Rain on the Dead (27 page)

Dillon said, “He was a gangster from an early age, but then, he would be, with Harry as his uncle. I remember when Blake Johnson was being held by thugs in a remote country house in Devon.
I was going to surprise the villains by parachuting from a small plane. Billy insisted on going with me—even though he’d never jumped before or had any training.”

Sara said, “His hobby is moral philosophy, which, wait for it, he was introduced to by Dillon.” She turned to Dillon. “What was your impression when you first met him, Sean?”

“That he was like someone out of one of those French gangster movies with Alain Delon. In fact, ask him what he is and he might shock you by saying he’s a gangster.”

“Well, some people would say that as an agent of MI5, that’s what he is,” Sara pointed out. She turned to Hannah. “What do you think?”

“That he’s brave and good with women and was probably an altar boy when he was young. As for him locking the door on that boat so that Myra Tully drowned in the saloon, kicking and screaming? I’ll tell you what I think. I think she was a complete bitch who deserved everything she got.” The orchestra suddenly erupted into one of Cole Porter’s finest, “Night and Day.” “Ah, real music,” she said, and turned to Sara. “Shall we go and sit closer? At least we can enjoy listening.”

“What a good idea,” Sara said.

As Dillon and Declan followed, the colonel’s mobile sounded and it was Roper. “I think I may have solved your problem.”

“How?” Declan asked.

“You said you would have remembered those chaps if you’d soldiered with them.”

“Definitely, and I haven’t.”

“But what was the most recent appointment you received from the Minister of War in Tehran?”

“Well, I was promoted to second in command of the Secret Field Police in the rank of full colonel. But I never inspected them. Everything happened in such a rush.”

“There are one hundred and fifty officers, mainly young, in that unit. Weren’t you given a file listing them, and their records, by the War Minister?”

“My God, what a fool I am,” Declan said. “I had to catch an embassy plane to Beirut. Everything happened so fast, but I do recall now a ministry secure file of all officers in the SFP, plus photos.”

“I have obtained access to that information, and if you go and sit down in some quiet corner with your Codex, you can browse the photos and see where it gets you.”

—

Declan returned to the Promenade bar, which was comparatively quiet, ordered a martini cocktail, and started examining the photos. He found his quarry within fifteen minutes, standing in line, crisply uniformed, soldiers at their best, and called Roper at once.

“I’ve got them. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed. They’re unmistakable.”

“Just hang on and I’ll process them at once,” Roper told him.

Declan swallowed his martini, ordered another, and sat there on the bar stool, emotions mixed. The implication here was that they were up to no good, the enemy, but it certainly didn’t sit comfortably with him. People in the West had forgotten that before the Gulf War, Iran had fought Saddam Hussein for eight rather savage years.

The door swung open behind him, and Sara and Hannah
entered, followed by Dillon. “So there you are,” Sara said. “We were wondering what happened to you.”

“I’ve been dealing with Roper. He’s discovered who the mysterious young men are who keep calling you ma’am, Sara. It seems they’re officers in my old unit. I’m waiting to hear what else Roper digs up.”

—

Roper came back to him. “They have excellent army records, these boys. They are cousins. Ali Herim is posing as one Lance Harvey, Khalid Abed as his brother, Anthony. Would you believe they went to Winchester and a year at Sandhurst?”

“I’ve learned to believe anything you tell me now, Giles,” Declan said. “But that isn’t the point. What are they doing here?”

“Spies,” Roper told him. “They’re classic. But listen, how’s this for a wild supposition? Sara Gideon was attacked by Brotherhood members not long ago at Highfield House, right? And two complete strangers intervened wearing ski masks, and beat hell out of them.”

“Cockney hard boys interfering,” Declan said. “That was the suggestion.”

“Which didn’t make sense,” Roper told him. “But what does is two young toughs with special forces training.”

“You mean—? But why would they do that?” Declan asked.

“Maybe because they went to Winchester and have better manners,” Sara said. “It would certainly answer a lot of questions for me.”

“Well, you’ve got their photos on Declan’s mobile and you girls
have met them face-to-face. I suggest you people leave the crowd and see what you can find, while I notify Ferguson about what’s going on.”

“Which he won’t like one little bit,” Dillon said. “What a night. First we had Billy drowning people in the Thames, now spies at the Dorchester. Where will it end?”

“Just shut up, Sean, and let’s get on with it.” And she led the way out.

—

Terry Harker had found an old terry-cloth robe from his boxing days but was still cold, lying on the bed in the bolt-hole, listening to the rain pounding down outside.

When his mobile sounded, he answered instantly, and the Master said, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been shot, you idiot, how do you expect me to feel?”

“Even worse when I tell you what’s happened to your friends Eric, Myra, and the little task force whose intention was to burn the Dark Man
to the ground.”

“Okay, so tell me the worst. What went wrong?”

“Wrong for your friends, you mean? Happy to oblige. Billy Salter boarded the
Tara
, and when he found Myra considerably worse for wear and with three roughnecks for company, he locked them in the saloon and opened the seacocks.”

Terry was aware of sweat rolling down his face in spite of the cold and said hoarsely, “What happened to Myra, did Eric manage to save her?”

“He did get a shot off, which didn’t do the slightest good, as
Billy was wearing a vest. Billy responded by shooting him between the eyes and just managed to transfer boats as the
Tara
went down.”

“Bastard,” Terry roared. “I’ll get Billy Salter for what he’s done to Myra, and maybe I’ll get you.”

“Stop making stupid threats, Terry. We’ll get the lot of them, I promise you,” the Master said, and switched off.

The ballroom seemed more crowded than ever, particularly the dance floor, and it was obvious that a good time was being had by all. Dillon and Declan, Sara and Hannah, paused after coming in from the Promenade bar and Roper spoke to Dillon.

“Where are you?” Roper asked. Dillon told him, and Roper said, “Wait there. Ferguson wants a word. He’s not exactly happy.”

Dillon had just started telling the others when Ferguson pushed his way through the crowd, followed by Henry Frankel, who was smiling cheerfully as usual.

“Ah, there you are,” Frankel said. “Isn’t this fun? I’ve heard all about young Billy Salter’s exploits and now this. I haven’t had such a good time in years.”

“Do shut up, Henry,” Ferguson said grimly. “There’s nothing funny about it,” and he addressed the group. “I’ve had a quick word with Jake Cazalet, so he knows what’s going on. He’s proved very popular tonight, thank God, so he’s helping the PM by keeping the French Foreign Minister happy, plus Sir Howard Glynn and assorted hangers-on.”

“So what do you want us to do” Sara asked.

“Find them, Captain,” Ferguson said. “These two, Herim and Khalid. Find them now.” He turned to Frankel, face grim. “Have you anything worthwhile to say, Henry?”

“Yes, Charles, come back and sit down before you have a stroke.” He took Ferguson’s arm and winked at Dillon. “Good luck, you lot,” and he led Ferguson away.

—

There was still a sizable crowd over by the buffet. Ali and Khalid had managed to get a table early in the evening and had hung on to it. The view of the ballroom was good, and a couple of very large potted palms gave a certain cover. Ali waited there for Khalid to return, eyes scanning the crowd.

He had felt uncomfortable on first meeting Sara Gideon, and even more so in the Promenade bar earlier. When she’d looked at him, he’d sensed a query and couldn’t understand why. The sight of Declan Rashid in the flesh hadn’t worried him, though, because he knew for a fact that they’d never had occasion to meet during their army service.

There was a disturbance a few yards away, Hamid Bey arguing with a young waiter at the buffet, Lily Shah trying to placate him. He gave her an elbow that sent her staggering, and Ali jumped to his feet and caught her as Khalid appeared, carrying Krug in a bucket and two glasses.

“Get up, woman,” Hamid Bey said harshly in Arabic, and Ali answered him in the same language.

“She is not your dog, so give her the respect the Koran expects
you to offer her as a woman.” He shook his head. “There is only one dog here.” He turned to Lily. “Are you all right?”

“I was an army nurse for seven years. I carry a Colt in my purse. I’m fine.” She turned to the imam. “We parked in Henry Street. I’m going now.”

“No, you aren’t,” he told her.

“You can get a cab when you’re ready,” she replied.

She made straight for the door that a waiter had used and was gone. Hamid Bey glared at Ali and Khalid and went after her.

The cork had already been thumbed out of the bottle of Krug, and Khalid filled two glasses. “There you are, Cousin. What a bastard that man was.”

“And did you notice they’d parked in Henry Street?” Ali asked. “That’s where we left our car.”

He raised his glass and saw Hannah standing nearby, leaning on her walking stick, remembered she’d arrived with Sara Gideon and knew they were in trouble.

But he played out his role. “We have a little lost lamb here, Tony,” and he smiled at Hannah. “Can we help?”

“Only if you’re Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed of the SFP. And I have to tell you, I’ve seen your photos, so there’s no point in denying it. You’re lovely chaps and your performance is first-rate. You should have been actors.”

Khalid smiled engagingly. “That’s been said before. I realize who you are. The pianist.”

“Who was blown up with your mother and father,” Ali said. “Which explains your walking stick.”

Khalid topped up his glass of Krug, offered it to her, and
Hannah took it automatically. “Nice to chat, but we’ll have to love you and leave you.”

“Don’t try to follow us,” Ali said. “It’s not worth the struggle with the walking stick.”

“Ah, gentlemen to the end.”

“We try, I suppose,” Khalid said. “Life really is a bitch sometimes, but then you found that out rather early.” He nodded to Ali, and then they rushed the door at the end of the bar and were gone.

Hannah sat down at the empty table, drank the Krug, and called Sara, who answered at once. “Where are you?”

“Sitting by the bar at the end of the buffet. I found them, and to be frank, they’re rather nice.”

She quickly covered the business with Hamid Bey and Lily Shah, the confrontation with Ali and Khalid. “Just one thing. When Lily walked out on the imam, she told them they were parked in Henry Street. Does that ring any bells with you?”

“I know it well. It’s a short walk to the hotel. A quiet street with good parking, close to South Audley Street. That’s why people use it.”

“Ali Herim heard that and mentioned that he and Khalid Abed had also parked there.”

“Say no more,” Sara told her. “Dillon’s got his old Mini parked out front. Join us as quickly as you can.”

—

Ali was already on the phone to the Master as they negotiated the maze of corridors on the ground floor.

“The roof’s fallen in,” he said crisply, and explained what had happened, including the clash with Hamid Bey and Lily.

“I’m wondering whether they will still be in Henry Street when you get there,” the Master said.

“We’ll have to go and see,” Ali told him. “No choice. What happens next, that’s the thing. It’s all unraveling. It won’t take Roper long to work out where we’ve been living. He probably knows now.”

“Yes, I’d avoid the place in Pimlico. If you’ve obeyed orders, you’ll have backup passports on your person?”

“We have,” Ali said.

“Excellent. Just find your car and get out of there. Find a modest hotel for the night, and I’ll be in touch with a new plan of action for you.”

“And the Minister of War in Tehran?”

“You don’t go anywhere near him. Roper has probably penetrated his systems. Just get to Henry Street, recover your car, and drive carefully away.”

He switched off, and a few moments later, Ali and Khalid had opened a service door and peered out into Park Lane. Taxis were pulling in, people already leaving the function, and it was raining heavily. Ali closed the service door again.

“We’ll get soaked. See if there’s anything that’ll help around here.” And there was. A storeroom with a number of yellow oilskins and a large Dorchester umbrella.

“We can share it,” Ali said, and they put on the oilskins, stepped out into Park Lane, then opened the umbrella and walked briskly away.

“English rain,” Ali said. “There’s nothing like it.”