Rain on the Dead (20 page)

“I agree,” Cazalet told him, and returned to the other room.

Duval said, “So, my dear friends, let’s get down to the Seine.”

—

Things had moved fast on the quay, lights rigged to the
Rosamund
, illuminating the grisly scene. A river police special unit, working under DGSE supervision, had already recovered the medical van, there were two ambulances, an awning rigged between them against the relentless rain, both bodies recovered and lying on trestles beneath it, two police pathologists making a preliminary inspection. The party from the Ritz joined them, huddled under umbrellas.

“What have we got, Maurice?” Claude Duval demanded of the senior pathologist.

“Aleg Lupu, recently wounded in the thigh and still in the healing process. Death by drowning. Still in a wheelchair when recovered. The woman is Zahra le Ruez, also death by drowning,” Maurice said. “But look at the side of her skull.”

Dillon and Sara moved in with Claude to take a closer look. The bruising was very pronounced, the eyes half open.

“What do you make of that?” Claude asked.

“Probably clubbed in the side of the head, possibly instantly unconscious,” Maurice told him. “Drowned afterward.” He shrugged. “The rear door of the van was locked.”

“So he couldn’t have got out after the accident even if he was capable,” Sara put in.

“Exactly,” Maurice told her, “except that this was no accident. The blow to the side of the woman’s head speaks volumes. Somebody put it there and helped the van on its way over the edge of the quay into the Seine.” He turned to Claude. “Do you agree, Colonel?”

“Believe me, the background of the case makes your theory highly likely. I’m invoking the antiterrorism act on this one. Nothing released to public or press.”

Maurice looked interested. “As important as that, then?”

“My friend, I think you’ll find that it’s more than likely that this one will be kept so quiet it’s as if it didn’t happen. I leave it in your capable hands.” He turned to Sara and Dillon. “Let’s return to the Ritz.”

—

An hour later, Roper and Ferguson were videoconferencing with Dillon, Sara, Jake Cazalet, and Duval.

“An extraordinary business,” Roper said.

“Oh, we agree on that,” Sara told him. “But what happens now?”

“I think she means to me,” Jake Cazalet said. “I know I was looked on as crazy by a number of people back home for wanting
to come to Paris in the first place. I think we’ve all confirmed now that I’m still an al-Qaeda target.”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” Ferguson said. “But what are your plans, Mr. President?”

“Oh, I’m still coming to London. I’m not about to let those bastards stop me. I’ve only one stipulation, General.”

“And what would that be, sir?”

“That we forget I was once president of the United States. Stop calling me Mr. President. Plain Mr. Jake Cazalet will do. To particular friends, just Jake, and as far as I’m concerned, that applies to you, Charles.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Ferguson hesitated, “Jake.”

Cazalet turned to Claude. “I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Of course,” Duval said. “But don’t be surprised if I pop up in London.”

“One problem about the Dorchester,” Ferguson said. “The Oliver Messel is apparently already in use, by an oil sheikh from the Gulf.”

“Ah, well, he must be a man of taste and discernment,” Cazalet said.

“Would a Park Suite interest you? They have a connecting door to a smaller suite, which would be useful from a security point of view. My people will take turns booked as staff. Captain Gideon is your secretary during the day and Dillon guarding the wall, as they say, by night.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Cazalet turned to Dillon and Sara. “So it’s into battle, my friends, and let the Master do his worst.”

In Washington, when Blake Johnson passed on the news to the Oval Office, the President was horrified.

“This is terrible,” he said. “It means Cazalet is still a target. Damn it, Blake, the CIA told us al-Qaeda would fall back to lick their wounds. But here they are, just days later! Sometimes I wonder if anybody knows what they’re doing around here.”

“The analysts might want to reexamine their assumptions.”

“Damn straight. Well, Jake sure as hell was a lucky bastard this time,” the President said. “So what in the hell is he going to do now? Walk around London with a target on his back? There must be some way we can bring him home.” The President slammed his clenched fist on top of the desk. “Why does he have to play the hero all the time?”

“Could be because that’s what he is, Mr. President. Decorated four times in Vietnam.”

“As if I didn’t know that,” the President said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can get London to give him a nudge?”

“No, the Prime Minister’s even invited him to spend a long weekend at his country place, Chequers. He’s been a guest there before, but that was when he was president, of course.”

“Needless to say, I’ve never had that pleasure,” the President grumbled. “But never mind that. If Cazalet’s intent on continuing to put himself on display and take his chances, that’s his choice. He’ll have to take the consequences of things going disastrously wrong.”

“Oh, I doubt whether Charles Ferguson and his people would allow that to happen,” Blake said.

“Well, let’s hope your faith is not misplaced,” the President said.

—

The next day, when Dillon and Sara were shown up, they found Cazalet ensconced on the fourth floor of the Dorchester, in a beautifully paneled suite with a wonderful master bedroom and clear views of Hyde Park stretching into the distance on the other side of Park Lane. He was enjoying a glass of champagne from a bottle somebody had thoughtfully left in an ice bucket on the dining table.

“How’s it going?” Dillon said.

“Marvelous,” Cazalet told him. “This will do me. Have a drink, both of you, I insist.” And he filled two glasses.

“No problems?” Sara asked.

“A good hotel concierge never forgets a face, but as we age, we distance ourselves from the young, who’ve probably never heard of Humphrey Bogart and
Casablanca
, never mind Jake Cazalet, who was president of the United States some years ago. You become someone they half recognize and wonder why. But never mind that. Let me show you in here.”

He opened a door leading into a smaller bedroom with bathroom, and a door on the other side that led into a similar room.

“That one really goes with another large suite, but they’ve locked it off so both of you could stay if necessary, a bedroom each.”

“Couldn’t be better,” Dillon told him. “And for security, we’ll use the ballroom entrance to Park Lane, the rear elevator.”

“Very convenient if you want to go for a run in Hyde Park.” Cazalet toasted them: “Well, here’s to us and damnation to the Master.” He emptied his glass. “I wonder how long it will take him to discover where I am?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows already,” Sara said.

—

Sara was right. In fact, he was already on the phone to Ali Herim.

“Where are you?”

“Running in the park with Khalid. As I told you, I get as bored with little to do as he does.”

“Then you’ll be grateful to me for bringing a touch of color into your drab lives. Cazalet has just booked into a fourth-floor suite at the Dorchester.”

“Good God,” Ali Herim said. “So the attempt on his life in Paris failed.”

“I’m afraid so.” The Master gave him the room numbers. “The two smaller rooms are self-contained, but linked to the main suite.”

“Presumably that’s for security people?” Ali asked.

“I’d say so. Could be Dillon in one and Captain Gideon in another.”

“So what do you want us to do?” Ali demanded.

“First of all, when you were serving in the Secret Field Police in Iran, did you ever meet Colonel Declan Rashid face-to-face?”

“No,” Ali said firmly. “I’ve discussed this with Khalid. We never even stood on a parade that the colonel was inspecting. Why is this important?”

“Because you’re going to become fixtures at the Dorchester, and if Rashid comes to visit Cazalet there, I wouldn’t want him to recognize you. If he’d met you during army days, you’d be of no use to me at all.”

“I can see that,” Ali said. “So how do you want us to handle it?”

“Carry on at the Dorchester as you are now. You are Lance and Anthony Harvey, well-to-do young men with too much money, intent only on enjoying yourselves,” the Master said.

“It’s more a pleasure than a duty to carry on like that,” Ali said. “And then what?”

“That depends on the opposition,” the Master told him. “But you’ll have a significant part to play, never fear.”

He switched off, and Ali stood there in his tracksuit thinking about it. Khalid had been throwing stones into the Thames as he waited. Here and there, people walked a dog, and on the other side of the park, a group of very young children played ball, supervised by two teachers.

“So what was that all about?” Khalid said.

“Cazalet’s here and staying at the Dorchester.”

“So, the Master again?” Khalid nodded. “Thank God for that. This should liven things up nicely.”

“Yes, but—” Ali made a sound of exasperation. “I’m beginning to get brassed off with the whole business. Al-Qaeda wants Cazalet dead. They tried in Nantucket, they tried in Paris. Both of them
failed, and nobody told us why.” Ali shook his head. “Too much of this is Ferguson on one side, the Master on the other, like actors behaving as the script tells them. It’s like some extended game of chess that neither side wants to end.”

“Do you really believe that?” Khalid asked.

“Look at it this way,” Ali said. “If the Master really wanted Cazalet dead, all he’d have to do is keep it simple.”

“And do what?”

“Send someone to his suite dressed as a waiter, a tray in his hand and a silenced Walther in his pocket. If someone else opens the door, apologize for the mistake and clear off. If it’s Cazalet who obliges, give him a bullet between the eyes, shove him inside, and walk away.”

“Lots of things could go wrong with that,” Khalid told him.

“And lots could go right,” Ali said.

“I agree, but are you telling me that you’d be willing to do that?” Khalid persisted. “Would you go upstairs to Cazalet’s suite, dressed as a waiter, and shoot him if he answered the door?”

Ali was silent, deep in thought. “No, I don’t think I would,” he said finally. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

His cousin put an arm about his shoulders. “Which we’ve both shared ever since we changed sides and rescued Sara Gideon.”

“So what in hell are we going to do?”

“Right now? We’ll keep quiet, coast along, and let’s just see what happens during these next few days.” Khalid laughed coldly. “He’s a conniving bastard, the Master, but then so am I. Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of this mess when the right time comes.”

“But what about the Master?” Ali asked.

“Oh, I’ll shoot the bastard if I have to,” Khalid said.

—

Three days a week, Terry Harker found time to visit the Russian Baths in Soho’s Gate Street because he preferred the fierce heat of their steam rooms and an old-fashioned gym where he could pump iron. He was at ease in a terry-cloth robe, drinking a pint of Russian tea and reading the sports pages of the
Times,
when the Master found him on his mobile.

“Ah, Terry, there you are,” the Master said. “I thought it was time we had a chat.”

A Cockney by birth and a hard and brutal boxer, Harker had been considerably affected by his years in the Grenadier Guards and was far from being a fool. His one weakness was the unfortunate fact that he genuinely loved Myra, in spite of her obvious faults. He was too intelligent to take issue with the Master on his own behalf, because there was no percentage in it. You didn’t screw with al-Qaeda, it was as simple as that, even if Myra couldn’t see it.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I sent some material to you, details about Ferguson’s people, some of whom will be familiar to you. The Salters, for example.”

“So you’d like them sorted, I suppose?” Terry said.

“Myra obviously would,” the Master told him. “Revenge for her father.”

“She certainly wants that, don’t kid yourself,” Terry told him.

“And expects you to do your bit, of course,” the Master said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I like to keep her happy.”

“Well, in pursuance of that end, you can also please me considerably. Naturally, you’ll receive appropriate remuneration. Does this interest you?”

“Of course it does,” Terry Harker said. “Where exactly?”

“Cazalet’s at the Dorchester. He is watched over by Sean Dillon and Sara Gideon, twenty-four/seven.”

“So how would one get at him?” Harker asked.

“For a man in his sixties, he’s extremely fit. He likes to run, Terry, in the park.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Terry told him. “I can easily find a couple of people to put on a tracksuit. I could fix that up today. How far are they supposed to go? Do they just give him a battering, or do you want him dead?”