The Midnight Bell Read online

  “What interested Hunter was that Weber’s contacts had much more of a criminal background and nothing to do with officialdom.”

  “I thought al-Qaeda was involved in all this?”

  “That’s not strictly accurate, General,” Sara said. “The revolution operated under the black flag of al-Qaeda to win the war, but the ordinary foot soldiers were the peasant variety, who stole everything in sight and had no idea that they were despoiling Muslim treasures.”

  “Which is where the true thieves and villains stepped in,” Ferguson said. “Stuff worth millions peddled around the world to the highest bidder.”

  “All very sad, really, sir, when you think of it. Not what Osama bin Laden intended at all.”

  “Careful, Captain Gideon,” Ferguson said. “Just remember which side you’re on, and take care—you’re sailing into uncharted territory. And don’t forget we need proof about the villainy.”

  She said to Dillon, “I suppose you got that?”

  “Every word. You were good, but he had a point. All you need is a head-to-toe black burka and face veil. Just remember to leave your eyes exposed.”

  “Damn you, Sean Dillon,” she said, and returned to the cabin, where Hunter was reading a magazine and Holley lay with his seat tilted back, eyes closed.

  Hunter said, “Is all well with you?”

  “I think so, I’ll take a rest. I suspect it will be a pretty grueling trip,” and she lay back, tilting her seat also, and tried to sleep.

  —

  SHE CAME AWAKE with a start to discover Colonel Hunter sleeping and no sign of Dillon or Holley. She lay there looking up at the ceiling, then realized why she had awakened. Her Codex was trembling.

  She said, “Who is this?”

  The Master said, “Ah, there you are, Captain. I trust the trip is proving agreeable.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “Weber. He is concerned that you may be entering the circle of danger, as bullfighters call it, the one that offers only death in the afternoon. You must forgive him. He’s a great fan of Hemingway.”

  “As it happens, so am I.”

  “Then promise me that you will take care at all times in Timbuktu. It is a wicked and dangerous place. I particularly urge you to guard yourself against a man called Doctor Aldo Florian. He owns the Astoria Hotel, popular with the French Foreign Legion a century ago.”

  “Then it would have also been a house of pleasure,” Sara said.

  “Of course, but a superior establishment.”

  “Is he al-Qaeda?”

  “Allah forbid! There is not a kind bone in his body, and his code resembles that of a Mafia godfather.”

  “And you deal with such a man?”

  “But of course. Remember the old saying: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  “So why would it matter to me what kind of man Florian is?”

  “Because he controls the illegal worldwide traffic we’ve been discussing. The whole of North Africa, Europe, the U.K., and America. It’s increasing exponentially.”

  “That’s a big word,” Sara told him. “Don’t tell me that the mighty al-Qaeda can’t do something about it?”

  “Our day will come, of course, but we have other things to control, ISIS to put in its place.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Their success must annoy you terribly. How do you like being outdone by upstarts?”

  “Nobody outdoes us, Captain. We are the aristocracy of terrorism.”

  “I see,” she said. “You mean you do it with style?”

  He burst out laughing. “Oh, I like you, Captain Gideon.”

  “Even though I’m a Jew?”

  “We are all people of the book,” he said. “We just use different books. Take care, Captain. We’ll speak again.”

  She lay there thinking about the call. Hunter was still asleep, the Falcon droned on, and as she adjusted her seat and sat up, Dillon ducked into the cabin. He opened one of the cupboards, revealing three large flasks of coffee and plastic mugs. Hunter pushed himself up, his sleep disturbed.

  “Coffee, you two?”

  “Yes, please,” Sara said.

  “Having a little kip, were you?”

  “No, but I was having a very informative chat with the Master.”

  “I won’t say are you kidding,” Dillon told her, “because you never do.”

  Hunter said, “What did he want?”

  “He urged me to watch myself because Timbuktu is such a wicked place, and to take care with Doctor Aldo Florian of the Astoria Hotel. Florian seems to be a kind of godfather, responsible for the worldwide illegal trade of Muslim artifacts. You’ll be interested to know that al-Qaeda has no interest in that kind of trade.”

  Holley stepped out of the cabin. “Don’t panic, I’ve put it on autopilot. What’s going on?”

  “The Master’s been having a chat with Sara,” Dillon said. “Apparently, he’s told her that al-Qaeda isn’t interested in the illegal trade.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, Sean. They’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “Like taking over in other countries, you mean?”

  “Yes, but that’s because from a religious point of view they believe their system is the most important one in the world,” Holley said. “And they believe it was Osama’s gift to them. Of course, the Vatican would dispute this, but that shouldn’t bother us, as they proscribed the IRA years ago. I bet you can’t even remember when you last went into a confessional box, so have a cup of coffee and shut up.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Dillon said, accepting the coffee. “But we can’t get away from the fact that we need to find out as much as we can about Florian and his organization, especially how it’s affecting the U.K.”

  “And we will.” The Falcon lurched slightly, slapped by wind, and rain bounced off the windows. “But not now,” Holley said. “I really think I’m needed back on the controls.”

  —

  THERE WAS A REFRIGERATOR, a microwave for snacks, even a television, although the signal varied considerably, but they’d run into bad weather and a darkening horizon.

  “Are we okay on time?” Sara asked.

  Hunter said, “We left at ten, so we’ll be arriving at five-thirty.”

  “So it should be pretty dark?”

  “No, Captain Gideon,” Hunter told her. “Very dark in a way that only the desert can be. Does that worry you?”

  “No. I fought in Afghanistan, remember?”

  “So did I, but coward that I am, I kept my head down. However, I believe what everyone from Lawrence of Arabia on has said: There is no other desert in the world like the Sahara. So cold, so bitterly cold at night, so incredibly lonely, and yet tribesmen and their families still travel with their camels and donkeys from one place to another in a journey that never seems to end.”

  “An ancient way of life, but who is to say it is wrong?” Sara said, and opened her shoulder bag. “Are you armed?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I get the impression that Timbuktu is a rough old town, and my impression of Florian is pretty harsh. He may not carry a pistol in his pocket himself, but I’m sure he’ll be surrounded by people who do.”

  “You are, of course, completely right,” he told her.

  “I thought so.” She unzipped the shoulder bag and took out a silenced Colt .25 and a small box of ammunition. “Hollow-point cartridges. I come from a hard school, Colonel Hunter. In our business, we don’t aim to wound, only to kill. Whether you feel you can act in that way is your business.”

  “Never fear, Captain, this is exactly what I need,” and he started to load it.

  She passed him a rear belt holster. “The Colt fits nicely into one of these. Easy to draw when you need to.”

  She turned and found Dillon standing
just outside the cockpit door. “What are you two up to? Preparing for war?” he asked.

  “I suppose we are,” she said. “From the sound of things, Timbuktu is the town where it pays to take care.”

  “Which should be interesting,” he said, and went back to join Holley.

  —

  LATER, AS SHE SAT looking down at the desert below stretching into infinity, Sara felt engulfed by the vastness. They were still cruising at thirty-five thousand, but soon Holley started to take the Falcon down until the network of trails and roads became clear, making ancient routes, vehicles and camel trains visible, villages here and there, and then Timbuktu, rearing up out of the desert on the horizon like some fairy-tale city, the light blue sky of the day already tinged with the darker hue of night. It was impossible not to be excited by the look of the place as they descended.

  They passed over the desert, lower and lower, until Fuad greeted them in the distance, the big surprise being the electric lights that marked out the runway and shone in welcome from the windows of the concrete flat-roofed buildings to one side, the oil tanks clearly visible.

  A scattering of people watched as Holley dropped the Falcon in. He turned it around at the far end of the runway and started back to the oil tanks. “Fill her up, Sean, that’s what I want in case anything untoward occurs and we need to get out fast.”

  Most of the spectators were Arabs, but they spotted a SandCat in desert camouflage with a crew of five men in army uniform manning it, a general-purpose machine gun mounted on it.

  A uniformed major came to greet them as the airstair door opened, and Holley went out and greeted him with an embrace.

  “Caspar, how goes it? What’s happened to the Tuareg robes?”

  “Too theatrical for the chief of staff. He feels simple khaki uniforms are more appropriate.”

  “How bloody boring is that?” Holley said.

  “Well, orders are orders, you know how it is.”

  “I’d like you to meet Captain Sara Gideon.”

  “My goodness, but I know all about you.” Caspar gave her a hug. “One old Sandhurst hand to another.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” she said. “Have you meet Colonel Samuel Hunter?”

  Caspar shook hands. “No, I missed you when you were last here. I was fifty miles out at an oasis. The usual nonsense. Throat cutting between families. Can’t have that.”

  Behind him, a small team was supervising the refueling, and Holley said, “All top quality, I trust?”

  “Come off it, Daniel,” Caspar told him. “When have I given you less? By the way, as your trip is completely unexpected, I’m afraid you’re going to have to manage without me for two or three days. I’m needed at El Hajiz. Murder this time. I’ll be off first thing in the morning.”

  “That’s nice for you. We’ve no fixed plans. We could stay a couple of days or climb on board and clear off now.”

  “Well, that’s up to you, old son. Where will you stay if you remain here?”

  “The Astoria,” Holley said.

  “Well, that’s as good as you’d get anywhere else in Timbuktu. Watch your pockets where Florian is concerned. I’ll let him know you’re in town and need somewhere to lay your weary heads. You can borrow one of our people. I’ve got to go and check up on my men now. I may see you later, I may not. Be sure to carry a weapon at all times.”

  —

  THE JEEP WAS a workmanlike military vehicle in khaki green, ALGERIAN DEFENSE FORCE stamped across the hood in Arabic, and the pennants that flew on either side were small Algerian flags.

  “With luck, this should be enough to frighten off any kind of troublemakers, and I know that you’ve all taken Caspar’s advice to arm yourselves, so we will sally forth to experience a thousand and one Arab delights, a finger on the trigger at all times,” said Holley.

  The military Jeep had been an excellent idea—the people in the crowded narrow streets jumped to one side to avoid it like the plague. There was a warmth flowing like a current through those crowded alleys, and everything was varied. There were many women in black burkas and face veils, but just as many were flaunting faces of haunting beauty wrapped in the chador, the obligatory head scarf for women, and yet more women revealed faces of exceptional beauty framed by dark and lustrous hair flowing down over bare shoulders.

  The Astoria was four stories high and stood in a courtyard at the end of a surprisingly wide alley. An entrance gate stood open, a large black man on either side wearing the same white uniform and green turban. There were cars parked inside the courtyard, and Holley drove in and paused.

  The man on the left called to his friend. “More stupid Westerners for the casino, but I could think of something better to do with the woman.”

  Holley said to Dillon, in Arabic, “I believe I’ve got something that needs scraping from my shoe.”

  Dillon said, “You’re mistaken, my friend, he is the dung on my shoe.”

  Their perfect Arabic bewildered both men, and things were made worse when Sara joined in, also in excellent Arabic, and said, “They are not sure whether to play with themselves or say sorry.”

  The one on the right raised his hand to her, and Hunter grabbed his wrist with remarkable speed, and said, also in Arabic, “No way to treat a lady.”

  There was a great booming laugh, and they turned to see a very large man in a fez and a fawn linen suit, the armpits damp with sweat.

  “It’s a pleasure to hear such fluent Arabic and I’m grateful you haven’t shot both of them. It’s so difficult to find good people these days. I’m Doctor Aldo Florian. Come in, my friends, Caspar told me to expect you. Colonel Hunter, of course, I had the privilege of meeting when he was here before. You must excuse Ali and Selim.”

  “Quite a place you’ve got here,” Holley told him, as they entered the foyer that extended into the casino, where every table seemed to be occupied. There was also a dining room with a four-piece group in a corner playing standards.

  It was noisy and active and not what one would have thought of in such a location. “You look uncertain, Captain Gideon. Not what you expected of Timbuktu? So let’s adjourn to my private quarters, enjoy a glass of champagne, have something to eat, and get to know one another.” Florian turned, taking it for granted they would follow, and led the way.

  There was a large mahogany desk, a computer on it, and all the usual bits and pieces needed to run a business, perhaps the most essential being the huge leather swing chair into which Florian sank as Holley and his friends followed him in. They were followed by Ali and Selim, who positioned themselves on either side of the door, both having produced machine pistols from their large coat pockets.

  “Do you protect all your guests in such an extreme way?” Sara asked.

  “These are dangerous times, Captain Gideon, and Timbuktu a particularly wicked place. I would have thought Colonel Hunter would have made that plain to you. Be seated, please.”

  The room was a welter of overstuffed divans, draperies hanging everywhere, everything touched by a perfume that was cloying and sickly. A woman in a black burka and face veil appeared from behind a hanging tapestry pushing a trolley, an open bottle in an ice bucket on it and four glasses.

  “Krug champagne.” Florian waved a hand. “A personal favorite.”

  “Yet there is no glass for you,” Sara said in English, then in Arabic to the woman, “Take the trolley away. We are here on business, not pleasure, and do it now.”

  The woman didn’t even hesitate and withdrew with the trolley, and Sara said, “So let’s get down to business. Colonel Hunter, acting as an agent for British and American interests, has visited Timbuktu in past months to try to discover who is behind the ruthless plundering of Muslim treasures during the recent upheavals in Mali.”

  “And what would I know about that?”

  “According to Colonel Hunter
, everything there is to know.”

  “I knew you were trouble the moment you came in,” he told her, producing a Walther quickly from a drawer in front of him. “We’re making millions selling Muslim artifacts all over the world. Do you think I’ll stand by and let you expose us? We prefer the quiet life in Switzerland.”

  As Florian fired, Hunter shoved Sara to one side so quickly that he received the bullet himself, which ploughed into the left side of his chest. Dillon, on his feet in an instant, shot Florian between the eyes, driving him backward over the swing chair.

  At the same moment, Holley turned to Ali and Selim, who both dropped their machine pistols to the floor and ran out. Sara was already examining Hunter’s wound. He had closed his eyes in shock.

  She looked up at the others. “A serious business. He needs a top surgeon and a decent hospital.”

  “Well, all he’ll get here while the authorities are arguing over the rights and wrongs is more medieval than anything else,” Holley said, mobile phone in hand. “Caspar, we’re in bad trouble and we’ve got to get the hell out of here. I’ll explain when we get to Fuad, but make sure the Falcon gets a swift departure, and I’m going to need half a dozen of those army medical battle packs. Don’t argue. We’re leaving now.”

  A moment later, they were going, Holley and Dillon supporting Hunter between them, Sara following, her hand on the Colt ready in her pocket, but they had in no way disturbed the general hubbub of the casino, and there was no sign of Ali and Selim on the door.

  In a matter of moments, they were driving out of the gate, Holley at the wheel.

  —

  AT FUAD, it was raining the warm night rain of the desert as Caspar’s medical sergeant examined the wound. “This is a bad one, sir,” he said to Caspar. “The bullet has ploughed through on the left side of the chest, but I think it has splintered the shoulder bone. All this is very close to the heart.”

  “Do you think he can survive the best part of seven hours on that Falcon?” Holley demanded.

  “Our battle packs are those used by American Special Forces. He’ll be bandaged tightly and given plenty of morphine. But only Allah can say whether he can survive,” said the sergeant.