Jack Higgins: Rain on the Dead

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2014

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Jacket photographs © Slow Images/Getty Images (lighthouse and sea); Shutterstock.com(all other images)

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007585847

Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780007585854

Version: 2014-12-02

In fond memory of my dear mother-in-law,

Sarah Palmer

Rain on the dead

and

wash away their sins

–IRISH PROVERB

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph Rain on the dead and wash away their sins –IRISH PROVERB

Nantucket

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

New York, London, Ireland

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Washington, Paris, London

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Also by Jack Higgins

About the Publisher

The island of Nantucket, Massachusetts – high summer, the western end of the harbour crowded with boats, many tied up at the jetty. Among them was a scarlet-and-white sport-fisherman named Dolphin . On the flying bridge, a grey-haired man sat at the wheel playing a clarinet, something plaintive and touching. He was around sixty, a white curling beard giving him the look of an old sailor.

The man who joined him from below, wearing swimming trunks, had dark tousled hair and the beard of some medieval bravo. He was fit and muscular, his smile pleasant enough, his only unusual feature two scars on his left chest which any doctor would have recognized as relics from old bullet wounds.

He spoke in Irish. ‘Big night, Kelly!’

The other answered in the same. ‘You could say that. It’ll be dark soon, Tod – if you’re going to grab that swim, it’d better be now.’

‘I will. Keep your eye out for that kid, Henry, from the harbourmaster’s office. He’s bringing our passports and the credit card, so don’t forget to speak like the Yank your passport says you are.’

He slid down the ladder, vaulted over the rail, and swam away. Kelly heard a call from the dock.

‘Mr Jackson, are you there?’

Kelly descended the ladder. ‘He’s having a swim. I’m his partner, Jeremy Hawkins.’

Henry handed over the two passports. ‘There you go, sir, Mr Jackson’s credit card is in the envelope and your mooring licence covers you until Friday.’

Kelly took the package. ‘Thanks, son.’

‘That’s great clarinet I just heard. Kind of sounds like Gershwin, though I don’t recognize the tune.’

‘It’s an Irish folk song called “The Lark in the Clear Air”. And you’re right, I did put a bit of Gershwin in there.’

‘I think he would have been pleased, sir. Are you and your friend professional musicians?’

‘I was for a while and he does play decent piano, but on the whole we found other things kept getting in the way.’

‘Well, that seems like a damn shame to me,’ Henry said, and walked away, calling at another boat.

Kelly turned and looked out over the harbour to see how Tod was getting on, and saw him swimming towards a round buoy floating on a chain. Many people were diving or jumping off the boats, some in wet suits, generally having a good time while the light still held.

For his part, Tod stroked the last couple of yards, then grabbed onto the chain, aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter descending somewhere in the distance.

He hung there, listening, and two young men erupted from the water, like black seals in their wet suits. They were like twins, darkly handsome, the same wildness apparent in their faces.

The nearest one grabbed the chain and laughed as his brother joined them. ‘Mr Jackson, I recognize you from your photo. We’re the ones you came to meet. The Master sends his regards and hopes that success in our venture will make us your favorite Chechens. I’m Yanni and this is Khalid.’

He had no accent, which his brother explained in a rather mocking tone. ‘Our parents were killed by barbaric Russian soldiers in the Chechen war. The wonderful American Red Cross saved us and our grandparents, and gave us a new life in good old New York.’

‘Where thanks to the public school system, we emerged as normal American teenagers,’ Yanni said.

‘Creating a problem for Westerners who expect Muslims to look and sound like Arabs,’ Khalid said.

‘So what can Muslims who look like Westerners do?’ Yanni added.

‘Why, serve Allah as undercover warriors in the great struggle,’ his brother said. ‘And here we are. We’ve already checked out the house of our target. It’s just off the beach, surrounded by trees – no problem. An easy one, this.’

Tod said, ‘Except that every security camera on every property you passed walking along that beach probably has your faces now.’

‘So we’ll wear ski masks for the hit,’ Khalid said. ‘Why should it matter as long as the target is dead? That’s all that counts.’