Rain on the Dead (18 page)

He moved on to Hamid Bey and found him in his office. “It is good to hear your voice, Master,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“That attack on the Gideon woman that was interrupted. Have you heard anything more about the men who interfered?”

“No, just what I’ve told you. They were racist in their language, unbelievably brutal, Cockney to the core, and they had no qualms about crippling two of our men,” the imam told him.

“But they weren’t Ferguson’s people. I’m at a loss as to who they might be,” the Master said. “Have you any thoughts?”

“Maybe just two hard men who came upon the scene by chance, saw a woman in trouble, and decided to do something about it?”

“In the best of all possible worlds, I could believe that,” the Master said. “But I’m not sure ours is.”

—

It was quiet high up in the penthouse, where the Master sat at his desk, making notes, patiently pulling things together for what he hoped would be a success in Paris. He was due to speak to Zahra and Lupu again, but it was unlikely they would have completed their preparations yet, so he called the Iranians. Best to have backup in place in case Paris didn’t work.

Ali answered. “Lance Harvey here.”

“Hello, ‘Lance.’ I assume you know who this is,” the Master said.

“Ah, it’s you, we were beginning to think that you’d forgotten us,” Ali told him cheerfully.

“Don’t be absurd, it’s only a couple of weeks or so since we first talked. Is Khalid with you?”

“Of course, we’re inseparable, but I expect you know that. He’s having a shower after running round the park. It’s what he does when he gets bored.”

“So what have you been doing besides living it up?”

“No need to be harsh, Master. We’ve been through all the files you gave us, and compiled a list of the main players and where we can find them if we want to lay hands on them. The young Irish girl, Hannah Flynn, is now living with Captain Sara.”

“At Highfield Court,” the Master said. “I know. Gideon was just attacked by three men there.”

Ali said smoothly, “Really? How is she?”

“I’ll tell you.”

—

When he was finished, Ali smiled. “I enjoyed the imam’s suggestion that Sara Gideon’s saviors might have been hard men just passing by who jumped in because they saw a woman in trouble.”

“So you don’t think that’s possible?”

“Seems more like Hollywood than real life, Master. But to other things. How much longer do we carry on playing games? Khalid is not the only one who gets bored, and my problem is I don’t enjoy running round the park.”

“You must wait a little longer,” the Master said. “But it may not be very long. Jake Cazalet is flying into Paris today and I have plans for him. But if those don’t work out, he’s due to come to London next, and that’s where you gentlemen will be very important indeed. Enjoy yourselves while you can, I may be in touch soon.”

He switched off, leaving Ali Herim in a state of shock and still clutching the phone. That was where Khalid found him when he rattled downstairs two minutes later, whistling cheerfully, until he saw the look on Ali’s face.

“I say, old lad, you look as if the roof’s fallen in,” he said. “I think you’d better tell me.”

Which Ali did.

—

Sara was changing in her bedroom at Highfield when there was a knock at the door. “It’s me,” Hannah called. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Sara was in her underwear, and then continued to dress, easing herself into a black Armani trouser suit with a silk blouse covering a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest.

“Everything okay?” she asked. “Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s just that I was practicing and Sadie brought me a cup of tea and said you were having to go away in a hurry. She said that you and Sean were going to Paris on a holiday.”

“No, Hannah, we’re going on business.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Hannah nodded to the flick knife in its ankle sheath on the dressing table with the Colt .25 beside it. She picked up the gun before Sara could stop her and weighed it in her hand. “A nice weapon these, especially with hollow points.”

In the act of reaching to take it from her, Sara stopped, frowning slightly. “How on earth do you know about that?”

“Uncle Tod always worried about me and Aunt Meg being alone. Meg preferred a shotgun, but I was pretty good with one of these. He called it my dark side.”

Sara smiled and shook her head. “What a remarkable girl you
are.” She put her booted foot up on the dressing table stool, fastened the ankle sheath, then clamped the Colt in a belt clip in the small of her back. “I’ll make a deal with you. Sadie is in complete denial about what I do.”

Hannah nodded. “I can see that.”

“I’m glad you can, but as a soldier, I always anticipate the worst that could happen. You’d be surprised how often it does. Being prepared for it has saved my life.”

“Where’s this leading?” Hannah asked.

“You and Sadie will be on your own when I’m away. You’ll have Tony Doyle, a decorated military policeman with twenty-one years of service behind him, but the unexpected can happen.”

Hannah was strangely calm. “I suspect you’ve got an answer for that?”

Sara reached up to the back of her wardrobe and produced a box, which she offered to Hannah. “A present for you.”

Hannah held it in both hands, frowning. “Selected works of Charles Dickens. Published eighteen-fifty.”

“I think you’ll find it’s interesting reading.”

Hannah put it down, opened it to reveal a Colt .25, obviously new, with a silencer and spring holster with a pocket containing fifty hollow-point cartridges.

She examined them for a moment, then looked up, smiling. “Where should I keep it?”

“Wherever you want that’s both handy and where Sadie won’t find it. Now, I’ve got to get moving. Got the Gulfstream waiting at Farley Field.”

“Is Tony going to drive you there?”

“No, he’s not to leave you alone in the house for any reason, and
you or Sadie only go out if he goes with you. I’ll drive myself and pick up Dillon.”

“Can I see you off?”

Sara who had pulled on a military trench coat and picked up a light suitcase, put a free arm around her. “Just as far as the front door. We’ll be back in London in a couple of days.” She kissed her cheek. “Promise.”

“That’s all right, then.” Hannah put the box under her arm and reached for the suitcase. “Let me take that,” which she did and followed Sara downstairs, where they found Sadie waiting in the hall.

“Sergeant Doyle’s outside. He’s brought the Alfa round. Stay out of trouble. Don’t you let Sean Dillon lead you astray.”

Sara chuckled, and kissed her. “Take care, Sadie,” she said, and was gone. Sadie turned, slightly weepy, and blew her nose. “Now then, young lady, what are you going to do?”

“Get back to the piano,” Hannah told her. “I need as much practice as I can get.”

“Well, don’t overdo it.” She nodded to the book under Hannah’s arm. “What have you got there?”

“Just a collection of stories by Charles Dickens. I don’t think you’d be interested.”

“Too heavy for me,” Sadie said. “I’ll let you get on, then. We’ll have a nice dinner tonight.”

She walked away toward the kitchen and Hannah moved into the library, went into the music room, and closed the great sliding doors. She stood there, looking for the right place, half smiling because she was enchanted at the sight of the Schiedmayer with the beautiful velvet-topped piano stool and immediately realized
she was looking at the perfect hiding place, for the stool had a storage compartment.

She raised the lid, looked inside, and found a collection of sheet music, with ample room for the Dickens box, which she placed on the piano while she removed the Colt and loaded it expertly. Then she fitted the silencer, all with great care, as Tod had always insisted, which made her sad thinking about him. She cried a little and placed the box with the Colt in it inside the piano stool and played
Pavane for a Dead Infanta
in his memory, because it was heartbreakingly beautiful and he had loved it so very much.

—

Dillon, in the guest room he always used at Holland Park, had showered and changed, and in deference to the Ritz, was wearing Brioni. A single-breasted black raincoat completed the outfit.

The briefness of the visit required only toilet articles, pajamas, and a spare shirt, which fit into a jump bag with no trouble. He opened a drawer so that he could clear unwanted items on the dressing table into it, among them Tod Flynn’s mobile. He casually flicked the button and the phone came to life. He was so astonished that he dropped it.

“What in the hell’s going on,” he said involuntarily, and scrambled for it, getting a reply as he raised it to his ear.

“I heard that as I was just asking myself the same question, Mr. Dillon,” the Master said. “I’ve known for some time about your playacting. It was just a question of how long to allow the farce to run. Poor Hannah. She must have taken what happened to her uncle very badly.”

Dillon said, “You’re not fit to mention her name, and if you’re interested, I’m just about to stamp on your mobile.”

Which, on reflection, he didn’t, simply gathered his luggage together, furiously angry with himself. He went downstairs to tell Roper what had happened and discovered Sara had arrived.

“Just a bloody stupid accident,” he said. “Turning the damn phone on in the first place, but to give myself away like that was inexcusable.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sara said. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Anyway,” Roper said. “What difference does it make that he knows Tod Flynn is dead? His problem is that
you
are alive.”

Dillon raised a hand defensively. “Okay, but what do we do now?”

“Get the hell out of here. We’ve got a plane to catch,” Sara said. She picked up her suitcase and led the way out.

—

The Master had known all along that Tod Flynn was dead and Sean Dillon was impersonating him—Ali Khan’s recording had made that clear. Strangely enough, he’d thought it rather amusing, all the more so now that he’d caught Dillon off guard. He had one more call to make, and he phoned Zahra.

“How are things progressing?”

“Amazingly well,” she said. “I’ve been able to hire a nice blue van with ‘Medical Aid’ on the side in gold, so we look very correct. My uniform, wheelchair, the right costume for Lupu—we’re all set. It’s a performance really, just like when I was a young actress, when everything and anything seemed possible.”

“Can you handle Lupu?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, he’s a thoroughly dangerous man, but stupid. He needs me and always has. Can I speak frankly?”

“Of course.”

“We both know that this affair depends on sheer chance. Though I doubt it, this Cazalet might be stupid enough to answer the door with no one else there. In which case, it’s two in the head with the silenced Walther, slam the door shut, and away we go. But it takes a young and dedicated believer to walk right up to his target and simply pull out a gun and do the job.”

“I know this, Zahra, what you are trying to say?”

“Guys like Lupu don’t believe in sacrifice. They expect to survive, and with a wad of money in their pocket.”

“I know this, Zahra, he was fighting for money even in the Syrian war. Don’t worry—as you say, everything in life depends on chance. The question is whether we control the game or it controls us. Stay with it for a couple of days, and if no opportunity presents itself, walk away. We’ll have another chance in London.”

“I’ll give it everything I have,” she assured him.

“I know you will.”

She went out on the stern of the
Rosamund
and found Lupu sitting under the striped awning because it was raining. He was reading
Le Monde
, a bottle of vermouth and a glass on the table at his side.

“Are you okay?” she called.

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Watch how much vermouth you’re drinking,” she said. “Don’t forget we’ve got a big night ahead.”

“I can handle it, you worry too much,” he told her, and she shrugged and went back inside.

—

The rain pursued the Gulfstream to Paris and was still falling relentlessly when Sara and Dillon landed at Charles de Gaulle. Claude Duval was waiting just inside the entrance of the VIP concourse, wearing a long yellow mackintosh he’d obviously borrowed from someone in Customs, and as the plane approached and dropped its steps, he put up a large umbrella and accompanied the porters who went to meet them.

“
Bonne chance,
my dear friends.” He kissed Sara on the cheeks. “This is getting to be a habit.”

“Especially the rain.”

“I agree and it suits you, but let’s get you in.” He turned to Dillon, who was walking with a porter holding an umbrella. “Sean, you look fit, and it’s good to see. Let’s go inside. Cazalet will be here in an hour, and we need to talk.”

“Has something come up?” Dillon asked.

“I think you could say that.”

—

They sat in the private luncheon bar, coffee was poured for Duval and Sara, tea as usual for Dillon.

“I think a cognac would be appropriate,” Claude said, and waved to the waitress closest, one of the two serving the bar, and ordered. “We can speak freely. Sonia and her friend are officers of the DGSE.”

“Okay, Claude,” Dillon said. “I suggest you tell us the worst.”

“The White House is not happy about Cazalet being here. Or maybe that really means the CIA.”

“We know that,” Sara said.

“They were already putting pressure on the Foreign Office about this, and there is little doubt the President was approached, but the feeling here has always been very pro-Cazalet, especially since his only daughter had a French mother. When she was killed in that car accident the other year, the press all ran the story with unusual delicacy.”

“So I assume you’re not going to chuck him out?” Sara asked.

“We never were. But the fact is, his reason for being here has ceased to exist in the last few hours.”

“What do you mean?” Sara said.