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.
THE MOMENT THE DAIMLER drew up in the drive of Highfield Court, Hannah had the front door open, and Ferguson and the others rushed inside out of the rain, where a profound smell from the kitchen indicated that Sadie had been busy.
She came down the corridor to greet them wearing a kitchen smock, wiping her hands on a towel.
“There you are,” she said. “I thought we’d lost you.”
Ferguson kissed her on the cheeks. “Would we do that to you, Sadie? I can’t believe you’ve been cooking after what you’ve been through.”
“Yes, you can, you old rogue, but it’s nothing special, considering the number at the feast. You’ll just have to put up with what a Jewish lady manages to come up with when she tries spaghetti Bolognese.”
“Ecstasy, I’m sure,” he said.
“Well, a glass of champagne first would be nice.”
She vanished toward the kitchen, and Sara said, “We’ll go in the study and be comfortable. I’ll light the fire.”
“Where’s Hannah?” Blake said.
“Slaving in the kitchen, helping Sadie like a decent Irish girl should. Ah, here’s the footman, come to serve the champagne,” and Dillon entered pushing the drinks trolley.
THE MEAL WAS as excellent as everyone had expected, and afterward, over coffee and tea, the situation was discussed.
“The problem is the nighttime,” Cazalet said. “I think Blake and I should come up from the Dorchester and move in for the night. Would that suit?”
“That would be fantastic,” Sara said.
“Then can we say that’s a given?” Cazalet asked Ferguson.
“Very generous of you, Mr. President. I’m sure Sadie will be delighted.”
“With what?” she said, walking in with a fresh pot of coffee.
“You’re going to have lodgers, my dear,” Ferguson told her, and the front doorbell started to ring.
“Now who in the hell can that be?” Dillon said, and he was out of the study in a moment, a Colt .25 ready as he approached the door, followed by Hannah, pulling out her own gun and running to cover him.
She was like a different person, calm and assured, her weapon ready in both hands as he reached for the key to open the door.
She said, “Take care now, Sean, and don’t be dying on me. I’ve lost enough from my family.”
“Yes, well, I’m cleverer than that, girl.” He pulled the flap of the letterbox open.
“Who’s there?”
The voice was broken, strange, and very slow when it said, “My name is Hamid Abed, and I seek the memsahib that she may show me mercy.”
“Holy
