Authors: Jack Higgins
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Suspense, #Espionage, #Thrillers
Rain on the Dead
Also by Jack Higgins
The Death Trade
A Devil Is Waiting
The Judas Gate
The Wolf at the Door
A Darker Place
Rough Justice
The Killing Ground
Without Mercy
Dark Justice
Bad Company
Midnight Runner
Keys of Hell
Edge of Danger
Day of Reckoning
Pay the Devil
The White House Connection
Flight of Eagles
The President’s Daughter
Year of the Tiger
Drink with the Devil
Angel of Death
Sheba
On Dangerous Ground
Thunder Point
Eye of the Storm
The Eagle Has Flown
Cold Harbor
Memories of a Dance-Hall Romeo
A Season in Hell
Night of the Fox
Confessional
Exocet
Touch the Devil
Luciano’s Luck
Solo
Day of Judgment
Storm Warning
The Last Place God Made
A Prayer for the Dying
The Eagle Has Landed
The Run to Morning
Dillinger
To Catch a King
The Valhalla Exchange
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Copyright © 2014 by Harry Patterson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Higgins, Jack, date.
Rain on the dead / Jack Higgins.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-17306-4
I. Title.
PR6058.I343R35 2014 2014028561
823'.914—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coinicidental.
Version_1
In fond memory of my dear mother-in-law,
Sarah Palmer
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Rain on the Dead
And
Wash away their Sins
—IRISH PROVERB
The island of Nantucket, Massachusetts—high summer, the western end of the harbor crowded with boats, many tied up at the jetty. Among them was a scarlet-and-white sportfisherman named
Dolphin
. On the flying bridge, a gray-haired man sat at the wheel playing a clarinet, something plaintive and touching. He was around sixty, a white curling beard giving him the look of an old sailor.
The man who joined him from below, wearing swimming trunks, had dark tousled hair and the beard of some medieval bravo. He was fit and muscular, his smile pleasant enough, his only unusual feature two scars on his left chest which any doctor would have recognized as relics from old bullet wounds.
He spoke in Irish. “Big night, Kelly!”
The other answered in the same. “You could say that. It’ll be dark soon, Tod—if you’re going to grab that swim, it’d better be now.”
“I will. Keep your eye out for that kid, Henry, from the harbormaster’s office. He’s bringing our passports and the credit card, so don’t forget to speak like the Yank your passport says you are.”
He slid down the ladder, vaulted over the rail, and swam away. Kelly heard a call from the dock.
“Mr. Jackson, are you there?”
Kelly descended the ladder. “He’s having a swim. I’m his partner, Jeremy Hawkins.”
Henry handed over the two passports. “There you go, sir, Mr. Jackson’s credit card is in the envelope and your mooring license covers you until Friday.”
Kelly took the package. “Thanks, son.”
“That’s great clarinet I just heard. Kind of sounds like Gershwin, though I don’t recognize the tune.”
“It’s an Irish folk song called ‘The Lark in the Clear Air.’ And you’re right, I did put a bit of Gershwin in there.”
“I think he would have been pleased, sir. Are you and your friend professional musicians?”
“I was for a while and he does play decent piano, but on the whole, we found other things kept getting in the way.”
“Well, that seems like a damn shame to me,” Henry said, and walked away, calling at another boat.
Kelly turned and looked out over the harbor to see how Tod was getting on, and saw him swimming toward a round buoy floating on a chain. Many people were diving or jumping off the boats, some in wet suits, generally having a good time while the light still held.
For his part, Tod stroked the last couple of yards, then grabbed onto the chain, aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter descending somewhere in the distance.
He hung there, listening, and two young men erupted from the water, like black seals in their wet suits. They were like twins, darkly handsome, the same wildness apparent in their faces.
The nearest one grabbed the chain and laughed as his brother joined them. “Mr. Jackson, I recognize you from your photo. We’re the ones you came to meet. The Master sends his regards and hopes that success in our venture will make us your favorite Chechens. I’m Yanni and this is Khalid.”
He had no accent, which his brother explained in a rather mocking tone. “Our parents were killed by barbaric Russian soldiers in the Chechen war. The wonderful American Red Cross saved us and our grandparents, and gave us a new life in good old New York.”
“Where thanks to the public school system, we emerged as normal American teenagers,” Yanni said.
“Creating a problem for Westerners who expect Muslims to look and sound like Arabs,” Khalid said.
“So what can Muslims who look like Westerners do?” Yanni added.
“Why, serve Allah as undercover warriors in the great struggle,” his brother said. “And here we are. We’ve already checked out the house of our target. It’s just off the beach, surrounded by trees, no problem. An easy one, this.”
Tod said, “Except that every security camera on every property you passed walking along that beach probably has your faces now.”
“So we’ll wear ski masks for the hit,” Khalid said. “Why should it matter as long as the target is dead? That’s all that counts.”
They were no longer smiling. Their faces were like death masks, their eyes pinpricks. They were obviously on drugs, which exasperated Tod, though there was no point in mentioning it now.