Jack Higgins - Rain on the Dead

Tully emptied his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘I’ll have another, Frank,’ and his mobile phone sounded.

‘Is that Mr Frank Tully?’

‘Who the hell wants to know?’ Tully said, immediately offended by the English accent.

‘I’ve just credited your bank account with one hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.’

Tully banged his fist down on the bar. ‘Stupid bastard.’

‘What was all that about?’ Bell asked, and when Tully told him, said, ‘Well, all you have to do is call the bank. They opened at nine.’

Which Tully did, and was staggered to be told that such a sum had only just been deposited from a bank in Geneva. He barely had time to inform Bell, when his phone rang again.

‘Who are you?’ Tully demanded.

‘The people I serve had dealings with you some years ago. If I say AQ, do you understand me?’

‘I certainly do,’ Tully said. ‘Al Qaeda. I dealt with the Master then, four years ago, but he wasn’t you from the sound of it.’

‘He has passed on, I have replaced him. You were given the task of disposing of a man named Tod Flynn. Instead, you car-bombed his elder brother Peter, killing him and his wife and injuring the daughter.’

Tully was immediately indignant. ‘I don’t know who told you that, because it’s completely wrong. I’d have loved to have stiffed Tod Flynn. He gave us hell during the Troubles, but my orders from the other Master were quite clear. Peter Flynn was trying to take over the drug scene in Belfast and was seriously displeasing a lot of people. Al Qaeda wanted it sorted, and me and my friend Frank Bell took care of it as ordered.’

‘I get the impression that the family and those around them have always believed Tod Flynn to have been the intended target, especially as his brother had borrowed his car for the trip to Belfast.’

‘Are you saying it left Tod feeling guilty? If that’s true, you’ve made my day.’

‘Did your orders include the girl?’

‘No, and they didn’t include her mother either,’ Tully said. ‘Fortunes of war. They’re always going on about collateral damage these days, aren’t they? Anyway, what’s this all about?’

‘You’ve already got one hundred thousand dollars in your account, and it’s yours if you and your friend get yourselves down to Drumgoole Place and take out Tod Flynn and Tim Kelly.’

The look on Tully’s face was pure delight. ‘You’ve no idea how much of a pleasure that would be.’

‘And another hundred thousand if you dispose of the girl.’

Tully stopped smiling. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘She could be a serious threat to us. If there is a difficulty here, I must go elsewhere.’

Bell was looking grim, ran a finger across his throat and nodded slightly. Tully said, ‘No problem, we can see to the girl, too.’

‘I’ll place the second hundred thousand in your account and on hold for three days. After that, all bets are off. In the glove compartment of your Jeep at the pub, you will find a package containing a mobile linked only to me. It also contains photos of everyone who could be linked in any way to Tod Flynn.’

‘What a bastard,’ Tully said when the call ended. ‘He sounded just like one of those Brit judges who used to sentence us.’ He laughed harshly and reached to take the very large whiskey that was pushed across the bar.

‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’ Bell was smiling. ‘He can look like the Queen of Sheba, as far as I’m concerned. Happy days, my old son.’ He raised his glass and then emptied it in one quick swallow.

Hannah Flynn was a remarkable young woman harmed by life, but she had threatened to expose Al Qaeda and had to be eliminated. Which still allowed the Master to feel nothing but distaste where Tully and Bell were concerned. It was time to move on, so he tapped in a highly secret number in Tehran.

With his blue suit and striped tie, the Iranian Minister of War, seated behind the mahogany desk in the comfortably furnished room, would not have been out of place in the White House or Downing Street. But this was Tehran, his phone number so secret that when it rang, it was usually a matter concerning the highest levels of government.

He picked up the phone and said in Farsi, ‘Yes, what is it?’

The Master replied in English, ‘You’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of General Ali ben Levi since his disappearance.’

The minister said, ‘To whom am I speaking?’

‘I am the man who replaced him. He was killed on a private mission to London in pursuit of his deputy, Colonel Declan Rashid, a traitor to his country and its army.’

The minister was aghast. ‘Rashid! His father was a fine general, but that Irish wife of his … Where is the colonel now?’

‘He was badly wounded in London. General Charles Ferguson is holding him in a private hospital at the moment.’

‘Was Ferguson responsible for what happened to ben Levi?’

‘I wish I could say that he was, but the general was shot by one of our own people, a malcontent who has since paid the penalty.’

‘So why are you calling?’

‘Because I believe Declan Rashid should be punished. And Charles Ferguson and his people finished off for good.’

‘I suppose that would be because of their success against Al Qaeda,’ the minister said. ‘Sorry that I can’t help you there, but my government would really prefer to rule Iran ourselves.’

‘There may come a time when you regret it,’ the Master told him.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I already have so many regrets. What’s one more?’ But he was deep in thought.

‘Did you know that there are scores of language schools in London? It’s true. The system is wide open if you want to pose as a student, which illegals do who simply want to live in England. We’ve sent young officers to such places for some time, to perfect their language skills and learn to adapt to Western society. They’ve all had special forces training, of course.’

‘So what’s your point?’

‘I like to think of them as foot soldiers, men who can handle any dirty work which comes along. Now, I am not a religious man. I am indifferent to the message of Osama bin Laden. However, we live in a world of change, and who knows what may happen politically?’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take care of Ferguson and his people. You take care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honour, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.’ He followed with a phone number. ‘I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.’

Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the UK.

There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the fireplace in the parlour of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.