Читать книгу Rain on the Dead - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

Yanni and Khalid had reached the house without the slightest trouble, following the beach, passing the occasional barbecue, sometimes a fire. There were lots of other people in the darkness, laughter, guitar music, but there was no one by the Cazalet house.

They passed it, turning up the left side of the estate through a marshy area with reeds growing high, found a place where the fencing gaped and squeezed into the garden. They could hear conversation and laughter, light through the trees and shrubbery.

They had taken pills before leaving the cottage and were feeling the effects. ‘Are you getting high, brother?’ Yanni whispered.

‘I’m floating, man,’ Khalid told him.

‘Then put on your face.’

Yanni pulled the ski mask on, and grinned as his brother did the same. ‘You look like a clown.’

‘So do you,’ Khalid told him, and took his Glock out and dropped the shoulder bag to the ground. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Yanni, and led the way cautiously.

On the terrace, they were at the coffee stage, Ferguson and Cazalet sitting down and Dalton pouring it out. Dillon was standing by the open window, enjoying a cigarette. There were three stone steps leading up to the terrace crowded with overgrown shrubbery, and Sara stood there waiting for her coffee. Yanni crouched, watching her admiringly. His brother stood a few feet away in heavy bushes behind the balustrade.

They could have killed everyone if they’d fired without hesitating, but the drugs had taken full control and they were shaking with excitement, and it was Yanni who made the first move.

‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and took three quick steps up to the terrace. Sara half turned and he hit her sideways in the face, pulled her against him, and rammed the barrel of the Glock into her side. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’

‘Oh God,’ she moaned, as if terrified, and closed her eyes, apparently fainting, starting to slide to the floor so that he was losing his grasp.

Dalton was already drawing his weapon and jumping in front of Cazalet. Khalid stepped out of the bushes and shot him in the chest. In the same moment, Dillon drew the Colt .25 he always carried in a rear belt holder and fired rapidly three times, the hollow-point cartridges tearing Khalid apart, hurling him back into the shrubbery.

Yanni howled in rage, allowed Sara to slide, and fired once at Dillon, denting the wall. Sara withdrew the flick knife from the sheath she always wore around her right ankle, sprang the blade, and stabbed him under the chin. He dropped his weapon, fell back down the steps, and lay in the middle of rosebushes, kicking as he choked to death.

There had been surprisingly little sound, just the dull thud of silenced weapons, and Cazalet was already on his knees with Ferguson, examining Dalton, Dillon standing over them, his gun still in his hand. Dalton groaned and Cazalet looked up in relief.

‘Thank God, he was wearing his vest. I’ll leave him to you, Charles, while I raise the alarm.’

He found Dalton’s cell phone and called in. ‘This is Cazalet. Empire down. Two intruders down. Request Nightbird Retrieval.’

He said to the others, ‘Which means a cover-up job by the CIA. It should be easy enough, since all the weapons were silenced, so the neighbours shouldn’t have any idea what’s been going on, and as you know, the occasional helicopter landing is nothing new here.’ He turned to Sara. ‘I can see why they awarded you a Military Cross in Afghanistan, but your suit will never be the same again. It’s badly bloodstained.’

‘No problem, sir, I have another in my luggage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room to shower and change.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

As she moved out, Dillon murmured, ‘Are you okay?’

She held up a bloodstained hand. ‘As usual, not even shaking.’

‘Just like in the Bible. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’

‘Which doesn’t help me in the slightest,’ she said, and went out.

Cazalet eased Dalton onto a chair and gave him some brandy to sip. Dillon poured champagne for himself and Ferguson, who said, ‘God knows why we’re drinking this, but it’s a pity to waste good stuff.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Dillon toasted him.

Cazalet cut in: ‘Did you two hear what the one she killed said to her?’

Dillon nodded. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’

‘It appears that Al Qaeda has found us, right here in Nantucket.’

The Nightbird was of medium size, black in colour, the engine noise remarkably quiet. A dozen men in black overalls got out. The officer in charge, wearing the same black uniform, was calm and efficient.

‘Colonel Sam Caxton, Mr President. We’ll be treating this as a crime scene, although it’s not a police investigation. If you would, I’d like you all to wait inside and two of my men will record interviews with you, both individually and together, to cover all the bases. We also have a doctor with us, just to check you all out.’

‘We’re at your service, Colonel,’ Cazalet said.

‘If you could move in, we’ll get started. It goes without saying that we’re delighted to find you in one piece.’

He went out, and Cazalet said to Dalton, ‘How do you feel, Frank?’

‘The vest I’m wearing can stop a forty-four.’

‘You deserve a medal, jumping in front of me like that.’

‘That’s what I’m paid to do, sir.’

Cazalet clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s all return to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.’

On the Dolphin out at sea, the lights of Nantucket had faded when Kelly entered the wheelhouse with two mugs of tea and gave one to Tod, who was listening to a jazz trio.

‘Sounds good. Who is it?’ Kelly asked.

‘No idea. It’s Nantucket local radio. I was waiting to hear if there were any news reports.’

‘What are you going to tell the Master?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ He sighed. ‘Probably better get it over with.’

‘I’d like to hear that,’ Kelly said. ‘Put it on speaker.’

In a moment, they were connected.

‘This is Tod Flynn.’

‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Are you still in Nantucket?’

‘We’re at sea. Couldn’t contact the Chechens, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of action at the Cazalet house. Nothing on local news, either, so I decided the smart thing to do was leave.’

The Master cut in. ‘Then I have news for you. Yanni and Khalid are dead, bagged, and waiting to be flown away.’

Shocked, Tod made an instinctive response. ‘That’s impossible. How could you know that?’

‘Because I provided backup that even the Chechens did not know about. A woman sympathetic to our cause that I had in place. After I phoned you, I called her. She had seen you casting off to go to sea and smelled a rat, went after the Chechens herself, and was right behind when they entered Cazalet’s jungle of a garden. There was no time to warn them.’

‘So what happened?’ Tod asked.

‘The Chechens were butchered. Dillon shot Khalid, and the Gideon woman stabbed Yanni with a knife. When a CIA black unit arrived by helicopter, she slipped away.’

‘A hell of a cool customer,’ Tod said.

‘Yes, a remarkable lady – but to business. Admit it, you were doing a runner. You never even attempted to warn those boys.’

‘Okay, we were. We know Dillon from way back in the Troubles. Nobody messes with him, he’s a killing machine and the Gideon woman is the same. If we had tried to find them, we’d be lying dead next to the Chechens.’

‘Nevertheless, that was your charge. You owe me a quarter of a million dollars.’

Tod said, ‘We didn’t sign up for any of this. You lied about everything. It wasn’t our fault that things turned out the way they did.’

‘Don’t think you can shirk your responsibility. Everybody is accountable. But you can keep the money.’

Tod was astonished. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You and Kelly are men of a mercenary persuasion, as the song goes. Go home to Drumgoole, to your horses and the stud and your aunt Meg – she runs things there, correct? Oh, and you’ll be losing your niece Hannah; she just heard yesterday that she’s been accepted by the Royal College of Music in London.’

‘Damn you, how do you know all this?’

‘I know everything, Tod, I thought you knew that. I just want to make sure you realize that there is nowhere that you – and yours – can go that I can’t touch. Now, I have tickets waiting for you at the airport. When you get home, shave off the beards and it will be as if you never left Ireland, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty of friends to swear you never did. Good luck and try to stay sober. I’ll be in touch soon, and this time you are going to earn the money you have from me.’

He faded away, the Dolphin plowed on, rain bouncing off the screen. Kelly said, ‘Is he for real?’

‘Oh, yes, and a barrel of laughs, too. I admire his fine turn of phrase.’

‘Well, he’s going to want something for his quarter of a million bucks, God knows what. Here, you take the helm. I’m going below to try to get a little shut-eye.’

Sara Gideon lay in bed in a dressing gown, unable to sleep. Outside, the wind howled, rain rattled against the window. There was a knock at the door, which opened and Dillon peered in. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Ferguson and Cazalet are downstairs and there’s an intermittent flow of information about the two people we knocked off. They’re Chechen brothers, but American, brought into the country as refugees with their grandparents, who have since died. Shouldn’t be long before we know everything about them.’

‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that.’

‘Why?’

‘It was all so wild, weird even. It was as if a piece of foolish nonsense came to an unlooked-for end.’

‘That’s really quite literary,’ Dillon told her. ‘Are you by chance regretting the fact that you had to kill that maniac?’

‘Not at all, he’d have finished us all off. Dammit, Sean, he got a shot off at you that just missed.’

‘And you put the knife in to save my life, girl,’ Dillon said. ‘So bless you for that.’

‘Anything else happening?’

‘Well, Ferguson’s spoken to Roper in London, and I’m sure he’s been put to work. You can feel free to contact him on your mobile if you want.’

In the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, wearing a dressing gown, a towel about his neck, his bomb-ravaged face shining with sweat. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey when Sara called.

‘My goodness, love, so you’ve been playing executioner again?’

‘No choice, Giles, not this time. Sean was his usual deadly self.’ She shivered. ‘Seconds, Giles, just seconds. It could have turned out so badly for all of us.’

‘Well, it didn’t, and that’s all that counts.’

‘So who do you think was behind them? You’re the best that I know at squeezing answers out of cyberspace.’

‘I have to agree with you, but these things take time. Besides, you have to remember that what happened tonight in Nantucket didn’t happen. Nobody heard a thing, nobody saw a thing. And if nothing happened, then no one can claim responsibility. I’m certainly not going to go online saying there’s a rumour that there was an assassination attempt on former President Jake Cazalet. Then everyone would know – and all the wrong sort of people would claim responsibility.’

‘So what can you do?’

‘Just wait and watch, see if anything unusual pops out. You never know. Anyway, get some sleep. I’ll see you when you get back.’

Dalton had reluctantly gone to sleep on a couch in the sitting room, and Cazalet and Ferguson sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and turning things over between them.

‘I’m almost flattered that someone feels I’m worth being a target,’ Cazalet said.

‘Nonsense, you were a great President. Your death would have made headlines around the world.’

‘Maybe,’ Cazalet admitted grudgingly. ‘Anyway, there was one matter I was asked to raise with you before you leave.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Colonel Declan Rashid. He was an enormous help in the Husseini business, so disgusted at the way Husseini was treated by the Iranian government that he deserted their army and supported your people in everything.’

‘And took a couple of bullets in the back doing it. He’s agreed to work for us when fit again,’ Ferguson added.

‘Well, apparently the CIA would like to talk with him. They’re really quite keen on it, though I expect I know your answer. I told them I’d pass it along, but wouldn’t promise anything.’

‘And you were right. You know Rashid’s history. He was a paratrooper at sixteen and, during Iran’s war with Saddam Hussein, made his first jump into action without training. Over the years, he has been wounded many times, and now his doctors, including our own Professor Bellamy, say enough is enough. He needs time to recuperate. The CIA will just have to retire gracefully from the conflict.’

Cazalet laughed out loud. ‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, let me just check my office messages. I’ve given Mrs Boulder the morning off, so when it comes to breakfast, we’ll all have to pitch in.’

He went out. Ferguson boiled the kettle, made tea, and Dillon entered. ‘You look fit,’ the general said.

‘Didn’t sleep worth a damn, but I dry-shaved and had a cold shower. I could kill for a cup of tea.’

‘Help yourself,’ Ferguson told him. Cazalet came in. ‘Your helicopter arrives at eleven. Also, photos of the Chechens have just come through. The machine’s pumped out some extra copies.’

‘Goodness me,’ Ferguson said. ‘They look like any young convicts from about a century ago.’

Dillon helped himself, took one of the sheets and slipped it in a pocket. Cazalet said, ‘Right, who’s for bacon and eggs?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Ferguson replied, but Dillon said, ‘I think I’d prefer a last walk on the beach, sir. I can get something down there.’

So he left them to it, tiptoeing past Dalton – still sleeping heavily on the couch – and letting himself out on the drive, and was soon walking along the beach. Plenty of tourists were out already, for it was a particularly fine day.

He wandered through them, uncertain about what it was he was looking for. The Chechens fascinated him. Two real wild boys, and how had they got to Nantucket? Looking at the crowded harbour, he found a very possible answer. The sea, because that’s what he would have done.

He went up on the jetty and started to walk along past people working on the decks of the boats, others diving into the harbour and swimming. A young man with a money satchel around his neck and a register in his hands was working his way along the line of boats. The name tag on his shirt said ‘Henry’.

Dillon said, ‘Can you help me? Have you ever seen these guys?’

He unfolded the sheet with both photos. Henry stopped smiling. ‘What have they done, are you a cop?’

‘I work for a security firm,’ Dillon said. ‘They’ve been leaving unpaid bills all over the place.’

‘Sure, I’ve seen them. Yesterday evening, they were around here really high on something and drinking booze, and they had an argument with people on one of the boats. Went off making a hell of a row.’

‘Show me the boat involved.’

‘I saw it leave last night as it was getting dark, which was strange, because the mooring fee was paid until Friday. It was a sport-fisherman, a rental from Quogue. Two guys on board named Jackson and Hawkins. I brought them passports. Maybe they’re just cruising about out there.’

‘I don’t think so. Did you do any copying of their passport details, photos and so on?’

‘No, that would be illegal. Anyway, the national agency just tells me either it’s okay or not okay.’

‘It’s just that I’d been wondering whether you could use a fifty-dollar bill.’

Henry smiled. ‘Only if you’d be happy with a picture I took of them on my phone. They were chatting on deck.’ He took the phone out of his pocket.

‘Why did you take it?’

‘Because jazz and swing are my thing, and Mr Hawkins plays a great clarinet. He turned an old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, into pure Gershwin, special enough to bring tears to the eyes. That’s him with the white beard.’

The disguises, which in effect the bearded faces were, had succeeded brilliantly. Not for a moment had Dillon recognized them from the photo, but Henry’s musical anecdote was unique. It related to the deepest and most poignant moment in Dillon’s life, which meant the man in the white beard was Tim Kelly and the other was probably Tod Flynn.

‘Does it ring any bells, sir?’

‘Not really, it was a hell of a long time ago. I’d like to have a copy of the photo anyway, if that’s okay with you. Can you email it to me?’ Dillon held out the fifty and gave Henry his number.

‘You’re more than welcome, sir.’ Henry sent it and slipped the bill into his pocket. ‘Have a nice day.’

Dillon walked away, his mind in a turmoil, never so conflicted. It was obvious that he should tell Ferguson what he had discovered, but it was impossible to discuss why at the moment, and certainly not with Sara around. She served the Crown, wore the uniform. On the other hand, they were returning to Roper, the bomb-scarred hero trapped in his wheelchair. He nodded to himself. Roper would know what to do. He hurried along the beach.

At the end of the strand across from the house, a mobile beach concession had appeared, a sandwich and burger bar on wheels with canvas chairs and fold-up tables, most of which were taken. Dillon stopped and ordered tea and an egg sandwich, sitting close to the bar.

The woman sympathetic to the Cause whom the Master had mentioned to Flynn sat not too far away, keeping an eye on the situation over the road where the helicopter had just drifted in behind the house. Her name was Lily Shah, and she worked in the dispensary at the Army of God headquarters in London.

She was quite small, wore sandals, a Panama pushed down over fair hair, her blue linen shirt loose over khaki shorts. She removed her Ray-Bans to scratch her nose, revealing a calm, sweet face. She was forty-five and looked younger. On seeing Dillon, she replaced her Ray-Bans, took a sound enhancer from her shirt pocket, slipped it into her right ear, and adjusted it as Sara Gideon crossed the road.

‘Anything special happen while I’ve been out?’ Dillon asked as he finished his tea.

Lily could hear perfectly as Sara answered. ‘The President wants Cazalet safe. The black team from last night is coming in tomorrow to start doing all sorts of security things to the house. Since it’s been in the family since before the Civil War, Cazalet is not pleased. Even more, the staff have been suspended. Dalton’s going to hang on to hand over to the team, and Mrs Boulder keeps Murchison, bless her. And I’m here to tell you to get a move on – we’re boarding the helicopter in minutes.’

They hurried across the road and entered the drive, cutting it very fine, for it seemed no more than five minutes later that the helicopter lifted above the trees and turned away, causing a certain excitement among the tourists.

Once things settled down, Lily wandered along the beach, turned across and down the side of the house, the marshy area with the reeds growing high. She stood looking at the place where the fencing gaped and, on impulse, scrambled through into the garden, and then ventured a little further cautiously to where the carnage had taken place.

The windows on the terrace slipped open and Dalton walked through, comfortable in shirtsleeves, a can of beer in one hand, and sat down on the swing chair. He opened the newspaper, and she pointed her right index finger at him, thumb raised, then smiled, eased back through the jungle of the garden, and left.

Walking back to town, barefoot at the sea’s edge, she phoned the Master and told him what happened. ‘So Ferguson and company will be back to trouble you again very soon.’

‘And trouble is the right word. He’s been a thorn in our side for much too long. I’m sure he was responsible for the disappearance of General Ali ben Levi. We know that he flew in here, to Northolt, in pursuit of the traitor Declan Rashid. This is a fact.’

Referring to Ali ben Levi as flying ‘in here, to Northolt’ Airport had been an unfortunate slip, for his choice of words had indicated that the Master was speaking in London. Come to that, Lily was sure she’d once heard Big Ben chiming in the background of one of his calls. Lily was intrigued, but concentrated on the matter at hand.

‘The Russians tried to eradicate Ferguson and his Prime Minister’s private army some years ago. All they got was a bloody nose,’ she said.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Dr Ali Saif, when he was head of education at the Army of God.’

‘What a damn traitor he turned out to be. Another turncoat.’

‘But not to Ferguson. As far as I know, MI5 claimed him. Perhaps he found it preferable to facing twenty-five years in Belmarsh under anti-terrorism laws,’ Lily said.

‘A traitor is a traitor. And as far as Ferguson goes, I’ve received an order from the Grand Council. They want revenge for ben Levi. Nothing less than assassination. Bullet or bomb, I’m open to either.’ He laughed. ‘I suppose I could put it to Tod Flynn.’

Lily was shocked at the implication. ‘The political upheaval would be enormous.’

‘And so it should be. That would be the point. That no one is safe, not even those working at the highest level for the Prime Minister himself, and there’s a thought.’

Lily tried to sound enthused, but managed only a muted ‘I hear what you say.’

‘Good. With luck, you should be back in London tomorrow. Give my sincere thanks to Hamid Bey for allowing you the few days’ leave to assist me as you have. He has been a revelation once he took over as imam. AQ acknowledges its debt.’

‘I’ll speak to him as soon as I get back. Is there anything more I can do for you?’

‘Yes, I’d like you to look up Tod Flynn’s niece at the Royal College of Music. She interests me. It seems that when she was fourteen, she lost her parents to a car bomb on a trip to Ulster and was crippled.’

‘Dear God,’ Lily said, genuinely shocked.

‘Her father was Flynn’s elder brother, Peter. Flynn became her legal guardian, and she’s been raised by him and her great-aunt. I want to know more about her. Something tells me it’ll come in handy for keeping Mr Flynn in hand.’

‘The usual file?’

‘Exactly, now be on your way. God go with you.’

She continued to walk at the water’s edge, thinking of Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now converted to the mosque and the headquarters of the Army of God charity. She was a cockney girl who from childhood had only wanted to be a nurse, had qualified against the odds and then joined the Army Medical Corps. In the seven years that followed, one war after another had given her an unrivalled experience of the barbarism, the butchery, that people could inflict on one another.

In Bosnia, she’d seen open graves with hundreds of Muslim bodies tumbled into them, as if the Nazis had returned to haunt Europe. In Kosovo, you had to get out of the ambulances to pull the corpses of mothers and their children to one side of the road so you could continue. In northern Lebanon, she had served with the Red Cross and UN with only a handful of soldiers to try to control the rape and pillage outside the mission hospital.

It was the only time she’d fought, and that was in desperation, picking up a dead soldier’s Browning pistol and emptying it into savage faces one after another, and then the trucks had roared up with the men and rifles. Al Qaeda, ruthlessly shooting wrongdoers, bringing order where there was none.

Two years later and out of the army, a nursing sister at the Cromwell Hospital in London, she’d met the love of her life, Khalid Shah, a handsome Algerian charge nurse, married him, and they’d moved to the dispensary at Pound Street, where it became clear that he was a follower of Osama bin Laden.

It was a year later that the cruelty of life took him away from her, when Al Qaeda called him in for service in Gaza, an Israeli air strike a month later ensuring his stay was permanent. She couldn’t hate Jews because of what had happened, for her dark secret, even from Khalid, was that she was only a Christian through her father, because her mother was a Jew and had married out. Hamid Bey, the imam at Pound Street Mosque, seemed a reasonable man, and as the dispensary was multi-faith, Lily’s Christianity caused no problem. The fact that he also looked the other way where Al Qaeda was concerned was understandable, when one considered that the greater part of his congregation supported it. She had yet to realize that she was entirely wrong in her assessment of Hamid, a savage zealot, who supported the Cause as much as the Master.

As her husband Khalid had been very open about his dedication to Al Qaeda, Lily had, to a certain extent, been drawn in. After all, it was the ruthless actions of Al Qaeda in Lebanon, saving many lives, including her own, which had made it possible for the most important relationship of her life to take place. And when that had ended, the telephone call from the Master to commiserate had opened a door into what followed. When General Ali ben Levi had been killed, she had not wondered why the Master’s voice had suddenly become different, for it was her place to serve without question.

But what had taken place here in Nantucket was like a bad dream that wouldn’t go away and not like anything that had happened before. Not even like Lebanon and the massacre and the intervention of Al Qaeda, which had saved so many lives.

She glanced at her watch and saw the time. If she was going to catch the ferry, she’d have to run. She slung her beach bag over her shoulder and started to do just that.