The Midnight Bell Page 6

  “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?”

  “I’ve already alerted Mr. Teague and his disposal team,” Ferguson told her. “They’ll be here shortly.”

  At that moment, Teague walked in, a tall, distinguished-looking man in black overalls whom Hannah had met previously.

  Her voice shook as she said, “So this is the best we can do for him, the ovens?”

  “Most Muslims would expect cremation,” Teague told her, “and I have a Muslim cleric to call on. All will be proper. Hamid Abed will not pass over alone.”

  Sara said, “Shall we go together, Hannah?”

  Teague glanced at Ferguson, who nodded, and said to the women, “If that is your wish, then go now, there is always a certain urgency to this business.”

  Hannah turned to Dillon. “Sean?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.”

  Teague already had the door open, and they brushed past him and were gone, and he stepped out after them.

  Ferguson shook his head. “I’ll never understand women.”

  “But thank God for them,” Dillon said. “I’ll have to get moving. My place is at Holland Park tonight, I promised Roper.”

  “Then you’d better be off,” Ferguson said.

  Dillon went out fast; the Mini roared, the noise fading in a remarkably short time. He had left the Omar Bey file on the coffee table. Ferguson was slipping it in his briefcase when Tony Doyle peered through the door.

  “Highfield Court, General?”

  “Not needed, Sergeant. President Cazalet and Blake are staying the night. You can take me to Holland Park. I need to have a word with Professor Bellamy, so I’ll call you when I need you.”

  —

  ROPER HAD TRIED to contact Dillon for quite some time without success, so it was obvious that the Irishman had turned off his communication system and that meant he was up to no good.

  Roper sat th
ere, thinking about this. It was raining hard, drumming against the windows in the darkness outside.

  “Damn you, Sean,” he said softly. “Don’t do this to me.”

  At almost the same moment, Dillon’s voice came in loud and clear. “Have you been trying to get in touch?”

  “Of course I have, a bad business, the whole thing.”

  “You could put it that way, but there’s a certain element of farce to the whole affair. I mean, who is the enemy? The imam? He can’t be touched. He’s a cleric, and shooting him would cause a riot.”

  “Of course it would. You got the file I sent you?”

  “Yes, and I must say MI5 have done an excellent job. Omar Bey rides around in a yellow van provided by the Brotherhood, lives in a tenement behind Rangoon Wharf, and eats late most nights at Patel’s, a Pakistani restaurant at the other end of the wharf. He parks his van outside. I’m looking at it now.”

  “Waiting to put a bullet between his eyes?” Roper said. “That’s crazy, Sean.”

  “Who said anything about a bullet? The rail at the edge of the wharf is old and wooden. I’ve opened his van with my keys, gained access to his steering and braking system, and locked the driver’s door again.”

  “My God, but that’s diabolical,” Roper said.

  “Well, let’s hope it works, because he’s just emerged from the restaurant and is hurrying through the rain to reach his van. Now he’s getting the door open and heaving himself inside. Just listen.”

  Roper could hear the van’s engine starting in the background as Dillon held up his Codex, but the heavy drumming of the rain reduced the sound so much that he couldn’t tell what was happening until Dillon spoke again.

  “Bloody marvelous. He swerved to the right, went straight through the railing, and nosed down forty feet into the Thames.”

  “Then get the hell out of there,” Roper said. “Before you’re seen.”

  “Giles, nobody’s come running out of the restaurant because they haven’t heard a thing, and I’m already retreating through a maze of backstreets to where I parked the Mini a quarter of a mile away. I’ll see you soon, old son.”