Rain on the Dead (21 page)

And the Master surprised him by saying, “Let’s hasten slowly on that. I’ll let you know.”

“Well, it’s your party,” Terry said. “What else do you want me to take care of?”

“Well, the Salters for a start. You can leave them floating in the Thames as far as I’m concerned.”

Terry laughed. “A lot of people have felt like that over the years, but the sods are still here. We’ll see what we can do, is all I can promise. At best we can make life uncomfortable for them, which would please Myra. Cause trouble at the Dark Man or smash up this fancy restaurant by the river at Wapping, Harry’s Place. We could frighten the hell out of all their society customers.”

“Then do it!” the Master said. “I’ll put twenty-five thousand pounds into your personal account this afternoon, just to help you with expenses. Don’t mention it to Myra.”

Terry brightened considerably. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Nice doing business with you. Anything else? What about the Gideon woman?”

“Well, she shot Fergus Tully in the face at Drumgoole,” the Master said. “Which wouldn’t exactly endear her to Myra. She’s back at her grandfather’s and has brought Tod Flynn’s niece, Hannah, to live with her. I mentioned her in the stuff I sent you.”

“The girl who was crippled in a car bomb for which Tully and Bell were responsible, the one who plays the piano?” Terry shook his head. “There’s irony for you. Do you want anything done about Gideon?”

“Not at the moment. Just before she left to go to Drumgoole, some Army of God people had a go at her, or maybe the Brotherhood.”

“Did they, by God?” Terry said. “What happened?”

The Master told him and Terry laughed his head off. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years. Are you sure it wasn’t Dillon who intervened?”

“Absolutely, my sources are impeccable. In fact, they tell me that Ferguson and his people, plus Cazalet, are lunching at Highfield Court today, if that interests you.”

“Well, good luck to whoever your sources are, but not if they’re that bastard Hamid Bey and those Army of God people and all the Brotherhood rubbish, and don’t tell me I’m a racist. One of my great-grandfathers was a seaman from India who fetched up off a ship in the Pool of London and never went back. Anyway, I’ll keep my eye on Highfield Court. I’d a sister called Hannah, so there’s a coincidence.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. When I was in Bosnia with the army, I got
the news she’d been killed by a hit-and-run driver on the way home from school. Twelve years of age and guess what? She was learning the piano. Killed my mother. She never got over it.”

“What happened to the driver?” the Master asked.

“Not a thing. The police failed to trace whoever it was, my father did a runner, and I could do nothing. Busy saving Muslims from being massacred by Serbs in Bosnia.”

“I’m truly sorry, my friend,” the Master said.

“No, you’re not,” Terry told him. “And you’re not my friend. Just make sure that twenty-five grand gets in my account this afternoon and I’ll take care of what we’ve discussed,” and he switched off.

—

At Highfield Court, seated at the Schiedmayer, Hannah had spent the morning practicing scales and working at exercises aimed at developing the dexterity in her hands and arms, but enough was enough. Thanks to her uncle Tod, she’d been raised to appreciate another kind of music, too, and she turned to it now, some classic Sinatra, then Cole Porter’s “From This Moment On.”

She gave it everything she had, filling the house with music, was aware of the sound of the Daimler arriving outside, and a moment later, Sadie showed Dillon and Ferguson into the room.

“Good heavens, she’s bloody marvelous,” Ferguson whispered.

“Do you want to join me, Cousin?” she called to Dillon.

“Come off it, girl, barroom piano is what I do,” Dillon told her.

Cazalet and Sara entered at that moment, and Sara called, “
Great
barroom piano, Sean, so don’t be a spoilsport and oblige the girl.”

Which Dillon did, crowding in beside her on the wide Victorian piano stool. As “Night and Day”
finished, they eased into
“As Time Goes By”
and Sara joined them, singing it.

“What the hell is going on here,” Cazalet demanded. “I’ve never heard anything like it. You’d think they were pros.”

“It gets like that sometimes round here,” Sadie remarked as she walked in with Nathan Gideon. “This is your host, Mr. Cazalet, and I’m your cook.” She shook hands. “So if you’re all ready, please adjourn to the dining room, where lunch awaits you.”

—

Leaving the Russian Baths and walking through Soho to where he’d left his Mini Cooper, Terry found himself still thinking about the conversation with the Master. The fact that Hannah Flynn now lived at Highfield Court had resurrected memories of the worst thing that ever happened to him, the untimely death of a sister he had truly loved. So, instead of driving back to Wapping and Myra and the Sash
,
he changed direction and ended up at the top end of South Audley Street, sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, from which he got a clear view of Highfield Court in the small turning opposite.

Not long afterward, Ferguson’s Daimler coasted by, turned in the gates, and he caught a glimpse of the general and Dillon getting out and going up the steps to the front door. The Alfa Romeo followed them, Sara Gideon at the wheel, Cazalet beside her.

Terry paid his bill, adjusted his Ray-Bans and crossed the road, and as he approached the house, he was aware of piano music, some of the best he’d heard in years. He paused on the corner by his
Mini, opening the newspaper he was holding, pretending to consult it. After a while, the music stopped, so he returned to the café and sat down at the table again.

“Changed my mind,” he said when a waitress approached him. “I think I’ll have some lunch after all. The eggs Benedict look good to me, with an ice-cold lager to go with it, if you have such a thing.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, and went back inside. He opened his
Times
newspaper, sat back, and waited.

—

Lobster, cold cuts, salads, and Jersey Royal potatoes—Sadie had done a wonderful job, helped by Tony Doyle as waiter.

Ferguson said, “Sadie, you’ve triumphed again, but we’ll have to love you and leave you. We have to touch base with Roper and see what he’s got planned for us. I assume you have no problem keeping the present system in place, with Staff Sergeant Doyle as a house guard?”

“Oh, I’d hate to be without the Royal Military Police at this stage, General,” she said.

There was laughter at that, and Sara said, “I’ve decided to take Hannah with us to Holland Park, Sadie. I think it’s time she met Roper.”

“You do as you please, Sara,” Sadie told her. “I’ve got a house to run.” She nodded to Cazalet. “A great pleasure to meet you, sir. Now, if you’ll all excuse me . . .”

“And so must I,” Nathan Gideon announced. “My sermon for the Sabbath awaits. The eternal task!”

—

Anonymous in his Ray-Bans, Terry Harker had kept his head down over the
Times.
About fifteen minutes after the cars had arrived, though, something curious had happened. A yellow van with “Public Works”
on the side had come and just . . . parked. Probably Hamid Bey out of control and sticking his nose in. He wondered if the Master knew about that, stood up, crossed over, and leaned down at the open window where two men wearing yellow oilskin jackets sat smoking.

“Who are you?” he said. “Brotherhood or Army of God?”

Their faces said it all, and the bearded one scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes, you do.” Terry produced a flick knife and sprang the blade. “Go back to Hamid Bey and tell him Highfield Court is off-limits. I’m going to keep checking. If I find you round here again, I’ll cut your ear off.”

The looks of horror were enough, the one who was driving started the engine and drove away instantly. Terry returned to his table and sat down.

It was in a nice little enclave—a general store, the café, a hairdresser’s, boutique, and a pharmacy. An aging man with a gray beard was trying to clean every window in sight, which explained the small van parked at the curb with the legend “Glassclear” painted on the side together with a telephone number.

Terry said to him, “You’re doing a good job there, Dad. On your own, are you?”

“At the moment, yes,” the man said in an Italian accent. “I keep
my fingers crossed that the bastard I employ will turn up tomorrow. Some of the properties around here are too big.”

“I can imagine.” Terry pointed across to Highfield Court. “Take that, for instance. Lovely old place.”

“And I’ve been cleaning its windows for ten years. That belongs to Rabbi Nathan Gideon, but it’s more than one man can handle. There’s a lovely conservatory at one end, full of tropical plants, backing onto a music room. It’s too much for me these days when I’m on my own. I’m getting too old.”

“Well, maybe your man will turn up tomorrow,” Terry said.

“I doubt it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Roberto. Signori.”

“Well, I just might have a solution to your problem,” Terry said. “I’m a journalist by profession. One of my most popular features started with me being a waiter for a short while, then writing about it. Next, I was a porter in a hospital, then a taxi driver.”

Roberto looked bewildered. “Are you trying to say you would like to be a window cleaner? Why would anyone be interested in that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Terry said. “You’d be doing me a favor.” He took a fifty-pound note out of his wallet and offered it. “Of course, we’d also like a photo of you and me for the magazine, but we’ll sort that out later. Do we have a deal?”

Roberto suddenly smiled and took the banknote. “I think so, Signori. I shall be here at nine o’clock in the morning, when you can join me and we drive into the garden of the house together. They are particular about such things.”

“Roberto, old son, just call me Terence. I’m particular about everything, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you allowing me to join you. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”

He was grinning when he paid his bill to the waitress and drove away, wondering what in the hell he was playing at. Not that it mattered, because for some crazy reason all he could hear was that wonderful music and he was more excited than he had been in years.

—

Sara and Dillon took their time getting to Holland Park, making for the Albert Hall first so that Hannah could have a look at the Royal College of Music. There was no sign of them when they reached the safe house, only Parker sitting behind the steering wheel and reading a book.

“Major Roper left word that he was blowing his cobwebs away on the firing range, Captain,” he told Sara. “The others went off to join him.”

“Then so will we,” Sara told him.

The safe house boasted a particularly large garden for London, and the firing range was situated in a concrete bunker dating from the Second World War. A sloping tunnel took them down into a cold, gloomy room with targets of soldiers in uniform at the far end and brightly illuminated.

Roper, from his wheelchair, was emptying a silenced Beretta, the only sound one dull thud after another, and Cazalet and Ferguson watched. As the new arrivals advanced, he emptied the clip and pushed another one up the butt of the weapon.

“So you’re the Hannah I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said as she limped toward him, stick in hand. He gestured toward the targets. “What do you think?”

“Not bad,” she said.

“For a man in a wheelchair?”

“Who doesn’t need to prove himself, Major.”

“There you go, Giles,” Sara Gideon said. “You’ve met your match this time.”

“And something tells me you’re very probably right,” he told her, and held out his hand to Hannah. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve got an idea that we’re going to get along.”

Ferguson interrupted. “Which is all very well, but you did suggest we had a go before discussing business.”

“Be my guests,” Roper said. “Help yourselves to a weapon and get on with it. I think everyone here has been in an army of some description, so you should know what you’re doing. As special guest, I suggest you go first, Jake.”

Cazalet helped himself to the Beretta. “This will do me fine. Takes me straight back to Vietnam.” He took his time, going for heart shots and succeeding. Ferguson followed with a Smith & Wesson .38, no silencer possible, and the noise echoed around the bunker. Sara picked up a Glock, extended her arm, shot one of the targets in the heart, and put the weapon back on the table.

Roper glanced at Dillon. “Sean?”

“Oh, what the hell.” Dillon drew the Colt .25 and fired very rapidly at the four remaining targets, catching three in the head but barely nicking the fourth. He cursed, ejected the clip, and replaced it with another.

Hannah limped to his side, reached, and took the Colt from him. “I think you missed one, Cousin.” She shot the target between the eyes, then handed the Colt back to Dillon without a word.

There was an astonished silence, broken by Roper, who said, “Well, that’s a showstopper if ever I saw one.”

—

Later, the group met to discuss their situation. “The President is not happy with you, I’m afraid, Jake. ‘Walking around London with a target on your back,’ I believe is what he said.”

“I suppose I’m sorry for him,” Cazalet said. “A quick way for him to lose votes in the coming election would be me getting shot down in London by the Master’s goons. It wouldn’t be much as a vote-puller.”

Sara said, “So can I ask, sir—why
are
you doing this?”

Ferguson was annoyed. “Captain Gideon, you go too far.”

“No, I’ll answer that. For any soldier, the war he’s fighting is his own small part of the front, and beyond that is the bigger conflict he can’t do much about. Al-Qaeda is a large organization. You and I and your people haven’t a hope in hell of defeating these people on the world stage. That’s a matter for great nations. But for
this
little corner of al-Qaeda, this Master who tried to kill me twice—that we can do something about. I want to find him and destroy him. What comes after is out of my hands.”