by Jack Higgins
—
AT THE HILTON PARK LANE, Hunter sat in his suite with Dolan, drinking heavily and watching one news program after another that featured the events at Hedley Court.
“Just look at Cazalet,” Hunter said. “Thinks he’s so damned marvelous up there on stage. Who does he think he is?”
“I think he knows exactly who he is—and now so does everybody else if they didn’t already,” Dolan said drunkenly, holding up his glass. “God bless America.”
This infuriated Hunter. “Go on, you bastard, get out of here. Who needs you?”
“I’d say you do, Colonel, if only to back up your lies. As I recall, all you were doing in Sangin was administering supplies to the PX.”
“I said get out of here,” Hunter told him. “So do it or I’ll call security.”
“I’ll be back,” Dolan told him. “There’s no one else who’d bother with you now,” and he lurched out.
Hunter sat there afraid like he had never been. Why had he done it, such a stupid thing and in uniform? Everything had been going so well, and then came the icing on the cake, the totally unexpected appointment as a presidential aide. It had gone to his head and puffed him up and at the same time made him envious of the man, the medals, the glory, which explained his mad decision to attend the Hedley Court function in full uniform and act as he had.
He went to bed, slept badly, and was rung at seven by a call from the American Embassy. “Colonel Hunter, you have a Master Sergeant Dolan with you on your trip?” a woman’s voice said.
Hunter shook his head to clear it. “That’s correct, is there a problem?”
“He was noticed staggering along Park Lane this morning at about three a.m. He stepped off the pavement and was swiped by a bus. He’s ended up in Marsh Lane Hospital’s emergency room. He had no identification about where he was staying on him but did have his passport, which led to us.”
“How is he?” Hunter demanded.
“It seems he’s not good at all, but you can call the hospital yourself. I believe the police may want to have a word with you.”
Hunter had walked to the television set while talking and found himself watching himself on an early morning news show.
“Why would they want me?”
“You’d have to ask them that, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Everybody knows he was with me. I should estimate that at least half the population of London saw me in action on television last night.”
“Yes, Colonel, I’m sorry, sir.”
Hunter was reasonably clearheaded by now. “Why would you be? Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Mary Smith, on attachment to the embassy, Colonel. I’m sorry about what happened to you last night.”
“Not as much as I am. I was an unbelievable damned fool, but I appreciate your comments. I’ll call the hospital.”
Which he did and received what news there was from a ward sister, who made it clear the situation was grave and visitors were not welcome. So that was that. He was tired of the old Hunter, the lies and the subterfuge. He was likely to get a swift recall to Washington, so his only chance to do something about Havoc would be now. Maybe he could think of something legal to do with the Dakotas? He’d better go to Charnley now and find Hans Weber.
8
AT HOLLAND PARK before breakfast, Dillon was on the way to the sauna when he looked in on Roper and found him sitting on his own, drinking tea and surveying his screens, virtually all of them showing Hunter’s attack on Cazalet the previous night.
“That’s going to run for a hell of a long time,” Dillon said. “I presume it’s not gone down well in Washington. I suppose Hunter will be recalled.”
“I should imagine so, but no news from the White House yet. And there’s something else.” Roper told him about Dolan. “I’ve been in touch with the hospital and was lucky enough to find a doctor on duty who’d been involved. He told me that Dolan is not likely to live.”
“What’ll Hunter do?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Daniel’s in the sauna. I told him all about it when he looked in a short while ago. See what he’s got to say.”
The sauna was thick with steam, Holley the only occupant, and he said, as Dillon sat down, “Have you talked with Roper?”
“You could say that. Dolan’s misfortune has really stirred the pot.”
“Hunter has created an unacceptable situation from everyone’s point of view,” Holley said. “Remember what Ferguson said last night? That he wished someone would grab him by the scruff of the neck and drop him onto another planet or something?”
“I do indeed,” Dillon said. “It would certainly be a good thing from everyone’s point of view if he disappeared off the face of the earth for a while.”
“Do you mean permanently?” Holley asked.
“A bit drastic, that,” Dillon said. “But considering the situation, we shouldn’t hang around.”
“What are you thinking?”
“You own a Falcon 200, Daniel, one of the finest planes in the business. It needs two pilots, but that’s okay because you have me to fly with you. And it seats six passengers, though we’ll only have one.”
“And who might that be?”
“Colonel Samuel Hunter, who do you think?”
“And what are we going to do, drop him out when we get airborne?”
“They used to do that in Vietnam, Daniel; they don’t do that anymore. No, he’s expressed considerable interest in Mali, so let’s take him there.”
“You’re crazy,” Holley said.
“You’ve got to go anyway. The Algerian foreign minister made it quite clear that he expected us to do something about Havoc, which means you in particular are expected to do your bit. So let’s be practical. Your tanks full?”
“Yes. They always are. A fetish of mine.”
“How long to Mali?”
“Six and a half hours.”
“There you are,” Dillon said. “A walk in the park, old son. We could do the return flight on the same day if necessary. Bamako may be the capital, but I suspect you’ll find Timbuktu more romantic, since that’s where you played the hero, galloping around dressed as a Tuareg, shooting the hell out of the black-flag crowd.”
Suddenly, Holley found the idea so outrageous that it was distinctly appealing. “Damn you, Sean Dillon, the things you get me into. But what do we do with Hunter when we get there?”
“Make him give us details of all the crooked officials he and his people have been dealing with there. Roper would love that, and so would MI5.”
“Okay, but what do we do with Hunter when we come back, dump him in the desert?”
“I must say there’s a certain appeal to the idea of Hunter alone in the depths of the Sahara, but I think not. Let’s just hope the shock makes him mend his wicked ways. Let’s get moving,” Dillon said. “And tell Roper we’re going to take a couple of days off. Ferguson’s so busy, we’ll be back before he realizes we’ve gone.”
“How do we lay hands on Hunter?” Holley asked.
“We’ll drop into Charnley. I have a hunch Hunter will turn up there. If not, we’ll persuade Weber to give him a call,” Dillon said.
A little while later, Sara drove up in the Mini and walked into the computer room. “Morning, Giles,” she said.
“And good morning to you, my love,” he told her. “Where have you been?”
“Dropping Hannah off at college. She’s on break, but she needs to practice. Four years of hard work lies ahead, and I’m not allowing her to forget it.”
“She won’t, Sara; she recognizes she’s blessed with a gift that must be nourished in spite of her propensity to reach for the pistol in her pocket.”
“Have Sean and Daniel had breakfast yet?”
“No, they are in the sauna. Have you heard about that sergeant of Hunter’s?
”
“No,” she said. “What’s this?”
“Lying at death’s door after being run down by a bus in the early hours in Park Lane. Drunk out of his mind apparently.”
“So what happens to the good colonel?” she asked. “Any word from Washington?”
“Not so far. Blake says he’s spoken to Alice and she’s told him the President is stunned by the events. Unsure of the right way to handle this.”
Sara had been looking at Roper’s control screen and she frowned. “What’s all that, the addresses in Timbuktu?”
“Just something Sean and Daniel wanted.”
“What for?” she asked.
Roper’s delight in a certain civilized villainy rose easily to the surface. “Oh, they thought they might enjoy a day or two’s fun in the Falcon.”
“To Timbuktu.” She was aghast. “Are they out of their minds? What does Ferguson think of this?”
“He’s so busy, they didn’t want to bother him.”
“Well, they bother me. Let me guess—they’re not going alone.”
“Right as always. They plan to snatch Hunter, take him to Timbuktu, and have him point out all the crooked officials with their hands in the till.”
“Stupid idiots,” she said. “I need a bulletproof vest, the right clothes, and weaponry. Don’t you dare allow them to leave without me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he told her, as she ran out and went upstairs to her room, where she dressed quickly in a light khaki shirt over a bulletproof vest, khaki slacks, and desert boots, adding a flick knife in a sheath that she always wore around her right ankle, a Colt .25 with hollow-point cartridges that she carried in a rear belt holster, a shoulder bag with necessaries, Ray-Bans against the desert glare, and a crumpled khaki hat.
When she went down, Dillon and Holley were waiting in the computer room, suitably attired, and Dillon said, “Sorry, my love, it didn’t occur to us that you’d like to come along.”
Roper laughed, and Sara said, “Come off it, Sean, you lying toad.”
Dillon turned to the other two. “I ask you, a nice Jewish girl, a rabbi’s granddaughter, is that any way to speak?”
“Go on, get out of here,” Roper said. “I’ll take the blame with Ferguson. Two days, and don’t worry about Hannah, Sara. Tony will take care of her. Here are the MI5 notes on Mali.”
—
SINCE WEBER WAS still, as it were, hiding out, the only hope Hunter had of finding him was driving down to Charnley, which he did, only to discover that Weber wasn’t there, so he sat in the rented Mercedes, waiting and hoping.
The German, approaching in his old Volkswagen, paused on the hill, saw the Mercedes in the courtyard, and called the Master.
“I’m about to meet with Hunter.”
“Find out what he wants and let me know as soon as you can,” the Master said.
Weber coasted down the hill, drove through the gates of the airfield, and braked beside the Mercedes. Hunter got out, and said, “Hello there, I wanted to have a word with you. The thing is, I think I’ve been a damned fool in a lot of ways, and I want to put that right. What I’m trying to say is I’d like to have some sort of partnership with you. Everything aboveboard, I promise.”
Weber was astonished—it was as if a different man were speaking. “Well, I’m not certain of anything at the moment, Colonel. I could well be interested, but give me a chance to open the office and I’ll be back.”
“Of course,” Hunter said, smiling.
In the office, Weber was already talking to the Master. “It’s weird, that’s the only word for it. I don’t know what’s happened, but he’s a different man. Quietly spoken, extremely polite. Do you think he could be in shock or something?”
“Remarkable,” the Master said.
“It’s like he’s had a complete personality change.”
There was no further conversation because, with a sudden roar outside, just like before, the Falcon swooped in to land beside the two parked Dakotas.
The airstair door opened, and Dillon said, “God bless all here,” and walked with his hand outstretched to Hunter, who was standing beside the Mercedes.
In the office at the window, Weber said to the Master, “It’s the Falcon pilot and a woman. They’re all wearing desert dress.”
“Interesting. Get out there and find out what they’re up to.”
—
“THERE YOU ARE, COLONEL,” Dillon said. “I’m sure you remember meeting us at the American Embassy,” and the answer he got was surprising.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Dillon, but especially you, Captain Gideon. I found the account of your combat in Helmand province to be incredibly moving. Your Military Cross was well earned.”
Before Sara could reply, Dillon, who was slightly deflated, said, “Well, you really cocked things up at Hedley Court last night.”
“I agree. It was one of the most stupid actions of my worthless life. I made a thorough fool of myself, something I’ve been prone to do for quite some time, and I’m not certain at all whether I can survive the consequences of my actions.” He took a deep breath. “But how can I help you?”
Dillon was more than a little confused by the way the situation seemed to be going, and it was Sara who stepped in.
“We’re headed to Mali for a couple of days, Colonel. I’ve been looking at MI5 reports about the corruption of government officials there and the illegal trading in Muslim artifacts.”
Hunter shook his head, smiling. “I don’t know where MI5 got such information, but it is not correct. There are other parties involved, of a much more criminal nature, and then ISIS, of course, which has to replace its war chest.”
Sara had never seen Dillon so taken aback, so she took command because it was the obvious thing to do.
“We intend to go and see the situation for ourselves, and your experience would be very useful. I wonder if you’d consider coming along to give us the benefit of your knowledge?”
“Nothing would please me more. I’m yours to command.”
She turned to Holley. “We can take off whenever you like, Daniel.” She smiled at Weber. “I’m presuming I can interest you?”
“It’s not possible for me, I’m afraid, but I wish you well,” he said, and watched them go up the steps and enter the aircraft. Everything seemed to hang for a moment before the Falcon’s engines burst into life and they roared down the runway and lifted off.
Weber waited until the sounds vanished into the distance, then he called the Master back. “Well, there they go, just like bosom buddies,” he said. “Do you think it’s genuine?”
“Hunter, you mean?” the Master said. “Only time will tell. One day or two, and we’ll know soon enough,” and he switched off.
—
WITH DILLON AND HOLLEY at the controls, and Sara and Hunter strapped into their seats in the cabin, the Falcon had climbed to thirty-five thousand feet and was cruising on automatic while Holley discussed the route with Dillon.
“Bay of Biscay, Spanish mainland, across the sea to Algeria, and then south over the Sahara. So easily said, but those are huge distances, several thousand miles, six and half hours.”
“And landing at Timbuktu?” Dillon asked.
“That’s where the action is. There is an airport, but I prefer the old airstrip at Fuad that’s ten miles out from Timbuktu in the desert. It’s a leftover from the French Foreign Legion days, but the military find a use for it in these troubled times, so refueling is available. This baby will be almost empty after six and half hours.”
“You’re sure they’ll welcome us?” Dillon asked.
“Oh, yes, the Algerian foreign minister stands for a lot around there.”
“Which means that as you are his special envoy people know better than to give you a bad time.”
“Something like that,”
Holley told him. “But we do have a small military presence there, commanded by a pal of mine, a Major Caspar Selim. He’s an army intelligence man. Interesting how many Arabs went to Sandhurst Military Academy.”
“While IRA roughnecks like us,” Dillon said, “had to make do with a Gaddafi training camp deep in the desert.”
“Once in, never out,” Holley commented.
“I echo that,” Dillon told him. “If only because it’s a bit bloody late in the day to nurse any regrets now. Why don’t you go have a chat with Sara and the colonel? Tell them all the good things you’ve been discussing with me and leave out the bad. I’ll take the Falcon off automatic for a while.”
Holley went out laughing and Dillon took control, leaning back, thoroughly enjoying himself, when suddenly his Codex buzzed, and Ferguson said, “Enjoying the flight, Dillon?”
“I have to be honest, General, it has a lot to commend it.”
“I’m sure it has, and if Daniel is willing to put his highly expensive aircraft to such good use, I’m delighted. On the other hand, it would be nice to have been asked.”
At that moment, Sara looked in, a plastic cup of coffee in one hand, which she passed to Dillon, who said, “I have the General on the line.”
“Morning, sir, I hope we’re not being too outrageous. Colonel Hunter is proving to be a mine of information.”
“Is he, by jove. What on earth has got into that man?”
“It’s as if he’s been shocked into a complete personality change, and, my goodness, he’s being helpful. Before we left, Giles Roper passed on to me all the MI5 reports on Mali and the corruption of government officials. They implied a link with Havoc, and the Dakota full of Muslim artifacts that Weber flew into the U.K. seemed to confirm it.”
“So what are you saying?” Ferguson demanded.