dollars.’ Bell was smiling. ‘He can look like the Queen of Sheba, as far as I’m concerned. Happy days, my old son.’ He raised his glass and then emptied it in one quick swallow.
Hannah Flynn was a remarkable young woman harmed by life, but she had threatened to expose Al Qaeda and had to be eliminated. Which still allowed the Master to feel nothing but distaste where Tully and Bell were concerned. It was time to move on, so he tapped in a highly secret number in Tehran.
With his blue suit and striped tie, the Iranian Minister of War, seated behind the mahogany desk in the comfortably furnished room, would not have been out of place in the White House or Downing Street. But this was Tehran, his phone number so secret that when it rang, it was usually a matter concerning the highest levels of government.
He picked up the phone and said in Farsi, ‘Yes, what is it?’
The Master replied in English, ‘You’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of General Ali ben Levi since his disappearance.’
The minister said, ‘To whom am I speaking?’
‘I am the man who replaced him. He was killed on a private mission to London in pursuit of his deputy, Colonel Declan Rashid, a traitor to his country and its army.’
The minister was aghast. ‘Rashid! His father was a fine general, but that Irish wife of his … Where is the colonel now?’
‘He was badly wounded in London. General Charles Ferguson is holding him in a private hospital at the moment.’
‘Was Ferguson responsible for what happened to ben Levi?’
‘I wish I could say that he was, but the general was shot by one of our own people, a malcontent who has since paid the penalty.’
‘So why are you calling?’
‘Because I believe Declan Rashid should be punished. And Charles Ferguson and his people finished off for good.’
‘I suppose that would be because of their success against Al Qaeda,’ the minister said. ‘Sorry that I can’t help you there, but my government would really prefer to rule Iran ourselves.’
‘There may come a time when you regret it,’ the Master told him.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. I already have so many regrets. What’s one more?’ But he was deep in thought.
‘Did you know that there are scores of language schools in London? It’s true. The system is wide open if you want to pose as a student, which illegals do who simply want to live in England. We’ve sent young officers to such places for some time, to perfect their language skills and learn to adapt to Western society. They’ve all had special forces training, of course.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘I like to think of them as foot soldiers, men who can handle any dirty work which comes along. Now, I am not a religious man. I am indifferent to the message of Osama bin Laden. However, we live in a world of change, and who knows what may happen politically?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take care of Ferguson and his people. You take care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honour, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.’ He followed with a phone number. ‘I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.’
Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the UK.
There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of the fireplace in the parlour of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.
The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.
‘Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.’ Ali shook his head. ‘His record in the Iraq war was amazing.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me,’ Khalid said. ‘The man is a true hero.’
‘That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,’ Ali told him.
The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.
‘Holland Park,’ Khalid said. ‘We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.’
‘An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,’ Ali told him. ‘This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.’
‘And usually does,’ Khalid pointed out. ‘Gangsters play an active role, too – this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.’
‘Obviously much in demand,’ Ali said. ‘But let’s not forget the lady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.’
‘Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,’ Khalid told him.
‘Well, we don’t need to argue about it.’ Ali shrugged. ‘If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.’
‘You’re on.’
It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. ‘Umbrella time,’ Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside, and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling
