Rain on the Dead (30 page)

Ali Saif was lying there, festooned with lines that monitored his vital organs, the low hum of machines that were essential to keeping him alive. Suddenly, his eyes opened. He stared at them, and then panic set in and he seemed to shrink, pulling out the line to his
saline bags. Maggie, backed by a young nurse standing at her elbow, had to rush to save him. As they struggled to hold him so they could insert his line again, Dillon stepped forward instinctively to help, trying to hold him still.

Saif’s eyes widened as if recognizing him for the first time, and he gripped Dillon’s tie. “Sean?” he asked hoarsely, hesitated as if not sure, then spoke in Arabic very fast.

A third nurse had appeared, a hypodermic ready. Maggie said, “Is something going on here, Sean?”

“Yes, I think so, but give him rest for the moment. I’ll take care of things.”

The needle went in, the result was incredibly quick, Dillon easing his tie free, and between them, he was dropped back against the pillow, every line in his body thoroughly checked. Maggie nodded to her two nurses, who left.

Sara’s face was blank, frozen, without expression. Hannah looked from one to another. “Is there the slightest chance that one of you could please explain what’s been going on here? I can speak Irish, Cousin, and so can you, but what was he using when he talked to you?”

“Arabic,” he said. “Sara can tell you what he said, and rather better than I can. I’m choking on it at the moment.”

There was a terrible silence. “Perhaps I should leave?” Maggie Duncan said.

“You’re as much entitled to be here as I am, after all the years you’ve given to our damn trade. Sara, explain to Hannah, if you don’t mind.”

“Ali Saif was speaking Arabic, and what he said to Sean
was: Beware the Devil who comes to you disguised as your best friend,” Sara said. “But you are my best friend and the major is the Devil.”

Maggie said, “The major? You don’t mean—Shelby? Max Shelby?” No tears, her face was if carved from stone, but Maggie Duncan’s eyes were wild. “Oh, dear God, what would make anyone say such a thing?”

Sara put an arm around her. “There’s always a reason, Maggie, even though it’s a bad one to other people.” She kissed her on the forehead. “Not a word to Bellamy, and certainly not to Sir Howard Glynn. This is for bigger people than us to decide on. Keep a close eye on Saif and Lily, though I doubt they’ll be in any danger now.”

“As you say, Captain.”

“Good, then we’ll go back to Holland Park with the news.”

Maggie nodded. “God help me, but I want so much to find there’s an explanation.”

“Well, hang on to that thought if it makes you feel better,” Dillon told her. “As we say in County Down, pigs might fly, but I doubt it.” When they were at the car, he said, “Would you mind driving, Sara, and you sit with her, Hannah? I’m going to call Roper and tell him what’s happened.”

“You mean prepare him for the worst,” Hannah said. It would be something of a shock to hear that your enemy turned out to be somebody you’d always thought was on your side.

“The world we live in can be a strange place sometimes. Ask Declan Rashid about it. On our last big case involving al-Qaeda, the Master turned out to be not only an important Iranian general, he was Declan Rashid’s commanding officer.”

“That must have given Declan a problem,” Hannah said as they drove away.

“It certainly did, which is why he’s where he is today.”

Dillon cut in. “I’m calling Roper now.”

He was answered at once. Dillon said, “What would you say if I told you I know who the Master is?”

“If you tell me Major Max Shelby, I’d say Snap!” Roper said. “Because that was what SYNOD tells me. He answered the Flynn mobile you’d provided, Sean, and cut it on the instant. When he heard my voice, I suspect. But he’d been caught by the link, and he can’t get away from that.”

“His address?”

“Top floor of an old Edwardian town house in a quiet part of Mayfair, not far from the Connaught Hotel.”

“Does he know that he’s blown?” Sara cut in.

“All I can say is that we haven’t approached him in any way. It’s an extremely tricky situation.”

“A policy decision which obviously can’t continue. Take Rosedene, for example. Maggie Duncan’s already aware of the possibility. How does she handle the situation if he contacts her to inquire how Lily Shah and Ali Herim are doing, and Dr. Ali Saif? It’s got to be sorted, and quickly.”

“It will be, and at the highest level, Sean.” Roper said. “Ferguson has reported to Downing Street and taken Cazalet with him. If he hadn’t mentioned SYNOD, we’d still be in the dark.”

“So it’s all hands to the pumps, is it?” Dillon said. “Well, he could do worse than draft in a man like Cazalet.”

“Exactly,” Roper said. “I can’t get over the fact that such important answers came from a system supposedly way out of date.”

“Or listening to the ravings of a very sick man which turned out to be true,” Dillon said. “We’ll see soon.”

—

Max Shelby’s day had been a disaster. First, Sir Howard Glynn’s chauffeur had been violently sick while waiting to take him to Rosedene to visit Lily and Captain Ali Herim, so Shelby had had to replace him. And it had been a grave error on his part to look in on Ali Saif in the first place. Shelby had tried to assassinate him outside Holland Park because he’d been aware for some time of Saif’s suspicions of him. Rosedene had been the wrong place to close in on Saif, with Lily Shah wandering around like a frightened ghost. Saif’s fear of him didn’t help either.

Worst of all, and very clumsy, to try and finish Saif off by pulling out the lines necessary to keep him alive had got him nowhere except to fuel suspicion from Maggie Duncan. That had been confirmed when he had phoned her, asking to be put through to Lily, and had been refused and asked not to phone again.

That, coupled with a dearth of telephone calls, spoke for itself. It was time to go, but where? He was giving everyone a terrible problem. His great-great-grandfather who’d built the house, a survivor of war in Afghanistan and a major general, would have had an easy answer to fall back on. A large brandy and a pistol to blow out your brains, but that would have been a betrayal of not only his son but his wife. Al-Qaeda and the Grand Council would not be pleased, but he didn’t give a damn about them when it came right down to it. They’d looked on him as a prize of war, if you like. A seriously disturbed individual who’d lost his son, and because of that, his wife, and wanted to make someone pay.

—

In the Prime Minister’s office, the PM, Cazalet, and Henry Frankel were deep in discussion when there was a tap at the door. Frankel opened it, and Ferguson entered. “Any news?” the PM asked.

“He’s been seen coming out of the Connaught Hotel. That’s very close to his house in Mayfair. If he’s going home, I’ll know very soon.”

“And then you’ll speak to him?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Yes, I think so.” He turned to Cazalet. “What do you think?”

“Well, I can see you favor the friendly approach.”

“We’d much rather this whole unfortunate business wasn’t happening at all,” Ferguson said. “I’d prefer a chance to make it look like that. The British press would make a meal of it, and as for television . . .” He shrugged.

“One thing I learned was never to jump to conclusions,” said Cazalet. “We all wish it never happened, so go easy. Negotiate, that’s what I learned as a junior officer in Vietnam dealing with the enemy, and as president of the United States years later.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Ferguson said, and took out his Codex.

“Well, you do that,” Frankel said. “And don’t forget he shot two men and a woman who are patients in Rosedene because of his itchy trigger finger.”

“Yes, all very unfortunate, Henry,” Ferguson said, “but they’re not dead yet. Now, kindly shut up while I make this call.” He got an instant response and said, “That you, Max? So you’re at home now?”

“I should have thought that was obvious, Charles. I’m surprised you didn’t have me lifted. You’d enough people on the job.”

“Don’t be silly,” Ferguson said. “It’d be a stupid thing to grab you publicly. A police car might drive past at the wrong moment and wonder what was going on. Where would we be then?”

“I wonder why I didn’t think of that,” Shelby said. “What happens now?”

“We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Well, there’s the fact that you’ve been going around shooting people. We can’t have that.”

Shelby laughed. “You old hypocrite. You’ve been doing that for years. Anyway, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I’ll have words with Sara Gideon and Dillon at my house. It’s the pride and joy of my great-great-grandfather, the general. He called it Kabul Place, so that he’d never forget how long it had taken him to get out of that city alive. It had another makeover in Edwardian times, and I’ve improved it with modern security equipment. You’d be wasting your time trying to break in, even if you used the SAS.”

“Max, why on earth would we do that? We just want to sort this unfortunate business out.”

“Sara and Dillon, that’s all, and I’ll see them in the entry porch. Four o’clock and on the dot. If they’re not there, I’ll shut up shop. Give the PM my regards. Tell him I voted for him last time and have never regretted it. President Cazalet, you’re a credit to your country. That’s it, gentlemen, curtain to applause.” And he switched off.

Henry Frankel said, “If you ask me, I think he’s on something.”

“Never mind, we’ve got him,” Ferguson said. “I trust you’re all right with that, Prime Minister. I’m returning to Holland Park to brief the troops. I’m sure you’d like to join me,” he said to Cazalet,
“and you’ll be very welcome as well, Henry, as long as you’ll promise to keep your trap shut.”

—

In the computer room, Roper played a recording of the phone conversation, which was listened to again by Henry Frankel and Cazalet, while the Salters, Sara, Dillon, and Hannah tried to make sense of it for the first time.

When it finished, Frankel said, “I stand by what I said. He must be on some drug. How can he keep himself so calm and controlled after all that he’s done?”

Hannah said, “Maybe it goes something like this. His son died horribly in the Afghan War, his mother as a consequence of that. Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t taken an overdose and finished things.”

“The voice of youth,” Frankel said.

“Not exactly,” Hannah told him. “The fruits of bitter experience, of being blown up by a bomb in your car that took your mother and father, crippled you and left you going out of your mind, until some wonderful therapists and psychiatrists took you by the hand and said not that way, this way, and restored you to sanity.”

Henry Frankel was horrified, as they all sat taking in what had been said, and Hannah looked about her and stood up. “I’ve shocked you, I’m afraid, but it’s important to realize that the man who has betrayed his friends and shot people is not the same man he once was. That’s the real tragedy here. I’m in my room, if anyone wants me.”

She turned and walked out, her stick tapping, and Sara stood up and went after her.

—

Henry Frankel departed, very subdued, and Harry Salter moved to say good-bye to Roper. “Any developments with the Sash?”

“Closed up tight,” Roper said. “The few members of staff left, laid off. It seems Myra Tully was way in over her head with loans. The bank’s slapped a bankruptcy order on the business.”

“And what about the
Tara
?”

“Missing from its moorings. Reported to the River Police by the bank as possibly stolen. They tell me it happens all the time.”

“Nothing seems to be safe these days,” Harry said. “Come on, Billy,” and they left.

—

The rain continued heavy and persistent all day, and there was more than a hint of fog as Parker drove the splendid old Daimler that was Ferguson’s special pride down toward Mayfair. Ferguson and Cazalet, Sara and Dillon, sat in the back.

“Not much sign of MI5 today,” Cazalet said. “That surprises me.”

“An operation like this is by Prime Minister’s Warrant, and usually we don’t need anyone else—except when we do, and that’s today. As a professional courtesy, Sir Howard Glynn has placed a substantial number of his people around Kabul Place.”

“I suppose that’s very kind of him.” Cazalet turned to Sara. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain? It certainly makes sense to me.”

“The only thing about that, sir, is that it will make such good sense to Max that he’ll probably do something that’s not expected.
I’ve soldiered with him in the badlands of Helmand Province, and he survived twelve years out there.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Ferguson said. “So it’s up to you to ferret out what he might be considering.”

“Which is exactly what we’re going to do.” Dillon said, gazing out. “This rain takes me back to Belfast at its worst, when you felt the Troubles were going to last forever.”

“I thought they did, Sean,” Sara said, as the Daimler drew up to the imposing pile that was Kabul Place.

Parker was opening the door for her before the others had time to unscramble themselves. She was out ahead of Dillon, and as he found her, Ferguson pulled the door closed behind them and the Daimler left.

Dillon watched it disappear into the rain as Sara opened a small umbrella she had been carrying. He looked up at the house and there was nothing Afghan about it, tall at five stories including the roof area.

“I presume you’ve been here more than once in the past.”

“Never.” She shook her head. “It was a known thing that Max and his wife didn’t entertain. I met him at first, before I met you, because we soldiered together with the Intelligence Corps. He was my mentor when it came to Pashto.”

“Did you know his wife?”

“Absolutely. A gentle soul who endured bad health for years. She went totally to pieces when their son was killed in Helmand. She simply couldn’t cope.”

A voice rang out. “All right, when you’ve finished talking about me, get up here before you’re washed away,” Max Shelby called.

—

The garage area was around the back, as was most of the garden, which was small, but picturesque at the front, a path leading to broad steps mounting to a large conservatory porch, Victorian style, metalwork bars, the front door behind it leading into the darkness of a hall. Max Shelby sat staring out through the bars, and was sitting by a wicker table, an open bottle of Chianti and a glass standing on it, a Glock pistol close to his hand.