Rain on the Dead

Cazalet said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing dire. The President wanted to invite you to the Oval Office, but couldn’t because of the publicity such a visit would have caused. He said you were in New York to meet the British ambassador and proposed that we kidnap you for a night so that I could say a heartfelt thanks on his behalf for your handling of the Husseini affair. If Iran had been able to use his work to perfect their nuclear bomb – well, it wouldn’t bear thinking of. All three of you did a remarkable job, and we are in your debt.’

‘Please tell the President how grateful we are,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s all in the game these days, and a damn ugly game it is.’

‘You’ve got that right,’ Cazalet said. ‘It’s a complete mess. Jihadists allied to Al Qaeda have infiltrated international terrorism like the plague, linking groups worldwide, each controlled by that anonymous leader always known as the Master, a shadowy figure, a voice on the phone. Backed by millions obtained from oil-rich states in the Middle East. They’re extremely dangerous.’

‘As Captain Gideon can attest to first-hand,’ said Ferguson.

Cazalet turned to Sara, who said, ‘Dillon and I were targeted by Al Qaeda in London, with orders to dispose of us.’

‘I notice you’re still here,’ Cazalet said.

‘You should see her in action, sir,’ Dillon told him.

‘So there’s a Master responsible for London?’

‘He also handled affairs in Paris,’ Dillon said. ‘And later in Beirut.’

‘And turned out to be General Ali ben Levi, the commander of the Iranian Army’s Secret Field Police.’

‘He was killed in London, though we weren’t responsible,’ Ferguson said. ‘But we had his body disposed of. We couldn’t see the point of sending the details to the Iranian military, and they’re still looking for him. They had no idea of his Al Qaeda connection.’

‘And I’m sure he has already been replaced,’ said Cazalet. ‘That there’s a new Master out there now. Terrorism has completely changed warfare as we know it. Enemies without uniforms, bombs everywhere.’ He shivered. ‘End of an era. But enough of that for this one night. Tonight, let’s go out on the terrace and have some champagne. Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of port, Charles?’

‘Now you’re talking, sir,’ Ferguson said, and led the way out.

The dining room opened into the conservatory, where great sliding doors gave access to the terrace with tables and lounging chairs, the garden crowding in, flowering shrubs of every description, tall pines and palm trees that someone had experimented with over many years. The scent of flowers, the sound of grasshoppers chirping in the lights, all combined to create a kind of tropical splendour.

‘Wonderful,’ Sara said. ‘I love the smell of it.’

Cazalet said, ‘It’s a bit of a jungle really, but at my age I can do as I please, so I let it run riot. Reminds me of my tours in Vietnam. Come, have something to eat.’

2 (#u716228c6-7378-52df-a43c-835920399ae5)

Yanni and Khalid had reached the house without the slightest trouble, following the beach, passing the occasional barbecue, sometimes a fire. There were lots of other people in the darkness, laughter, guitar music, but there was no one by the Cazalet house.

They passed it, turning up the left side of the estate through a marshy area with reeds growing high, found a place where the fencing gaped and squeezed into the garden. They could hear conversation and laughter, light through the trees and shrubbery.

They had taken pills before leaving the cottage and were feeling the effects. ‘Are you getting high, brother?’ Yanni whispered.

‘I’m floating, man,’ Khalid told him.

‘Then put on your face.’

Yanni pulled the ski mask on, and grinned as his brother did the same. ‘You look like a clown.’

‘So do you,’ Khalid told him, and took his Glock out and dropped the shoulder bag to the ground. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said to Yanni, and led the way cautiously.

On the terrace, they were at the coffee stage, Ferguson and Cazalet sitting down and Dalton pouring it out. Dillon was standing by the open window, enjoying a cigarette. There were three stone steps leading up to the terrace crowded with overgrown shrubbery, and Sara stood there waiting for her coffee. Yanni crouched, watching her admiringly. His brother stood a few feet away in heavy bushes behind the balustrade.

They could have killed everyone if they’d fired without hesitating, but the drugs had taken full control and they were shaking with excitement, and it was Yanni who made the first move.

‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, and took three quick steps up to the terrace. Sara half turned and he hit her sideways in the face, pulled her against him, and rammed the barrel of the Glock into her side. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’

‘Oh God,’ she moaned, as if terrified, and closed her eyes, apparently fainting, starting to slide to the floor so that he was losing his grasp.

Dalton was already drawing his weapon and jumping in front of Cazalet. Khalid stepped out of the bushes and shot him in the chest. In the same moment, Dillon drew the Colt .25 he always carried in a rear belt holder and fired rapidly three times, the hollow-point cartridges tearing Khalid apart, hurling him back into the shrubbery.

Yanni howled in rage, allowed Sara to slide, and fired once at Dillon, denting the wall. Sara withdrew the flick knife from the sheath she always wore around her right ankle, sprang the blade, and stabbed him under the chin. He dropped his weapon, fell back down the steps, and lay in the middle of rosebushes, kicking as he choked to death.

There had been surprisingly little sound, just the dull thud of silenced weapons, and Cazalet was already on his knees with Ferguson, examining Dalton, Dillon standing over them, his gun still in his hand. Dalton groaned and Cazalet looked up in relief.

‘Thank God, he was wearing his vest. I’ll leave him to you, Charles, while I raise the alarm.’

He found Dalton’s cell phone and called in. ‘This is Cazalet. Empire down. Two intruders down. Request Nightbird Retrieval.’

He said to the others, ‘Which means a cover-up job by the CIA. It should be easy enough, since all the weapons were silenced, so the neighbours shouldn’t have any idea what’s been going on, and as you know, the occasional helicopter landing is nothing new here.’ He turned to Sara. ‘I can see why they awarded you a Military Cross in Afghanistan, but your suit will never be the same again. It’s badly bloodstained.’

‘No problem, sir, I have another in my luggage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room to shower and change.’

‘Of course,’ he said.

As she moved out, Dillon murmured, ‘Are you okay?’

She held up a bloodstained hand. ‘As usual, not even shaking.’

‘Just like in the Bible. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.’

‘Which doesn’t help me in the slightest,’ she said, and went out.

Cazalet eased Dalton onto a chair and gave him some brandy to sip. Dillon poured champagne for himself and Ferguson, who said, ‘God knows why we’re drinking this, but it’s a pity to waste good stuff.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’ Dillon toasted him.

Cazalet cut in: ‘Did you two hear what the one she killed said to her?’

Dillon nodded. ‘A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.’

‘It appears that Al Qaeda has found us, right here in Nantucket.’

The Nightbird was of medium size, black in colour, the engine noise remarkably quiet. A dozen men in black overalls got out. The officer in charge, wearing the same black uniform, was calm and efficient.

‘Colonel Sam Caxton, Mr President. We’ll be treating this as a crime scene, although it’s not a police investigation. If you would, I’d like you all to wait inside and two of my men will record interviews with you, both individually and together, to cover all the bases. We also have a doctor with us, just to check you all out.’

‘We’re at your service, Colonel,’ Cazalet said.

‘If you could move in, we’ll get started. It goes without saying that we’re delighted to find you in one piece.’

He went out, and Cazalet said to Dalton, ‘How do you feel, Frank?’