Rain on the Dead (8 page)

They had served time together in the Maze Prison for multiple murders, men of a Protestant persuasion, the PIRA’s bitterest enemies, Tully of such fearsome reputation that newspapers
nicknamed him the Shankhill Butcher. The peace process had unleashed them into the world again.

Tully emptied his glass and pushed it across the bar. “I’ll have another, Frank,” and his mobile phone sounded.

“Is that Mr. Frank Tully?”

“Who the hell wants to know?” Tully said, immediately offended by the English accent.

“I’ve just credited your bank account with one hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

Tully banged his fist down on the bar. “Stupid bastard.”

“What was all that about?” Bell asked, and when Tully told him, said, “Well, all you have to do is call the bank. They opened at nine.”

Which Tully did, and was staggered to be told that such a sum had only just been deposited from a bank in Geneva. He barely had time to inform Bell, when his phone rang again.

“Who are you?” Tully demanded.

“The people I serve had dealings with you some years ago. If I say AQ, do you understand me?”

“I certainly do,” Tully said. “Al-Qaeda. I dealt with the Master then, four years ago, but he wasn’t you from the sound of it.”

“He has passed on, I have replaced him. You were given the task of disposing of a man named Tod Flynn. Instead, you car-bombed his elder brother Peter, killing him and his wife and injuring the daughter.”

Tully was immediately indignant. “I don’t know who told you that, because it’s completely wrong. I’d have loved to have stiffed Tod Flynn. He gave us hell during the Troubles, but my orders from the other Master were quite clear. Peter Flynn was trying to
take over the drug scene in Belfast and was seriously displeasing a lot of people. Al-Qaeda wanted it sorted, and me and my friend Frank Bell took care of it as ordered.”

“I get the impression that the family and those around them have always believed Tod Flynn to have been the intended target, especially as his brother had borrowed his car for the trip to Belfast.”

“Are you saying it left Tod feeling guilty? If that’s true, you’ve made my day.”

“Did your orders include the girl?”

“No, and they didn’t include her mother either,” Tully said. “Fortunes of war. They’re always going on about collateral damage these days, aren’t they? Anyway, what’s this all about?”

“You’ve already got one hundred thousand dollars in your account, and it’s yours if you and your friend get yourselves down to Drumgoole Place and take out Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly.”

The look on Tully’s face was pure delight. “You’ve no idea how much of a pleasure that would be.”

“And another hundred thousand if you dispose of the girl.”

Tully stopped smiling. “Is that necessary?”

“She could be a serious threat to us. If there is a difficulty here, I must go elsewhere.”

Bell was looking grim, ran a finger across his throat and nodded slightly. Tully said, “No problem, we can see to the girl, too.”

“I’ll place the second hundred thousand in your account and on hold for three days. After that, all bets are off. In the glove compartment of your Jeep at the pub, you will find a package containing a mobile linked only to me. It also contains photos of everyone who could be linked in any way to Tod Flynn.”

“What a bastard,” Tully said when the call ended. “He sounded
just like one of those Brit judges who used to sentence us.” He laughed harshly and reached to take the very large whiskey that was pushed across the bar.

“Two hundred thousand dollars.” Bell was smiling. “He can look like the Queen of Sheba, as far as I’m concerned. Happy days, my old son.” He raised his glass and then emptied it in one quick swallow.

—

Hannah Flynn was a remarkable young woman harmed by life, but she had threatened to expose al-Qaeda and had to be eliminated. Which still allowed the Master to feel nothing but distaste where Tully and Bell were concerned. It was time to move on, so he tapped in a highly secret number in Tehran.

—

With his blue suit and striped tie, the Iranian Minister of War, seated behind the mahogany desk in the comfortably furnished room, would not have been out of place in the White House or Downing Street. But this was Tehran, his phone number so secret that when it rang, it was usually a matter concerning the highest levels of government.

He picked up the phone and said in Farsi, “Yes, what is it?”

The Master replied in English, “You’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of General Ali ben Levi since his disappearance.”

The minister said, “To whom am I speaking?”

“I am the man who replaced him. He was killed on a private mission to London in pursuit of his deputy, Colonel Declan Rashid, a traitor to his country and its army.”

The minister was aghast. “Rashid! His father was a fine general, but that Irish wife of his. . . . Where is the colonel now?”

“He was badly wounded in London. General Charles Ferguson is holding him in a private hospital at the moment.”

“Was Ferguson responsible for what happened to ben Levi?”

“I wish I could say that he was, but the general was shot by one of our own people, a malcontent who has since paid the penalty.”

“So why are you calling?”

“Because I believe Declan Rashid should be punished. And Charles Ferguson and his people finished off for good.”

“I suppose that would be because of their success against al-Qaeda,” the minister said. “Sorry that I can’t help you there, but my government would really prefer to rule Iran ourselves.”

“There may come a time when you regret it,” the Master told him.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I already have so many regrets. What’s one more?” But he was deep in thought.

“Did you know that there are scores of language schools in London? It’s true. The system is wide open if you want to pose as a student, which illegals do who simply want to live in England. We’ve sent young officers to such places for some time, to perfect their language skills and learn to adapt to Western society. They’ve all had special forces training, of course.”

“So what’s your point?”

“I like to think of them as foot soldiers, men who can handle any dirty work which comes along. Now, I am not a religious man. I am indifferent to the message of Osama bin Laden. However, we live in a world of change, and who knows what may happen politically?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take care of Ferguson and his people. You take care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honor, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.” He followed with a phone number. “I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.”

—

Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the U.K.

There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the
fireplace in the parlor of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.

The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.

“Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.” Ali shook his head. “His record in the Iraq war was amazing.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Khalid said. “The man is a true hero.”

“That’s not what they are saying when words like
traitor
are flying around,” Ali told him.

The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.

“Holland Park,” Khalid said. “We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.”

“An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,” Ali told him. “This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.”

“And usually does,” Khalid pointed out. “Gangsters play an active role, too—this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.”

“Obviously much in demand,” Ali said. “But let’s not forget the
lady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.”

“Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,” Khalid told him.

“Well, we don’t need to argue about it.” Ali shrugged. “If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.”

“You’re on.”

—

It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. “Umbrella time,” Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside, and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling a joke and stopped as the Iranians approached.

“Look what we’ve got here, a couple of bleeding nancy boys.” His companions roared with laughter.

Ali said, “Isn’t nature wonderful? That thing can actually talk.”

The youth ran up behind, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Come here, you.”

Khalid dodged out of the way with the umbrella, leaving Ali to turn, grab the youth’s wrist, twist it into a rigid bar, and run him
into the yellow van. The nose crunched, the youth cried out, falling to his knees, rain washing the blood down over his face.

There was a roar of anger from the two men. The first out of the doorstep reached for Ali, who spun around and stamped on his kneecap. As the man started to go down, Khalid raised a knee into the descending face, lifting him back to fall across the youth. The other man retreated.

Ali said, “Chalk it up to experience, boys. Now, if I were you,” he said to the standing man, “I’d shove them in the back of your van and get round to accident and emergency at St. Wilfred’s. They do a lovely job, and it’s for free.”

Khalid was already behind the Mini Cooper’s wheel, and he started the engine. Ali climbed in beside him.

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the Ivy for a bite to eat and a discussion on a plan of campaign.”

—

At the same time, the Master was phoning Hamid Bey. “I bring you some interesting news, An attempt was made on the life of Dr. Ali Saif last night as he was leaving the Holland Park safe house.”

“Allah be praised,” the imam said. “Who was responsible?”

“Better not to know,” the Master said. “There’s such wildness around these days, and so many of our young people become angry and disturbed when they hear what is happening to our people in Syria, Somalia, or Egypt.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, but Allah will forgive me for branding Ali Saif as a black-hearted traitor to his religion and people.”

“To put it mildly, he has faltered on his spiritual journey, but he may yet be saved, and I believe you could assist in this regard.”

“I am at your command.”

“He was badly wounded and is at present in a private hospital named Rosedene, where General Charles Ferguson provides treatment for those injured in his service.”

“Ferguson, as I hardly need to remind you, is one of al-Qaeda’s most implacable enemies, he’s done great harm to us on occasion,” Hamid Bey said. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Ask to see Ali Saif. A not unreasonable request. As imam, you were his spiritual guide.”

“Until he betrayed the Cause,” Hamid Bey said.

“Yes, but you will put Ferguson on the spot with your request. He looks upon the Army of God and the Brotherhood that goes with it as the enemy.”

“Which we are,” Hamid Bey said.

“You are missing the point. We must at all times appear to be what we claim, which is a spiritual and educational organization, offering the services of a multifaith dispensary to the local population. I also suggest you take Lily Shah with you.”

“Why would I do that?” Hamid asked.

“Because the fact that she is a Christian may smooth the way, indeed make things rather awkward for them. She is already something of a saint in Muslim eyes. All this helps to wrong-foot the police and the city authorities. A whole range of municipal workers are members of the Army of God Brotherhood—a Muslim trade union, if you like—but to us, a private army. And there is little they can do about it.”