Rain on the Dead (32 page)

Ferguson sighed deeply. “It’s a point of view, Major, and you’re entitled to it if anybody is. I’ll leave it to you.”

—

Sara went, of course, and Dillon only because she did, and Ferguson and Cazalet and Sir Howard and three MI5 people who looked troubled. Billy Salter arrived late and joined Sara and Dillon as they were all just going in to hear what Professor Langley had to say.

The room was lined with white tiles, fluorescent lighting bouncing off them harshly, low buzzing noises in the background. What was left of the body lay naked on a steel operating table and looked appalling, and two of the MI5 people gagged, turned, and hurried out. Sara held a silk scarf to her mouth, Dillon took her other hand.

Ferguson said, “Professor, will you please confirm what you have told me on the telephone?”

“Certainly,” Langley said. “As you can see from the state of the corpse, the body has been damaged extensively by the explosion of a pineapple fragmentation grenade.”

“So death would have been instantaneous?” Ferguson said.

“I can guarantee that. Also terribly damaging, as you see.”

“Is there anything else of particular interest here?”

“Well, there were many things we could not check because of the destruction, but we were able to confirm his blood type with samples from the cadaver. Interesting, that.”

“Why would that be?” Dillon asked.

“Because Major Shelby’s blood type was relatively rare, B
positive, and so is the body’s. That occurs in only eight percent of the U.K. population. It was noted in his army records, but confirmed again from a sample taken from the corpse. Normally, some DNA checks would be made, but in this case, it would lead nowhere. His wife was cremated a few weeks ago, his son butchered by the Taliban in Afghanistan. In such tragic circumstances, best to bring matters to a close.”

Sara turned to Dillon, who had an arm around her shoulders. “So that’s it, Sean?”

“Exactly,” Ferguson said. “With everything coming to a head, he decided to put an end to it all. By Prime Minister’s Warrant, I now invoke the Official Secrets Act. He will give a Closed Court Order. No jury necessary, and an instant cremation order will be issued in view of the state of the remains.”

He shook Langley’s hand. “Many thanks, George. Rotten business, but there you are.”

“Thank God it’s over,” Sir Howard said on the way out.

“I agree, and a blessing that there’s not even a hint in the press,” Ferguson said. “Henry Frankel is waiting with bated breath at Number Ten to hear that the matter is resolved.”

“And Rosedene?” Sara asked.

“Things are looking much better for Ali Saif, and Ali Kerim seems to have turned a corner. Khalid Abed guards them fiercely. As for Lily Shah, Maggie Duncan wants her on staff.”

“That’s wonderful,” Sara said.

“Yes, I thought that,” Ferguson smiled. “Shall we meet at the Dorchester later for a nightcap?”

Dillon laughed. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, and MI5 invaded Kabul Place early last night. What’s happened since, his
death, the pressure of officialdom to get the whole business finished at every level, has been incredible.”

“I’m beginning to feel as if it never happened,” Sara said.

“Which is exactly the way Downing Street wants it treated, God help me,” Ferguson told her. “It’d be a lot better for all of us if we could see it that way. I must go now, because I really am expected by the PM.”

He got into the Daimler, Parker drove him away, and Billy grinned. “Well, that’s me finished, the simple foot soldier who gets things done, waving off the great and the good.”

“And where would we be without you?” Sara said, and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s the sort of thing Shakespeare would have written about.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” He smiled. “It would have made a great script, but God knows who they’d get to play Max,” and he walked off into the rain to find his car.

Cazalet said, “As I’m still in London, you two are still responsible for my security, which means you have the availability of those two extra bedrooms in my suite, so I have a suggestion. To hell with the time. Let’s go and sample the best twenty-four-hour room service in London.”

Dillon said to Sara, “He’s got a point. I don’t remember having dinner.”

Sara’s smile was small but there. “Come to think of it, neither do I, and it would give us the chance to say good-bye properly.”

“Excellent,” Cazalet said. “So lend me that rather small umbrella and I’ll go out in this glorious London rain and hail a cab.”

The following morning, having spent the night in his wheelchair in the computer room as usual, Roper came awake to a solid, driving performance of “From This Moment On,”
followed the sound, and found himself in the dining room with Hannah seated at the piano, wearing her robe.

“What a great way to wake anybody up,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, but I’ve placed my order.”

The kitchen door swung open to admit Maggie Hall with a tray. “Full Irish breakfast. That means it’s soda bread, and not easy to come by in Holland Park.”

“I know what it means,” Roper said. “And I’d still prefer a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea.”

With no comment, she returned to the kitchen, and Hannah got up from the piano and joined him. “It was all happening last night, then?” she said as she started to eat. “Were you surprised?”

“About Max? The Troubles cured me of being surprised at anything in this life ever again. What happened in Ulster damaged you and me. Afghanistan and the same for him. He wanted somebody to pay.”

“But life doesn’t work like that, does it?” Hannah said.

“You heard the recording of what he said to Sara and Dillon about how his son had died, his wife. Nothing could pay for that. Did you speak to Sara?”

“Yes, she told me about all the horrid stuff, the autopsy, viewing the body, and so on. So that’s it, then? It’s all over?”

“Legally dead, cremated. Anyway, real life begins again. What are you going to do?”

“Sara was saying how Cazalet feels he’s got to return to Washington to show his face after all that’s happened. He said there was a danger that he’d be summoned to return under Presidential Warrant if he didn’t make a move, but I’m sure he was joking.”

“And what about you?” Roper asked.

“Sara wants me back at the house, to sit down at that Schiedmayer and get really serious again. Her grandfather thinks I should, and Sadie is threatening to come and get me.” Hannah laughed. “I bet she would if she had to, but very soon I’ll be a student at the Royal College of Music. Four wonderful years waiting.”

“Which you richly deserve,” he said. “Just as long as you don’t forget us. So get back to the piano and play me out. I’ve got to return to my screens.”

—

Max Shelby had slept well and had awakened to the green light on his transceiver pinging softly. He pressed the button as usual, and
as the voice spoke, he listened intently. He never failed to be amazed at how up-to-date they were with their information. He was not only legally dead, but cremated, everything having obviously been rushed through. Cazalet intended to return to Washington, was still booked at the hotel for another three nights, but unless there was a real chance at the target, he was to leave it alone and it was an order. Now he was dead, he was too valuable to risk.

Now, that he didn’t care for, and he put together a breakfast, feeling thoroughly angry. This was not to his liking at all, to be manipulated by someone sitting at a desk, sifting through the information pouring in, selecting what he considered suitable targets.

Well, it was not the way the old Max Shelby had operated and certainly wouldn’t suit the new version. He’d have to show them, and he finished his coffee, went upstairs and checked his wardrobe, selecting a slightly old-fashioned country suit in brown Harris tweed, brown shoes, a pale blue shirt and a military-looking tie, as befitting an older man.

He found his makeup box in the bathroom cabinet, selected a gray mustache, touched it with glue, and fixed it in place. There happened to be an old pair of horn-rimmed spectacles in the box, which completed the picture as he ran a comb through his hair, leaving him looking like a retired bank manager and very respectable.

His appearance made him feel happy and confident, but to do what? The transceiver was quiet and not transmitting, his Glock lay on the table beside it, and he unloaded it and carefully reloaded it, an old habit, slipped it in a waist holster on his left side. The constant rain of the past week rattled against the window with renewed force.

Which made him think of Terry Harker, nursing half an ear in his bolt-hole, as he liked to call it, the old
Arabella,
Rotting away, cold and damp, he’d probably gone out on deck to be shocked by the total desolation of the place, boats of all kinds, decaying everywhere. St. Jude’s Dock, and it amused Max to recall that St. Jude was the patron saint of lost causes. Terry Harker could have made a better choice, but then what could you expect of a man who’d made a fool of himself over a creature like Myra Tully? And an impulse came to him, a wild and crazy impulse. He knew he shouldn’t—but, come on, whom was Harker going to tell?

—

His supposition had been even worse, for Terry was shivering with fever in spite of a heavy boxer’s tracksuit, plus several blankets. He
had
gone up on deck to check the weather, and received a soaking while discovering that there appeared to be a problem with the electric cable connecting his boat to the jetty, which, although intermittent, was showing signs of failing completely, which would make it impossible for him to continue in his present situation.

He rolled over, reaching for a bottle of brandy that stood on the bedside table beside a Browning Hi Power pistol, a relic of his army days. He managed to unscrew the cap, swallowed some down, and his mobile sounded. He screwed the cap back on, although knocking the Browning to the floor, then answered.

“Who is it?” he croaked.

“Why, Terry,” Max Shelby said. “You sound terrible. Is everything okay? I thought it was time I checked how you were doing. I don’t expect this weather is helping you. How’s the ear coming along, better?”

“No, it isn’t. I think I may need more antibiotics and I have a fever, so I don’t need you pretending to be so bright and cheerful, as if we were friends. What do you want?”

“I’m concerned about you, and I do happen to
be
bright and cheerful, because, in a way, it’s as if I’ve been reborn.”

Terry said, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“The word is that I’m really Major Max Shelby of MI5 who has taken to working for al-Qaeda because the money is better.”

Terry said, “What a load of rubbish. Go on, clear off.”

“Now you do disappoint me,” Max said. “When I told you about the sinking of the
Tara
, you said you’d get Billy Salter and maybe me, because of what happened to Myra.”

“So I will,” Terry said.

“You’re not even in the same league as Billy. He was screwing Myra and you were too stupid to see that. I’ve visited your bolt-hole when you were out, but next time I’ll drop in to see how your face looks these days. I know the address, the old
Arabella
at St. Jude’s Dock. Myra gave it to me after going through your drawers. You couldn’t even trust her.”

“You bastard! What makes you think I won’t tell everybody who you really are, Major?”

“Oh, please, Terry, who are you going to tell? No one will believe you! And anyway, my boy—you’re dying! Such a shame!”

He laughed and was gone.

—

Terry Harker had never known such anger, not even in the boxing ring at the height of his power, and it was a killing rage directed completely at Billy Salter, a need to destroy him face-to-face, punch
him into the ground in the way that had taken him to a championship of the British Army. On the other hand, if he couldn’t see him, he could hear his voice, and he knew the phone number of the Dark Man well enough. So, fortified with more brandy, he made the call to Billy Salter.

—

Sam Hall had driven Harry to the City to meet the accountant, Joe Baxter was helping Dora sort out the wine in the still room, and Hasim was floor polishing with a machine. Billy was in oilskins, sitting in Harry’s booth enjoying coffee and reading the
Times,
just in from checking the boats in the rain when his phone rang.

Terry Harker’s voice was hoarse and rough as he said, “Is that you, Billy?”

“It certainly is, but I haven’t got the slightest idea who you are. You sound as if you’re at death’s door, old son.”

“I’m not your old son, not after what you did to Myra and Eric.”

“And what would that be?” Billy asked. “I mean, where’s this story coming from?”

“The Master, you shite.” The drink was getting to Terry now. “He’s been on the phone and told me he feels reborn because he’s Major Max Shelby who’s taken to working for al-Qaeda. Says the money’s better.”

“Terry, if that’s you, somebody’s having you on, and where are you calling from?”