The Midnight Bell

“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.