Rain on the Dead (6 page)

There was a stirring up in front of them and Ferguson looked around. “No need, Dillon, I heard the whole bloody saga—taped it, as a matter of fact. How lucky for me that my pill box was empty so I hadn’t been knocked out as I usually am on these flights.”

“So it’s the Tower of London, next stop?” Dillon said.

“You certainly deserve it. You’ve given me all sorts of problems now. What do I do about the CIA, what will the Prime Minister have to say? I’m going to send it all on for Roper to digest. In the meantime, we have another four hours to Farley. May I suggest we dim the lights and try to get some sleep?”

—

At the Holland Park safe house, Roper, seated in his bathrobe in his wheelchair in the computer room, was ecstatic and laughing to himself as he reached the end of the recording. He reached for the Bushmills Irish whiskey bottle and poured a large one.

He tossed it back, broke into laughter, and said, “God bless you, Sean Dillon. When my day is dull, I can always rely on you to brighten it up.”

Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, had just pushed in a trolley with bacon sandwiches and a tea urn, his bomb-devastated boss being unable to drink coffee any longer.

“You’re a happy man, Major, what’s caused that? Have there been developments?”

He had been in the computer room the previous night with Roper when Ferguson had come on screen from Nantucket to mention the assassination attempt and Dillon and Sara’s part in it. The Holland Park safe house operated outside the normal security services such as MI5 and 6, who hated the fact that, thanks to Roper’s genius, a great deal that passed through his coded computers stayed private except to Ferguson and his people, all sworn to secrecy.

Roper said, “You’ve got to hear this, Tony, fresh from the Gulfstream. Pass me a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. No pictures, just audio.”

When it was finished, Tony Doyle shook his head. “That was a bad thing some bastard did to Father Murphy.”

Roper, taking a more sober attitude now, agreed. “The Troubles were not only hell on earth, they were disgusting morally.”

“Yes, but you only realized that by being there,” Doyle said. “Take me. A Jamaican Cockney born and bred in London. I wanted to see the world, so I joined the British Army, and what did I get?”

“Seven tours of duty in Northern Ireland.” Roper took another sandwich. “And what did
I
get out of it? This wheelchair.” He switched on multiple screens. “Let me see if there’s anything interesting I can find about the Flynn clan.”

Doyle said, “Yes, Major,
you
really are a casualty of war.”

“So are you,” Roper told him, not looking at him but scanning the screens. “And so were Dillon and Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly, who marched to the beat of the wrong drum. Hmm. Apparently, the only person in this affair who showed good sense was Tod’s elder brother by ten years, Peter. He avoided the Troubles by moving to the Republic to work for a distant relative on his horse farm and stud at a place called Drumgoole.”

“A sensible option, I’d say.”

“I’d agree, especially as seven years later, the relative died of a heart attack and left the farm to Peter and his wife, on the condition that they gave a home to his widowed sister, Margaret Flynn, known to the family as Aunt Meg.”

“Some people have all the luck,” Doyle said.

“Especially when Tod and Kelly were released from the Maze and he was able to offer them a home.”

“To work on the farm?”

“Some of the time. It’s also the address of a security firm. Obviously, it didn’t take them long to get down to business.”

“So you think Nantucket was part of their agenda?”

“I don’t know.” Roper was frowning, manipulating his control. “Not good,” he said. “That was unfortunate. There’s a daughter, Hannah, who was eighteen in June. Four years ago, on a trip to Belfast, she lost her parents to a car bomb. She was badly injured and in hospital for months. Her father died intestate.”

“What does that mean?”

“No will. She inherited everything, but as she was only fourteen, the court appointed Tod and Aunt Meg as joint guardians.”

“Well, as I wouldn’t trust that Provo bastard an inch, I’m happy the aunt’s around to keep an eye on him,” Doyle said.

“There’s some personal stuff here on her Facebook page,” Roper said. “Good news. She must be a real hotshot on the piano. She’s just been accepted as a student at the Royal College of Music.”

“Sounds like you’re taking a personal interest.”

Roper switched off most of the screens, leaving only one, the emergency cover. “Enough already. I could do with a steam, shower, and shave and fresh apparel, then I’ll doze until our lord and master appears.” He was very cheerful. “Can you assist me, Sergeant?”

“That’s what I’m here for, Major,” Doyle told him, and followed as Roper switched on his wheelchair and led the way out.

—

And in Ireland, high on a hill that loomed above Drumgoole Place, Hannah Flynn reined in a mare named Fancy as she saw the Land Rover approaching the house in the far distance. It was raining
lightly, evening drawing in, and she wore an Australian drover’s coat, a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over auburn hair that framed a calm and serious face. She spoke into a cell phone.

“They’re here, Aunt Meg.”

Margaret Flynn took the call in the kitchen. At seventy-six, she was a handsome woman still, in jerkin and riding breeches, hair white, face tanned. There was still a hint of the actress she had been in her youth.

“Wonderful, but when your uncle Tod called from Dublin Airport, he said they wanted to change as soon as possible.”

“More cloak and dagger again,” Hannah said. “When are they going to learn that the IRA is past its prime and nobody wants to know anymore?”

“Of course, love, Tod and Kelly know that. It’s just security work they do these days. Anyway, I’ve given the stable hands the night off, so you get here when you can. We’ll have dinner a little later.”

There had long been a dark suspicion that the car bomb which had killed Hannah’s parents and injured her so badly had been meant for Tod. Perhaps someone was settling an old score? Hannah frequently remembered that possibility with some bitterness.

She sat there for a moment longer, stroking and patting the mare. “That’s men for you, Fancy, still playing games in the schoolyard and then never seeming to learn that sometimes people get hurt.” She shook her head. “Security, my arse,” and she rode away.

—

Tod and Kelly showered in the wet room on the ground floor of Drumgoole Place, then set about shaving their beards, which took
quite some time. After that, they sat side by side and Meg cut their hair in turn.

“Will ye watch what you’re doing, woman?” Tod said.

She cuffed him. “You’re in good hands. I learned everything there is to know about hairdressing in my theater days. I’ll see to the cuts first, then use the right solvents to treat the color.”

Hannah moved in from the corridor, limping, a walking stick in her right hand. “What a couple of beauties.”

“You show some respect, girl,” Tod told her. “We’ve been away earning a crust. Takes money to run this place.”

“Where to this time?”

Kelly looked hunted, but Tod said, “Nothing much, just inspecting the security system for the company that runs the ferries from Harwich to the Hook of Holland. No big deal.”

“A pity.” She tossed some matches into Tod’s lap. “I found those in the kitchen. They advertise a café in Nantucket. That would have been much more exciting.”

She went out, and Meg picked up the matches.

“I wonder where these came from?”

“Don’t ask me,” Tod said. “I don’t know.”

She said, “You told me you were dressing up to put one over on a rival firm for someone you were working for?”

“So we were,” he said. “Just business, Meg. Is she pleased about the Royal College of Music?”

“I’m not really sure. It’s not residential, so accommodation is going to be a problem with it being London.”

“Don’t worry, these days we’ve got plenty of money. Just keep on cutting and bring back my auburn hair.”

Which she did, cut Kelly’s very short and darkened the white to gray.

“Marvelous,” Tod said. “I feel human again. Let’s have dinner.”

—

Ferguson’s Daimler and driver were waiting when the Gulfstream landed at Farley. Dillon had left his Mini Cooper there, but Sara had nothing.

“I’ve decided not to go home tonight,” Ferguson said. “I’d like to have words with Roper sooner rather than later, so I’ll stay in the guest wing at Holland Park.”

Dillon often did the same, and said, “I’d like to join you.”

“That’s fine by me, but I expect you’ll be wanting a lift to Highfield Court to see your grandfather?” he said to Sara.

“He won’t be there, he’s touring the lecture circuit. ‘God and the Mind of Man,’ his favorite topic. Everyone wants Rabbi Nathan Gideon these days.”

“And so they should,” Dillon told her. “He’s a great man.”

“Actually, I’d welcome your input, Captain,” Ferguson said, “So jump in and we’ll be on our way. We’ll see you there, Dillon.”

—

When Roper returned from the shower, it was to find that Ferguson and the others had arrived and had gone upstairs to unpack, but he had another visitor waiting.

Dr. Ali Saif was an Egyptian with an English grandmother who’d not only sent him to Eton but supplied him with a U.K. passport under filial law. A brilliant scholar, a senior lecturer in archaeology at London University, he had initially found Osama’s message
attractive enough for him to offer his services to the Army of God charity. As with others, one could be drawn into the activities of al-Qaeda without realizing it, especially with the hypnotic tones of the Master on the telephone to guide you.

He’d been caught in a bad situation, however, and his decision to act on the side of right had not only saved lives but impressed Ferguson enough to save him from prison and find a use for his talents as an interrogator of Muslims suspected of terrorism, at Tenby Street safe house run by MI5.

“Have they arrived?” Ali inquired, and before Roper could answer him, Ferguson, Sara, and Dillon walked in.

“Ali, it’s you,” Ferguson said in surprise.

“We were talking earlier,” Roper told him. “He’s been fully informed about the latest development. After his past services to us, I felt he could be trusted to keep it to himself.”

“Your account of Belfast 1979 was extraordinary, Mr. Dillon,” Ali said. “It’s certainly possible that these men, Flynn and Kelly, could have something to do with the affair. I’ve already learned in my short time at MI5 that individuals from dissident Irish groups have used their past experience in all kinds of violent situations, from Eastern Europe to the Middle East. Does anyone else know?”

“No, actually, which is rather interesting.” Ferguson said. “I haven’t mentioned them to anybody, not even the Prime Minister.”

“So what are you going to do?” Roper asked. “Keeping the PM uninformed seems risky to me.”

“You’ll have to wait and see.” He turned to Ali Saif. “I need hardly remind you that what you’ve heard is privileged and not for your masters at MI5. Now, meanwhile, you’ve had personal experience with AQ in London. What’s your take?”

Sara said, “Considering it’s not very long since the last Master died, this new one seems to have got to work pretty quickly.”

“But al-Qaeda is organized for such situations,” Ali told her. “There is a Grand Council, nobody knows where, which issues its decisions in Paris. General ben Levi was killed in London, and nobody outside of the Council knew his true identity until the day he died. His replacement, from what little we have discovered about this worldwide cult, will have been put in place instantly.”

“So what was the purpose of the attempt on Jake Cazalet’s life?”

“He looked like easy meat, and they would have destroyed an American icon, shown the world they could get away with it, given two fingers to the Great Satan.”

“Only they didn’t,” Ferguson said.

Ali nodded. “Because of the coincidence of your visit, General.”

“Ironic, really,” Dillon said. “If the President hadn’t decided to have us privately thanked, Cazalet would be dead now.”

“Exactly.” Ali shrugged. “Of course, the Grand Council will want revenge. They will attack us here in London, a spectacular, perhaps. You notice I say
us
because I must include myself now. I’m a turncoat of the first order, as far as they’re concerned. If I dared to show my face at Pound Street, I’d be stoned.”

“Come, come, Ali, we mustn’t exaggerate. The Army of God is a legally organized charity. Their dispensary serves all denominations, and the imam of the mosque, Hamid Bey, is highly respected.”

“Smoke and mirrors, General. As you say, I have had personal experience with AQ. The City authority, the police, tread carefully for political reasons. In my time when I was on the wrong side, the
Master spoke to me on a regular basis, and I’m not naïve enough to think I was the only one. As for Hamid Bey, he is a dog and not to be trusted.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it,” Ferguson said. “We’ll have to take extra care from now on.”

Ali opened his jacket to show a Walther in a shoulder holster. “I’m also wearing a nylon-and-titanium vest. I hope the rest of you are.” He smiled, leaned down, and kissed Sara’s hand gallantly. “You always astonish one, Captain Gideon. God is good to you.” He nodded to the others. “If you’ll excuse me, General, I’m on night duty at Tenby Street.” He turned and walked out.

“My goodness,” Ferguson said. “He’s really come on. It was a wise choice to take a chance on him. I’m sure you’ll all take heed of his advice. His experience with this cult of the Master thing is obviously unique. Anyway, I think we could also do with some supper. Let’s see what the kitchen’s got for us. As for Hamid Bey, I always thought the bastard was too good to be true.”

There was a loud bang, the front door crashed open, and Doyle shouted, “Help, man down!”

Dillon and Sara ran out into the hall, to find Doyle dragging a gurney out of the hallway and outside.