Rain on the Dead (9 page)

“I am proud to serve,” Hamid Bey said.

“Prove it by having one of your vans call on Captain Sara Gideon at Highfield Court tonight,” the Master told him, and switched off.

—

Next, he phoned Lily Shah. “There’s something I want you to do,” and he told her what he had just arranged with the imam.

“What will be the purpose of this?” she asked. “If Ali Saif has gunshot wounds, he will be laid low for some time, but when he left the Army of God to join Ferguson, he must have been an invaluable source of information. About me, for instance.”

“Every embassy in London has an intelligence unit. People like us know who they are and they know who we are. The real work is trying to find out what the other people are up to and what their next move will be.”

“I see, so it doesn’t matter that Ali Saif has told Ferguson what kind of people we are at Pound Street?”

“Exactly, because that’s quite different from knowing what we intend to do next. So you’ll help?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just keep your eyes open, if indeed you are allowed in to Rosedene. Any information about the place could be important. Another patient there and suffering gunshot wounds is Colonel Declan Rashid, once deputy commander of the Secret Field Police, now a traitor to Iran and an associate of Ferguson’s. I especially want to know about him.”

He sauntered off, leaving her anxious and troubled, mainly because she was no longer sure that she wanted to do this and was beginning to query what was happening. It was a new experience, but it was real enough. She shook her head, pulled herself together, and moved downstairs to reception, where help was always needed.

—

Major Max Shelby, superintendent of MI5’s Tenby Street safe house, was sitting alone in the lounge at Rosedene when Sara arrived. An old Intelligence Corps hand, he was, like Sara, a Pashto and Arabic speaker. Although in his sixties, he’d returned to the army because of the pressures of terrorism, and glad to do it. His only son, a Household Cavalry captain, had been killed by a roadside bomb on his third tour in Afghanistan.

He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re looking wonderful, as usual. Ferguson is in Bellamy’s office, discussing Ali’s condition.” He and Sara had first met in Afghanistan.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

“Only through the window of his room. He’s all wired up, but Bellamy’s confident he’ll pull through.”

“But what as?” she asked.

“God knows, but at least he’s alive.” There was pain in his voice.

She reached to squeeze his hand. “How’s Mary?”

“When she discovered that the Taliban had displayed the body parts of my son in a thorn tree, she became a walking corpse and overdosed on sleeping pills. I got a closed court order and had her cremated eight days ago. I didn’t see the need to advertise.” He shrugged. “Price of war, as they say.”

She gave him a sudden fierce hug. “Come on, Max, remember what we used to say in Helmand Province about the Taliban? Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

He said gravely, “The trouble is, love, that some days I think they’ve succeeded.” There was real pain there for a moment, and then he hugged her. “What a marvelous woman you are.”

“Allow me to second that.” Declan Rashid emerged from the corridor in a tracksuit, a towel around his neck, a walking stick in his right hand. “How are things at Tenby Street, Max?” he asked, for they had become good friends.

“We’ll miss Ali for sure. He’s got a real gift for interrogation,” the major told him, as Ferguson and Bellamy appeared.

“What’s the situation?” Sara asked.

“He’ll occasionally surface, say a few words, then sink back again. I do believe he’ll recover eventually, but we’re not talking a week or two like the colonel here, more like a couple of months.” That was Bellamy.

“That’s all I wanted to know,” Shelby said. “I’ve lost my best interrogator, so I’ll leave you to it and get back to Tenby Street.”

“Give me a moment, Major, if you don’t mind,” Ferguson said. “I’d like your opinion on a rather important matter.”

“And what would that be, General?”

“What would you say if I told you I’ve had Imam Hamid Bey on the phone asking permission to visit Ali Saif?”

“You mean here?” The look on Shelby’s face was one of amazement.

“Yes, and he’d also like to bring someone from the dispensary with him, a Mrs. Lily Shah, who is apparently a Christian.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything,” Shelby said. “I know her. She married an Algerian charge nurse who worshipped Osama bin Laden, went to Gaza a year ago when AQ ordered him, and was killed in an Israeli air strike. But she stayed a Christian. Mind you, she’s popular at the mosque in spite of that.”

“So, taking that into account,” Ferguson said, “what would you do?”

“Shoot Hamid Bey, but that not being viable, I suppose it might be useful to allow them in. Know thy enemy, my old colonel used to say.”

“Very sensible,” Ferguson said. “I think we’ll give it a whirl.”

Shelby shrugged. “You’re in charge, General, but if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to Tenby Street. A bit of a situation there at the moment with what’s happened to Ali Saif. We’re shorthanded, yet I’m expected to turn up at the Ministry of Defence umpteen times a day to talk to idiots. Sometimes I despair.”

“Off you go, then, watch your back. Difficult days ahead, I think, Major.”

“I suppose that’s what we joined for, General.” Max Shelby smiled and was gone.

Ferguson sighed and murmured, “Yes, but we were younger then.”

Finding Declan and Sara missing, he pursued the sound of voices along the corridor and found them standing at the reception window to Ali’s room, peering in. He was unconscious, festooned with electronic equipment, his body connected to tubes injecting him with fluids of one kind or another.

“He looks more dead than alive,” Declan murmured.

“You mustn’t say that,” Sara told him. “It’s bad luck. Never forget, he saved our lives at the Park Lane shoot-out when that creep Rasoul tried to ambush us.”

Ferguson moved forward. “He certainly did, and it won’t be forgotten, but I’ve told Roper to call in the troops. We’re due to get together in the computer room in an hour, so I need to get moving.” He turned to Sara. “My Daimler is waiting, can I offer you a lift?”

“No need, sir, I came in Dillon’s Mini.”

“I’ll see you there.” He turned to Declan. “As for you, Colonel, an early night is indicated. You must take it slowly. After all, you’ve had a good inning.”

He hurried away, and she turned and smiled. “I’d better get going.”

“My dear Sara, I know you’re Wonder Woman and will be armed to the teeth as usual, but I suspect things are really stirring again, and two of us in the Mini would look better than one if someone is taking the wrong kind of interest in you.”

“And what’s Ferguson going to say to that?” she inquired.

“Who cares? Just let me get suitably dressed.”

He hurried along the corridor to his room, found a bomber jacket, pulled it on, took a Colt .25 from its inside pocket, checked that the weapon was loaded, and returned to her.

“You really are a lovely man.” She smiled and patted his chest, feeling the gun. “I thought so. What am I going to do with you, Colonel?”

“Oh, we’ll have to leave that until later. Let’s get moving.”

She laughed, allowing him to take her arm, and they moved out of the front entrance into the car park, pausing beside the Mini while she found the keys. All this, Khalid Abed, sitting in the Mini Cooper beside Ali Herim at the wheel, saw clearly through Nightstalker binoculars.

He shoved them into Ali’s hands. “The couple getting in the old Mini. Declan Rashid and Gideon.”

“I do believe you’re right,” Ali said.

“So what do we do, shoot them?” Khalid produced a silenced Walther PPK.

Ali pushed his cousin’s hand down. “Let’s see where they’re going, but if it’s Holland Park, I won’t stop. After what happened the other night, their surveillance cameras will be working overtime.”

But Holland Park it was, for they had driven past it earlier in the day, so Ali carried on, turning into the main road traffic.

“So what do we do now?” Khalid asked again, exasperated.

“Well, there’s nowhere we can wait to follow them when they come out. A close read of a lot of that stuff the Master sent us makes clear how much AQ rely on the Army of God people to handle surveillance.”

“What do you suggest? That we knock off some yellow van, posing as street cleaners in yellow oilskins, and take to the streets?”

“No, we can always get people like that to do our bidding,” Ali told him.

“So what
do
we do?” Khalid asked.

“Not waste our time sitting in the car. I suggest we adjourn to the Dorchester Bar, split a bottle of champagne, indulge in a delicious light supper, and give the matter some thought.”

“Sounds good to me, especially if you find time to answer the most intriguing question of the evening, which is why wouldn’t you let me shoot them when they were such easy targets?”

“Because they were,” Ali said. “Will that do?”

“Ah, now I understand. You’ve been suborned by being educated at an English public school and finished off with a year at dear old Sandhurst, the finest military academy in the world. An indifferent education for a spy.”

“I would point out that the same applies to you, Cousin,” Ali told him as he swung out of Park Lane and roared up to the entrance of the Dorchester. “So just shut up for a while and give me time to think.”

The Salters were talking to Roper when Declan and Sara went in. The Salters’ minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, were there, too, and Tony Doyle was leaning against the back of Roper’s wheelchair. Dillon and Ferguson came in together, and the general frowned on seeing Declan.

“Do you think this is wise, Colonel?”

“Well, it seems to me that since I’ve got to join the human race sometime, I might as well do it with something really important. On top of that, I need the exercise. What I call alternative therapy.”

Harry Salter laughed harshly. “Just listen to him. I know all about you, old son, shot so many times over the years that you’ve lost count. You’re just as bad as Billy here. Bellamy’s put him back together again a few times, I can tell you.”

“Leave it out, Harry,” Billy told his uncle. “I’m still here, aren’t I, serving Queen and country?”

“Only because the general paid a discreet visit to Scotland Yard
and got your police records wiped clean,” Harry told him. “Otherwise, the security services wouldn’t have touched you.”

“Enough already,” Dillon said. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Here we go,” Billy Salter said. “It’s nylon-and-titanium waistcoat time unless I’m very much mistaken. I know I should have bought more shares in the Wilkinson Sword Company.”

“Shut up, Billy,” Ferguson said. “Just so everybody here knows exactly what happened on Nantucket, I’ll go through it.”

When he was finished, Harry said, “Dillon, you were a right bastard as usual, and you, Sara, are getting better all the time, but you’ve seriously annoyed al-Qaeda, I can see that. Not only did you dispose of their two hit men, but al-Qaeda doesn’t even get brownie points for trying. They won’t forgive us for that.”

“Which is why we are meeting, Harry,” Dillon put in. “They’re going to need some sort of revenge to keep their credibility in the world.”

“What could we expect, do you think—some kind of spectacular?” Billy demanded. “Another bombing in London, an attempt on the Prime Minister?”

Roper said, “No, this is personal. Once they get their act together, they’ll come after us. I’ve never been more certain.”

“So Billy was right,” Ferguson said. “I want you wearing bulletproof vests at all times, and armed. No exceptions. What you haven’t got, pick up in the supply department before you leave.”

He turned to Harry Salter. “You’re completely legit these days, but for years, you were one of the most successful crooks in the London underworld. There’s not much that happens in this town that your associates don’t know about. Squeeze them dry.”

“Done. I don’t have many Muslim sources, though.”

“We have to be careful there,” Roper put in. “The Brotherhood and the Army of God handle themselves cleverly. They’re a legitimate charity.”

“But that’s just a front,” Harry said.

“We all know that,” Roper said. “But they’ve played it well. We’ve just got to learn to box a little more cleverly than they do.”

“What about Imam Hamid Bey’s request to visit Ali Saif?” Sara said. “Have you made a decision?”

Ferguson nodded. “I think Max Shelby was right to point out the value in keeping your enemies close, so I’m going to allow it. Lily Shah, too.” He raised a hand. “And yes, I know her husband was al-Qaeda.”

“And Drumgoole?” Dillon asked. “You seemed interested in going yourself.”

“I’d have enjoyed doing that, believe me, but the Prime Minister insists I stay available.”

“So Sara and I will have to manage on our own,” Dillon said.

“That won’t do at all, you need a third gun.” Ferguson nodded to Billy Salter. “Do you feel up to it? I know you’ve been through the grinder this last two or three years, and Bellamy has his concerns about you.”