Jack Higgins - Rain on the Dead

He faded away, the Dolphin plowed on, rain bouncing off the screen. Kelly said, ‘Is he for real?’

‘Oh, yes, and a barrel of laughs, too. I admire his fine turn of phrase.’

‘Well, he’s going to want something for his quarter of a million bucks, God knows what. Here, you take the helm. I’m going below to try to get a little shut-eye.’

Sara Gideon lay in bed in a dressing gown, unable to sleep. Outside, the wind howled, rain rattled against the window. There was a knock at the door, which opened and Dillon peered in. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Ferguson and Cazalet are downstairs and there’s an intermittent flow of information about the two people we knocked off. They’re Chechen brothers, but American, brought into the country as refugees with their grandparents, who have since died. Shouldn’t be long before we know everything about them.’

‘Wouldn’t be too sure about that.’

‘Why?’

‘It was all so wild, weird even. It was as if a piece of foolish nonsense came to an unlooked-for end.’

‘That’s really quite literary,’ Dillon told her. ‘Are you by chance regretting the fact that you had to kill that maniac?’

‘Not at all, he’d have finished us all off. Dammit, Sean, he got a shot off at you that just missed.’

‘And you put the knife in to save my life, girl,’ Dillon said. ‘So bless you for that.’

‘Anything else happening?’

‘Well, Ferguson’s spoken to Roper in London, and I’m sure he’s been put to work. You can feel free to contact him on your mobile if you want.’

In the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, wearing a dressing gown, a towel about his neck, his bomb-ravaged face shining with sweat. He was smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of whiskey when Sara called.

‘My goodness, love, so you’ve been playing executioner again?’

‘No choice, Giles, not this time. Sean was his usual deadly self.’ She shivered. ‘Seconds, Giles, just seconds. It could have turned out so badly for all of us.’

‘Well, it didn’t, and that’s all that counts.’

‘So who do you think was behind them? You’re the best that I know at squeezing answers out of cyberspace.’

‘I have to agree with you, but these things take time. Besides, you have to remember that what happened tonight in Nantucket didn’t happen. Nobody heard a thing, nobody saw a thing. And if nothing happened, then no one can claim responsibility. I’m certainly not going to go online saying there’s a rumour that there was an assassination attempt on former President Jake Cazalet. Then everyone would know – and all the wrong sort of people would claim responsibility.’

‘So what can you do?’

‘Just wait and watch, see if anything unusual pops out. You never know. Anyway, get some sleep. I’ll see you when you get back.’

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.’