Rain on the Dead (25 page)

For once, she had the wit to see what he was trying to do, managed to look troubled, sighed, and said, “If you say so, Eric.”

Harry turned to his nephew. “Are you satisfied?”

“Not really, but we can come back if we need to,” Billy said.

“I suppose so.” Harry looked around him. “What a dump,” and he walked toward the entrance, Billy following.

Dillon ignored Myra but said to Eric, “When I looked you up, it wasn’t the medal you got that impressed me, it was what you did to earn it. I’d like to think what that said about you is true, so don’t disappoint me. Leave this mess alone. I’ve seen the movie and it ends badly!”

He ran up the steps and out of the door, as she tossed her martini glass after him and turned to Eric. “If I had a gun in my hand, I’d shoot the bastard. Give me another drink.”

As he prepared it, her mobile sounded in her handbag and she pulled it out. “Is that you, Terry?”

The Master said, “I’m afraid not, although I spoke to him a short while ago.”

“The Master,” she whispered to Eric, and put it on speaker. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if Terry was there.”

“I’m afraid not. I saw him for a short while at the clinic where he was being treated for a gunshot wound to his ear. He told me he didn’t expect any problems with the police, because Ferguson wouldn’t want that.”

“Which is true. Where can I reach him?”

“I’ve no idea. He told me it was better if I didn’t know. He did say France or Spain might be a possibility.”

“It seems to me that leaves you in a difficult situation, Myra.”

“Oh, I think I’m up to it,” she told him. “I should have no difficulty running the club, especially with my bar manager assisting me. We’ve just had a visit, by the way, from the Salters and Sean Dillon.”

“They were looking for Terry, I suppose?”

“Yes. They made threats about antiterrorism laws, and Harry Salter’s nephew, Billy, turns out to work for MI5.”

“Yes, I was aware of that. It makes it more difficult to get at the Salters, in spite of their criminal background.”

“Well, it doesn’t give me a problem,” Myra told him. “I can put enough rough young men together any time I want who’d love to give the Salters’ pub a real turning-over. Or worse. It wouldn’t bother me in the slightest if the Dark Man
sort of accidentally caught fire and burned to the ground.”

There was a slight pause, and then the Master said, “That’s really rather interesting. When could you do it?”

She looked inquiringly at Eric, who’d been listening, and he nodded. Myra said,
“Tonight.”

It was just after seven, people already flooding into the Dorchester for the fund-raiser when Cazalet and Dillon peered in from the Promenade. They retreated to the bar and ordered martinis as they waited for Sara and Hannah.

“It certainly looks as if everybody’s going to be here,” Cazalet said.

Dillon’s Codex sounded, and it was Roper, who said, “Where are you?”

“Oh, at a bar as usual, waiting for the girls to join us,” Dillon said.

“I just wanted you to know that Declan will join you soon. Max Shelby’s going to pick him up at Rosedene and drop him off. Howard Glynn has ordered him to join the crowd: Ferguson, the Prime Minister, the French Foreign Minister.”

“And Uncle Tom Cobley and all,” Dillon told him. “We get the picture. I’ll check in where necessary.”

“I’d advise it. Ferguson expects nothing less than perfection where the French are involved. A matter of national honor, I think.” Roper chuckled and switched off.

Cazalet was highly amused. “A hard taskmaster, Charles Ferguson.”

“Most great men are,” Dillon told him.

“And the others?” Cazalet asked, “Declan and this Max Shelby?”

“Well, buy me another martini and I’ll tell you.”

—

When Dillon was finished, Cazalet shook his head. “An amazing story. An Iranian father and an Irish doctor for a mother.”

“A Bedouin father,” Dillon said. “There’s a difference. He has Irish nationality through his mother, so he’s on our side now.”

“Thank God for that, but this Major Shelby? There’s an unfortunate case. To lose his son and then his wife in such rotten circumstances.”

“Yes, but people like Max are the backbone of Army Intelligence, and these days, with so much terrorism, his language skills are essential. He and Sara were comrades in arms in Afghanistan. He’s the superintendent of MI5’s safe house here in London for the interrogation of suspects.”

“Who is this Howard Glynn?”

“Director General of MI5, who can’t wait to meet you, like they all do, and it’s Sir Charles.”

Cazalet said, “Why do I get the impression that you’re about to burst out laughing when you say something like that?”

“Because I am, but not at you. It’s just that I’m bewitched at the
sight of two incredibly handsome young ladies bearing down on us behind you.”

Cazalet swirled around to find Sara and Hannah approaching, wearing elegant black velvet evening suits, each with her walking stick, and looking more like twins than ever.

“Sensational,” he said to Dillon. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon told him. “A champagne occasion, so let me do the honors,” and he turned to the bar to order. Sara said, “Don’t you think we’ll be expected at the reception?”

Before Dillon could reply, his Codex rang again. Roper said, “You’re not having any good luck tonight, Sean. Guess who else is there? Hamid Bey with Sister Lily Shah. Needless to say, Ferguson is not pleased.”

He switched off, and Cazalet asked, “Who the hell is Hamid Bey?”

Sara said, “What you might term the opposition, sir.”

“So not on our side at all?”

“Not even a little bit,” Dillon told him, and the door opened and Max Shelby walked in from the ballroom.

“Sorry to spoil your fun, sir, but General Ferguson’s looking concerned. Sir Howard Glynn is with him now, and they are expecting the PM and the French Foreign Minister at any moment. If you could follow me?”

“Of course.” Cazalet brushed past him.

Shelby stopped smiling. “You’ve heard about Hamid Bey?”

Sara said, “I’m afraid so, Max.”

“Can’t keep the bastard out, you see, as he’s bought his ticket. What a bloody world,” and he went out.

Before anyone could say anything, Declan peered in and Sara smiled and said, “There you are. Colonel Declan Rashid, meet Hannah Flynn. You’ve heard enough about each other, so it’s time you met. His mother was Irish, so that’s one good thing.”

“Or everything,” Hannah said, and shook his hand.

Applause started to rise in the ballroom, and Dillon said, “Sounds like the great and the good have arrived. Maybe it’s time to be on the move.”

Behind them, people who had been seated around the Promenade bar were getting to their feet and crowding toward the ballroom entrance, most of them clutching entrance tickets. Among them were Ali and Khalid.

Declan had eased back, he and Dillon acting as buffers to Sara and Hannah, who were leaning on their walking sticks to one side of the double doors. As the pressure from those pushing forward increased, Ali and Khalid stemmed it.

Khalid gestured with his hand. “Please, ma’am,” he said to Sara, and then the weight of the crowd pushed the two young men forward.

She turned to Declan. “There he goes again. He called me ‘ma’am’ last night when he excused himself in the bar. Only the military use ‘ma’am’ these days.”

“Or the Royal Family,” Hannah said.

Declan seemed to be ignoring them, frowning slightly. “What is it?” Sara demanded.

“I’m not sure. It was as if I knew them.”

“I doubt it, you must be at least twenty years older than they are. They’re good public school products from their accents, although I should point out that when I was at Sandhurst, they weren’t all
children of privilege—there was a much wider variety than there used to be.”

“No, Sara, I know them from somewhere. I’ll give it some thought.”

—

The ballroom was a scene of tremendous activity, waiters everywhere, passing through the crowd offering canapés and drinks. Important guests were standing in line to be introduced by Henry Frankel, the Cabinet Secretary, and his team to the PM and the French Foreign Minister and Cazalet, who, from the way people were pressing forward, was proving something of a draw.

Dillon lifted a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed them to Sara and Hannah, while Declan procured two in the same way and passed one to Dillon, who emptied the glass, plunged into the crowd, and emerged with a wicker table and two chairs, which he placed by the wall and waved to the girls.

They came and sat down, and Sara said, “So you’re a miracle worker now?”

“It’s been said before,” he said, and grinned.

Declan stood some little way off, scanning the room methodically for Ali and Khalid, enjoying no success at all, and there was something of an altercation taking place at the end of the presentation line. Hamid Bey was trying to force his presence, and Henry Frankel was just as forcefully keeping him out. Sister Lily Shah, in a blue uniform dress and a hood of the same color, stood to one side looking miserable and uncomfortable.

Dillon forced his way through the crowd, by some miracle
finding another wicker chair on the way, and took her by the arm, totally ignoring Henry Frankel and Hamid Bey.

“I really do feel that you need to sit down, so if you’ll come this way, we’ll find you some congenial company.”

Hamid Bey scowled ferociously, but Henry Frankel smiled wickedly, for he had known Dillon for many years. So—Hamid Bey was pushed rather forcefully out of the frame while Dillon led Lily Shah by the hand to Sara and Hannah. He put the chair down and eased her into it.

“Take your pick. One of them shot up and the other blown up, so with you having experienced the worst Lebanon had to offer, I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.”

He turned and walked away, Lily Shah watching him go with some astonishment. “Is he always like that?”

“Only some of the time,” Sara Gideon said. “We met at Rosedene, so you know who I am, but this is Hannah Flynn, Dillon’s second cousin. Now, let’s have another glass of champagne and you can tell us how things work at the Army of God dispensary,” and she waved to a passing waiter.

—

It wasn’t surprising that Declan couldn’t catch sight of Ali and Khalid. There were so many people crammed into that vast ballroom that it was virtually impossible to pick out individuals. Dillon got two more glasses and approached Hamid Bey, who was seated by a large potted palm, glaring malevolently at everyone in sight. Dillon, with his flair for languages, spoke good Arabic and cheerfully offered champagne to the imam.

“There you go, eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.”

Hamid Bey knocked the glass from his hand. “May you burn in hell, apostate.”

“An interesting sentiment,” Dillon said. “But I don’t mind, as long as I meet you there.”

Hamid Bey plucked another glass from a passing waiter’s tray and tossed the champagne in Dillon’s face. People close to them saw what had happened and were shocked. Dillon’s response was to lick his lips.

“Absolutely marvelous, old son, I enjoyed that.” He raised his glass. “To our next merry meeting in hell.”

“My God,” Lily Shah said. “Excuse me, ladies. I must go to the imam. His rages are ungovernable on occasion.”

“We understand,” Sara told her, and they watched her go, trying to take the imam’s arm and getting pushed away, trailing after him when he turned and pushed through the crowd.

“Why couldn’t you just shoot him?” Hannah asked.

“I was sorely tempted,” Dillon said, “but that would deprive that nice lady of her supper, and I should point out that they are offering a superb buffet on the far side of the room. I suggest a visit may prove of benefit to all of us.”

“What about Declan?” Sara asked.

“You go and get a table. I’ll see if he wants to join us.”

—

By chance, Declan had been phoned just a little earlier by Roper. The major had been feeling bored since not very much was going
on, and he’d wondered how Declan was bearing up, considering he’d had two bullets pumped into him and was still in a postoperative stage.

“Anything of interest?” Roper asked.

“Those two men Sara is fascinated with, one addressed her as ‘ma’am,’ so she thinks he could be a soldier. I’ve heard them talk. English public school without a doubt.”

“So are you, clown. You went to St. Paul’s and sound like it, but you’re half Bedouin, to be strictly accurate. Is there any chance these chaps could have been within your military experience?”

“I’ve a good memory for things like that. If they’d ever served with me, I’d know.”

“Okay, leave it with me. Perhaps Major Giles Roper’s magic box will produce some trickery. Clear off and enjoy your supper, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Dillon, who had been waiting patiently, said, “All finished now, can we go to eat?”

“Of course. I’m leaving it in Roper’s hands. If anyone can solve my problem, it’s he, so lead on. I’m quite hungry.”

—