Rain on the Dead (12 page)

“I’ll take your word for it. I’d better go and sort myself out.”

Frank Bell finished what he was doing, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “How are you feeling, Fergus? Are you up for this?”

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be? Have you spoken to the Master yet?”

“I thought I’d do that when we’re halfway there. I suppose you’ve talked to Myra, you always do. What did she think?”

“All for it, no doubt of that, and why wouldn’t she be? It’s a big payday.”

“What about the Flynn girl, did you mention that?”

“She asked if it was necessary. I told her what the Master said about going elsewhere if it was a problem, and she never mentioned it again.”

“I bet she didn’t,” Bell said.

“The only time she got upset was when I told her that Sean
Dillon was Tod Flynn’s cousin. She exploded, only quietened down when I said he’d nothing to do with our enterprise.”

“And thank God for that. Those photos of him and those others in Ferguson’s crew were warning enough. Thank God we’re not mixing it with them. Off you go and get ready, I’ll finish off here.”

Which he did, then lit another cigarette, moved to the door in time to see the rain. He shivered suddenly and didn’t know why. How many days like this had he known during the last thirty years? But that would never do, not at all, and he put his head down and ran across the yard to the kitchen door.

—

Ferguson came on the screen in Roper’s computer room, and he wasn’t pleased. “What’s going on, Major?” he demanded. “Who gave permission to include Harry Salter in the party to Drumgoole?”

“I did, General,” Roper said. “Knowing how important your breakfast meeting was with the PM. You’ve obviously seen the additional information I’ve discovered about Flynn. I not only sent it to you, but Captain Gideon and Billy Salter. When Harry suggested he might be of use after all, I decided to use my discretion and agree. I can’t see what harm it would do. They’re not visiting a war zone.”

“Yes, well, in future I suggest you be a little more circumspect,” Ferguson said. “But to other things. I’m at Rosedene right now, awaiting the arrival of Hamid Bey. I’ve had words with Maggie Duncan, told her I’m leaving it to her own good sense to warn her staff to conduct themselves with caution when these people are here. Bellamy has insisted he will be present himself, and I’m
expecting him at any moment, hopefully before the Pound Street couple arrive. I thought Max Shelby might be able to join us, but he’s tied up at the Ministry of Defence. As usual, when the going gets rough, it’s the old hands like Max the politicians need to pull their irons out of the fire.”

“I’ll certainly be interested to know what happens,” Roper said.

At that moment, there were voices off screen and Ferguson said, “Damn it, they’ve just arrived. I’ll have to go,” and the screen went dark.

—

Maggie Duncan had been matron at Rosedene for more years than she cared to remember, but the situation in which she found herself now was unique. Following Ferguson’s orders, she had hurriedly paid a visit to each section of the small hospital, ending up in Ali Saif’s room, where he lay in a stupor, festooned with tubes and wires, his breathing rough. She gave him a quick examination, and Declan Rashid entered the room behind her, leaning on a walking stick and wearing the black tracksuit.

She turned, and he raised his free hand. “Just checking, Sister, Captain Gideon and I are particularly concerned. After all, he saved our lives last time out. What do you think this morning?”

“He’s very poorly.” She shook her head, deeply concerned, and her mobile sounded. “Ah, Professor Bellamy. The imam and Sister Shah have just arrived, I believe. I thought you were coming?”

Bellamy said, “I was, but we’ve just had the result of a two-car pileup rushed into Emergency at Guys. Four seriously damaged people. Sorry, but I must go.”

“Problems?” Declan asked.

“No Bellamy, I’m afraid. He’s needed elsewhere urgently.”

“I see. So what about this visit? Is Saif fit to see visitors?”

“If it’s just a look-in, yes, but nothing more. I really must make that clear to General Ferguson.”

A young nurse glanced in. “You’re needed in reception, Matron.”

“Excuse me, Colonel,” Maggie Duncan said, and hurried out.

It was quiet then, only the electronic beeping from the machines monitoring Ali Saif’s vital signs. He was breathing very deeply, and Declan moved close, leaned on his walking stick, reached down and held the wasted hand. Saif’s eyes, sunken into his face, flickered open, stared, and he managed the weakest of smiles. His lips moved, but speech eluded him. Declan was aware of Ferguson’s voice approaching down the corridor and another, deeper voice that could only be Hamid Bey. There was bewilderment and then alarm in Saif’s eyes.

Declan squeezed his hand again. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you, I’ll be close by.”

He moved quickly into the bathroom, went inside, closed the door, and stood behind it. He left it open an inch or two, enough to observe and hear clearly.

The outer door to the corridor was open and there was the observation window. Imam Hamid Bey, dramatic in his robes, stood waiting with Lily Shah, wearing a navy blue raincoat over her uniform. Maggie was obviously explaining to Ferguson that Bellamy wasn’t coming, and he eased her away from the others while he listened. Hamid Bey watched them go, took Lily by the arm, urged her into the sickroom, and approached Saif, staring down at him, his rage and anger clear. Saif’s eyes flickered open and his instant terror was plain.

Lily said, “This is not good. Leave him. He is obviously very ill.”

But rage had consumed Hamid Bey to an extent that left him without caution. His face contorted, he leaned over Saif and said in Arabic, “Foul apostate, turning against your race and religion. May Allah send you to hell, where you most truly belong, you pariah dog.”

For a moment, his hand poised as if to snatch away the lifesaving lines attached to Saif’s body, and at that instant, the bathroom door crashed open and Declan Rashid stepped out, right arm extended and holding a Colt .25.

“There is only one dog here,” he said in Arabic. “Step back very gently or I’ll leave your brains on the floor.”

Hamid Bey glared. Lily grabbed him with both hands and pulled him away.

Ferguson rushed in. “What’s happened?”

Declan told him, returning the Colt to his rear waistband. “I never liked the idea of bringing these people into Rosedene in the first place, but at least you know now exactly where you are with the Army of God. Pity you can’t put him on the next plane out.”

Hamid Bey had recovered now. “Just try, Ferguson, and see where it gets you.”

“I know, you’ll deny everything, your lawyer will mention your human rights, and you’ll be left free to blow up Parliament if you want to.” Ferguson turned to Lily. “You seem a decent kind of lady. Can’t you do better than this?” He shook his head. “Just go away, both of you.”

“You haven’t heard the last of me,” Hamid Bey shouted, but Lily reacted forcefully for once, grabbing his arm and hurrying him along the corridor and out the front door to the car park. She
urged him into the rear of their car, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

“Such rage is bad for your heart. Calm yourself,” she said. “That’s sound medical advice.”

“Surely you see now that there is only one way of dealing with these people,” he told her. “The sword.”

But the truth was she saw no such thing and drove back to Pound Street, more troubled than ever about the situation into which she had got herself, while he glowered beside her at this latest reversal on top of the failure of the attack on Sara Gideon. He was convinced Dillon had been responsible. Who else would have kneecapped them?

—

Tully and Bell were over the border and well on their way, when Bell pulled into a parking area at the side of the road. “Time I had a word with the Master,” he said, took out the mobile, and pressed the button.

“Who is this?”

“As if you didn’t know, but if you want to play games, this is Frank Bell. We’ve taken you up on your offer and we’re on our way.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Master said. “Where are you?”

“A mile outside Castletown. We’ll stop there for a drink and a sandwich, then we should be in the Drumgoole area within half an hour after that.”

“My regards to Mr. Tully. I wish you every success with the enterprise. We’ll talk again later.”

Tully had been leaning close to him to catch the conversation. “I hate that English accent,” he said. “A posh bastard, that fella.
Anyway, Castletown, a drink or two at the pub, and then Drumgoole and Tod Flynn and his niece.” His smile was evil. “You know, it’s been a long time, Frank, and I’m really looking forward to it.” He shook his head. “I’ve never been happy with peace.”

—

At Drumgoole, Hannah had ridden Fancy partway up the hill behind the buildings, then paused as a few drops of rain indicated the chance of a shower. She half turned and saw a Land Rover approaching on the country road that led to the Place.

The fact that it was an unfamiliar vehicle alerted her, and there was also the fact that since Dillon’s phone call, the stable hands had been sent off on holiday while Tod and Kelly, Aunt Meg, and Hannah waited to see what would happen.

She produced her mobile, called Aunt Meg, and found her in the kitchen. “There’s a Land Rover I’ve never seen before heading straight for the Place. It may be Dillon.”

“Well, if it is, he’ll be just in time for lunch,” Meg said. “But I’ll warn Tod and Kelly, and you better get back here quick, girl.”

Hannah muttered, swung Fancy around, and urged her into a gallop.

—

Dillon was driving, Sara beside him, Billy and Harry in the rear. He turned into the front courtyard of the fine old building and found Meg in her apron, Hannah in riding breeches, leaning on her walking stick, Tod and Kelly in work shirts and jeans, standing one on each side of the ladies.

Dillon got out, followed by Sara, who had brought her own stick in anticipation of rough country.

Billy and Harry got out, the two groups confronting each other.

It was Sara who broke the ice, by limping up to Hannah and holding out her hand. “Sara Gideon, and you must be Hannah. We seem to have something in common.”

Hannah’s smile was instant. “This is my aunt Meg.”

“Who hopes you’ve all brought an appetite with you, as we were just going to sit down to lunch,” Meg said, and turned to Dillon and kissed him on the cheek. “A long, long time, Sean. So good to see you.”

He turned and pulled in his companions. “This is Harry Salter, a friend.”

Harry was gravely polite. “A real pleasure,” he told Meg. “And this is my nephew, Billy, who works for the government.”

“But doing what?” Tod asked, coming forward, flinging his arms wide and hugging Dillon. “You ould bastard. You’re looking well.”

Dillon reached and shook hands with Kelly. “And so do you, and without leaving it another minute, we’re on a peace mission, so there are things that must be said.”

“Of course there are, but that can wait until you’ve all eaten your fill,” Meg said. “So inside this minute, the lot of you.”

Billy trailed behind to admire the Montesa on its stand beside the front door, the Spanish dirt bike developed for high country and beloved by shepherds all over the world, because it could go at half a mile an hour on rough ground and roar away like the wind when needed.

Tod had paused. “Are you a bike man?”

“I think you could say that,” Billy said. “I’ve heard of these.”

“Give it a try after lunch if you like, but let’s go in.”

—

It was a farmhouse meal at the kitchen table, and afterward tea and cake in the parlor, Irish-style, which Sara insisted on helping Meg and Hannah get ready.

Hannah said, “What happened to your leg?”

“I was shot in a Taliban ambush in Afghanistan.”

Hannah was astonished. “Do you mean you’re a soldier?”

“For ten years now. I’m a captain in the Intelligence Corps. They let me still serve because I speak some useful languages, so as the army says, I’m fit for purpose.”

“I was blown up by a bomb in Uncle Tod’s car. My parents were killed, but I think it must have been meant for Uncle Tod,” Hannah said. “He was big stuff when he was in the IRA.”

“Actually, Hannah, we’ve just investigated that. You’ve heard of al-Qaeda, of course,” Sara said.

“Oh, yes.”

“It was they who targeted your father. They thought he was going to be a threat to their business, so they had a couple of contract killers from the UVF, named Fergus Tully and Frank Bell, do away with him. They’re the kind who didn’t care that his wife and daughter were with him. I can show you photos of them.” She opened her shoulder bag, found the print of the information Roper had sent her. “There you are.”

Hannah looked, then wiped slow tears from her eyes and said, “Just excuse me for a moment,” and she limped out.

Meg said, “Are you certain that’s the way of it?”

“Yes, there can be no doubt of it.”

“God help us, but that will relieve Tod of a terrible burden. Give me a hand with the tea and cake and we’ll see what’s going on in the parlor.”

—

Tod was bitterly angry as Meg entered with the large tray, which she put down on the table. Sara paused by the door and listened as he spoke.

“Fergus Tully and Frank Bell were responsible for the car bomb, Aunt Meg. Sean’s just been telling me. An al-Qaeda hit, and they weren’t out for me at all. It was Peter they were after.”

“I know, love, Sara was discussing it with us.”

“So where is Hannah?” Tod asked.

She entered the room at that moment, reached for Sara’s hand, squeezed it, then crossed to Tod and kissed him on the cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Definitely.” She smiled and turned to Sara. “Do you ride?”

“Indeed I do.”

“What do you say to taking a turn up the hill?”

“I’d love to.”

“Then let’s go and find you a nice mare and the right kit and leave them to it.”