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“Which shocked the hell out of him. He called me memsahib; I thought that was Indian?”
“So it is, and I’m surprised,” Sara told her, as they entered the house. “Their attitude toward women is different from ours, so when they meet someone like you and me, they don’t know how to handle us.”
“They’ll have to learn,” Hannah said, and followed Sara in, pausing at the umbrella stand, helping herself to one of the several walking sticks.
“Leg bad tonight?” Sara asked.
“You could say that.” Hannah grinned. “One cripple to another. You, too?”
“Yes, it’s an absolute bastard. The fruits of war.”
“Ah, for that I can only offer you this.” Hannah handed her a walking stick. “On the other hand, for the hero of Abusan, a Military Cross goes with it.”
Sara gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bless you, Hannah, for being you. I’m beginning to wonder how I ever got by without you. Let’s go and see what Sean’s up to.”
The door of the rabbi’s study stood open; Sadie had lit a fire in the magnificent Georgian grate. Dillon sat at one side, speaking to Roper, and he paused.
“Sadie went off to the kitchen to make tea and coffee. I think she’s upset,” he said.
Hannah had turned and was already on her way. Sara said, “We’ll handle it,” and hurried after her.
Sadie was sitting in a high kitchen chair sobbing, Hannah’s arm around her. “It’s okay,” Hannah told her. “I’m here now, and so is Sara.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sadie said. “I got the shotgun to chase them away, even fired a round into the sky, but it didn’t stop them. I was terrified, thinking they might be ISIS and knowing what terrible things they’ve done.”
“Well, Sara and I soon put them in their place,” Hannah said. “And as we know exactly who was responsible for the attack, we’ll be able to do something about it.”
Sadie brightened at that. “True enough.” She took a deep breath. “Go and see Sean in the study, and I’ll follow you with a trolley.”
Dillon was putting logs on the fire when they joined him. “How is she?” he asked.
“Nerves shot,” Sara told him. “Thank God we were able to get to her in time.”
“Too true, but I won’t allow it to happen again. I’ve just made that clear to Roper.”
“And what did he say?”
“Ferguson is still at Downing Street but sends his best. He’ll be with us soon, so let’s have a drink or sit down and have a cup of tea Irish-style and relax.”
At that moment, Sadie wheeled in the trolley, obviously trying to be brave. “Tea up. I’ve managed salad sandwiches and scones. Oh, I forgot to say ‘God bless all here.’ Is that right, Sean?”
“Sadie, you’re the wonder of the world.”
THE DAIMLER WAS ON THE ROAD, Sergeant Doyle at the wheel and Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake Johnson in deep discussion, when Ferguson’s Codex rang. He answered, his smile changing to a frown.
“Roper,” he said. “Let me put it on speaker. He has rather dramatic news for us.”
Roper then gave them a detailed account of the events at Highfield Court.
“The bastards,” Blake said. “Those Brotherhood guys.”
“I agree,” Cazalet told him. “But no match for a woman who is one of the few to be awarded a Military Cross in the British Army.”
Charles Ferguson chuckled. “Or an even younger one raised all her life in a household that was a hotbed of the Provisional IRA.”
“What do you want to do?” Roper demanded.
“We’ll call round to see them,” Ferguson said. “First—get me Imam Yousef Shah on the line.”
There was a pause, and then, “Shah here.”
“Charles Ferguson. I shouldn’t think any of the theology departments at Oxford would be too proud of you tonight, you and your Brotherhood.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Muslim Brotherhood has no connection with this mosque. You must look elsewhere for whatever disturbs you.”
“A nice turn of phrase, Imam, but I was actually considering what might be the best way of disturbing you.”
“I appreciate the warning,” the imam told him. “But take care—my appointment in Samarra could be yours. May Allah go with you.”
He went off, and Roper said, “Shakespeare would have loved him.”
“Good point. But we’ll be off to Highfield Court. Oh, and do a favor for me. Tell Sadie we’re coming and make it clear we aren’t expecting dinner or anything. She takes her hospitality very seriously, you know.”
“What a hypocrite you are, Charles,” Roper said.
“A fault I readily admit,” Ferguson told him. “But so useful in this game we play, Giles.”
IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon in Washington when Alice Quarmby, summoned by the President, arrived at the Oval Office.
“Do you have the slightest idea what it’s about?” she asked the secretary.
“Afraid not. It might be a minute, though. Colonel Hunter’s been in there for forty minutes.”
“Then it’s me for the powder room, Elsie. Be right back.”
IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President was sitting behind his desk, Hunter standing as he talked.
“The use of private military companies in the recent ISIS attacks in Mali certainly proves their worth.”
“As glorified security men, protecting business or preventing the theft of Muslim treasures, yes, I’ll grant you that. Meanwhile, the French flew a hit force of marines in a fleet of aircraft all the way from Paris by night and caught ISIS with its pants down. Rather more impressive, I’d say.”
There was little Hunter could say to that, but as he turned to leave, the President said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me, Colonel. You’re heading for London now, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now do me a favor and help Blake watch out for Cazalet over there. Don’t let them know, just be my extra eyes and ears. He’s putting himself in harm’s way. Too public, Colonel. I want him back here where we can protect him. The damn fool seems to court death every time he speaks in public.”
“Yes, I can see what you mean, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”
“Excellent. You may need some extra authority, so I’ve made you a presidential aide with a pass to prove it. Don’t forget to call on the ambassador. He’ll be expecting you but won’t know why. Elsie has an envelope for you on the way out, and I’ll phone you from time to time. Remember: This must stay secret, even from the ambassador. Philip Hardy is a good man but has a mind of his own.”
“Of course, Mr. President, I understand perfectly now.”
Alice, standing in for Elsie for a few moments in the outer office, had heard everything as Hunter stood with the door ajar. She ducked into the filing cupboard a second before Hunter emerged from the Oval Office and Elsie entered.
“I believe you have an envelope for me?”
“Yes, I do, Colonel,” Elsie said, and passed it to him.
He hurried through the maze of corridors that was the White House, opening the letter and taking out the card and marveling at the gold edges with OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES AND COLONEL SAMUEL HUNTER, AIDE TO THE PRESIDENT underneath in bold black print.
When he got to the car and climbed in the Mercedes, he could hardly breathe.
Dolan said, “Are you okay, Colonel?”
“Never been better.” Hunter passed the card. “Read that.”
Dolan did, then said, “But what does it mean, sir?”
“Our ticket to prosperity.”
ONCE HUNTER WAS out of the way, Alice was called into the Oval Office, where she found an angry President behind the desk.
“There you are, Alice. Any word from Blake, any at all?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”
“Damn his eyes. I’m worried, Alice, for both of them. These ISIS bastards are capable of anything.”
“So it would seem, Mr. President.”
“All right, but if you hear anything—anything at all—get right back to me immediately.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She returned to her desk, but she knew what she had to do. She had known Blake too long, and it was not, after all, being a traitor to her country, so she called him on his Codex, unaware that he was driving to Highfield Court with Cazalet and Ferguson.
“Alice,” he said. “What’s cooking at the White House?”
“I had a call from the Oval Office earlier. We need to talk, Blake.”
He switched to speaker, gesturing to Cazalet and Ferguson. “Why, Alice, what happened?”
“The President sent for me,” she said. “And he was really concerned that he hadn’t heard from you. But there’s something else. He had a visitor. I was in the outer office and overheard some of his private conversation with Colonel Samuel Hunter, that CIA guy who’s interested in private military companies and this Havoc outfit.”
Charles Ferguson tapped Tony Doyle on the shoulder. “Nice quiet spot, Sergeant, pull over.”
Doyle did. Ferguson nodded to Cazalet and handed him the phone. “Jake here, Alice, not trying to trick you or anything. General Ferguson and I just happened to be sharing a car with Blake. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do, Mr. President.”
“Then tell us exactly what you heard and everything you know about this Colonel Hunter.”
She did as she was told, and when she was finished, Cazalet said, “Brilliant. Try not to feel too uncomfortable about telling us. You’ve served your country, believe me.”
Blake took the phone. “Take care, love. You never did a more important thing.”
“Carry on, Sergeant.” Ferguson sat back as they moved away. “I disliked Hunter straightaway. Now I know why.”
“We’ll have to watch our backs with him,” Cazalet said. “And I’d say that Havoc project of his is worth checking on.”
“Oh, it shall be, old boy,” Ferguson said. “Just leave it to me. I have the perfect man in mind,” and he took out his Codex again.
DANIEL HOLLEY WAS POUNDING alongside the Seine, which was his habit when in Paris. He had a superb furnished barge, which he was running toward now, Notre Dame on the far side of it, hauntingly beautiful in the floodlight. His Codex sounded, and he paused to answer.
“Good evening, Daniel. It’s Charles Ferguson intruding into your life again.”
“Well, if that means doing something about ISIS and the bloody mess they’ve made of this city, I’m your man.”
“Not directly, but there’s something that might be related. Can you come see me?”
“I’ll be with you tomorrow.”
IN LONDON, the four men who had attacked Highfield Court stood before Imam Yousef Shah in his office at the Pound Street mosque. No one had helped Hamid Abed, and the handkerchief he held to his ear was soaked with blood. The man who stood behind them was enormous, addressed by the imam as Omar. A leather pouch filled with lead shot swung in his right hand, and he monotonously slapped it into the palm of his left.
“So, Hamid Abed,” the imam said. “You let your comrades down by betraying me.”
“Not so, Imam. It seemed obvious that the target knew who was behind the attack. This warfare must have been happening between Captain Gideon, her friends, and the mosque for some time.”
“Which is none of your business, as I will show these fools here, that they may demonstrate to others the punishment that awaits all traitors.”
He nodded to Omar, who struck Hamid violently with the leather pouch, sending him crashing to the floor unconscious.
Omar kicked him several times as the others watched, terrified. He said, “What do you want me to do with him, Imam?”
“Beat him thoroughly, Omar, then throw him in the river. The Thames is tidal, and few bodies that go in appear again. It’ll be a warning from Allah that all wrongdoers must be punished if they transgress. Take these other wretches with you so they will learn, and speak to me when you are finished, for there is no more to be done.”
UNCONSCIOUS IN THE POURING RAIN on an old wharf in Battersea, Hamid barely felt the pain of the blows while the others watched in horror as Omar gave him a last kick.
“So, a final lesson for all of you,” and he heaved Hamid up and tossed him into the Thames. “There he goes, food for the fishes.”
THE RIVER CHURNED, the sky echoing the thunderclap above that brought Hamid Abed back from the dead, a vivid flash of lightning illuminating the river. Ships were anchored on each side, old warehouses rearing into the night as he raced by, for there was a five-knot tidal current taking him out to sea fast.
It was the Thames that was saving him now, its icy grip freezing the pain from the terrible beating, leaving him completely numb, but he was conscious when the current took him toward one side of the river and deposited him on a set of ancient steps.
In great pain, he hauled himself up to a dim light that was bracketed to the decaying walls of an old warehouse above a sign that read ST MARY’S STAIRS. For a moment, he was dumbfounded, but then he laughed helplessly. Saved by the Mother of Christ, but that was all right because she was in the Koran, too.
What it all meant, he did not know, except that, leaning against the wall under the sign, he realized two things. He was seriously injured, and if he fell into the hands of the Brotherhood again, he was a dead man. On the other hand, he was assumed to be dead already, but there was no way he would get help from his own people. Too afraid of ISIS or the Brotherhood.
He stood there, coughing blood in the rain and looked up at the sign. St. Mary had saved him once before in spite of his being a Muslim. Maybe she could do it again? His foot kicked a wooden pole on the floor, perhaps from a brush. A staff to walk with up the alley toward the main road, and so he started, a hand braced against the wall to help him.
