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 Webers Havoc operation, the one working out of that old RAF base at Charnley. Maybe hes 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 youd 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 thats why youre 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, dont you think? and he laughed harshly.
AT THE AIRPORT, the Gulfstream waited in the rain as Alice and Blake parted. Hed told her of the Presidents worries, and she nodded.
I think theres 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 hes going to do next. Presidents arent supposed to behave like that, even former ones.
I think I could mention a few who did, Alice, but youre righthes 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 were lucky. Storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so belt up if you want to sleep.
Blake, however, didnt 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 Roperand supply him with endless tea, whiskey, and bacon sandwiches.
Roper had his phone on speaker so Tony could hear. Whats going on, Blake? Ive heard of quick returns, but this is ridiculous.
The President wants Cazalet back the moment hes available, so hes sent me to make sure. He worries about the free spirit gathering too much publicity.
Hes worrying too much, Doyle called. Jakes 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 youre right, Roper said. But it will be great to see you back here. Ill let you get a little shut-eye and check in later to see how youre 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, dont tell me you didnt know Id be calling sooner or later. There are debts to be paid. I intend to see they are.
So youre 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. Im 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 Fergusontell him its a different world. His time is done. Come to think of it, never mind. Ill tell him myself.
Im sure hell 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 Ill 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. Hes staying in the guest wing. Were you surprised by the call?
No, Ive always thought al-Qaeda would seek revenge. Weve 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 hes got to say.
When it was finished, Ferguson smiled. Cheeky sod. Run it through again.
Roper complied, and this time Ferguson didnt smile. Hes 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 cant believe his charming approach is going to fool anyone, so whats his game?
Maybe its just meant to confuse, Blake suggested.
Ferguson said, Hes a clever bastard, Ill give you that. And well informed. Saras 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 thats 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. Its exactly the kind of thing they want to avoid.
Leave it to me, General.
I fully intend to, because Im going back to bed for a couple of hours. He turned to Tony Doyle. As for you, Sergeant, when its 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 Ill have your stripes.
Ferguson went out, and Doyle turned to Roper. So were 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.
Dont worry, Master, he murmured softly. Ill 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 Salters 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 landlords name was George Moon amused many people. It didnt bother Moon, though. His family had owned the pub since Queen Victorias 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 hed call back.
So it will keep, Moon said. Ive told you before, you worry too much. Id turned my mobile off.
I just wanted to make sure you didnt miss out on anything tasty, Harold told him.
I know, sunshine. George tweaked the big mans cheek. Now get me a mug of scalding-hot tea and an Irish whiskey, and well 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. Ive 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?
Ill call you again in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I can cancel the deposit, but as I cant envisage your being that stupid, I dont 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 havent 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 cant believe it, he said hoarsely to Harold. Whats this geezers game?
George, I couldnt care less. All I know is its 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 wouldnt 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 youve failed to touch on.
And proud of it, Moon said.
Youve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europebut no drugs, youre too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. Youve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time theyre 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?
Youve heard of al-Qaeda, Im sure. Our information system is as good as the CIAsbetter!and I can access it by pushing a button.
So this is a Muslim thing?
Is that a problem?
It was Harold who cut in then. No problem at all, Master. Whatever you want, you get.
Thats good, because if I didnt, Id have to have you killed. Anyway, your first job for me will concern Harry and Billy Salter.
Moon brightened up. We have history, us and the Salters.
Harold said, What do you want us to do? Smash their restaurant up?
Not yet. Something more subtle. Give them just a hint of what we can do.
You can leave that to me, Harold told him. Mayhem is my specialty.
Im delighted to know you can spell it, the Master said.
Well, I can, and it will be a pleasure to give the Salters a black eye.
To a fruitful association, then, gentlemen. Ill be in touch.
MOON SAID, Hes gone, but I cant say Im happy about working for a Muslim.
Didnt you tell me that we had a great-grandfather who was an Indian seaman who jumped ship in the Pool of London?
True.
Then stop being racist, join me in the kitchen, and Ill cook you breakfast.
I wonder where he lives, Moon said.
I wouldnt mind betting that hed rather you didnt know. Besides, it could be anywhereLondon, Madrid, Timbuktu!