Rain on the Dead (28 page)

“I remember the military history course making a point about that when we did our Sandhurst year,” Khalid reminded him.
“How the Romans never ceased complaining about the weather in Britain during four hundred years of occupation.”

“They invented socks because of it,” Ali told him. “Mind you, this is exceptional.”

“No, it’s not. Remember Syria last November, when we weren’t supposed to be there anyway? I thought the great flood had returned. You know, Noah from the Bible?”

Ali nodded. “I admit that was bad, especially as they were shooting at us so much.”

“Yes, it didn’t help.” Khalid nodded. “But I’ve been thinking. What did the Master mean by a modest hotel. Where would we find such a place?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but does it give you a problem?”

“Yes, it does, because it seems to me that if you’re rich, which we are, the obvious place to hide is in a rich man’s hotel.”

Ali laughed out loud. “And where’s your logic for that?”

“Because it would be the last place anyone would look for men on the run.”

Ali was amazed. “My dearest cousin, you’re going to come to a bad end one day, but not because you aren’t clever. Ah, here we are at Henry Street.”

They started along the pavement, well-lit by streetlamps, and there were many vehicles parked, not only automobiles. Their blue Mini Cooper was some distance away, and as they walked toward it, they came to a large van of a type much used by hospitals. The insignia on the side said “Pound Street Dispensary.”

They paused, and Khalid said, “It must be Lily Shah.”

They crowded together, peering inside, and found her leaning back behind the driving wheel, eyes closed. Ali tapped on the
window, her eyes opened, obviously alarmed, and then she recognized them, opened the door, and stepped out.

“It’s you,” she said, and shook her head. “I dozed off.”

“And Hamid Bey?” Ali asked. “What happened to him?”

“He didn’t turn up. He must have gotten a taxi after all. I’ve humiliated him. He won’t forgive me for doing that.”

Ali said, “Excuse me, but you’re holding your purse in one hand and the silenced Colt .25 in the other.”

She glanced down, surprised for just a moment. “Yes, sitting there, giving him a chance to turn up, I held the gun in my lap, I suppose because it made me feel safe. And then I dozed off.”

A car’s engine roared into life higher up the street. No lights went on, the driver’s window was down, a shadowy figure within, aiming a silenced weapon that coughed deeply as one round after another fired.

And it was Lily Shah who returned fire first, in a reflex, since she was already holding her weapon, dull sounds that hardly disturbed the peace of the street. She cried out, lurching against Ali, a bullet going through her left arm, and as he held her close, leaning over her, he was shot in the back. Khalid joined in, jumping into the street, pulling out his Walther, hitting the vehicle through the rear window as it sped away.

A few moments later, Dillon’s Mini came around the corner, Declan beside him, the girls in the back, and they were shocked to find the damage. Dillon was out in seconds.

He stood there, soaking in the rain. “Damn this downpour. People started to leave early. Parking was chaotic.”

Khalid said, “Never mind, Mr. Dillon, I’m sure you know who we are. My friend has been shot in the back, the lady in the arm.”

“By whom?” Sara asked.

“At this stage of the game, I can only guess, but I believe we’ve been ambushed by a man known to you as the Master.”

Dillon was already on the phone to Roper. “Rosedene. These people have suffered serious damage. Sister Lily Shah was driving a large van—we’ll use that to get the wounded to you as fast as possible, but we’ll all come.”

So, Ali and Lily were taken away by Dillon, with Sara tending them, in the back of the van. Declan drove the Mini Cooper, and Khalid drove Dillon’s Mini with Hannah, whose new evening suit was so soaked, it was obviously ruined. The exchange of silenced pistols had been quiet enough, only the sound of vehicles being something to apologize for.

As Hannah was getting in the Mini with Khalid, a door opened and a burly man appeared on the front step. “Is that it?” he called. “Can we have some peace?”

“Peace, is it?” Hannah said. “We don’t do that these days, mister. You’ll get plenty when you’re dead, though,” and Khalid drove her away, laughing helplessly.

—

It was providential that Professor Charles Bellamy had had occasion to call in late at Rosedene to check the progress of a few patients before going home. The prospect of two people suffering from gunshot wounds, one of them critically, changed the last part of that plan. Maggie Duncan had to recall staff at every level to present him with two surgical teams capable of working at such a sustained level, and that was not easy.

“No rest for the wicked tonight, Professor,” she said as they prepared to start.

“No rest for anyone, I’m afraid, including you, Matron,” he said formally. “I’m relying on you to assist.”

—

Declan, Sara, and Hannah sat with Dillon in the hospitality room, along with Khalid. After a while, Parker wheeled Roper in, followed by Henry Frankel and Ferguson.

“It looks like we’re all here,” Ferguson said. “So thank you, Parker, for putting in twenty hours today. Get to the kitchen for some supper and they’ll also have a bed for you.”

“Thank you, General,” Parker said, and went out.

“There will be beds for everyone,” Ferguson continued. “Colonel Rashid, as the walking wounded, I suggest you leave us now. Also you, young lady,” he said to Hannah. “Captain Gideon, Dillon, and Major Roper will stay with the prisoner.”

Declan and Hannah left, she with obvious reluctance, and Ferguson said, “Let’s get on with it, Major Roper. I suspect we’d all like to get to bed. I certainly would.”

“I share the sentiment, General.” Roper turned to Khalid. “I know all about you. Winchester, Sandhurst, an officer and a gentleman. You speak English, French, Farsi, and Arabic. Correct?”

“Yes, Major.”

“Your army record has been exemplary. I doubt whether the British High Command could fault it, so what the hell are you and your comrade, now fighting for his life on the operating table, doing involving yourselves with al-Qaeda and the cult of the Master?”

Ferguson broke in. “I’ve already spoken to Professor Bellamy, and I must tell you, it will be a very close-run thing with your friend. The heart was touched at one side. It will take all his skill.”

Khalid said, “Thank you, General. Ali and I are cousins, posted to London, as you know, as Captain Lance Harvey and his brother Tony. About four weeks ago, this one called the Master phoned our Minister of War, told him Colonel Declan Rashid was a traitor, and that you and your people were enemies of Iran. So the minister told us to find out all we could about you.”

“Do you approve of al-Qaeda?”

“No, I don’t, and neither does the Minister of War. He was simply being expedient. In Iran, we prefer to rule our own country and not be ruled by someone else. I think you make a mistake in allowing people too much power to those who think otherwise.”

“Such as?” Sara asked.

“It’s happening around you. The Army of God, the Brotherhood.”

“And you don’t approve of them, either?”

“I wouldn’t approve of people who behave like that in my own country, so why would I approve of such people here?”

“Which is why when you saw Captain Gideon being attacked at her own home about three weeks ago, you put on ski masks and went to the rescue. You’d been keeping watch on her house anyway, I presume,” Roper said, smiling.

“Can I ask why you did that?” Sara said.

“One soldier to another, you know how it is, Captain. We admired you, and we didn’t like them.”

Ferguson said, “As good a reason as I’ve ever heard. Are you happy, Henry?”

“Absolutely,” the Cabinet Secretary said. “Everything a soldier should be.”

“I suspect that’s the Sandhurst training,” Ferguson suggested.

“I don’t care what it is,” Frankel told him. “Just make sure he stays on our side. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going to bed and I’ll see you at breakfast.”

And with that, they adjourned.

—

It was providential that the Master had been paying close attention to the events at the Dorchester when he received Ali’s phone call. On the other hand, desperate situations brought out the best in him.

He’d arrived at Henry Street and seen Lily Shah standing beside her van, then climbing in as he passed. With no sign of the Iranians, he’d parked on the other side, where he’d sat, lights out, nursing a Glock pistol, window down and his collar up against the rain.

It had all happened so fast, starting with the Iranians coming around the corner. His attack was absolutely necessary, though the fact that Lily Shah had returned fire was a shock. That she’d been hit, although still standing, was obvious, as was the fact that Ali Herim had gone down. But Khalid had damaged the Master’s car, his rear window gone, and he needed to get rid of it fast, which he did, dumping it in a dark lane off South Audley Street and walking back to the general area of the Dorchester, where he might mingle with respectable people if he had to walk home.

A problem now, the Iranians. The Minister of War would be furious at such a turn of events. Even if Ali Kerim died, it wouldn’t help the situation, since Khalid Abed was fighting fit. It would have suited everyone, politics being the dirty game it was, if they’d both ended up dead in the gutter, but they hadn’t.

On the other hand, nobody at the Ministry of Defence would want them touched with any kind of publicity. They would never
have to stand up in court or anything like that. Those days were gone. And Charles Ferguson was the original conniving bastard and would be ecstatic if he could recruit them. He smiled. If the CIA didn’t beat him to the punch, that is.

He walked through Shepherd Market, where he knew there was a late-night coffee shop, and found it almost empty. So he sat in a corner, enjoying two espressos, and analyzed his present situation. His bosses on the Council had to be kept sweet, and Ferguson’s people were still a problem. The fact that Cazalet was now in London and a possible target was to his credit, so what wasn’t?

The answer was easy. Hamid Bey. The Master had warned him against attending the Hope Charity Foundation evening because his erratic behavior made him out of place, but he’d still gone.

“You know what, Hamid,” he said softly. “I’m going to have to do something about you.”

He dropped some money on the table, left and hailed a taxi, telling the driver to take him to Pound Street.

It was late, but he knew where Hamid Bey’s personal vehicle, a station wagon, was parked, in a dimly lit garage below the apartment that went with his job. He raised the hood of the engine and reached in to make adjustments to the flow of braking fluid. It was always difficult to get it just right. Satisfied, he closed the hood and walked away, calling Hamid Bey, who didn’t answer for a while, and when he did, sounded cautious.

“Who is it?”

“The Master, and you must listen, my friend.”

“What is it?”

“Lily Shah accompanied you to the Dorchester this evening, correct?”

“Yes, she did.”

“The two of you parked a Pound Street van in Henry Street not far from the hotel. Apparently, when Lily returned to reclaim it, she was shot in the arm, and it seems one of my two Iranians, who’d also been at the fund-raiser, was shot in the back.”

Hamid Bey said, “Is Lily all right? What’s happening?”

“The wounded are being cared for by Professor Charles Bellamy at Rosedene.”

“A great surgeon,” Hamid Bey said. “And a fine hospital. They’ll probably try to poach Lily.”

“Do you think she should be somewhere else?”

“She’s a Christian, but she is very popular here.”

“That is beside the point,” said the Master. “Lily’s mother was a Jew. The fact that her father was Christian doesn’t matter. Her mother was Jewish, and that means Lily is. It’s a fact of life that can’t be altered. I don’t think we can trust her any longer.”

He switched off, leaving Hamid Bey profoundly depressed. He spent the night badly, barely slept at all, and was on the phone to Rosedene at eight o’clock the following morning.

—

Maggie Duncan took the call she had been expecting, for Ferguson had warned her it would come and that Hamid Bey, based on past experience, was likely to be awkward. As it turned out, the reverse was true.

He arrived with flowers from a garden center and wearing a gray flannel suit. Maggie Duncan gave him Yemeni coffee in the hospitality room, and information, amazed at how civil he was being, warning him that in spite of the bullet passing straight through Lily’s
left arm, the bone had been chipped, a serious complication that was likely to take time and a considerable amount of therapy to put right.

They studiously avoided discussing the reasons for what had happened, and when he hoped that the other victim was doing well, she shrugged and said his problem was rather more serious. Then she led him to a pleasant room where Lily, pale and ill-looking, her left arm heavily bandaged and supported, smiled weakly at him. Maggie said twenty minutes and left them to it.

Lily seemed tired. “You look completely different. Have you somewhere to go?”

“I did have, but now I am here,” he said. “To apologize for my behavior over many months. I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel completely different. Perhaps the terrible shock of what happened to you and that young man.” He shrugged.

“He is far, far worse than me, imam. It’s a mercy that we are in the hands of these people here, and Professor Bellamy.” Her eyes filled with tears. “People can be so wonderful, and just at the right time. You have come to say something to me, I think?”

“It is not an easy thing to do. Over the time we’ve known each other, I have behaved badly. You see, you had a husband when you came to Pound Street, and I loved you from the moment I saw you. But this was wrong, especially for a religious leader, so I became what I became. When your husband went to Gaza and was killed, I thought it was a reminder from heaven that I had been wrong. But now I feel quite different.”