The Midnight Bell

“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?”