Читать книгу The Midnight Bell - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 11

THE LATE AFTERNOON RAIN came with a sudden rush at Highfield Court that sent Sadie Cohen running upstairs to see that no windows were open. She checked all the bedrooms, finishing with Hannah’s, where she found one open a little.

“Naughty girl,” she muttered. “Typical.”

Not that she meant it, for she had come to realize for some time now that Hannah was the daughter she’d never had. Hannah, who’d lost her mother and father to the car bomb in Northern Ireland that had killed them and crippled her, returned her affection completely. The fact that she was Catholic and Sadie Jewish was irrelevant.

Sadie slammed the window down, peering out because this was her favorite view, high up on the fourth floor of the house, the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square no more than a couple of hundred yards away.

It never failed to please, and she looked down at the garden, which was at its best, flowers in season, poplar trees swaying, but then she frowned at a flash of yellow down there. A man in an oilskin jacket stepped out of the rhododendron bushes, stood there in the rain, then stepped back into cover.

Sadie went downstairs, entered the kitchen, opened a large wooden drawer, and took out a sawed-off shotgun and a packet of cartridges. She loaded the weapon quickly, then went out in the hall, approached the front door cautiously, and waited, the shadow of a man outside.

Her Codex sounded, and as she pulled it out one-handed to answer, the shadow vanished from view.

“Sadie Cohen,” she said.

“Hi, love,” Hannah replied. “Sara and I are on our way. Should be with you in fifteen minutes.”

“You’ll be welcome,” Sadie told her. “Because we appear to have a guest in the garden. Could be others, too.”

“Remain inside,” Hannah told her. “Intruder,” she said to Sara, and called Roper. “Where’s Dillon?”

“When he turned up and found you gone, he said he’d join you,” Roper told her. “I’ll check and tell him to put his foot down.”

“Dillon’s on his way,” she told Sara, who said, “That’s a comfort. I bet it’s the Brotherhood. They’ve tried before, three or four pretending to be seeing to waterworks or drains or something like that.”

Hannah produced her Colt .25 and checked it. “Well, the bastards can bring it on as far as I’m concerned.”

“I couldn’t agree more, love.” Sara was smiling. “Isn’t it great to be a woman?”

“Absolutely,” Hannah told her.

“So as the great Bette Davis said, ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,’” and Sara put her foot down hard as they roared away.

SADIE TURNED OFF the hall light, but as the darkness had increased considerably and very quickly, she switched on the garden lights. The conservatory was in darkness, and she stood there beside the Schiedmayer concert grand in the study, waiting and watching.

There was some sort of movement out there. She waited, then switched on the conservatory lights, illuminating two men in yellow oilskin uniforms peering in the window.

They backed away hurriedly into the darkness, and Sadie was filled with fury, turned the key, and flung open the door.

“Who the hell are you?” she called. “Get out of this house.” She went down the terrace steps, cocking the sawed-off. “I’ll shoot without hesitation,” which she did, firing one barrel into the night sky.

One of the men jumped out of the thicket behind her, grabbing at her wrist, forcing the sawed-off up, and tearing it from Sadie’s grip. A second came to his aid, trying to control her as she kicked, and two more men in yellow oilskins ran in through the open gates to help them.

The Land Rover arrived just after that, swerving in, Sara braking so hard that she sprayed gravel over everyone. She slid from the driver’s side, drawing her Colt, and Hannah joined her on the other side, weapon in hand.

“All right,” Sara cried. “That’s enough.”

The one who had picked up the sawed-off said, “I don’t think so, Captain Gideon. If you and the girl don’t put down your weapons, I will blow your housekeeper’s head off.”

On the instant, Hannah shot off the lower half of his left ear.

He cried out, blood spurting, and dropped the shotgun, and Dillon seemed to slide in at the wheel of the Mini at the same time, spraying another wave of gravel.

“My goodness, but you girls have been having fun,” he said, as he got out.

“What kept you, cousin?” Hannah demanded.

One of the men reached down to grab the shotgun, and Dillon kicked him in the face. The man fell over, and the others cried out in protest.

Dillon said, “Line up and shut up, or someone else could lose half an ear.” He turned to Hannah. “There you go, stealing my favorite party trick.”

“It runs in the family,” she told him. “The way they treated Sadie, they got what they deserved.”

“On that point, I wouldn’t argue with you.” Dillon turned to the lineup. “Who’s going to tell me who sent you, although I don’t expect to be surprised.”

They stared at him stony faced, and no one said a word except Dillon, who told them exactly what he thought of them in harsh but fluent Arabic. They stared at him in astonishment, and he returned to English.

“So let’s try again, and I would suggest that one half ear a night is enough.”

The man with the ear bleeding into the handkerchief he held against it said, “Imam Yousef Shah, although I suspect you know that.”

“As it happens, I do, so what would your name be?”

“Hamid Abed.”

“Well, keep better company is my advice. Take them to their van, Hannah. Send them on their way, and you have my permission to shoot anybody who makes a false move. Keep an eye on her, Sara, while I help Sadie indoors. She’s shaking.”

Hannah shepherded them outside to their yellow van and waited for them to scramble in. Hamid still held the handkerchief to his ear as he turned to her.

“You use that gun like a soldier. Who taught you to do that, memsahib?”

“The Provisional IRA,” she told him.

“Allah preserve me.” He was shocked. “And the leg? You are crippled?”

“Car bomb,” she said. “When it comes down to it, you lot are just beginners. Off you go, Hamid Abed, and try to behave yourself in the future.”

The van drove away; Hannah turned and walked back to Sara, who said, “What was that all about?”

“He wanted to know where I learned to shoot.”

“And you told him the IRA?”

“Which shocked the hell out of him. He called me memsahib; I thought that was Indian?”

“So it is, and I’m surprised,” Sara told her, as they entered the house. “Their attitude toward women is different from ours, so when they meet someone like you and me, they don’t know how to handle us.”

“They’ll have to learn,” Hannah said, and followed Sara in, pausing at the umbrella stand, helping herself to one of the several walking sticks.

“Leg bad tonight?” Sara asked.

“You could say that.” Hannah grinned. “One cripple to another. You, too?”

“Yes, it’s an absolute bastard. The fruits of war.”

“Ah, for that I can only offer you this.” Hannah handed her a walking stick. “On the other hand, for the hero of Abusan, a Military Cross goes with it.”

Sara gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bless you, Hannah, for being you. I’m beginning to wonder how I ever got by without you. Let’s go and see what Sean’s up to.”

The door of the rabbi’s study stood open; Sadie had lit a fire in the magnificent Georgian grate. Dillon sat at one side, speaking to Roper, and he paused.

“Sadie went off to the kitchen to make tea and coffee. I think she’s upset,” he said.

Hannah had turned and was already on her way. Sara said, “We’ll handle it,” and hurried after her.

Sadie was sitting in a high kitchen chair sobbing, Hannah’s arm around her. “It’s okay,” Hannah told her. “I’m here now, and so is Sara.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sadie said. “I got the shotgun to chase them away, even fired a round into the sky, but it didn’t stop them. I was terrified, thinking they might be ISIS and knowing what terrible things they’ve done.”

“Well, Sara and I soon put them in their place,” Hannah said. “And as we know exactly who was responsible for the attack, we’ll be able to do something about it.”

Sadie brightened at that. “True enough.” She took a deep breath. “Go and see Sean in the study, and I’ll follow you with a trolley.”

Dillon was putting logs on the fire when they joined him. “How is she?” he asked.

“Nerves shot,” Sara told him. “Thank God we were able to get to her in time.”

“Too true, but I won’t allow it to happen again. I’ve just made that clear to Roper.”

“And what did he say?”

“Ferguson is still at Downing Street but sends his best. He’ll be with us soon, so let’s have a drink or sit down and have a cup of tea Irish-style and relax.”

At that moment, Sadie wheeled in the trolley, obviously trying to be brave. “Tea up. I’ve managed salad sandwiches and scones. Oh, I forgot to say ‘God bless all here.’ Is that right, Sean?”

“Sadie, you’re the wonder of the world.”

THE DAIMLER WAS ON THE ROAD, Sergeant Doyle at the wheel and Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake Johnson in deep discussion, when Ferguson’s Codex rang. He answered, his smile changing to a frown.

“Roper,” he said. “Let me put it on speaker. He has rather dramatic news for us.”

Roper then gave them a detailed account of the events at Highfield Court.

“The bastards,” Blake said. “Those Brotherhood guys.”

“I agree,” Cazalet told him. “But no match for a woman who is one of the few to be awarded a Military Cross in the British Army.”

Charles Ferguson chuckled. “Or an even younger one raised all her life in a household that was a hotbed of the Provisional IRA.”

“What do you want to do?” Roper demanded.

“We’ll call round to see them,” Ferguson said. “First—get me Imam Yousef Shah on the line.”

There was a pause, and then, “Shah here.”

“Charles Ferguson. I shouldn’t think any of the theology departments at Oxford would be too proud of you tonight, you and your Brotherhood.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Muslim Brotherhood has no connection with this mosque. You must look elsewhere for whatever disturbs you.”

“A nice turn of phrase, Imam, but I was actually considering what might be the best way of disturbing you.”

“I appreciate the warning,” the imam told him. “But take care—my appointment in Samarra could be yours. May Allah go with you.”

He went off, and Roper said, “Shakespeare would have loved him.”

“Good point. But we’ll be off to Highfield Court. Oh, and do a favor for me. Tell Sadie we’re coming and make it clear we aren’t expecting dinner or anything. She takes her hospitality very seriously, you know.”

“What a hypocrite you are, Charles,” Roper said.

“A fault I readily admit,” Ferguson told him. “But so useful in this game we play, Giles.”

IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon in Washington when Alice Quarmby, summoned by the President, arrived at the Oval Office.

“Do you have the slightest idea what it’s about?” she asked the secretary.

“Afraid not. It might be a minute, though. Colonel Hunter’s been in there for forty minutes.”

“Then it’s me for the powder room, Elsie. Be right back.”

IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President was sitting behind his desk, Hunter standing as he talked.

“The use of private military companies in the recent ISIS attacks in Mali certainly proves their worth.”

“As glorified security men, protecting business or preventing the theft of Muslim treasures, yes, I’ll grant you that. Meanwhile, the French flew a hit force of marines in a fleet of aircraft all the way from Paris by night and caught ISIS with its pants down. Rather more impressive, I’d say.”

There was little Hunter could say to that, but as he turned to leave, the President said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me, Colonel. You’re heading for London now, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now do me a favor and help Blake watch out for Cazalet over there. Don’t let them know, just be my extra eyes and ears. He’s putting himself in harm’s way. Too public, Colonel. I want him back here where we can protect him. The damn fool seems to court death every time he speaks in public.”

“Yes, I can see what you mean, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. You may need some extra authority, so I’ve made you a presidential aide with a pass to prove it. Don’t forget to call on the ambassador. He’ll be expecting you but won’t know why. Elsie has an envelope for you on the way out, and I’ll phone you from time to time. Remember: This must stay secret, even from the ambassador. Philip Hardy is a good man but has a mind of his own.”

“Of course, Mr. President, I understand perfectly now.”

Alice, standing in for Elsie for a few moments in the outer office, had heard everything as Hunter stood with the door ajar. She ducked into the filing cupboard a second before Hunter emerged from the Oval Office and Elsie entered.

“I believe you have an envelope for me?”

“Yes, I do, Colonel,” Elsie said, and passed it to him.

He hurried through the maze of corridors that was the White House, opening the letter and taking out the card and marveling at the gold edges with OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND COLONEL SAMUEL HUNTER, AIDE TO THE PRESIDENT underneath in bold black print.

When he got to the car and climbed in the Mercedes, he could hardly breathe.

Dolan said, “Are you okay, Colonel?”

“Never been better.” Hunter passed the card. “Read that.”

Dolan did, then said, “But what does it mean, sir?”

“Our ticket to prosperity.”

ONCE HUNTER WAS out of the way, Alice was called into the Oval Office, where she found an angry President behind the desk.

“There you are, Alice. Any word from Blake, any at all?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”

“Damn his eyes. I’m worried, Alice, for both of them. These ISIS bastards are capable of anything.”

“So it would seem, Mr. President.”

“All right, but if you hear anything—anything at all—get right back to me immediately.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” She returned to her desk, but she knew what she had to do. She had known Blake too long, and it was not, after all, being a traitor to her country, so she called him on his Codex, unaware that he was driving to Highfield Court with Cazalet and Ferguson.

“Alice,” he said. “What’s cooking at the White House?”

“I had a call from the Oval Office earlier. We need to talk, Blake.”

He switched to speaker, gesturing to Cazalet and Ferguson. “Why, Alice, what happened?”

“The President sent for me,” she said. “And he was really concerned that he hadn’t heard from you. But there’s something else. He had a visitor. I was in the outer office and overheard some of his private conversation with Colonel Samuel Hunter, that CIA guy who’s interested in private military companies and this Havoc outfit.”

Charles Ferguson tapped Tony Doyle on the shoulder. “Nice quiet spot, Sergeant, pull over.”

Doyle did. Ferguson nodded to Cazalet and handed him the phone. “Jake here, Alice, not trying to trick you or anything. General Ferguson and I just happened to be sharing a car with Blake. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, Mr. President.”

“Then tell us exactly what you heard and everything you know about this Colonel Hunter.”

She did as she was told, and when she was finished, Cazalet said, “Brilliant. Try not to feel too uncomfortable about telling us. You’ve served your country, believe me.”

Blake took the phone. “Take care, love. You never did a more important thing.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.” Ferguson sat back as they moved away. “I disliked Hunter straightaway. Now I know why.”

“We’ll have to watch our backs with him,” Cazalet said. “And I’d say that Havoc project of his is worth checking on.”

“Oh, it shall be, old boy,” Ferguson said. “Just leave it to me. I have the perfect man in mind,” and he took out his Codex again.

DANIEL HOLLEY WAS POUNDING alongside the Seine, which was his habit when in Paris. He had a superb furnished barge, which he was running toward now, Notre Dame on the far side of it, hauntingly beautiful in the floodlight. His Codex sounded, and he paused to answer.

“Good evening, Daniel. It’s Charles Ferguson intruding into your life again.”

“Well, if that means doing something about ISIS and the bloody mess they’ve made of this city, I’m your man.”

“Not directly, but there’s something that might be related. Can you come see me?”

“I’ll be with you tomorrow.”

IN LONDON, the four men who had attacked Highfield Court stood before Imam Yousef Shah in his office at the Pound Street mosque. No one had helped Hamid Abed, and the handkerchief he held to his ear was soaked with blood. The man who stood behind them was enormous, addressed by the imam as Omar. A leather pouch filled with lead shot swung in his right hand, and he monotonously slapped it into the palm of his left.

“So, Hamid Abed,” the imam said. “You let your comrades down by betraying me.”

“Not so, Imam. It seemed obvious that the target knew who was behind the attack. This warfare must have been happening between Captain Gideon, her friends, and the mosque for some time.”

“Which is none of your business, as I will show these fools here, that they may demonstrate to others the punishment that awaits all traitors.”

He nodded to Omar, who struck Hamid violently with the leather pouch, sending him crashing to the floor unconscious.

Omar kicked him several times as the others watched, terrified. He said, “What do you want me to do with him, Imam?”

“Beat him thoroughly, Omar, then throw him in the river. The Thames is tidal, and few bodies that go in appear again. It’ll be a warning from Allah that all wrongdoers must be punished if they transgress. Take these other wretches with you so they will learn, and speak to me when you are finished, for there is no more to be done.”

UNCONSCIOUS IN THE POURING RAIN on an old wharf in Battersea, Hamid barely felt the pain of the blows while the others watched in horror as Omar gave him a last kick.

“So, a final lesson for all of you,” and he heaved Hamid up and tossed him into the Thames. “There he goes, food for the fishes.”

THE RIVER CHURNED, the sky echoing the thunderclap above that brought Hamid Abed back from the dead, a vivid flash of lightning illuminating the river. Ships were anchored on each side, old warehouses rearing into the night as he raced by, for there was a five-knot tidal current taking him out to sea fast.

It was the Thames that was saving him now, its icy grip freezing the pain from the terrible beating, leaving him completely numb, but he was conscious when the current took him toward one side of the river and deposited him on a set of ancient steps.

In great pain, he hauled himself up to a dim light that was bracketed to the decaying walls of an old warehouse above a sign that read ST MARY’S STAIRS. For a moment, he was dumbfounded, but then he laughed helplessly. Saved by the Mother of Christ, but that was all right because she was in the Koran, too.

What it all meant, he did not know, except that, leaning against the wall under the sign, he realized two things. He was seriously injured, and if he fell into the hands of the Brotherhood again, he was a dead man. On the other hand, he was assumed to be dead already, but there was no way he would get help from his own people. Too afraid of ISIS or the Brotherhood.

He stood there, coughing blood in the rain and looked up at the sign. St. Mary had saved him once before in spite of his being a Muslim. Maybe she could do it again? His foot kicked a wooden pole on the floor, perhaps from a brush. A staff to walk with up the alley toward the main road, and so he started, a hand braced against the wall to help him.

THE MOMENT THE DAIMLER drew up in the drive of Highfield Court, Hannah had the front door open, and Ferguson and the others rushed inside out of the rain, where a profound smell from the kitchen indicated that Sadie had been busy.

She came down the corridor to greet them wearing a kitchen smock, wiping her hands on a towel.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Ferguson kissed her on the cheeks. “Would we do that to you, Sadie? I can’t believe you’ve been cooking after what you’ve been through.”

“Yes, you can, you old rogue, but it’s nothing special, considering the number at the feast. You’ll just have to put up with what a Jewish lady manages to come up with when she tries spaghetti Bolognese.”

“Ecstasy, I’m sure,” he said.

“Well, a glass of champagne first would be nice.”

She vanished toward the kitchen, and Sara said, “We’ll go in the study and be comfortable. I’ll light the fire.”

“Where’s Hannah?” Blake said.

“Slaving in the kitchen, helping Sadie like a decent Irish girl should. Ah, here’s the footman, come to serve the champagne,” and Dillon entered pushing the drinks trolley.

THE MEAL WAS as excellent as everyone had expected, and afterward, over coffee and tea, the situation was discussed.

“The problem is the nighttime,” Cazalet said. “I think Blake and I should come up from the Dorchester and move in for the night. Would that suit?”

“That would be fantastic,” Sara said.

“Then can we say that’s a given?” Cazalet asked Ferguson.

“Very generous of you, Mr. President. I’m sure Sadie will be delighted.”

“With what?” she said, walking in with a fresh pot of coffee.

“You’re going to have lodgers, my dear,” Ferguson told her, and the front doorbell started to ring.

“Now who in the hell can that be?” Dillon said, and he was out of the study in a moment, a Colt .25 ready as he approached the door, followed by Hannah, pulling out her own gun and running to cover him.

She was like a different person, calm and assured, her weapon ready in both hands as he reached for the key to open the door.

She said, “Take care now, Sean, and don’t be dying on me. I’ve lost enough from my family.”

“Yes, well, I’m cleverer than that, girl.” He pulled the flap of the letterbox open.

“Who’s there?”

The voice was broken, strange, and very slow when it said, “My name is Hamid Abed, and I seek the memsahib that she may show me mercy.”

“Holy Mother,” Hannah said. “That’s the man I shot! But what would he be doing here?”

“We’ll soon see.” Dillon, gun in hand, opened the door, and Sadie screamed.

The light from the hall showed the terrible beating Abed had taken, blood all over him, and Hannah pushed Dillon to one side and kneeled.

“Who did this to you?”

“The imam at Pound Street. He had me whipped and broken, thrown in the Thames by Omar Bey, the man they call the Beast.”

“Forget him now, you are safe with me, but why call me memsahib?”

“I was in the Pakistan Army, like my father before me, but my grandfather and his father were in the Indian Army under the Raj, memsahib.” He laughed. “I was thrown into the Thames to die, and a miracle took me to St. Mary’s Stairs. Mary, the Mother of Jesus, is in the Koran. There was nowhere else to go, so I came here. It was a long walk in the rain.”

“I understand, and there’s no need to worry.” She glanced at Ferguson. “General?”

“I’ve already called Maggie Duncan at Rosedene, my dear. An ambulance is on the way.”

MAGGIE DUNCAN HAD BEEN MATRON for many years at Rosedene, a very special medical establishment that offered only the best of treatment to those damaged in their service to Charles Ferguson’s organization. Her boss was Professor Charles Bellamy, considered by many to be the finest general surgeon in London.

Hannah had accompanied Hamid in the ambulance, and after a discussion of what had happened with the others, Dillon and Sara followed in the Mini.

“It doesn’t look good, Sean,” Sara said.

“About as bad as it could, dear girl.” His voice was angry and the harsh Ulster accent plain. “Omar the Beast is it, the imam’s hit man. I’d like to meet that one.”

He swerved slightly, and she said, “Easy, Sean, your time will come, God willing, or mine.”

He glanced at her, frowning, then turned the Mini into the entrance to Rosedene and parked.

MAGGIE DUNCAN MET THEM as she came out of her office in reception. She was dressed for the operating theater.

“That bad is it, Maggie?” Sara asked.

“That man’s condition is appalling, multiple fractures, damage to many organs, a ruptured kidney. Frankly, I don’t even know how he made it to you.”

“He had a pole of sorts, which I suppose he found somewhere on St. Mary’s Stairs, and he used it to help him walk. All very biblical, Maggie.”

“Over the years, Sean, I’ve often put this question to you—when is it all going to end?”

“You’re a good and honest Christian, Maggie. Book of Revelation. Behold a Pale Horse, his rider was called Death, and Hell followed close behind.”

“The Apocalypse?” she said. “You surely can’t be meaning that?”

“And why not, when people are meeting a bad end in every bloody country on earth?”

Hannah appeared suddenly, crashing through the swinging doors that led to the medical units. “He needs you, Matron, as quickly as possible.”

Maggie pushed straight through the door, and Hannah turned to Dillon and Sara, and slumped down beside them. “He hasn’t got a hope in hell.”

Sara said, “Miracles can happen, love. Bellamy is an extraordinary surgeon.”

“I know he is, but I also know the smell of death well from my childhood in an IRA household, the boys turning up bleeding all over the place with the SAS on their tails and only the village doctor to do the best he could for anyone wounded.”

The door opened, and Maggie, splashed with blood, said wearily, “He’s going, Hannah. I’m so sorry.”

Hannah was on her feet and darting past her. Dillon and Sara hesitated, and Maggie led the way to an operating theater at the far end of the corridor, where they were able to observe through a window. Hannah stood beside the bed, and Bellamy was there, his theater scrubs stained with blood. Maggie said, “It was one thing after another. The professor really fought for him, but … just a minute. What’s happening?”

Very slowly, Hamid raised his right arm, which was swathed in bandages, and Hannah held his fingers, and his lips moved, and then his head lolled to one side as he died, the alarm calling in more staff, and Dillon and Sara turned and went back to reception.

“A bad one, Sean,” she said, as they sat. “I saw plenty killed in Afghanistan, but some things you never get over.”

“You could say that. If this Omar the Beast was standing in front of Hannah, she’d empty her gun in him.”

Before Sara could reply, the entrance door swung open and Ferguson entered, face grim, followed by Tony Doyle.

“Has he gone?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Sara told him.

“I thought he might.” He offered a folder to Dillon. “Roper looked up this Omar Bey for you. MI5 have him on file.”

Dillon opened it, and Sara leaned over to look at the enormous animal that Omar Bey appeared to be. “My God,” she said. “A monster.”

“He’s certainly murdered a number of fellow Muslims, but Scotland Yard got nowhere with those. There’s a total unwillingness amongst the Muslim community to get involved,” said Dillon.

“I can believe that,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll keep the file, Dillon. It may prove useful.”

Hannah joined them, looking bleak. “So that bastard gets away with it?”

Dillon passed her the file. “I don’t think so. That’s what he looks like.”

She glanced at the photo in the file, then closed it. “What happens now?”