNTER, AIDE TO THE PRESIDENT underneath in bold black print.

When he got to the car and climbed in the Mercedes, he could hardly breathe.

Dolan said, “Are you okay, Colonel?”

“Never been better.” Hunter passed the card. “Read that.”

Dolan did, then said, “But what does it mean, sir?”

“Our ticket to prosperity.”

ONCE HUNTER WAS out of the way, Alice was called into the Oval Office, where she found an angry President behind the desk.

“There you are, Alice. Any word from Blake, any at all?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”

“Damn his eyes. I’m worried, Alice, for both of them. These ISIS bastards are capable of anything.”

“So it would seem, Mr. President.”

“All right, but if you hear anything—anything at all—get right back to me immediately.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” She returned to her desk, but she knew what she had to do. She had known Blake too long, and it was not, after all, being a traitor to her country, so she called him on his Codex, unaware that he was driving to Highfield Court with Cazalet and Ferguson.

“Alice,” he said. “What’s cooking at the White House?”

“I had a call from the Oval Office earlier. We need to talk, Blake.”

He switched to speaker, gesturing to Cazalet and Ferguson. “Why, Alice, what happened?”

“The President sent for me,” she said. “And he was really concerned that he hadn’t heard from you. But there’s something else. He had a visitor. I was in the outer office and overheard some of his private conversation with Colonel Samuel Hunter, that CIA guy who’s interested in private military companies and this Havoc outfit.”

Charles Ferguson tapped Tony Doyle on the shoulder. “Nice quiet spot, Sergeant, pull over.”

Doyle did. Ferguson nodded to Cazalet and handed him the phone. “Jake here, Alice, not trying to trick you or anything. General Ferguson and I just happened to be sharing a car with Blake. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, Mr. President.”

“Then tell us exactly what you heard and everything you know about this Colonel Hunter.”

She did as she was told, and when she was finished, Cazalet said, “Brilliant. Try not to feel too uncomfortable about telling us. You’ve served your country, believe me.”

Blake took the phone. “Take care, love. You never did a more important thing.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.” Ferguson sat back as they moved away. “I disliked Hunter straightaway. Now I know why.”

“We’ll have to watch our backs with him,” Cazalet said. “And I’d say that Havoc project of his is worth checking on.”

“Oh, it shall be, old boy,” Ferguson said. “Just leave it to me. I have the perfect man in mind,” and he took out his Codex again.

DANIEL HOLLEY WAS POUNDING alongside the Seine, which was his habit when in Paris. He had a superb furnished barge, which he was running toward now, Notre Dame on the far side of it, hauntingly beautiful in the floodlight. His Codex sounded, and he paused to answer.

“Good evening, Daniel. It’s Charles Ferguson intruding into your life again.”

“Well, if that means doing something about ISIS and the bloody mess they’ve made of this city, I’m your man.”

“Not directly, but there’s something that might be related. Can you come see me?”

“I’ll be with you tomorrow.”

IN LONDON, the four men who had attacked Highfield Court stood before Imam Yousef Shah in his office at the Pound Street mosque. No one had helped Hamid Abed, and the handkerchief he held to his ear was soaked with blood. The man who stood behind them was enormous, addressed by the imam as Omar. A leather pouch filled with lead shot swung in his right hand, and he monotonously slapped it into the palm of his left.

“So, Hamid Abed,” the imam said. “You let your comrades down by betraying me.”

“Not so, Imam. It seemed obvious that the target knew who was behind the attack. This warfare must have been happening between Captain Gideon, her friends, and the mosque for some time.”

“Which is none of your business, as I will show these fools here, that they may demonstrate to others the punishment that awaits all traitors.”

He nodded to Omar, who struck Hamid violently with the leather pouch, sending him crashing to the floor unconscious.

Omar kicked him several times as the others watched, terrified. He said, “What do you want me to do with him, Imam?”

“Beat him thoroughly, Omar, then throw him in the river. The Thames is tidal, and few bodies that go in appear again. It’ll be a warning from Allah that all wrongdoers must be punished if they transgress. Take these other wretches with you so they will learn, and speak to me when you are finished, for there is no more to be done.”

UNCONSCIOUS IN THE POURING RAIN on an old wharf in Battersea, Hamid barely felt the pain of the blows while the others watched in horror as Omar gave him a last kick.

“So, a final lesson for all of you,” and he heaved Hamid up and tossed him into the Thames. “There he goes, food for the fishes.”

THE RIVER CHURNED, the sky echoing the thunderclap above that brought Hamid Abed back from the dead, a vivid flash of lightning illuminating the river. Ships were anchored on each side, old warehouses rearing into the night as he raced by, for there was a five-knot tidal current taking him out to sea fast.

It was the Thames that was saving him now, its icy grip freezing the pain from the terrible beating, leaving him completely numb, but he was conscious when the current took him toward one side of the river and deposited him on a set of ancient steps.

In great pain, he hauled himself up to a dim light that was bracketed to the decaying walls of an old warehouse above a sign that read ST MARY’S STAIRS. For a moment, he was dumbfounded, but then he laughed helplessly. Saved by the Mother of Christ, but that was all right because she was in the Koran, too.

What it all meant, he did not know, except that, leaning against the wall under the sign, he realized two things. He was seriously injured, and if he fell into the hands of the Brotherhood again, he was a dead man. On the other hand, he was assumed to be dead already, but there was no way he would get help from his own people. Too afraid of ISIS or the Brotherhood.

He stood there, coughing blood in the rain and looked up at the sign. St. Mary had saved him once before in spite of his being a Muslim. Maybe she could do it again? His foot kicked a wooden pole on the floor, perhaps from a brush. A staff to walk with up the alley toward the main road, and so he started, a hand braced against the wall to help him.

THE MOMENT THE DAIMLER drew up in the drive of Highfield Court, Hannah had the front door open, and Ferguson and the others rushed inside out of the rain, where a profound smell from the kitchen indicated that Sadie had been busy.

She came down the corridor to greet them wearing a kitchen smock, wiping her hands on a towel.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Ferguson kissed her on the cheeks. “Would we do that to you, Sadie? I can’t believe you’ve been cooking after what you’ve been through.”

“Yes, you can, you old rogue, but it’s nothing special, considering the number at the feast. You’ll just have to put up with what a Jewish lady manages to come up with when she tries spaghetti Bolognese.”

“Ecstasy, I’m sure,” he said.

“Well, a glass of champagne first would be nice.”

She vanished toward the kitchen, and Sara said, “We’ll go in the study and be comfortable. I’ll light the fire.”

“Where’s Hannah?” Blake said.

“Slaving in the kitchen, helping Sadie like a decent Irish girl should. Ah, here’s the footman, come to serve the champagne,” and Dillon entered pushing the drinks trolley.

THE MEAL WAS as excellent as everyone had expected, and afterward, over coffee and tea, the situation was discussed.

“The problem is the nighttime,” Cazalet said. “I think Blake and I should come up from the Dorchester and move in for the night. Would that suit?”

“That would be fantastic,” Sara said.

“Then can we say that’s a given?” Cazalet asked Ferguson.

“Very generous of you, Mr. President. I’m sure Sadie will be delighted.”

“With what?” she said, walking in with a fresh pot of coffee.

“You’re going to have lodgers, my dear,” Ferguson told her, and the front doorbell started to ring.

“Now who in the hell can that be?” Dillon said, and he was out of the study in a moment, a Colt .25 ready as he approached the door, followed by Hannah, pulling out her own gun and running to cover him.

She was like a different person, calm and assured, her weapon ready in both hands as he reached for the key to open the door.

She said, “Take care now, Sean, and don’t be dying on me. I’ve lost enough from my family.”

“Yes, well, I’m cleverer than that, girl.” He pulled the flap of the letterbox open.

“Who’s there?”

The voice was broken, strange, and very slow when it said, “My name is Hamid Abed, and I seek the memsahib that she may show me mercy.”

“Holy Mother,” Hannah said. “That’s the man I shot! But what would he be doing here?”

“We’ll soon see.” Dillon, gun in hand, opened the door, and Sadie screamed.

The light from the hall showed the terrible beating Abed had taken, blood all over him, and Hannah pushed Dillon to one side and kneeled.

“Who did this to you?”

“The imam at Pound Street. He had me whipped and broken, thrown in the Thames by Omar Bey, the man they call the Beast.”

“Forget him now, you are safe with me, but why call me memsahib?”

“I was in the Pakistan Army, like my father before me, but my grandfather and his father were in the Indian Army under the Raj, memsahib.” He laughed. “I was thrown into the Thames to die, and a miracle took me to St. Mary’s Stairs. Mary, the Mother of Jesus, is in the Koran. There was nowhere else to go, so I came here. It was a long walk in the rain.”

“I understand, and there’s no need to worry.” She glanced at Ferguson. “General?”

“I’ve already called Maggie Duncan at Rosedene, my dear. An ambulance is on the way.”

MAGGIE DUNCAN HAD BEEN MATRON for many years at Rosedene, a very special medical establishment that offered only the best of treatment to those damaged in their service to Charles Ferguson’s organization. Her boss was Professor Charles Bellamy, considered by many to be the finest general surgeon in London.

Hannah had accompanied Hamid in the ambulance, and after a discussion of what had happened with the others, Dillon and Sara followed in the Mini.

“It doesn’t look good, Sean,” Sara said.

“About as bad as it could, dear girl.” His voice was angry and the harsh Ulster accent plain. “Omar the Beast is it, the imam’s hit man. I’d like to meet that one.”

He swerved slightly, and she said, “Easy, Sean, your time will come, God willing, or mine.”

He glanced at her, frowning, then turned the Mini into the entrance to Rosedene and parked.

MAGGIE DUNCAN MET THEM as she came out of her office in reception. She was dressed for the operating theater.

“That bad is it, Maggie?” Sara asked.

“That man’s condition is appalling, multiple fractures, damage to many organs, a ruptured kidney. Frankly, I don’t even know how he made it to you.”

“He had a pole of sorts, which I suppose he found somewhere on St. Mary’s Stairs, and he used it to help him walk. All very biblical, Maggie.”

“Over the years, Sean, I’ve often put this question to you—when is it all going to end?”

“You’re a good and honest Christian, Maggie. Book of Revelation. Behold a Pale Horse, his rider was called Death, and Hell followed close behind.”

“The Apocalypse?” she said. “You surely can’t be meaning that?”

“And why not, when people are meeting a bad end in every bloody country on earth?”

Hannah appeared suddenly, crashing through the swinging doors that led to the medical units. “He needs you, Matron, as quickly as possible.”

Maggie pushed straight through the door, and Hannah turned to Dillon and Sara, and slumped down beside them. “He hasn’t got a hope in hell.”

Sara said, “Miracles can happen, love. Bellamy is an extraordinary surgeon.”

“I know he is, but I also know the smell of death well from my childhood in an IRA household, the boys turning up bleeding all over the place with the SAS on their tails and only the village doctor to do the best he could for anyone wounded.”

The door opened, and Maggie, splashed with blood, said wearily, “He’s going, Hannah. I’m so sorry.”

Hannah was on her feet and darting past her. Dillon and Sara hesitated, and Maggie led the way to an operating theater at the far end of the corridor, where they were able to observe through a window. Hannah stood beside the bed, and Bellamy was there, his theater scrubs stained with blood. Maggie said, “It was one thing after another. The professor really fought for him, but … just a minute. What’s happening?”

Very slowly, Hamid raised his right arm, which was swathed in bandages, and Hannah held his fingers, and his lips moved, and then his head lolled to one side as he died, the alarm calling in more staff, and Dillon and Sara turned and went back to reception.

“A bad one, Sean,” she said, as they sat. “I saw plenty killed in Afghanistan, but some things you never get over.”

“You could say that. If this Omar the Beast was standing in front of Hannah, she’d empty her gun in him.”

Before Sara could reply, the entrance door swung open and Ferguson entered, face grim, followed by Tony Doyle.

“Has he gone?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Sara told him.

“I thought he might.” He offered a folder to Dillon. “Roper looked up this Omar Bey for you. MI5 have him on file.”

Dillon opened it, and Sara leaned over to look at the enormous animal that Omar Bey appeared to be. “My God,” she said. “A monster.”

“He’s certainly murdered a number of fellow Muslims, but Scotland Yard got nowhere with those. There’s a total unwillingness amongst the Muslim community to get involved,” said Dillon.

“I can believe that,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll keep the file, Dillon. It may prove useful.”

Hannah joined them, looking bleak. “So that bastard gets away with it?”

Dillon passed her the file. “I don’t think so. That’s what he looks like.”

She glanced at the photo in the file, then closed it. “What happens now?”




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