Rain on the Dead (10 page)

“Time I got out in the fresh air,” Billy said. “And don’t listen to Old Father Time here.”

Harry Salter scowled. “Silly young bastard. They’ll be sending you home in a box one of these days.”

“Well, keep me out of Highgate Cemetery if they do,” Billy told him. “I don’t want to be anywhere near Karl Marx.”

Ferguson nodded. “That’s settled, then. You’ll leave tomorrow morning. When you get to Dublin, drive straight to Drumgoole without warning. That should put the fear of God in them.”

“The Tod Flynn I was raised with didn’t do fear,” Dillon said. “He was too busy getting a gun out fast.”

“And after Dillon’s phone call, we
are
expected,” Sara pointed out. “So what are we supposed to do, try to recruit them?”

“They certainly can’t be arrested,” Dillon said. “We’ve established that.”

“Just trust your instincts,” Ferguson said. “I think your move will become clear once you’re there. Now, time to rest up.”

Roper moved off in his wheelchair, the others got up to follow, and Declan lurched badly, almost dropping his stick, and Dillon caught him.

“There you are,” Ferguson said. “You’ve got to take it easy, Colonel, and since you were shot, on my behalf in a manner of speaking, I’m going to make that an order. You will retire to bed in the guest wing at once, and Professor Bellamy can have you recovered by the Rosedene ambulance in the morning.”

“He’s right,” Sara said. “You should be in bed.”

He was obviously in pain, and nodded. “Okay, so I’ve been stupid.”

Tony Doyle appeared with a wheelchair and eased him into it. The others had moved on, their voices drifting back calling good night.

“I’ll be in touch. Off you go.” Sara turned to Dillon. “What about you?”

“I’m staying overnight, and so is Ferguson. I’ll check on the colonel later.”

“I’ll need clothes for our trip,” she said, “Can I borrow that wonderful supercharged old Mini of yours again? I think I’ve fallen in love with it.”

He smiled. “Of course you can, but in view of what Ferguson said, take care.”

“Always do.” She produced a Colt .25 from her rear belt holster. “See what a good girl I am. From here to Highfield Court is seventeen minutes in that Mini of yours, Dillon, I’ve timed it.”

“Then I suggest you take doubly care.”

She holstered the Colt. “You know what they say? To the hero of Abusan, anything is possible. How many Taliban did I slaughter with that machine gun?”

“Your citation said twenty.”

“And what has it achieved where Afghanistan is concerned?”

“Not a thing, and if you expected something different, you were seriously misinformed. As the army leaves Helmand Province, the news is that the Taliban are moving back in, so you’re entitled to ask what the war was supposed to be about.”

“Damn you, Sean Dillon.”

“Already taken care of,” he told her, “So go home and get a good night’s sleep. I need you sharp on this one. Tod Flynn and Kelly have been playing the great game for more than thirty years and they’re still in one piece. I’d remember that if I were you. Night bless, Sara.”

He turned and walked away.

—

At the Dorchester, Ali and Khalid had enjoyed their meal, shared a bottle of Krug champagne, and were debating whether to order another one.

“It’s been rather an abortive evening,” Khalid said. “First, you prevent me from making the easiest hit in my career, then the targets drop in at what must be one of the best-guarded safe houses in London.”

Ali glanced at his watch. “It’s been about an hour and a half since they went in.”

“And could have left at any time. I think we may as well go home.”

“Just give me a moment.” Ali had brought the folder containing the information file and photos of Ferguson’s people, from the car. He made a quick check. “I thought so. Sara Gideon lives at her grandfather’s house not far from here. Let’s go and have a look. You never know.”

“Then let’s get on with it.” Khalid turned and beckoned to a waiter.

—

Outside, they turned into South Audley Street, lined with parked cars all the way to Grosvenor Square. Just before the square on the right was a side street, Highfield Place, an enclave of several mid-Victorian properties, the largest being Highfield Court, standing back from the road, an imposing gated property.

Ali managed to find a space in South Audley Street and they looked across, Khalid using his Nightstalkers. “That’s the address, the large one with the garden.” He stiffened suddenly. “Well, I never, cousin. There’s a van parked at the end of the street.”

“Is it yellow?” Ali demanded.

“Difficult to say in this light. What I can see is ‘Public Works’ painted on the side in large letters. Ah, that’s it. A guy just got out
and he’s definitely in yellow. He’s crossing the road to the gates. Interesting that they’re open.”

“Even more interesting,” Ali said, “is the fact that he has just stepped inside without any security lights coming on, which can only mean one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’d say an ambush has been set up for Captain Sara Gideon.”

“The bastards,” Khalid said as the man stepped back out into the road, leaving a brief glimpse of two others behind him in the garden who merged into the dark as he crossed to the van.

“Why, Khalid,” Ali said. “This time it is I who am asking
you
whose side you are on.”

“My own,” Khalid said. “I don’t like anybody butting into our business. And I don’t like complications.”

“Then let’s uncomplicate it.” Ali rummaged in the glove compartment, pulled out two ski masks, and tossed one to him. “Get that on fast. It’s late, so I suspect she could turn up at any minute. We only move in if she’s alone. If Dillon or Ferguson is with her, we stay out of it. If we do have to interfere, you’re—let’s say, a rough Cockney putting the boot in. Okay?”

At that moment, Sara passed them, swung into Highfield Place, turned into the open gates, and braked to a halt.

“She smells a rat.” Khalid pulled on his ski mask.

The security lights in the garden came on and she took the Mini forward. “They’ve done that to draw her in,” Ali said, also pulling on his ski mask.

The man from the van hurried down the street and entered the gate, and it was Khalid who said, “What are we waiting for, Cousin?”

He kicked open the door and ran across the road, pulling a Walther PPK from his pocket, and reached the gate, Ali right behind him, both of them looking quite terrifying.

—

The plan had been cunning enough, its main purpose confusion. The open gate, the darkness to arouse suspicion, and then the lights suddenly coming on, a false indication that everything was all right. She’d braked at the bottom of the terrace steps, opened the driver’s door, and had immediately had two large men in yellow uniforms burst from the shrubbery to grab her from behind the wheel, one of them with handcuffs. She was fighting like a tiger when the third man arrived.

“Get the cuffs on her and let’s get out of here,” he said as they struggled.

He turned at the sound of footsteps running behind them and faced the terrifying sight of a masked man arriving, arm swinging to slash him across the face with the Walther. The man with the handcuffs looked up from Sara in alarm, and a second masked man booted him under the chin. The third man tried to scramble to his feet, and the first one gave him the same blow across the face he’d given the handcuff man, vicious and brutal, no pity.

Sara, roughed up and confused, got to her feet, scrabbled for her Colt and drew it, slightly bewildered. “Who are you?”

“Just a couple of Good Samaritans,” Ali said, “helping a lady in distress. I don’t think you’ll need your pistol. We’ll just get these nasty men out of your hair. Why don’t you go into the house and just forget it ever happened, darling. It’s a good job we were passing.”

“A nice hot bath, love, that’s what I’d recommend,” Khalid said
as he hauled the third man to his feet to join the other two. “What are we going to do with them?” he asked his cousin in as close to a Cockney accent as he could manage.

“Kneecapping’s as good as anything, but just get the bleeders to their van and we’ll see.”

At that moment, the front door opened on the terrace and Sadie Cohen, the housekeeper, called, “Is that you, Sara, is everything okay?”

“I’d say yes if I were you,” Ali said. “We’ll be going now.” He turned and followed Khalid as he pushed the men toward the van, Walther in hand.

When they got there, Khalid said, “Now what?”

“One at the wheel, the other two behind, windows down so you can lean in and shoot the one on the left in the kneecap. I’ll do the one on the right. With luck, it should cripple them.”

It was over very quickly, the dull thuds of the silenced pistols, the groans of the two victims. The gibbering fear of the one behind the wheel. “Lucky for you they need a driver. I suggest you try the dispensary at the Pound Street mosque. They offer care, even to scum like you,” Khalid told him.

They drove off quickly. The cousins walked briskly away, removing their masks as they turned the corner and crossed the road. Ali said, “You certainly passed that test with flying colors. You’ve got a bit of a flair for acting, if you ask me.”

“Yes, but you won the Oscar, Cousin.” Khalid smiled as they got into the Mini Cooper. “I suppose it comes of having been a prefect at Winchester.”

“In my opinion, we’ve earned a treat. That second bottle of champagne we were considering?”

“You mean return to the Dorchester?”

“Why not?” Ali said. “The night is young.”

So he swung the Mini Cooper around and drove back down Great Audley Street.

—

Sara’s call brought Ferguson and Dillon instantly, followed by Roper in the van driven by Tony Doyle, who unloaded him in his wheelchair. A grim-faced Sadie Cohen admitted them.

“Has it always got to be like this, Major?” she inquired.

“So it would appear, Sadie.”

Angry, she strode along the corridor, opened the large mahogany door, and led the way into Rabbi Nathan Gideon’s Victorian library, where Sara was sitting on one side of the period fireplace, faced by Ferguson and Dillon.

For once, Roper was missing his usual lazy smile. “Have they hurt you?”

She got up, went to take his outstretched hand, and kissed him on the cheek. “No, I’m fine. They were disguised as Public Works men in one of those yellow vans. I saw it flash by afterward. My mysterious saviors followed on foot and went the same way. Perhaps they had a car waiting.”

“And the saviors, you said, kneecapping was mentioned?” Dillon said. “That’s an old IRA custom.”

“There was nothing Irish about them,” Sara said. “A couple of Cockney hard boys. They certainly didn’t take prisoners. They dished out some very rough stuff and laughed about it. I got the impression they’d seen it happening and just got stuck in for the hell of it. Mind you, they were armed.”

“Well, a lot of people are these days,” Ferguson said.

Roper, who had been examining a computer built into his wheelchair, said, “There’s some interesting news here on the Scotland Yard night report. A Public Works yellow van collided with a cleansing cart in Wigmore Street. The driver’s skull was fractured in the incident and two passengers were found to have gunshot wounds in the knee.”

Sadie, who had just pushed in a trolley and was pouring coffee, said, “So at last we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’m afraid not,” Roper told her as she handed him a cup. “The wounded men will undoubtedly be members of the Brotherhood, who will claim that those who attacked them had a racial motive. They’ll disclaim all knowledge of the van, which was probably stolen anyway.”

“One thing’s for certain,” Dillon said. “Obviously, the Irish flight will be postponed.”

“Certainly not,” Sara said, before anyone could speak. “I think I’d probably be safer there than I am here.” She turned to Ferguson. “I want that clearly understood.”

“And so it is, Captain,” he said gravely. “You have a clear sense of duty, and I admire that.”

“Which is all very well, but I really would like to get to bed now.”

“So you shall,” Ferguson told her. “But there is one proviso. Staff Sergeant Doyle moves in now and stays on until you return. I don’t want Sadie left on her own.”

Sadie said, “Why, General Ferguson, I didn’t know you cared, and yes, I’d appreciate the sergeant being on hand. In fact, there are a number of things around here that could do with a man’s touch.”

“I’m yours to command, Miss Sadie,” Doyle said.

“Never mind that. I’ll sort you later, but for the moment, I’d like the rest of you to move out and allow Sara to go to bed.”

So they went, leaving Tony Doyle to guard the wall, as he would have said, Dillon taking over the duty of getting Roper into the van and back to Holland Park.

They departed, and Sadie turned to Doyle. “You, into the kitchen and we’ll discuss the regime.” Then she turned to Sara: “I think you’re crazy to go on this Irish trip tomorrow, but you certainly won’t unless you get some sleep tonight, so off to bed with you.”

And Sara, yawning, climbed the stairs obediently.

—

There was not much difference between night and day for Giles Roper, sitting in his wheelchair, his shoulder-length hair pulled back in a pigtail from his bomb-ravaged face. A man who should have died many times, the great survivor, kept going by the right drugs and a diet of whiskey, cigarettes, and bacon sandwiches.

But he was king of cyberspace, also kept alive by those dozens of screens in his computer room, constantly presenting new information to his fertile brain. At five-thirty in the morning, he was filling a mug from the tea urn and considering the day’s venture to Drumgoole and Tod Flynn, whose career was on his main screen, when Dillon appeared in a tracksuit, a towel around his neck.

“You’re up early, considering what happened last night,” Roper told him.

“Couldn’t sleep, too much on my mind,” Dillon said. “Thought I’d have a swim and some steam, shake myself up a bit. You, of course, never leave the chair.”