Rain on the Dead

Dalton had reluctantly gone to sleep on a couch in the sitting room, and Cazalet and Ferguson sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee and turning things over between them.

‘I’m almost flattered that someone feels I’m worth being a target,’ Cazalet said.

‘Nonsense, you were a great President. Your death would have made headlines around the world.’

‘Maybe,’ Cazalet admitted grudgingly. ‘Anyway, there was one matter I was asked to raise with you before you leave.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Colonel Declan Rashid. He was an enormous help in the Husseini business, so disgusted at the way Husseini was treated by the Iranian government that he deserted their army and supported your people in everything.’

‘And took a couple of bullets in the back doing it. He’s agreed to work for us when fit again,’ Ferguson added.

‘Well, apparently the CIA would like to talk with him. They’re really quite keen on it, though I expect I know your answer. I told them I’d pass it along, but wouldn’t promise anything.’

‘And you were right. You know Rashid’s history. He was a paratrooper at sixteen and, during Iran’s war with Saddam Hussein, made his first jump into action without training. Over the years, he has been wounded many times, and now his doctors, including our own Professor Bellamy, say enough is enough. He needs time to recuperate. The CIA will just have to retire gracefully from the conflict.’

Cazalet laughed out loud. ‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, let me just check my office messages. I’ve given Mrs Boulder the morning off, so when it comes to breakfast, we’ll all have to pitch in.’

He went out. Ferguson boiled the kettle, made tea, and Dillon entered. ‘You look fit,’ the general said.

‘Didn’t sleep worth a damn, but I dry-shaved and had a cold shower. I could kill for a cup of tea.’

‘Help yourself,’ Ferguson told him. Cazalet came in. ‘Your helicopter arrives at eleven. Also, photos of the Chechens have just come through. The machine’s pumped out some extra copies.’

‘Goodness me,’ Ferguson said. ‘They look like any young convicts from about a century ago.’

Dillon helped himself, took one of the sheets and slipped it in a pocket. Cazalet said, ‘Right, who’s for bacon and eggs?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Ferguson replied, but Dillon said, ‘I think I’d prefer a last walk on the beach, sir. I can get something down there.’

So he left them to it, tiptoeing past Dalton – still sleeping heavily on the couch – and letting himself out on the drive, and was soon walking along the beach. Plenty of tourists were out already, for it was a particularly fine day.

He wandered through them, uncertain about what it was he was looking for. The Chechens fascinated him. Two real wild boys, and how had they got to Nantucket? Looking at the crowded harbour, he found a very possible answer. The sea, because that’s what he would have done.

He went up on the jetty and started to walk along past people working on the decks of the boats, others diving into the harbour and swimming. A young man with a money satchel around his neck and a register in his hands was working his way along the line of boats. The name tag on his shirt said ‘Henry’.

Dillon said, ‘Can you help me? Have you ever seen these guys?’

He unfolded the sheet with both photos. Henry stopped smiling. ‘What have they done, are you a cop?’

‘I work for a security firm,’ Dillon said. ‘They’ve been leaving unpaid bills all over the place.’

‘Sure, I’ve seen them. Yesterday evening, they were around here really high on something and drinking booze, and they had an argument with people on one of the boats. Went off making a hell of a row.’

‘Show me the boat involved.’

‘I saw it leave last night as it was getting dark, which was strange, because the mooring fee was paid until Friday. It was a sport-fisherman, a rental from Quogue. Two guys on board named Jackson and Hawkins. I brought them passports. Maybe they’re just cruising about out there.’

‘I don’t think so. Did you do any copying of their passport details, photos and so on?’

‘No, that would be illegal. Anyway, the national agency just tells me either it’s okay or not okay.’

‘It’s just that I’d been wondering whether you could use a fifty-dollar bill.’

Henry smiled. ‘Only if you’d be happy with a picture I took of them on my phone. They were chatting on deck.’ He took the phone out of his pocket.

‘Why did you take it?’

‘Because jazz and swing are my thing, and Mr Hawkins plays a great clarinet. He turned an old Irish folk song, “The Lark in the Clear Air”, into pure Gershwin, special enough to bring tears to the eyes. That’s him with the white beard.’

The disguises, which in effect the bearded faces were, had succeeded brilliantly. Not for a moment had Dillon recognized them from the photo, but Henry’s musical anecdote was unique. It related to the deepest and most poignant moment in Dillon’s life, which meant the man in the white beard was Tim Kelly and the other was probably Tod Flynn.

‘Does it ring any bells, sir?’

‘Not really, it was a hell of a long time ago. I’d like to have a copy of the photo anyway, if that’s okay with you. Can you email it to me?’ Dillon held out the fifty and gave Henry his number.

‘You’re more than welcome, sir.’ Henry sent it and slipped the bill into his pocket. ‘Have a nice day.’

Dillon walked away, his mind in a turmoil, never so conflicted. It was obvious that he should tell Ferguson what he had discovered, but it was impossible to discuss why at the moment, and certainly not with Sara around. She served the Crown, wore the uniform. On the other hand, they were returning to Roper, the bomb-scarred hero trapped in his wheelchair. He nodded to himself. Roper would know what to do. He hurried along the beach.

At the end of the strand across from the house, a mobile beach concession had appeared, a sandwich and burger bar on wheels with canvas chairs and fold-up tables, most of which were taken. Dillon stopped and ordered tea and an egg sandwich, sitting close to the bar.

The woman sympathetic to the Cause whom the Master had mentioned to Flynn sat not too far away, keeping an eye on the situation over the road where the helicopter had just drifted in behind the house. Her name was Lily Shah, and she worked in the dispensary at the Army of God headquarters in London.

She was quite small, wore sandals, a Panama pushed down over fair hair, her blue linen shirt loose over khaki shorts. She removed her Ray-Bans to scratch her nose, revealing a calm, sweet face. She was forty-five and looked younger. On seeing Dillon, she replaced her Ray-Bans, took a sound enhancer from her shirt pocket, slipped it into her right ear, and adjusted it as Sara Gideon crossed the road.

‘Anything special happen while I’ve been out?’ Dillon asked as he finished his tea.

Lily could hear perfectly as Sara answered. ‘The President wants Cazalet safe. The black team from last night is coming in tomorrow to start doing all sorts of security things to the house. Since it’s been in the family since before the Civil War, Cazalet is not pleased. Even more, the staff have been suspended. Dalton’s going to hang on to hand over to the team, and Mrs Boulder keeps Murchison, bless her. And I’m here to tell you to get a move on – we’re boarding the helicopter in minutes.’

They hurried across the road and entered the drive, cutting it very fine, for it seemed no more than five minutes later that the helicopter lifted above the trees and turned away, causing a certain excitement among the tourists.

Once things settled down, Lily wandered along the beach, turned across and down the side of the house, the marshy area with the reeds growing high. She stood looking at the place where the fencing gaped and, on impulse, scrambled through into the garden, and then ventured a little further cautiously to where the carnage had taken place.

The windows on the terrace slipped open and Dalton walked through, comfortable in shirtsleeves, a can of beer in one hand, and sat down on the swing chair. He opened the newspaper, and she pointed her right index finger at him, thumb raised, then smiled, eased back through the jungle of the garden, and left.

Walking back to town, barefoot at the sea’s edge, she phoned the Master and told him what happened. ‘So Ferguson and company will be back to trouble you again very soon.’

‘And trouble is the right word. He’s been a thorn in our side for much too long. I’m sure he was responsible for the disappearance of General Ali ben Levi. We know that he flew in here, to Northolt, in pursuit of the traitor Declan Rashid. This is a fact.’

Referring to Ali ben Levi as flying ‘in here, to Northolt’ Airport had been an unfortunate slip, for his choice of words had indicated that the Master was speaking in London. Come to that, Lily was sure she’d once heard Big Ben chiming in the background of one of his calls. Lily was intrigued, but concentrated on the matter at hand.

‘The Russians tried to eradicate Ferguson and his Prime Minister’s private army some years ago. All they got was a bloody nose,’ she said.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Dr Ali Saif, when he was head of education at the Army of God.’