Читать книгу The Midnight Bell - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

ON THE LONDON WATERFRONT, fog had descended early, rolling in across the Thames at Wapping, a mile downriver from Harry Salter’s place, the Dark Man, where an old pier jutted out from Trenchard Street, an early Victorian pub standing back from it.

There was a motor launch painted blue and white tied to the pier with two chains, giving it a permanent look yet allowing the launch to ease itself in the five-knot current that was running that morning.

The name of the boat was Moonglow, and the fact that the painted sign hanging outside the pub indicated that the landlord’s name was George Moon amused many people. It didn’t bother Moon, though. His family had owned the pub since Queen Victoria’s reign, which made him proud, and he liked sleeping on board the launch as he had the night before. But now there was work to be done, which meant a visit to his office.

He went up the steps from the pier, a small insignificant balding man in steel spectacles clutching his raincoat across his body, an umbrella over his head, and approached the front door of the pub. Two notices faced him, one of which said CLOSED FOR THE WINTER, the other, MOON ENTERPRISES LIMITED, and as he approached, the door was opened for him by his cousin Harold, a hard, brutal-looking man with the flattened nose of an ex-boxer.

“Late this morning, George. Posh geezer called twice on the house phone in the last half hour. Said he’d call back.”

“So it will keep,” Moon said. “I’ve told you before, you worry too much. I’d turned my mobile off.”

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on anything tasty,” Harold told him.

“I know, sunshine.” George tweaked the big man’s cheek. “Now get me a mug of scalding-hot tea and an Irish whiskey, and we’ll wait for your posh geezer to turn up again.”

It was quiet in the bar, everything peaceful, bottles lined up against the Victorian mirrors behind the bar. This type of establishment would usually be a thieves’ den for serious drinkers and drug users, but Moon had long since knocked that on the head. Development along the Thames had opened a whole new world, and his portfolio was considerable. Life was good.

His mobile sounded, and he answered, “Moon Enterprises.”

“How grand that sounds, Mr. Moon.”

Harold had been right, a posh geezer indeed. Moon beckoned, putting his mobile on speaker so Harold could listen.

“Who is this?”

“A Master who is looking for a willing servant. I’ve just deposited seventy-five thousand pounds in your bank account as evidence of good faith. There could be other payments later.”

“Do me a favor,” Moon said. “Go away and die somewhere. You think I believe that?”

“I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I can cancel the deposit, but as I can’t envisage your being that stupid, I don’t think it likely. I suggest that you check with your bank.”

“A crazy one, that,” Moon said, turning to Harold.

“How do you know?” Harold said. “You haven’t been in touch with the bank.”

“Okay, just to keep you happy. Waste of time though.”

He made the call, shrugging, and within minutes received the astonishing news. “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely to Harold. “What’s this geezer’s game?”

“George, I couldn’t care less. All I know is it’s real money. Here, let me get you another whiskey,” Harold said. “Put a little lead in your pencil for when he gets back to you.”

Which the Master did as Moon was drinking it. “Satisfied, Mr. Moon?”

“Who wouldn’t be? So who are you and what do you want?”

“What I want is your experience of the London underworld, like your family before you. Generation of thieves and river rats. How did Charles Dickens put it? Those who made a living finding corpses in the Thames on behalf of the River Police? There is not a criminal enterprise you’ve failed to touch on.”

“And proud of it,” Moon said.

“You’ve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europe—but no drugs, you’re too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. You’ve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time they’re needed.”

“And happy to do it, mister,” Harold called.

Moon said, “Okay, you know a lot about me, so what?”

“I know everything about you, my friend, even the fact that some years ago you were employed by Russian military intelligence, the GRU, making yourself useful in many ways right here in London. Remember your recognition code? ‘The midnight bell is ringing’? MI5 would have been interested. You could have got twenty-five years for treason.”

Moon was transfixed. “But how could you have known that?”

“You’ve heard of al-Qaeda, I’m sure. Our information system is as good as the CIA’s—better!—and I can access it by pushing a button.”

“So this is a Muslim thing?”

“Is that a problem?”

It was Harold who cut in then. “No problem at all, Master. Whatever you want, you get.”

“That’s good, because if I didn’t, I’d have to have you killed. Anyway, your first job for me will concern Harry and Billy Salter.”

Moon brightened up. “We have history, us and the Salters.”

Harold said, “What do you want us to do? Smash their restaurant up?”

“Not yet. Something more subtle. Give them just a hint of what we can do.”

“You can leave that to me,” Harold told him. “Mayhem is my specialty.”

“I’m delighted to know you can spell it,” the Master said.

“Well, I can, and it will be a pleasure to give the Salters a black eye.”

“To a fruitful association, then, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

MOON SAID, “He’s gone, but I can’t say I’m happy about working for a Muslim.”

“Didn’t you tell me that we had a great-grandfather who was an Indian seaman who jumped ship in the Pool of London?”

“True.”

“Then stop being racist, join me in the kitchen, and I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“I wonder where he lives,” Moon said.

“I wouldn’t mind betting that he’d rather you didn’t know. Besides, it could be anywhere—London, Madrid, Timbuktu!”

“You think so?”

“All you need these days is a coded mobile, and you can cover the world.”

HAROLD WAS RIGHT, of course, for the Master did move frequently, for obvious reasons. At that moment he was living in Paris on a furnished barge next to the other barges moored on the Quai des Brumes on the Seine.

The Master thought the business with the Moons had gone well. Despite a certain criminal cunning on their part, they had missed the fact that he had taken complete control of them. They’d sold their souls to the Devil, which amused him. Just like Faust. Life was all about power.

Things had gone well so far, and he could proceed with confidence to the next step, but there was always the unexpected in life—there’d just been a death in the family of the other people relevant to his plans. For the moment, he hesitated, waiting for God to select the right time to move for, as in all things, there was only one God and Osama was his Prophet.

But he decided the time was now, and he took out his coded mobile and made a call to Drumore House in County Down in Ulster, still the old family home, in spite of a certain decay, of the Magee family.

Finbar Magee, seated at the breakfast table in the farm’s kitchen, pushed away his plate and reached for the half glass of whiskey that his cousin Eli had shoved over to him.

“Who the hell is bothering me now?” Finbar said, taking out his mobile and putting it on speaker.

Eli, white haired and bearded, was pouring tea. “Answer it, for God’s sake.”

Finbar did. “Who the hell is this? I’m not in the best of moods.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be,” the Master told him. “I’ve heard about the accident that killed your wife. You’re being treated very unfairly. Come to London, and I’ll help make it right.”

“That takes bloody money, ye madman,” Finbar shouted.

“Which is why I’ve placed twenty thousand pounds in your bank account for traveling expenses.”

“Damn you, I’ve no time for jokes.” Finbar switched off. “Did you hear that idiot?”

“I did, but I didn’t hear you calling the bank to check the situation,” Eli said.

Finbar stared at him, frowning, then did just that. Minutes later, he was staring wild-eyed at Eli. “It’s true. The money’s been deposited.”

“Then you’ll have to hope he calls back.”

In the same moment, the Master did. “Are you happy now?”

“Why should I be?” Finbar said. “But how do you know about the accident, and why should it concern you?”

“I represent an organization that has had problems with a certain General Charles Ferguson and some people who work for him, including an IRA assassin named Sean Dillon.”

“That bastard!” Finbar slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “May he die before I do, so I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s dead.”

“I can imagine. I also know about the unfortunate business concerning your sons some years ago when he left one of your boys crippled for life. He’s given you a very rough time.”

“Too bloody true,” Finbar said, and shook his head. “How do you know so much?”

“Because I represent the most powerful organization of its kind in the world, al-Qaeda. Our access to information is limitless, and the money I have given you is just the beginning. I know you’ve got your phone on speaker—this concerns your cousin Eli as well.”

“And if I say no?” Finbar asked.

“That would prove how stupid you are, and I would have to arrange for your disposal.”

Finbar laughed harshly. “Well, we can’t have that. I’m in, and that includes Eli.”

“I knew you were a sensible man. Who knows, we might even solve the mystery of the Maria Blanco and its cargo.”

“You know about that, do you? Twenty-five million pounds in gold bars when it was taken. God knows how much that would be worth today.”

“A lot,” the Master said. “It could have kept the IRA going for years, and they let it slip through their fingers.”

“I think it was Dillon, the bastard. Could it have been?”

“Supposedly, he was in the deserts of Algeria at the time training new recruits for the IRA. But you never know for sure with a man like Sean Dillon.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Get yourself to London, and I’ll be in touch. But remember that you belong to us now. It would be unfortunate if you forgot.”

The Master was gone in a moment, and Eli said, “What was all that?”

“It was about us being in the money again, so happy days, old son. I’m on my way to London.”

AT THE SAME TIME, Sean Dillon was driving his Mini into the Holland Park safe house in response to Roper’s call about the arrival of a new Master and Ferguson’s suggestion of a breakfast meeting.

He went straight to the computer room, which was empty, but the sound of voices and laughter sent him through to the canteen, where Maggie Hall had provided breakfast and Tony Doyle was helping her serve it.

Blake was there, and Sara had brought Dillon’s cousin Hannah, and Harry and Billy Salter arrived, both in black tracksuits. Hannah was young, only nineteen, but she had grown up in an IRA family and knew how to handle a gun. She was also studying at the Royal College of Music, but Dillon worried sometimes that she was just a little too attracted to the outlaw life.

As for the Salters, they were gangsters who had discovered they could make millions legitimately in London these days—and young Billy had even gone so legit, he’d joined MI5.

“Turnup for the books, this, but the smell of your cooking always drives me potty, so let’s get to it, Maggie,” Harry Salter said.

They all started to eat, and Blake asked, “So what does everyone think about another Master on the scene?”

“I’d like to shoot the bastard,” Harry said, with feeling.

“You can hear a recording of him in the computer room,” Roper said. “What’s your take on all this, Billy?”

“As long as I have room for a pistol in my pocket, I’ll manage.”

“And you, Sean?” Sara asked.

“Well, it isn’t Afghanistan, where you won your medals, Sara, more like Belfast City during the Troubles, and I survived that.”

There was a somber moment as if no one knew what to say, and then came the sound of a car arriving outside, where it had started to rain. A moment later, Henry Frankel, the cabinet secretary, walked in, a navy blue trench coat draped over his shoulders.

He kissed Harry on the head. “Restore me to sanity, you old devil. No matter how well I do my job, it’s hell down there: Sunni or Shia, ISIS or ISIL, what is Hamas up to now, what is Iran going to do, will Yemen survive, is Palestine going to blow up again?” He threw up his arms.

“Take it easy, Henry,” Roper said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

“Giles, I may be cabinet secretary, but I’m just another bloody civil servant, a kind of superior office boy, passing to the Prime Minister news about what’s going on in the wider world and it ain’t good. Terrorism is creating havoc everywhere, we’re facing one war after another, and it all looks as if it could get worse. Our most senior politicians are beginning to feel that they can’t cope. Take the people I just left. There was Sir Charles Glynn, Director General of MI5; Ferguson representing your lot; the home secretary; the man from Scotland Yard; Uncle Tom Cobley, I swear; and we mustn’t forget Jake Cazalet.”

“So where is this tirade leading us?” Roper asked.

Jake Cazalet walked in at that moment and answered. “They don’t know what to do anymore, except to allow you people to shoot what we hope are the villains. The news that al-Qaeda has raised its head again in the shape of a new Master went down like a lead weight considering that the last one was barely dead.”

“I imagine it would,” Blake said.

Sara turned to Frankel. “Have a decent breakfast, Henry, and remember what Somerset Maugham said. ‘To dine well in England it’s necessary to have breakfast three times a day.’”

Henry laughed. “Ah, you always find a way to cheer me up. I shall follow your advice religiously.”

“So what’s Ferguson up to at the moment? Still at Downing Street?” Dillon asked.

“Ministry of Defence. An ad hoc committee with interested parties discussing how to keep things from getting out of hand.”

“Why aren’t you on it? Good God, Jake, with your experience as a soldier and president.”

“Don’t worry, the Prime Minister has made me a special advisor. I’ll find excuses to avoid going back to Washington, won’t I, Blake?”

“That’ll be the day,” Harry said. “So we really do have to stay close?”

“Within reason.”

“We do have the Dark Man to open, but I suppose young Hasim can manage in a pinch. He’s shown a lot of promise, that boy, and Dora thinks the world of him.”

“Then there’s things to be done at Harry’s Place,” Billy said.

“Have you got a wedding or something?” Sara asked.

“One or two things, that’s all, but stuff needs organizing. We can get back here soon enough if you have a problem.”

“Well, I do,” Dillon said. “I just heard yesterday that a dear friend of mine has been killed in a car crash on a visit to Ulster. A drunken driver was responsible. I need to pay my respects to the family, so I’ll have to go out for a while.”

“No problem,” Roper said.

Dillon nodded, staring into space, and Hannah said gently, “Is it help you need?”

There were others listening, as Dillon said, “And you the girl to see it. When I came to live in Kilburn with my father, my mother being dead, our next-door neighbors were Finbar and Eileen Magee, her the kindest woman I ever knew, him a drunken, unpleasant swine, a con man and petty criminal who had been to prison often.”

“So what did all that lead to?”

“Twin boys named Tad and Larry, who attended the same school I had, though twelve years later.”

“So what went wrong?” Sara asked. “Something obviously did.”

“The Magees, like me, came from County Down, had been a family of substance in earlier times, and they owned a farmstead above Drumore Bay. A cousin, Eli Magee, farmed it for them and ran a big old launch named the Maria Blanco from the jetty below in the bay.”

“Was Finbar IRA?”

“They wouldn’t have him. He was a braggart who claimed to be IRA to his sons and encouraged them to visit, which Eileen didn’t want because there was bloodshed and war over there. There were lots of guys like him, claiming a false glory when all they were doing was driving a truck by night, hauling groceries to supermarkets, booze to pubs, and delivering orders from the chief of staff on the way to local commanders.”

“Backed by documents that would satisfy the police?” Sara said. “If they were stopped?”

“Of course, but carrying a weapon was out because of the danger of police searches.” He shrugged. “It was a kind of IRA postal service delivering mail to its troops.”

“And you would know,” said Hannah.

“Of course, I’m the fella who’d dumped a promising career at the National Theatre two years earlier because his father, in Belfast for a family funeral, stumbled into a firefight between paratroops and an angry mob, and was shot by mistake. It was the Provisional IRA for me, the Provos, next stop, and I’d have thought you’d agree with that, Hannah, after what happened to you and your parents.”

“Nobody could understand more, Sean, and a hell of a choice to have to make.”

Sara said, “But what did Eileen think of Finbar’s persuading his sons to visit him in bandit country?”

“Her worst nightmare came true because the RUC began sniffing around Finbar, the man with the sons from London who kept visiting him.”

“I’d have been surprised if they hadn’t. What did it lead to?”

“He produced a Browning handgun from his pocket one night just to give himself the right kind of macho image, drunk as usual. Refused to stop for a police car, crashed in the chase.”

Hannah said, “So ten years in the Maze Prison?”

“No, because he was drunk, he had a problem handling his gun, and the police opened fire.”

“They shot the bastard?” Hannah said.

“No, but they did hit Larry Magee twice, one in the right leg, the other in the back, a legal response to attack, but as the police had done the shooting, it was an awkward one. They solved it for the moment by dropping the boys off at the local cottage hospital.”

“So obviously Finbar was arrested,” Sara said.

“Of course, but the doctors at the hospital, knowing which side their bread was buttered on, but not what to do with Larry, approached the IRA chief of staff for County Down, Hugh Tulley, who sent a top enforcer to clear things up, which he did.”

“Would that happen to have been you?” Hannah asked.

Sara cut in. “What did you do?”

“The IRA had plenty of money in those days, plus the right connections. I stole the boys from hospital one night, drove them to the home of a good friend, who flew us out to a small airfield in Kent. Using our connections, I’d been able to arrange a discreet private hospital to receive a young man who’d been in a car crash abroad, back injured, leg broken.”

“Very clever,” Hannah said. “So Ulster, the gunplay, never happened?”

“And Eileen?” Sara asked.

“Forever grateful.”

“Which only leaves Finbar,” Hannah said. “What happened to him?”

“Nothing,” Dillon said. “The RUC never brought a charge. They found him too useful as an informer.”

“The bastard,” Hannah said.

“Yes, he was and still is.” Roper smiled. “But at least it leaves us with Captain Wonderful here, who rights all wrongs.”

“Not really, Larry was crippled for life,” Dillon said. “But at least Eileen got her boys back home.”

Billy cut in. “All these years, Dillon, and you never mentioned you knew the Magees.” He appealed to Hannah. “They were the most famous gangsters in London when they were active.”

“Gangsters?” Hannah was astounded.

Harry said, “He’s right, Hannah. Only the best for them. Suits from Savile Row, shoes from Lobb’s, one of the nicest houses in Curzon Street, not too far from the Dorchester, which you’ve got to admit is rather convenient. The Green Harp near Shepherd Market, one of the best gaming clubs in London, with Tara Place on the upper floor specializing in Irish cooking.”

“Which I haven’t sampled since the improvements,” Dillon said. “But intend to.”

“What a story, Dillon, you’re always full of surprises. Come on, Billy, we’ve got work to do,” Harry told him.

Billy stood up, and said, “And Finbar, what’s happened to him?”

“Eileen was over in Ulster to discuss legal matters concerning the Magee farm, where he’d been living for years. He picked her up at the railway station, drunk as usual, had one of his crashes, and managed to kill his wife. Cuts and bruises where he was concerned, but it appears he’ll walk free.”

“Dear God.” Hannah crossed herself. “Damn him to hell.”

“A truly dreadful man,” Sara said. “But still their father, that’s the problem. What do you think the brothers will do?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “I don’t even know whether the funeral’s today or tomorrow. I’m going to see Tad and Larry now. How often do you see me in a black suit, but this one is just in case.”

“Can I go with you?” Hannah asked. “Mine’s dark blue, but acceptable.”

Roper said, “It’s okay by me, but if there’s a funeral, I want you back here as soon as it’s over.”

Dillon grabbed Hannah’s hand, they hurried out, and Roper turned to the Salters. “You are the only two I can accept living out, so off you go.”

Harry grinned, said, “Let’s move it, Billy,” and they were gone.

Blake, Henry Frankel, and Jake Cazalet had been talking quietly. They turned expectantly. “The guest wing can meet your needs unless you’d care to return to the Dorchester,” Roper said.

“I’ll hang on here for the moment,” Blake told him. “Any word from General Ferguson?”

“He’ll be here as soon as he can. Begs your indulgence.”

“How wonderfully British of him,” Cazalet replied. “So let’s have tea or something and resume our conversation.”

“I’ll join you in a few minutes.” Roper moved out into the computer room.

He was followed by Doyle with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich on a small tray.

“You haven’t eaten a thing, sir, too busy talking.”

Sara came in, and at the same moment Roper’s Codex sounded. He picked it up but didn’t answer at once, saying to Sara, “We need to talk about Highfield Court, your grandfather, and Sadie. Obviously, it’s a concern. Just give me a minute.”

He raised the phone in his hand. “Giles Roper. Who is this?”

“You know me as the Master. I thought it time we had a chat.”

Tony Doyle was shocked. “It’s him, all right, Captain Gideon. I recognize his voice from the recording.”

“Go and get the others now,” she said, and shoved him out of the door.

“A pleasure to hear your voice, Captain Gideon. I’m a great admirer.”

The others came in, Henry Frankel leading. “What in the hell’s going on?”

“Ah, the reinforcements have arrived,” the Master said. “Not necessary. I’d intended to speak to each of you individually, but I’m happy to tell all of you together: You’ll get no warning of the gun that barks at you from the darkness when you least expect it or the car bomb that will launch you into eternity.”

“I’m trembling in my boots,” Henry Frankel told him. “I can hardly stand.”

“Ah, Mr. Frankel. Your partner must have a permanent smile on his face. You’re such a funny little man. Why is that?”

“It’s the only way I can cope with the prospect of being bored to death by a creature like you.”

“Ah, you have claws. I’ll have to think of an answer to that. I’ll let you know next time.”

“And when will that be?” Roper asked.

“Whenever I want, wherever I want. I can find you, but you cannot find me. I have a network of true believers and criminals who will do anything for money. I am invisible.”

“So there you are, gentlemen,” Henry Frankel said. “On top of that, he won’t be happy until sharia law rules the roost at the Old Bailey.”

“An interesting thought,” agreed the Master.

Jake Cazalet said, “Do you think the people of the free world are going to stand by and just allow all this to happen?”

“Oh dear, the voice of America speaks. Go home, President Cazalet, while you will can.”

“Or what? You’ll declare jihad?”

Charles Ferguson, alerted by Tony Doyle on his arrival, had eased in quietly behind them and heard enough to realize what was going on.

“Why, yes. You have earned jihad,” said the Master.

Ferguson called, “Charles Ferguson here. On me, too, then?”

But the Master had switched off. There was quiet, then Ferguson said, “I think a drink is in order. Let’s all go get one, sit down, and decide what we’ve going to do about this creature.”

IN THE BARGE on the Quai des Brumes in Paris, the Master sipped coffee and considered the call. He had enjoyed baiting Ferguson and company at Holland Park, but it was time to get to business. He should speak to the new Army of God man at Pound Street, Yousef Shah, freshly arrived from Oxford University, where he had lectured in comparative religion.

As Dr. Yousef Shah sat at his desk in the office of the Army of God Charity, beginning the task of familiarizing himself with his many duties, he was shocked at what the quiet voice had to say when he answered the phone.

“There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

Yousef Shah’s reply was automatic. “Osama is risen.”

“This is the Master, wishing you well. Has the Grand Council in Paris warned you about what you will be up against in this appointment, supplied you with details of our particular enemies here?”

“Such material has been supplied to me in full, and I’ve already started to work through it.”

“You will find strong backing in the Army of God and the Muslim Brotherhood. Those numbers we gave you—call upon them in a time of need and the people will follow your orders without argument because they know the word of Osama is behind you.”

“May his name be blessed,” Yousef Shah answered automatically.

“And may it be so, but remember at all times that there is a particular danger there. We have had two Masters killed because of the activities of a British intelligence group led by Major General Charles Ferguson.”

“I shall take care at all times, I promise you, particularly with these people.”

“The blessing of Osama go with you,” the Master told him, and hung up.

Yousef Shah sat there, thinking about the call, then reached for the information file he’d been given and started to look for Charles Ferguson. He read the information he was seeking, then phoned the Brotherhood’s special number and identified himself.

“A house called Highfield Court at the end of South Audley Street. The people are Jewish, the name Gideon. Check the situation at night thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly.”

“At your orders, Imam.”

He sat back. He had no idea what he had done or intended, but it was a beginning.