“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.”
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
