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The Midnight Bell
Jack Higgins
“The bell tolls at midnight as death requires it.” But will it finally toll for Sean Dillon & company in the explosive new thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.In Ulster, Northern Ireland, a petty criminal kills a woman in a drunken car crash. Her sons swear revenge.In London, Sean Dillon and his colleagues in the ‘Prime Minister’s private army’, fresh from defeating a deadly al-Qaeda operation, receive a warning: ‘You may think you have weakened us, but you have only made us stronger.’In Washington, D.C., a special projects director with the CIA, frustrated at not getting permission from the President for his daring anti-terrorism plan, decides to put it in motion anyway.Soon, the ripples from these events will meet and overlap, creating havoc in their wake. Desperate men will act, secrets will be revealed – and the midnight bell will toll.
Copyright (#ulink_61bd0da4-abb2-533b-b20d-017230fb83fb)
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Harry Patterson 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
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: 9780008160272
Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008160296
Version: 2017-09-27
Dedication (#ulink_72284d49-bc1f-5143-b8aa-f1b8554fc254)
For Madeleine Cameron With love and grateful thanks
Epigraph (#ulink_00e91065-235d-5975-815b-658e2f0681fb)
The bell tolls at midnight, but only when Death requires it.
—Irish proverb
Contents
Cover (#u10f9e0ce-02e3-5665-971b-2d2abb37d312)
Title Page (#u52e54ad5-fb3c-593a-9f35-255729bf2087)
Copyright (#u54151b12-2c3c-5e11-8127-6f3271da92dd)
Dedication (#u8a173903-a1ff-52a6-a221-1ce6299a0791)
Epigraph (#uf9077d13-8336-54c2-bf08-34fd07ef536f)
Washington and London (#ucff6e160-81b3-5210-997b-1fd8129d85bd)
Chapter 1 (#u9cb0aba2-a025-5b6d-b670-cbe79a547651)
Chapter 2 (#u6c236967-9b9c-5c85-b09f-5b93568a2c65)
Chapter 3 (#u5df5e260-02e1-569e-8f20-2669b3bdbf6a)
Chapter 4 (#u0bee8f4c-181c-59ac-b103-209433da62ac)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
WASHINGTON AND LONDON (#ulink_be86924d-cd32-548e-9e57-23d7e3e6a35f)
(#ulink_ff63d7eb-2489-57e9-9da7-50820890d44c)
AN EAST WIND with driving rain and sleet pushed across the airport as the Gulfstream landed. It was immediately approached by a security limousine from the White House, which Blake Johnson, alighting from the plane, was surprised to see was being driven by his longtime secretary, Alice Quarmby. He opened the passenger door, tossed his valise inside, and joined her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Protecting your back, you idiot,” she told him, as she drove away. “You were supposed to bring Jake Cazalet back with you from London, and here you are, alone. I’m a nervous old broad when it comes to my boss, so I’d like to know why.”
“Sorry, Alice, it’s for the ears of the President only.”
“Well, it better be good. With his second term coming up, he needs to show who’s in charge, and here’s former President Jake Cazalet—a fine president in his day, mind you—dining with the Prime Minister and giving interviews to the media as if he’s the official mouthpiece for American foreign policy. You know the White House isn’t pleased about that.”
“I know—but enough about that. Anything else come up?”
“Apparently, the President has made a new friend.”
“Really? Who?”
“A Colonel Samuel Hunter. I did some research—don’t ask me where. He has a decent black-ops record in the army, nothing spectacular, and since then, he’s spent five years with the CIA, where he runs a Special Projects Department. He gets around a lot.”
“So what’s the ‘special project’ he’s come up with that appeals to the Oval Office?”
“The President has become interested in the private-army business since you were last here.”
“Mercenaries?” Blake was amazed. “What on earth for?”
“The new name for them is private military companies, so you might as well get used to it. It seems they’ve been having some success in Mali, and South African companies have been busy recruiting.”
“With plenty of casualties, no doubt?”
“No doubt. And some units have apparently done very well supporting the Nigerian Army in its struggle with al-Qaeda.”
“Aided by the military supplies we pump in there?”
“Not in Nigeria, I think. My research suggests the CIA wouldn’t touch this one with a barge pole if left to their own devices.”
“Like that, is it?” Blake said.
“That’s what they say, but who knows?”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’re an old cynic, Alice, but somehow you always get it right.”
“Blame it on the White House, Blake. I’ve been there longer than anyone else. It breeds cynicism.”
THEY WERE MOVING along Constitution Avenue toward the White House, where they found demonstrators in spite of the hour and the heavy rain.
“Try the East Entrance,” Blake suggested. Alice did, and a Secret Service man on duty saw to the Mercedes, then escorted them to the President’s secretary, who delivered them to the Oval Office and withdrew.
The inclement weather outside had darkened the room, and yet the President kept it in shadow, glancing up from papers now and smiling hugely.
“There you are at last. And you, Alice, it was way beyond the call of duty for you to pick this rascal up at such an hour.”
“I guess it’s gotten to be a habit, Mr. President, after all these years.”
“You’re the wonder of the world. Now, if you would, go and get yourself a coffee while Blake and I talk.”
Alice withdrew, and the President called, “Join us, Colonel Hunter. I’d like you to meet Blake Johnson.”
Hunter emerged from the chief of staff’s office, a man much as Blake had expected, around sixty, with a mustache, tanned face, and an expensive suit of blue flannel.
He held out his hand briefly. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Johnson.”
“Colonel,” Blake said formally.
Hunter’s smile was false and dismissive as he turned to a more important quarry. “As I was saying earlier, Mr. President, we must present our opponents with the unexpected and seize the day. It’s been one of the greatest precepts of warfare since Roman times.”
The President turned to Blake. “Would you agree?”
“My experience of warfare was being up to my armpits in some swamp in the Mekong Delta in Vietnam, so I guess I never had time to find out,” Blake said.
Hunter was annoyed and let it show. “We all have to move with the times,” he said to Blake. “Modern thinking, that’s what we need. For instance, I’m surprised that a man in your position has an elderly woman as his secretary. How computer savvy can she be?”
“She could write the book on the White House,” Blake said. “She’s better than any computer.”
“And apparently has been poking her nose into Langley’s business illegally for her department’s purposes,” Hunter said.
“That would be my personal security department,” the President said. “It’s called the Basement. Blake Johnson runs it, and Alice Quarmby has served every president in office since the Basement was first conceived.”
Hunter apologized hurriedly. “Of course you are right, Mr. President. Still, this unauthorized accessing of CIA files—it’s disturbing.”
“You may be right, Colonel, but as I am the president, I’m the one who’ll make the decision about it. If you’d show the colonel out, Blake.”
Blake was at the door in a moment. Hunter followed, hesitated, and turned. “And what we discussed, Mr. President—about Havoc and the support system?”
“We’ll see, Colonel,” the President said, and as Blake closed the door, he added, “Come and sit down and bring me up-to-date. Did you bring President Cazalet back?”
“Unfortunately, no, Mr. President. He said he’s agreed to deliver a lecture at the London School of Economics about terrorism and ISIS, and he can’t leave just yet.”
The President frowned. “You did give him the envelope that contained the presidential warrant ordering him home again?”
“Of course. He said he was going to leave, but then Downing Street informed him that they’d all be attending the lecture—so he felt he had to stay. The profits, by the way, are going to charity—the Children of Syria.”
“So how can I possibly complain about that?” the President said, then laughed reluctantly. “Damn you, Jake Cazalet, you’ve left me wrong-footed on this one.”
“Actually, Mr. President, if I could make a suggestion?”
“By all means.”
“Why don’t you send a message to the Cabinet Office congratulating the Prime Minister and President Cazalet on their joint efforts—and announcing that the U.S. will match the money raised for the Children of Syria. That way, it’s as if you’d been a part of it the whole time.”
The President was smiling now. “What a great idea. I’ll see to it at once. With one stipulation.”
“What would that be, Mr. President?”
“You climb in that Gulfstream, return to London tonight, and don’t show your face back here without him. When he’s finished his gig, I want him back, and no arguments, even if he is a billionaire. Let’s have a drink on it.” The President was smiling as he rose, went to a cupboard, and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses, one of which he handed to Blake. “Sit down for a moment.”
The President settled onto a couch. “I imagine you think I’m crazy, being so concerned about Cazalet, but I can’t help thinking about what happened last year.” The President had sent General Charles Ferguson, the head of the Prime Minister’s “private army,” and his people to Cazalet’s house on Nantucket, so that Cazalet could thank them on the President’s behalf for the success of a recent operation. But al-Qaeda assassins had been waiting for them. “Charles Ferguson, Sean Dillon, Captain Sara Gideon, and Cazalet himself, they could all have died.”
“Well, they didn’t,” Blake said. “None of it’s your fault. Besides, Sean Dillon is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. They picked the wrong target.”
