Rain on the Dead (7 page)

The Judas gate had swung open and Ali Saif was lying half outside it. As they raced toward him, Doyle said, “He told me he was going to walk back to Tenby Street, so I accompanied him, opened the Judas gate, and somebody shot him. He bounced off the gate, half turning. There was a second shot, he staggered into me and went down. Silenced weapon, just a couple of coughs. God knows I’ve heard enough of those in my time.”

Sara appeared with two wound packs and ripped one open as she examined Ali, who was obviously in shock, eyes staring.

“The vest seems to have stopped one round, but the other has plowed into his right thigh, no protection there.” She staunched the blood flow as best she could. “Help me, Sean, there are morphine ampoules in the pack, get one into him.”

Ferguson was talking briskly into his phone, and Ali reached and clutched Sara. “You must take care, Sara. I told you the Grand Council wants revenge and I’m the first to be punished. The traitor . . .”

He fainted, and Ferguson said, “Rosedene’s alerting Professor Bellamy. Let’s get Saif into the Land Rover and get him up there.”

—

A couple of hours later, the matron at Rosedene, Margaret Duncan, approached the group, still in theater scrubs and looking tired. “My goodness, General, another one. When will somebody say enough is enough?”

“Not in the world as it is today, I’m afraid. How is he?”

Professor Charles Bellamy walked in and answered for her. “Alive, and that is one good thing. The vest did exactly what it was supposed to and stopped a heart shot.”

“Which, if successful, would have killed instantly, but Ali started thrashing around, so the shooter put a random round into him and cleared off,” Dillon said. “What’s the verdict?”

“A serious wound in the left thigh, damage to bone and sinew,” Bellamy told him.

“Just how bad?” Ferguson asked.

“He’ll be here for several weeks, and recovery and therapy will take some time.” He smiled at Sara. “As you know only too well, Captain, better than anyone else here, including myself.”

“God help him,” Sara said. “While I’m here, can I ask how Declan is?”

“He’s asleep. You can see him tomorrow.”

“We’ll leave them both in your good hands.” Ferguson turned to the others. “Back to Holland Park, I think, and may I point out that we still haven’t had any supper.”

—

It was much later that they rejoined Roper in the computer room and discussed the attack.

“Takes me back to Afghanistan,” Sara said. “All the trappings of high security mean nothing once you step outside base where some fifteen-year-old with an AK can take a pop at you at any moment.”

“And get away with it,” Dillon said. “Though I’d say in this case, whoever was responsible tonight was aware of Ali’s habit of walking to Tenby Street after visiting us. It’s not much more than a mile. Lots of trees on the other side of the road.”

“I agree,” Roper said. “Looks like the work of a silenced AK with a folding stock, probably carried in an ordinary supermarket shopping bag.”

“A reinforcement of Ali’s warning earlier about al-Qaeda’s Grand Council seeking revenge, and that means full alert, people,” Ferguson said.

There was a few moments of silence as they all thought about it,
and it was Sara who spoke first. “There is the business of Flynn and Kelly, sir. What are we going to do about that?”

“Yes, you left it hanging,” Roper pointed out.

“Perhaps somebody should go and see them,” Sara said.

“Maybe we all should.” Ferguson laughed out loud. “That could be fun.”

“You mean just turn up at Drumgoole out of the blue?” she asked.

“It’s a thought.” Ferguson was considering it, a slightly wicked smile on his face. He looked at his watch. “Just after eleven. A man like Flynn’s bound to be up. Find the number, Major. I’ll leave it to you what to say, Dillon.”

—

In the parlor at Drumgoole Place, they were sitting by a log fire, Tod Flynn and Kelly, Aunt Meg and Hannah, a film just finishing on television. Hannah was nearest to the house phone when it rang, and she answered.

“Drumgoole Place.”

“Put me on to Tod,” Dillon said.

She bridled. “And who the hell are you, mister?”

Dillon laughed. “From the sound of you, you’d be Hannah.”

“Aren’t you the cheeky one.” Meg had turned off the television and they were staring at Hannah. “I’ll only ask you once more, then I’m putting the phone down. Who are you?” She put it on speaker so they could all hear.

“Your second cousin, girl dear, Sean Dillon. Now, put him on.”

The look of incredulity on her face was quite something as she held out the phone to her uncle. “He says he’s Sean Dillon.”

There was silence for a moment, Kelly in immediate shock, but Tod took a deep breath and the phone. “Is this a joke?”

“No, it is me, you old sod. How did you enjoy Nantucket?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop being stupid, it doesn’t suit you. Tell Kelly if he’d not been noticed playing ‘The Lark in the Clear Air’ on his clarinet, I’d never have known you were there. I work for Charles Ferguson these days, but I’m sure you know that.”

“Sold out to the Brits, Sean, didn’t you?” Tod said.

“Oh, we all sold out to somebody, in your case the Master and al-Qaeda. We’ll be over to see you in a few days, and don’t try to run away. There’s nowhere to go.”

He cut off the call, leaving Tod sitting by the fire, numb with shock, the others staring at him. It was Meg who shook her head and spoke first. “The Lord help us, Tod, what have you done now?”

But Hannah was already on her feet, leaning on her walking stick. “The glory days are back, is that it, Uncle Tod? Well, you and the damn IRA and al-Qaeda can go to hell,” and she limped out of the room, banging the door shut behind her.

—

In the computer room, it was all smiles. “Good work, Sean, you’ve stirred the pot there,” Roper said.

“Excellent, Dillon, you really put the boot in,” Ferguson told him. “I would judge he’s in a state of total shock, but we must strike while he’s still off balance, give him time to get really worried, then we’ll take the Gulfstream to Ireland and descend on him.”

“On them, sir,” Sara said. “I thought the young girl was pretty feisty. I liked the sound of her.”

“Well, just remember she might be the enemy, Captain, but I’m for bed. It’s been a rough old week.”

“Tomorrow is always another day,” Sara said. “Hang on to that thought.” They filed out, leaving Roper to doze in his wheelchair, his screens still on.

Half past midnight, Hannah sat on a stool in Fancy’s stall in the stud stable at Drumgoole, a horse blanket over her shoulders, the mare content with an occasional glance at her. It had been a refuge during four years of pain from the car bomb—the dim lights, the stable smell of fourteen horses, always had a deeply calming effect. She leaned back and closed her eyes, allowing her rage to ebb away, heard the door open at the other end of the stables, then voices.

Kelly said, “What happens now?”

“You’re forgetting he presented us with one of his coded mobile phones.” Tod’s smile was mirthless. “I’m going to call him right now.”

“At this time in the morning?”

“He boasts that he can operate from anywhere, doesn’t he? Let’s see if he does.”

Kelly laughed harshly. “Put it on speaker, I don’t want to lose a word.”

—

A couple of minutes, no more, and then the voice echoed, calm and full of authority. “Say who you are.”

Tod told him. “So we can cut the crap.”

“Why, Mr. Flynn, you’re angry,” the Master replied. “An emotion that leads to stupidity and that’s not to be recommended in our line of work. Is there a problem? If so, tell me.”

“With pleasure,” Tod said. “What would you say if I’d had a phone call from Sean Dillon a couple of hours ago, asking me if we’d enjoyed Nantucket? They know about you, Master-whoever-you-are, and the al-Qaeda connection—everything.” There was a perceptible pause. “Are you there?”

“Oh, I’m here, Mr. Flynn, and considering what act of human stupidity has brought us to this situation.”

Kelly broke in, shouting, “Trying to find somebody to blame, are you?”

“Because there usually is,” the Master said calmly. “Do get your friend to shut up, Mr. Flynn, then you provide me with a sane explanation and don’t leave anything out.”

Which Tod did, and when he was finished, said, “And that’s the truth of it, so what do you think?”

“That it was just bad luck. It was pure chance that sent them to Cazalet’s house, and pure chance that Dillon made the connection to the two of you.”

“One hell of a coincidence,” Tod said.

“Chance, Mr. Flynn—life is, in many ways, ruled by it. Of course, sometimes it’s fate. It wasn’t by chance that your father was Sean Dillon’s uncle. There’s something almost karmic about it.”

Kelly intervened again. “We’ve no time for all this shite. What do we do when Ferguson and his crew turn up here?”

“Wrong question,” the Master told him. “It should be, What can
they
do? There’s no evidence the attack even took place, and Cazalet’s walking around as if nothing had happened. So what can they do to you? It’s rather amusing when you think of it, Ferguson couldn’t even get you arrested.” Somewhere in his background was an unmistakable sound.

At that, Hannah erupted from Fancy’s stall and took a few steps toward them, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

“There’s nothing amusing about it, because I’ve heard everything.”

Kelly tried to grab her, and she slashed the walking stick across his shoulders. Tod dropped the phone on the table and caught her as she tried to get past him to the door.

“It’s all right, Hannah love, I’ll handle it.”

“It’s not and you won’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t know who this Master of yours is, Uncle Tod, but I’ve heard enough to recognize an evil bastard when I hear one.” She raised her voice. “A bastard who lives in London! You should keep your window closed. Everybody knows the sound of Big Ben.”

She pulled away from him and returned to the other end of the stable, leaning heavily on her stick, and disappeared into Fancy’s stall. Kelly watched her go, then picked up the mobile and handed it over.

“Are you still there?” Tod asked.

The Master replied calmly, “Do we have a problem with your niece?”

“No, I promise you. Since the car bomb that took her parents
four years ago, pain has been her constant companion. She’s stressed about it, and now this. I’ll take care of it.”

“Such sentimentality comes rather late in the day from a man who has been responsible for as many deaths as you have. But it’s understandable, considering there are those who think the bomb which killed her parents and crippled her was meant for you.”

Tod said gravely, “There was always that possibility.”

“Not in this case, Mr. Flynn. In fact, I know the names of the two men who set that bomb.”

Tod was very still. “And what must I do for those names?”

“Dillon told you he’d be coming within the next few days. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Gideon woman and possibly even Ferguson himself came with him. Those people have been a running sore in al-Qaeda’s side for long enough. I’m sure a man of your expertise, and Kelly’s, can find a way to dispose of them one way or another.”

Kelly shook his head. “The man’s crazed, Tod.”

“Not at all,” the Master said. “I happen to know that at the back of Drumgoole Place, at the foot of the mountain, is a bog—the Bog of Salam, isn’t that what they call it? According to legend, it could swallow a regiment.”

“And it could swallow you,” Kelly told him.

“Or Hannah Flynn. I trust we’re clear on that. Now, Ferguson and company, can I tempt you?”

Tod’s face was bone white, eyes dark. “Not in a million years. But I’ll tell you what I will do. Never leave Hannah’s side for a moment, as long as you walk this earth. And I’m keeping your money. So to hell with you, Master-whoever-you-are, and bring it on as soon as you like.”

He switched off, slipped the phone into his pocket, turned and found Hannah, standing outside Fancy’s stall, face tearstained. He walked toward her, passing Kelly, who simply smiled grimly and nodded.

She managed a smile. “That was telling him.”

He put an arm round her. “You know what I’ve been, girl, the terrible things I did. My excuse was that I was fighting for a cause. True or not, it made a bad man out of me, but as far as this bastard is concerned, I’ll be his worst nightmare.”

She nodded, then hugged him suddenly so that she dropped her stick. “Dammit to hell,” she moaned, and tried to bend.

He picked it up and gave it to her. “A nice Catholic girl and such language. Come on, child, we’ll find Aunt Meg and see you both to bed. Things will look better in the morning.”

Not that he believed it, not for a single moment.

—

On the Belfast waterfront the following day, it had rained early and the fog came later, rolling across the docks into Cagney Street, the Orange Drum
at one end. The pub was long past its prime, a leftover from the great days of the Victorian era. It would be a haven for hard drinkers and drug users later that day, but it was empty at that moment except for Fergus Tully, drinking scalding-hot tea laced with Irish whiskey at the end of the bar. He was reading the
Belfast Telegraph
,
while Frank Bell, the publican, worked his way through the sports pages.