Jack Higgins - The Midnight Bell

“What do you want to do?” Roper demanded.

“We’ll call round to see them,” Ferguson said. “First—get me Imam Yousef Shah on the line.”

There was a pause, and then, “Shah here.”

“Charles Ferguson. I shouldn’t think any of the theology departments at Oxford would be too proud of you tonight, you and your Brotherhood.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Muslim Brotherhood has no connection with this mosque. You must look elsewhere for whatever disturbs you.”

“A nice turn of phrase, Imam, but I was actually considering what might be the best way of disturbing you.”

“I appreciate the warning,” the imam told him. “But take care—my appointment in Samarra could be yours. May Allah go with you.”

He went off, and Roper said, “Shakespeare would have loved him.”

“Good point. But we’ll be off to Highfield Court. Oh, and do a favor for me. Tell Sadie we’re coming and make it clear we aren’t expecting dinner or anything. She takes her hospitality very seriously, you know.”

“What a hypocrite you are, Charles,” Roper said.

“A fault I readily admit,” Ferguson told him. “But so useful in this game we play, Giles.”

IT WAS TWO O’CLOCKin the afternoon in Washington when Alice Quarmby, summoned by the President, arrived at the Oval Office.

“Do you have the slightest idea what it’s about?” she asked the secretary.

“Afraid not. It might be a minute, though. Colonel Hunter’s been in there for forty minutes.”

“Then it’s me for the powder room, Elsie. Be right back.”

IN THE OVAL OFFICE,the President was sitting behind his desk, Hunter standing as he talked.

“The use of private military companies in the recent ISIS attacks in Mali certainly proves their worth.”

“As glorified security men, protecting business or preventing the theft of Muslim treasures, yes, I’ll grant you that. Meanwhile, the French flew a hit force of marines in a fleet of aircraft all the way from Paris by night and caught ISIS with its pants down. Rather more impressive, I’d say.”

There was little Hunter could say to that, but as he turned to leave, the President said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me, Colonel. You’re heading for London now, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now do me a favor and help Blake watch out for Cazalet over there. Don’t let them know, just be my extra eyes and ears. He’s putting himself in harm’s way. Too public, Colonel. I want him back here where we can protect him. The damn fool seems to court death every time he speaks in public.”

“Yes, I can see what you mean, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

“Excellent. You may need some extra authority, so I’ve made you a presidential aide with a pass to prove it. Don’t forget to call on the ambassador. He’ll be expecting you but won’t know why. Elsie has an envelope for you on the way out, and I’ll phone you from time to time. Remember: This must stay secret, even from the ambassador. Philip Hardy is a good man but has a mind of his own.”

“Of course, Mr. President, I understand perfectly now.”

Alice, standing in for Elsie for a few moments in the outer office, had heard everything as Hunter stood with the door ajar. She ducked into the filing cupboard a second before Hunter emerged from the Oval Office and Elsie entered.

“I believe you have an envelope for me?”

“Yes, I do, Colonel,” Elsie said, and passed it to him.

He hurried through the maze of corridors that was the White House, opening the letter and taking out the card and marveling at the gold edges with OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND COLONEL SAMUEL HUNTER, AIDE TO THE PRESIDENT underneath in bold black print.

When he got to the car and climbed in the Mercedes, he could hardly breathe.

Dolan said, “Are you okay, Colonel?”

“Never been better.” Hunter passed the card. “Read that.”

Dolan did, then said, “But what does it mean, sir?”

“Our ticket to prosperity.”

ONCE HUNTER WASout of the way, Alice was called into the Oval Office, where she found an angry President behind the desk.

“There you are, Alice. Any word from Blake, any at all?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”

“Damn his eyes. I’m worried, Alice, for both of them. These ISIS bastards are capable of anything.”

“So it would seem, Mr. President.”

“All right, but if you hear anything—anything at all—get right back to me immediately.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” She returned to her desk, but she knew what she had to do. She had known Blake too long, and it was not, after all, being a traitor to her country, so she called him on his Codex, unaware that he was driving to Highfield Court with Cazalet and Ferguson.

“Alice,” he said. “What’s cooking at the White House?”

“I had a call from the Oval Office earlier. We need to talk, Blake.”

He switched to speaker, gesturing to Cazalet and Ferguson. “Why, Alice, what happened?”

“The President sent for me,” she said. “And he was really concerned that he hadn’t heard from you. But there’s something else. He had a visitor. I was in the outer office and overheard some of his private conversation with Colonel Samuel Hunter, that CIA guy who’s interested in private military companies and this Havoc outfit.”

Charles Ferguson tapped Tony Doyle on the shoulder. “Nice quiet spot, Sergeant, pull over.”

Doyle did. Ferguson nodded to Cazalet and handed him the phone. “Jake here, Alice, not trying to trick you or anything. General Ferguson and I just happened to be sharing a car with Blake. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, Mr. President.”

“Then tell us exactly what you heard and everything you know about this Colonel Hunter.”

She did as she was told, and when she was finished, Cazalet said, “Brilliant. Try not to feel too uncomfortable about telling us. You’ve served your country, believe me.”

Blake took the phone. “Take care, love. You never did a more important thing.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.” Ferguson sat back as they moved away. “I disliked Hunter straightaway. Now I know why.”

“We’ll have to watch our backs with him,” Cazalet said. “And I’d say that Havoc project of his is worth checking on.”

“Oh, it shall be, old boy,” Ferguson said. “Just leave it to me. I have the perfect man in mind,” and he took out his Codex again.

DANIEL HOLLEY WAS POUNDINGalongside the Seine, which was his habit when in Paris. He had a superb furnished barge, which he was running toward now, Notre Dame on the far side of it, hauntingly beautiful in the floodlight. His Codex sounded, and he paused to answer.

“Good evening, Daniel. It’s Charles Ferguson intruding into your life again.”

“Well, if that means doing something about ISIS and the bloody mess they’ve made of this city, I’m your man.”

“Not directly, but there’s something that might be related. Can you come see me?”

“I’ll be with you tomorrow.”

IN LONDON,the four men who had attacked Highfield Court stood before Imam Yousef Shah in his office at the Pound Street mosque. No one had helped Hamid Abed, and the handkerchief he held to his ear was soaked with blood. The man who stood behind them was enormous, addressed by the imam as Omar. A leather pouch filled with lead shot swung in his right hand, and he monotonously slapped it into the palm of his left.

“So, Hamid Abed,” the imam said. “You let your comrades down by betraying me.”

“Not so, Imam. It seemed obvious that the target knew who was behind the attack. This warfare must have been happening between Captain Gideon, her friends, and the mosque for some time.”