Rain on the Dead (17 page)

She answered in excellent English. “Yes, he’s here, but came in drunk, so he’s sleeping it off. He got a false passport in Beirut for medical treatment, just in case he might run into trouble, and he’d grown a black beard when he was out there. Looks quite distinguished. He’s calling himself Michael Lebrun.”

“I thought he might have returned to Turkey to cross the border and rejoin the struggle in Syria.”

A lie, of course, but he wished to make her angry. “He’s done enough for the Cause, Master, it could be the death of him if he returns.”

“Well, I bring you good news. He can serve al-Qaeda better by staying in Paris and receive a very rich reward. I have a task for him here that would suit you two very well.”

“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “Can this be true?”

“If he may be persuaded.”

She laughed harshly. “Oh, I’ll see to that, you may depend on it. What are you expecting him to do?”

“What he does best, kill someone,” the Master told her.

“I see no problem there,” she said. “God knows, it has never given him one before. Someone special?”

“To AQ he is. Some years ago, he was president of the United States. Jake Cazalet,” the Master said. “Perhaps you remember him?”

“Not particularly.” She reached for a cigarette from a silver box and lit it with a Zippo. “They come and go, these people, I can’t remember.”

“He’s arriving by business jet at Charles de Gaulle this evening as a private citizen, staying at the Ritz.”

“Will there be cops fussing all over him?” she asked.

“I should imagine they’ll keep an eye on him. Colonel Claude Duval will probably meet the plane.”

She frowned. “That bastard. So the DGSE is involved?”

“Don’t get worked up,” the Master said. “Cazalet is dropping in on a UN committee meeting at the Elysée Palace tomorrow. He may move on to London the following day.”

“How do you want it done?”

“I’ll leave that to Lupu. He can be as creative as he likes.”

“Or as dirty?” she asked.

“Well, he’s always been at his best in crowds with a silenced Walther. A bullet in the back and keep on walking when the body goes down to be trampled by the mob,” the Master said calmly. “I’ll send photos of the target to your fax machine, plus other information. I’ll leave you to it. You’ve got all day to decide how to handle
it. You’ll find that the mobile I gave you on the last job is switched on again.”

—

She sat there, thinking about it, fiercely delighted that the prospect of Syria was fading fast. She got up, went into her cabin, and peered down at Lupu. He had stopped snoring, but was breathing deeply. She moved to the other side of the bed, raised the duvet, and slipped in beside him.

“What was that?” he moaned drunkenly.

She kissed his cheek. “Nothing important at the moment, chéri. I’ll tell you later. You can go back to sleep. Mama’s
here.”

From her bedroom on the third floor of Highfield Court, Hannah could see the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square as she pulled on her tracksuit and old-fashioned athletic shoes that, with her lameness, helped her control the pedals when playing piano.

This was her home now, this wonderful old Victorian house, and it was just a couple of days since the affair at Drumgoole. She opened the door, checked her watch. Just before eight and quiet, as she went downstairs, her right hand sliding along the banister, leaning on the walking stick in her left.

There were faint sounds of life from the kitchen area. She started toward it, then noticed the study door ajar. She peered in, but there was no one there, so she slipped in, thrilled as she had been on the first night Sara had taken her.

It was just such a pleasure to be in there. The Turkish carpets, the library shelves, the books, and the mahogany doors that rolled to each side to reveal the music room.

She opened them now, and there was the Schiedmayer concert grand waiting for her in the center of the room, glass doors on the
other side, the conservatory beyond, a touch of the jungle there, small palm trees, vines, exotic plants and flowers.

It was so hard to take in that this was to be her home for the next four years, with the Royal College of Music only a brisk walk away across Hyde Park. For a moment, she trembled with excitement, then took a deep breath to steady herself and sat down at the piano she had left open last night.

She flexed her fingers and launched into a Bach prelude, played very fast indeed, cold and precise and urgent. Her control was remarkable, yet when she stopped, she was shaking. Applause broke out behind her, and she turned to find Sara and her grandfather clapping, Tony Doyle joining in behind.

“Such talent,” Nathan Gideon said.

Hannah shook her head. “Sometimes I think I show off a little bit.”

“So you’ve something to show off about,” Sadie Cohen said as she came up behind them, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “A gift from God, child, so don’t knock it. Just get down to the kitchen where breakfast’s waiting, everyone, including you, Rabbi. You’ve got seminars at the London School of Economics all day. A car’s picking you up at nine.”

“You see, Hannah, no peace for the wicked,” he said.

“Since when were you wicked?” Sadie demanded. “Just get in there, eat a good breakfast, and shut up.”

—

Ferguson, in the computer room at Holland Park with Roper and Dillon, was talking to Claude Duval in Paris, and the colonel was not best pleased as they discussed the Cazalet situation.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he said. “I have nothing but admiration for Jake Cazalet, but his insistence on behaving in this fashion is absurd. The DGSE has enough on its plate without having to worry about him.”

“That’s why I’m doing you a favor, Claude,” Ferguson told him. “He’s staying at the Ritz, and Dillon and Sara Gideon will stay there, too, and keep an eye on him. Didn’t they do the same thing in the Husseini affair last year, and with considerable success?”

“Yes, I must admit you have a point,” Duval said.

“Well, there you are, then. They know that hotel backwards. Plus, Henri Laval’s on staff, and I’m sure he’ll help out.”

“You’re out of date,” Duval said. “They retired him nine months ago. I’ve no idea who replaced him. Anyway, make sure you have Dillon and Sara already here when Cazalet arrives so we can meet him together, although he may not find that amusing. I must go now. Lots to do.”

The picture went dark, and Ferguson said, “Any comments?”

Dillon said, “Do we really think Jake Cazalet could be at risk while he’s there?”

“There’s no answer to that, not in the world we inhabit these days.” Ferguson shrugged. “Same applies when he moves on to London.”

“So that’s a given, is it?” Roper asked.

“Afraid so. The PM’s made it clear that Jake Cazalet’s welcome at any time.”

“A snub for the White House, I’d have thought,” Dillon said.

“They’ll get over it.” Ferguson shrugged again, and left.

When he was gone, Roper said, “So what about you and this
business of pretending to be Tod Flynn with the Master? How many times has the sod called you?”

“Three, and usually around four in the morning. Creepy stuff. ‘Are you still with us, Mr. Flynn,’ and I tell him to go away, in appropriate language.”

“And with a County Down accent.”

“Of course. Anyway, you’d better tell Sara she’s going to stay at the Ritz in gay Paree again. It was quite an adventure the last time we were there. I’ll go and pack,” and Dillon went out.

—

On the barge
Rosamund
, Zahra had restored Lupu to some sort of sanity by alternating hot and freezing showers followed by large quantities of excellent coffee. His black hair was tousled, most of his face hidden by the black beard he had grown in Syria.

“You look good,” she said. “That weight you put on in hospital, the beard. Even I, who love you, don’t recognize you. Add to that your false passport and Aleg Lupu has ceased to exist.”

“Never mind that.” He reached to the coffee table for the faxes and photos the Master had sent. “So he wants this Cazalet shot or whatever.” He reached for a walking stick from the floor, pushed himself up, and limped to the bar at the other end of the salon. “I’m crippled.”

“No, you’re not, you just can’t run at the moment, but you won’t have to. We book in at the Ritz because Cazalet is going to stay there. We’ll take a two-bedroom suite. You’ll be in a wheelchair and I’ll be your uniformed nurse. With my uniform, your beard and tinted glasses, people will be very nice to us, I assure you.”

“Okay, what about your mother’s half brother, Henri Laval,
the guy who used to sneak you in for the rich punters when you were on the game? We’d be finished the moment he set eyes on you.”

“Uncle Henri retired nine months ago. We don’t have to worry about him.”

“And what do we do with Cazalet?”

“Depends on whatever opportunity turns up. If nothing does, we let it go. And we still get handsomely paid for it.”

“I don’t know, it still sounds crazy.”

“Crazy enough that you want to get sent back to the Syrian war tomorrow? Because, the Master’s promised, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“No,” Lupu croaked. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Excellent. I knew that’s what you’d say!”

Zahra smiled at Lupu, who looked strangely humble. “I’ve told you before,” she said. “Mama’s here and everything is going to be fine.”

—

In her office at the Sash, Myra Tully was checking through the month’s receipts, which were down, and her ringing mobile disturbed a lengthy calculation. She snatched it up.

“Go to hell, whoever you are, I’m busy,” she cried.

“Yes, I get that impression, Myra. It’s the Master.”

“Is that so? What do you want?” she demanded. “Or have you called to tell me you’ve come up with something useful, like some way of sorting out Ferguson, Dillon, and that Sara Gideon bitch.”

“I was wondering about her,” the Master said. “It seems some Brotherhood members tried to jump Gideon as she was entering her house a few nights ago.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had all year,” Myra told him.

“No, it isn’t. A couple of Cockney thugs apparently joined in and saved her day. Kneecapped two of her assailants.”

“That sounds like Sean Dillon,” Myra said.

“Well, it wasn’t. Dillon had nothing to do with that affair. I prefer to deal with reality, and here’s some more of it: Your precious da and Bell were shot by Tod Flynn from the pillion of a motorbike being ridden by Billy Salter. As they lay wounded in the cab of their Jeep, which had halted on the edge of a slope above a bog, Flynn leaned in to finish them off. Bell grabbed him, the Jeep moved, and they all went down to hell together. What do you think of that, Myra?”

Her face had contorted, eyes burning, the rage in her voice speaking for itself as she said, “Billy Salter was riding that motorbike and helped murder my da? I’ll have him for that if it’s the last thing I do on earth!”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “If you want revenge, you’ll have it, but don’t make a move until I tell you.”

“Why don’t you go to hell?” she demanded.

“I’ve been there, Myra, didn’t like it, and neither would you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Bastard!” she shouted as he switched off.

A door was flung open and Terry Harker rushed in from the outer office. “Are you okay, Myra?”

She tried to pull herself together, reached for the brandy decanter on her desk, poured a large one and gulped it down, hand shaking.

“I just had the Master on telling me what really happened at Drumgoole.”

“You’ve got to try and put all that out of your mind, Myra.”

“Not when I hear Billy Salter was roaring round on a motorbike with Flynn on the pillion, shooting up my da and Bell. Those Salters have swaggered round too much and too long. It’s time they got sorted.”

“So what do you mean by that?” Terry asked.

“We could start with that boozer of theirs, the Dark Man. Means everything to Harry Salter, that place. Get a few real wild boys in to give the car park a working-over one night and seriously damage a few cars. That’ll frighten his punters away. Same deal with that restaurant of his, Harry’s Place.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” Terry said. “Harry Salter may be wealthy these days, but scratch that surface and you’ll still find the gangster. He’ll crush you.”

“Is that so?” She leaned back, glaring at him. “Scared, are you? Then I’ll just have to do something about it myself.”

And as always, he raised his hands. “No need for that, love, you’re the boss. If that’s what you want, just tell me where and when and I’ll get it sorted.”

“That’s better.” Her hand shook as she poured another drink. “I’m glad you see sense. Now, take last night’s receipts up to the bank for me while I pull myself together.”

—

Spoiled by her infamous da all her life, vicious and cruel by nature—the Master was aware of all that about Myra, but he’d only recently realized that her greatest sin was her stupidity. He’d hoped that Harker might have more influence, but he hadn’t shown any sign of that. Disappointing in a man who had served five years in
the Grenadier Guards, seen action in Bosnia, Kosovo, and Northern Ireland, and had twice been rated middleweight champion of the British Army. But that would have to wait.