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“But they’ll try again. Especially after Dillon and company shot the al-Qaeda Master behind the attack.”
“I agree with you there. I’ve a feeling in my gut that al-Qaeda won’t let us forget that,” Blake said. “Which is why we’ve spent so much time keeping in touch across the Atlantic.”
“My Basement,” the President said. “And the Prime Minister’s private army.” He shook his head. “United by a common purpose and yet so far away from each other.”
Blake finished his drink and stood up. “Not in the world we live in, not these days. I’d better get going.”
“Of course. Take care.”
Blake turned. “Always do, Mr. President,” he said, and left.
The President sat there, thinking of what Blake had said. Not in the world we live in, not these days. For a moment, he was touched by despair, but that would never do. There was work to be done, and he sat at the desk and started to go through his papers.
FRANK DOLAN, once a master sergeant in the Rangers, now Hunter’s personal assistant and chauffeur, was waiting for the colonel as he left the White House, an umbrella high against the pouring rain.
“Everything go according to plan, sir?”
“Sergeant, some truly crazy people work in there, and that includes this president, his security guy, and the old bag working for them.”
“That must be her dozing in the Mercedes over there,” Dolan said, as he started to drive away. “I looked him up. Blake Johnson, right? Decorated three times in Vietnam.”
“Hell, they gave medals away like candy in those days,” Hunter said.
“He was FBI for a while, too. Took a bullet meant for Cazalet when Cazalet was a senator.”
“Well, bully for him,” Hunter said, staring out. “Washington in the rain. I loathe it.”
“Have we anything special planned this trip, sir?”
“London. I want to have another look at Hans Weber’s Havoc operation, the one working out of that old RAF base at Charnley. Maybe he’s found more planes from the Second World War.”
“More ghosts on the runways like those Dakotas of his. Piston engines, not even jets,” Dolan said.
“But just the thing for African rough spots. If they break down, they can be repaired just like you’d repair an old car, whereas a jet plane in the middle of Gambia would stand there and decay.”
“So there really could be money in these old planes?”
“More than you could imagine. It would depend on how they were handled, of course.”
“Some of the country the private military companies operate in is pretty rough. I imagine that’s why you’re interested in Havoc.”
“Why, Sergeant Dolan, you know my involvement in the company would preclude that,” Hunter said. “Not to mention my connection with the CIA. But if national security is at stake, well, we must be prepared, don’t you think?” and he laughed harshly.
AT THE AIRPORT, the Gulfstream waited in the rain as Alice and Blake parted. He’d told her of the President’s worries, and she nodded.
“I think there’s something else, too,” she said. “Even at sixty-five, Jake Cazalet is still full of incredible energy and, more than that, a touch of wildness. You never know what he’s going to do next. Presidents aren’t supposed to behave like that, even former ones.”
“I think I could mention a few who did, Alice, but you’re right—he’s unpredictable, likely to charge right at danger.”
“So bring him home safe,” she said.
He kissed her on the cheek, nodded to the flight attendant, and then ran to the Gulfstream. A few moments later, he was settled in his seat and peering out of the window, but Alice was no longer there.
The Gulfstream climbed very fast toward the Atlantic, leveling at forty thousand feet, and the second pilot visited the kitchen area, emerged with three coffees on a tray, and passed one to Blake.
“Six hours to arrival if we’re lucky. Storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so belt up if you want to sleep.”
Blake, however, didn’t feel like sleeping. His quick return to London might cause some surprise, so he realized he should give them a heads-up. There was one person available day or night at the Holland Park safe house, so he produced his Codex and called Roper. In spite of the hour, he knew that Major Giles Roper would be seated in his wheelchair in the computer room checking his screens, searching for intelligence. And Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, would be near. A Jamaican Cockney born in London, Doyle had joined the army to see the world but had got no farther than Belfast and the IRA. Now his mission was to take care of Roper—and supply him with endless tea, whiskey, and bacon sandwiches.
Roper had his phone on speaker so Tony could hear. “What’s going on, Blake? I’ve heard of quick returns, but this is ridiculous.”
“The President wants Cazalet back the moment he’s available, so he’s sent me to make sure. He worries about the free spirit gathering too much publicity.”
“He’s worrying too much,” Doyle called. “Jake’s doing just fine.”
“For a man who was once leader of the free world, Tony,” Blake called back, “he might just consider stepping away for a while and making himself less of a target.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Roper said. “But it will be great to see you back here. I’ll let you get a little shut-eye and check in later to see how you’re getting on.”
IT WAS QUIET except for the drone of the engines, and Blake lay back and dozed, thinking how first al-Qaeda and then ISIS had altered the world. International terrorism of the most murderous kind was the name of the game now, al-Qaeda disrupting the lives of millions, each of its branches controlled by an anonymous leader known as the Master. Ferguson and his people had been responsible for the death of two Masters, so al-Qaeda would want their revenge.
He got up and went to the kitchen area for the bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey he knew was kept there. As he opened it, rain hammered on the fuselage of the Gulfstream and there was the roll of distant thunder. He tossed his drink down and his Codex sounded.
“Who is this?”
The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew. It was cultured and mature, an older man, the English perfect with only the slightest of French accents. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Johnson. A dirty night to be crossing the Atlantic. I trust the President was in the best of health when you left Washington?”
“Who the hell are you?” Blake demanded, coldly aware that he probably knew the answer to that one already.
“Ah, don’t tell me you didn’t know I’d be calling sooner or later. There are debts to be paid. I intend to see they are.”
“So you’re the new Master?” Blake said. “I was wondering when another one would turn up. A voice on the phone trying to justify al-Qaeda and international terrorism. You guys never stop trying, do you?”
“And never will. I’m certainly not the easy marks my predecessors were. Technology changes by the week these days, and even the great Major Giles Roper will find me hard to handle. As for Ferguson—tell him it’s a different world. His time is done. Come to think of it, never mind. I’ll tell him myself.”
“I’m sure he’ll look forward to that.”
“And Jake Cazalet? Get him home while you can. His time is running out, too. Oh, and say hello for me to the lovely Captain Sara Gideon. I understand she has a birthday coming up soon. Give the captain my sincere good wishes and tell her I’ll see her soon.”
Blake called Roper and told him what had happened. “God knows what Ferguson is going to think.”
“Easy to ask him,” Roper said. “He’s staying in the guest wing. Were you surprised by the call?”
“No, I’ve always thought al-Qaeda would seek revenge. We’ve cost them two Masters already, so what would you expect?”
“Is the conversation recorded on your Codex?”
“Of course.”
“That should have Ferguson awake faster than a cold shower. We can all listen.”
Ferguson answered five minutes later. “Morning, Blake, are you linked in?”
“Ready and waiting, General.”
“So let me listen to what he’s got to say.”
When it was finished, Ferguson smiled. “Cheeky sod. Run it through again.”
Roper complied, and this time Ferguson didn’t smile. “He’s going to give us trouble, this one. The smooth approach, the familiarity, all designed to mask his true self.”
“I agree,” Roper said. “But he can’t believe his charming approach is going to fool anyone, so what’s his game?”
“Maybe it’s just meant to confuse,” Blake suggested.
Ferguson said, “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give you that. And well informed. Sara’s birthday, for example. Use the secure link to let all our people know a new Master is back to plague us and alert the Cabinet Office, Security Services, and MI5. I think that’s it.”
“What about President Cazalet, General?”
“Oh, certainly, him, too. Call him at the Dorchester. Ask him to join us for breakfast. But not a word on the matter to the White House. It’s exactly the kind of thing they want to avoid.”
“Leave it to me, General.”
“I fully intend to, because I’m going back to bed for a couple of hours.” He turned to Tony Doyle. “As for you, Sergeant, when it’s time, drive up to Farley Field and pick up Blake Johnson.”
“My pleasure, General,” Doyle told him.
“Drive carefully, you rogue. The hint of a scrape and I’ll have your stripes.”
Ferguson went out, and Doyle turned to Roper. “So we’re going to war again, Major?”
“So it would appear; I can smell the powder,” Roper said.
Doyle left, and Roper poured a large scotch, tossed it back, and lit a cigarette. The he pressed the master switch by his right hand, turning on everything in the computer room, and he sat there, brooding over dozens of screens.
“Don’t worry, Master,” he murmured softly. “I’ll find you in the end. I always do.”
(#ulink_417fc61e-82b3-571b-8108-99fbc8b384c5)
ON THE LONDON WATERFRONT, fog had descended early, rolling in across the Thames at Wapping, a mile downriver from Harry Salter’s place, the Dark Man, where an old pier jutted out from Trenchard Street, an early Victorian pub standing back from it.
There was a motor launch painted blue and white tied to the pier with two chains, giving it a permanent look yet allowing the launch to ease itself in the five-knot current that was running that morning.
The name of the boat was Moonglow, and the fact that the painted sign hanging outside the pub indicated that the landlord’s name was George Moon amused many people. It didn’t bother Moon, though. His family had owned the pub since Queen Victoria’s reign, which made him proud, and he liked sleeping on board the launch as he had the night before. But now there was work to be done, which meant a visit to his office.
He went up the steps from the pier, a small insignificant balding man in steel spectacles clutching his raincoat across his body, an umbrella over his head, and approached the front door of the pub. Two notices faced him, one of which said CLOSED FOR THE WINTER, the other, MOON ENTERPRISES LIMITED, and as he approached, the door was opened for him by his cousin Harold, a hard, brutal-looking man with the flattened nose of an ex-boxer.
“Late this morning, George. Posh geezer called twice on the house phone in the last half hour. Said he’d call back.”
“So it will keep,” Moon said. “I’ve told you before, you worry too much. I’d turned my mobile off.”
“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on anything tasty,” Harold told him.
“I know, sunshine.” George tweaked the big man’s cheek. “Now get me a mug of scalding-hot tea and an Irish whiskey, and we’ll wait for your posh geezer to turn up again.”
It was quiet in the bar, everything peaceful, bottles lined up against the Victorian mirrors behind the bar. This type of establishment would usually be a thieves’ den for serious drinkers and drug users, but Moon had long since knocked that on the head. Development along the Thames had opened a whole new world, and his portfolio was considerable. Life was good.
His mobile sounded, and he answered, “Moon Enterprises.”
“How grand that sounds, Mr. Moon.”
Harold had been right, a posh geezer indeed. Moon beckoned, putting his mobile on speaker so Harold could listen.
“Who is this?”
“A Master who is looking for a willing servant. I’ve just deposited seventy-five thousand pounds in your bank account as evidence of good faith. There could be other payments later.”
“Do me a favor,” Moon said. “Go away and die somewhere. You think I believe that?”
“I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I can cancel the deposit, but as I can’t envisage your being that stupid, I don’t think it likely. I suggest that you check with your bank.”
“A crazy one, that,” Moon said, turning to Harold.
“How do you know?” Harold said. “You haven’t been in touch with the bank.”
“Okay, just to keep you happy. Waste of time though.”
He made the call, shrugging, and within minutes received the astonishing news. “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely to Harold. “What’s this geezer’s game?”
“George, I couldn’t care less. All I know is it’s real money. Here, let me get you another whiskey,” Harold said. “Put a little lead in your pencil for when he gets back to you.”
Which the Master did as Moon was drinking it. “Satisfied, Mr. Moon?”
“Who wouldn’t be? So who are you and what do you want?”
“What I want is your experience of the London underworld, like your family before you. Generation of thieves and river rats. How did Charles Dickens put it? Those who made a living finding corpses in the Thames on behalf of the River Police? There is not a criminal enterprise you’ve failed to touch on.”
“And proud of it,” Moon said.
“You’ve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europe—but no drugs, you’re too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. You’ve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time they’re needed.”
“And happy to do it, mister,” Harold called.
Moon said, “Okay, you know a lot about me, so what?”
“I know everything about you, my friend, even the fact that some years ago you were employed by Russian military intelligence, the GRU, making yourself useful in many ways right here in London. Remember your recognition code? ‘The midnight bell is ringing’? MI5 would have been interested. You could have got twenty-five years for treason.”
Moon was transfixed. “But how could you have known that?”
