The Midnight Bell

“Ah, Mr. Frankel. Your partner must have a permanent smile on his face. You’re such a funny little man. Why is that?”

“It’s the only way I can cope with the prospect of being bored to death by a creature like you.”

“Ah, you have claws. I’ll have to think of an answer to that. I’ll let you know next time.”

“And when will that be?” Roper asked.

“Whenever I want, wherever I want. I can find you, but you cannot find me. I have a network of true believers and criminals who will do anything for money. I am invisible.”

“So there you are, gentlemen,” Henry Frankel said. “On top of that, he won’t be happy until sharia law rules the roost at the Old Bailey.”

“An interesting thought,” agreed the Master.

Jake Cazalet said, “Do you think the people of the free world are going to stand by and just allow all this to happen?”

“Oh dear, the voice of America speaks. Go home, President Cazalet, while you will can.”

“Or what? You’ll declare jihad?”

Charles Ferguson, alerted by Tony Doyle on his arrival, had eased in quietly behind them and heard enough to realize what was going on.

“Why, yes. You have earned jihad,” said the Master.

Ferguson called, “Charles Ferguson here. On me, too, then?”

But the Master had switched off. There was quiet, then Ferguson said, “I think a drink is in order. Let’s all go get one, sit down, and decide what we’ve going to do about this creature.”

IN THE BARGE on the Quai des Brumes in Paris, the Master sipped coffee and considered the call. He had enjoyed baiting Ferguson and company at Holland Park, but it was time to get to business. He should speak to the new Army of God man at Pound Street, Yousef Shah, freshly arrived from Oxford University, where he had lectured in comparative religion.

As Dr. Yousef Shah sat at his desk in the office of the Army of God Charity, beginning the task of familiarizing himself with his many duties, he was shocked at what the quiet voice had to say when he answered the phone.

“There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

Yousef Shah’s reply was automatic. “Osama is risen.”

“This is the Master, wishing you well. Has the Grand Council in Paris warned you about what you will be up against in this appointment, supplied you with details of our particular enemies here?”

“Such material has been supplied to me in full, and I’ve already started to work through it.”

“You will find strong backing in the Army of God and the Muslim Brotherhood. Those numbers we gave you—call upon them in a time of need and the people will follow your orders without argument because they know the word of Osama is behind you.”

“May his name be blessed,” Yousef Shah answered automatically.

“And may it be so, but remember at all times that there is a particular danger there. We have had two Masters killed because of the activities of a British intelligence group led by Major General Charles Ferguson.”

“I shall take care at all times, I promise you, particularly with these people.”

“The blessing of Osama go with you,” the Master told him, and hung up.

Yousef Shah sat there, thinking about the call, then reached for the information file he’d been given and started to look for Charles Ferguson. He read the information he was seeking, then phoned the Brotherhood’s special number and identified himself.

“A house called Highfield Court at the end of South Audley Street. The people are Jewish, the name Gideon. Check the situation at night thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly.”

“At your orders, Imam.”

He sat back. He had no idea what he had done or intended, but it was a beginning.

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UNAWARE OF THE HIGH DRAMA they had left behind them, Dillon and Hannah drove toward Hyde Park as it started to rain.

She said, “What exactly did the brother do? Not drugs, I hope.”

“No, Eileen wouldn’t have stood for it, and her voice was law in the home, especially after the marriage broke up and Finbar cleared off to Ulster.”

“Good for her.”

“Only an idiot chooses that game these days when ten or fifteen years’ hard time is what you draw.”

“But what about the other things?”

“Eileen’s family were bargees who worked the Thames from one end to the other and stole anything they could lay their hands on. A way of life.”

“I suppose to young boys it must have seemed normal,” Hannah said.

“Booze and especially cigarettes have always been much cheaper in Europe than Britain, where they’re heavily taxed, so that’s where they started, working for other smugglers until they saved enough for their own boat. The people in that game would raid other boats, there was open warfare, and the legend of the Magee brothers was born. A tough life, but that’s the way they all started on the Thames, even Harry Salter.”

“So they were thieves?”

“Still could be as far I know. Tad’s the hard man, Larry the brain. A few years ago, there was a rash of robberies in London involving gold, diamonds, and stuff like that, millions disappearing into the maw of Europe. Scotland Yard believed the Magees were responsible but could never prove it, and it’s too late now. They’re living on their reputation, part of the elite, too well-off to have to steal anymore.”

“What about women in their lives?”

“Tad was deeply in love some years ago, but she died of a brain tumor. He’s never taken another woman more seriously than a night out. As for Larry, I suppose the back-shooting took care of him.”

She was uncomfortable and it showed. “I suppose so, but I can’t wait to meet them.”

“I tell you one thing. They’re going to love you,” and Dillon turned out of Park Lane into Curzon Street, drove halfway down, and paused for the gates of the magnificent Georgian town house to swing open. He drove inside and parked beside an Aston Martin.

“What a contrast,” Hannah said, as she got out. “Your Mini and this Aston Martin.”

“Indeed so, but my old Mini is supercharged, and Tad Magee has been trying to buy it for years.”

They approached the front door, which opened, and a white-haired woman of sixty or so wearing a belted white smock over a blue dress stepped out smiling.

“I was hoping you would come, Sean,” she said, as she opened her arms to him.

He turned to Hannah. “Molly Ryan, a friend from my youth and the housekeeper here.”