Jack Higgins - The Midnight Bell

“Which is none of your business, as I will show these fools here, that they may demonstrate to others the punishment that awaits all traitors.”

He nodded to Omar, who struck Hamid violently with the leather pouch, sending him crashing to the floor unconscious.

Omar kicked him several times as the others watched, terrified. He said, “What do you want me to do with him, Imam?”

“Beat him thoroughly, Omar, then throw him in the river. The Thames is tidal, and few bodies that go in appear again. It’ll be a warning from Allah that all wrongdoers must be punished if they transgress. Take these other wretches with you so they will learn, and speak to me when you are finished, for there is no more to be done.”

UNCONSCIOUS IN THE POURING RAINon an old wharf in Battersea, Hamid barely felt the pain of the blows while the others watched in horror as Omar gave him a last kick.

“So, a final lesson for all of you,” and he heaved Hamid up and tossed him into the Thames. “There he goes, food for the fishes.”

THE RIVER CHURNED,the sky echoing the thunderclap above that brought Hamid Abed back from the dead, a vivid flash of lightning illuminating the river. Ships were anchored on each side, old warehouses rearing into the night as he raced by, for there was a five-knot tidal current taking him out to sea fast.

It was the Thames that was saving him now, its icy grip freezing the pain from the terrible beating, leaving him completely numb, but he was conscious when the current took him toward one side of the river and deposited him on a set of ancient steps.

In great pain, he hauled himself up to a dim light that was bracketed to the decaying walls of an old warehouse above a sign that read ST MARY’S STAIRS. For a moment, he was dumbfounded, but then he laughed helplessly. Saved by the Mother of Christ, but that was all right because she was in the Koran, too.

What it all meant, he did not know, except that, leaning against the wall under the sign, he realized two things. He was seriously injured, and if he fell into the hands of the Brotherhood again, he was a dead man. On the other hand, he was assumed to be dead already, but there was no way he would get help from his own people. Too afraid of ISIS or the Brotherhood.

He stood there, coughing blood in the rain and looked up at the sign. St. Mary had saved him once before in spite of his being a Muslim. Maybe she could do it again? His foot kicked a wooden pole on the floor, perhaps from a brush. A staff to walk with up the alley toward the main road, and so he started, a hand braced against the wall to help him.

THE MOMENT THE DAIMLERdrew up in the drive of Highfield Court, Hannah had the front door open, and Ferguson and the others rushed inside out of the rain, where a profound smell from the kitchen indicated that Sadie had been busy.

She came down the corridor to greet them wearing a kitchen smock, wiping her hands on a towel.

“There you are,” she said. “I thought we’d lost you.”

Ferguson kissed her on the cheeks. “Would we do that to you, Sadie? I can’t believe you’ve been cooking after what you’ve been through.”

“Yes, you can, you old rogue, but it’s nothing special, considering the number at the feast. You’ll just have to put up with what a Jewish lady manages to come up with when she tries spaghetti Bolognese.”

“Ecstasy, I’m sure,” he said.

“Well, a glass of champagne first would be nice.”

She vanished toward the kitchen, and Sara said, “We’ll go in the study and be comfortable. I’ll light the fire.”

“Where’s Hannah?” Blake said.

“Slaving in the kitchen, helping Sadie like a decent Irish girl should. Ah, here’s the footman, come to serve the champagne,” and Dillon entered pushing the drinks trolley.

THE MEAL WASas excellent as everyone had expected, and afterward, over coffee and tea, the situation was discussed.

“The problem is the nighttime,” Cazalet said. “I think Blake and I should come up from the Dorchester and move in for the night. Would that suit?”

“That would be fantastic,” Sara said.

“Then can we say that’s a given?” Cazalet asked Ferguson.

“Very generous of you, Mr. President. I’m sure Sadie will be delighted.”

“With what?” she said, walking in with a fresh pot of coffee.

“You’re going to have lodgers, my dear,” Ferguson told her, and the front doorbell started to ring.

“Now who in the hell can that be?” Dillon said, and he was out of the study in a moment, a Colt .25 ready as he approached the door, followed by Hannah, pulling out her own gun and running to cover him.

She was like a different person, calm and assured, her weapon ready in both hands as he reached for the key to open the door.

She said, “Take care now, Sean, and don’t be dying on me. I’ve lost enough from my family.”

“Yes, well, I’m cleverer than that, girl.” He pulled the flap of the letterbox open.

“Who’s there?”

The voice was broken, strange, and very slow when it said, “My name is Hamid Abed, and I seek the memsahib that she may show me mercy.”

“Holy Mother,” Hannah said. “That’s the man I shot! But what would he be doing here?”

“We’ll soon see.” Dillon, gun in hand, opened the door, and Sadie screamed.

The light from the hall showed the terrible beating Abed had taken, blood all over him, and Hannah pushed Dillon to one side and kneeled.

“Who did this to you?”

“The imam at Pound Street. He had me whipped and broken, thrown in the Thames by Omar Bey, the man they call the Beast.”

“Forget him now, you are safe with me, but why call me memsahib?”

“I was in the Pakistan Army, like my father before me, but my grandfather and his father were in the Indian Army under the Raj, memsahib.” He laughed. “I was thrown into the Thames to die, and a miracle took me to St. Mary’s Stairs. Mary, the Mother of Jesus, is in the Koran. There was nowhere else to go, so I came here. It was a long walk in the rain.”

“I understand, and there’s no need to worry.” She glanced at Ferguson. “General?”

“I’ve already called Maggie Duncan at Rosedene, my dear. An ambulance is on the way.”

MAGGIE DUNCAN HAD BEEN MATRONfor many years at Rosedene, a very special medical establishment that offered only the best of treatment to those damaged in their service to Charles Ferguson’s organization. Her boss was Professor Charles Bellamy, considered by many to be the finest general surgeon in London.

Hannah had accompanied Hamid in the ambulance, and after a discussion of what had happened with the others, Dillon and Sara followed in the Mini.

“It doesn’t look good, Sean,” Sara said.

“About as bad as it could, dear girl.” His voice was angry and the harsh Ulster accent plain. “Omar the Beast is it, the imam’s hit man. I’d like to meet that one.”

He swerved slightly, and she said, “Easy, Sean, your time will come, God willing, or mine.”

He glanced at her, frowning, then turned the Mini into the entrance to Rosedene and parked.

MAGGIE DUNCAN MET THEMas she came out of her office in reception. She was dressed for the operating theater.

“That bad is it, Maggie?” Sara asked.

“That man’s condition is appalling, multiple fractures, damage to many organs, a ruptured kidney. Frankly, I don’t even know how he made it to you.”

“He had a pole of sorts, which I suppose he found somewhere on St. Mary’s Stairs, and he used it to help him walk. All very biblical, Maggie.”

“Over the years, Sean, I’ve often put this question to you—when is it all going to end?”