by Jack Higgins
“Will there be any problems with air-traffic control if we want to leave now?” Holley asked.
Caspar said, “Florian was a disgusting human being in every way. Get on that plane and I will tell aircraft control that it’s a request from the Algerian foreign minister himself. A speedy journey, my friend, and may Allah guard all of you, particularly a brave man named Colonel Samuel Hunter.”
—
THE FALCON SOARED into the night, Holley staring into a multiplicity of dials, Dillon glancing back at the lights fading rapidly as they climbed to thirty-five thousand and leveled off.
“And so we say farewell to Timbuktu, city of romance and adventure. If ever a city looked like a movie set, that did. So, who do we call, Roper or Ferguson?”
“Roper,” Holley said. “And if he thinks it should be Ferguson, he’ll say so.”
—
ROPER WAS IN THE COMPUTER ROOM having a chat with Hannah, who was able to stay the night because Blake and Cazalet were staying over at Highfield Court, and they were both surprised when Dillon came on the line.
“Where are you?” Roper demanded.
“Winging our way back as fast as we can.”
“You didn’t last long. What went wrong?”
“Oh, a particularly obnoxious character named Aldo Florian tried to shoot Sara, but the good Colonel Samuel Hunter flung himself in the way and took the bullet for her. It’s bad, Giles, through the left chest area, chipping the shoulder bone and too damned close to the heart.”
“Then why isn’t he in hospital?”
“Because getting the hell out of there seemed the smart thing to do after I shot Florian between the eyes.”
“Let me get this straight,” Roper said. “Hunter has saved Sara’s life?”
“You’d have to see him to believe it. He’s no longer the idiot who shot his mouth off to Cazalet. He jumped in to cover her and took Florian’s bullet without hesitation.”
“And then you shot Florian?”
“And legged it back to the plane, where we got some military first aid from Holley’s chums, then got the hell out of there. Scores of millions these bastards are making, and Florian indicated they’ve been using Switzerland. I heard that just before I shot him. MI5 will be pleased.”
“The Muslim Council will be more pleased than anybody,” Roper said. “But never mind that for the moment. What do you need?”
“Permission to land at Farley between two and three in the morning. If Hunter’s still alive, he’ll need instant treatment, so alert Professor Charles Bellamy and Matron Maggie Duncan to be ready. He is a brave man; he did take the bullet and saved Sara’s life. What about Dolan?”
“He passed on, I’m afraid. But I still don’t understand the change in Hunter.”
“He’s a different man. You’ll obviously pass all this to Ferguson.”
“Of course.”
“Try to get him to take it easy for the next few hours,” Hannah called. “Sean, tell Sara I love her.”
“Of course I will, and we’ll see you soon.” Dillon turned to Holley. “I’ll go and see how they are. I’ll bring you a coffee.”
He went into the cabin and found Sara sitting beside Hunter with a basin of water and a hand towel. “How is he?” Dillon asked.
“A bit of a temperature. His forehead is rather warm.” She wiped it carefully.
Dillon said, “I’ve been talking to Roper. He’ll see to everything, Rosedene, Bellamy, and Maggie Duncan. Hannah told me to say she loves you.”
“Bless her,” Sara said.
“Dolan died, which is unfortunate, but Roper still can’t get his head around the change in Hunter. What about you?”
“I can tell you I had several talks with him before he placed his life on the line, and I found him a different individual from the man who’d harassed Cazalet from the audience. Maybe a psychiatrist would have a suggestion why that might be, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one thing: He was a true hero to do what he did for me.”
“And you know what?” Dillon said. “I agree with that statement completely,” and he poured two cups of coffee and took them into the cockpit.
Sara sat there, carefully wiping the colonel’s forehead. Her phone buzzed, and the Master said, “Praise to Allah. I was distressed to hear what happened. How is he?”
“The wound was point-blank and did considerable damage. He’s on lots of morphine and swathed in battle packs. We have made arrangements to treat him at the highest level.”
“Which means that hospital that Ferguson provides for his people, Rosedene. I shall pray for you.”
She took a deep breath. “I shall never understand you, you know.”
“Don’t let it worry you. We’ll speak again. Try to get some sleep.”
Which she did, of course, out of it for a couple of hours, awakening to a panic at finding Holley bending over Hunter. “Oh, my God,” she said. “How is he?”
“I’ve taken his temperature and it’s high, which you must expect, and he’s sweating profusely, but we must also expect that. I’ve just made fresh coffee and filled the flasks, so keep drinking it. It will help, I promise you. I’ll get back to Sean. We’re expecting heavy rain.”
He went out, and Sara sat there on the stool beside the seat they’d tipped back so that Hunter could be laid out on it. She was not conscious of having fallen asleep again, only that she’d leaned over, her cheek against the colonel’s body, when suddenly she was conscious that they were landing.
—
THE WAITING AMBULANCE with Bellamy inside greeted them, as did Tony Doyle in the Subaru, Hannah his only passenger. She threw her arms about Sara at once, and Sara burst into tears. They scrambled into the vehicle, and Holley and Dillon followed.
“God bless you, Tony,” Dillon said. “I can’t wait to get back to bed at Holland Park.”
“Well, you’ll have to. Professor Bellamy insists that everyone in the party come in for a full checkup. Regulations.”
“To hell with regulations,” Dillon said.
“Just look on the bright side, Sean,” Holley told him. “As I recall, they do a very nice breakfast at Rosedene.”
9
HUNTER WAS RUSHED OFF for X-rays, and Maggie Duncan put an arm about Sara.
“There’s only one place for you, bed. You look like a walking corpse.”
“I don’t know about Daniel, but I feel like one,” Dillon told her. “Having said that, we all drank too much coffee on the trip so a nice cup of tea would go down a treat before we retire. It’s an old Irish remedy that our friends across the Atlantic have failed to learn.”
“Well, go and wait in reception, and I’ll have one of the girls bring some from the kitchen, but after that, it’s bed for the three of you.” They did as they were told and were drinking tea when Bellamy appeared in theater scrubs looking grave, Maggie standing behind him,
“Go on,” Sara said. “Tell us the worst.”
“That army sergeant was good, and right on the button with his diagnosis. Severe damage to the upper area of the lung on the left side. He must have pushed you down, Sara, and received the bullet at point-blank range. You were quite right; he certainly saved your life.”
“Yes, I was aware of that, Professor.”
“Slight tearing to the left side of the heart and considerable splintering of the left shoulder bone. I’ll do what I can, but it’s going to take some of my best work.”
“How long?”
“Between three or four hours in theater and probably a year of therapy after that, but, for God’s sake, Sara, you look as if you might faint at any moment. Bed for you.”
Maggie stepped in and put an arm around her. “Just through this door, room three.” As they moved, Maggie looked over her shoulder at Dillon and Holley. “Four and five for you, and don’t be stupid, let it h
appen.”
—
IT HAD RAINED most of the night in London, drifting across Mayfair and rattling the shutters of Kate Munro’s bedroom in the early Victorian town house called Munro Place at the end of Green Street, with its wonderful views across to Hyde Park.
Originally the home of a great-aunt, a well-known suffragette in her day, it had passed on through the family with the proviso that it should never be sold, only inherited, and the death of Kate’s parents on a Spanish holiday brought ownership to her, the good thing being that she had lived there since childhood. The fact that soaring London prices meant that it was now worth millions was something to be endured, especially when one considered that the narrow flagged path giving access to the rear garden was barely wide enough to park Kate’s Mini.
A maiden aunt, her mother’s sister, Molly, had moved in while Kate went to St. Hugh’s College, Oxford, where she studied geography, geology, and archeology, enjoying life in the open air and managing to describe her travels well enough to create a reputation as a freelance writer whose work was sought after.
The events at Hedley Court had been unlooked for. She had not attended with the intention of writing a piece. She’d simply been interested in hearing Cazalet, and then the disturbance with Hunter had happened and her instincts as a journalist had taken over.
She did not work full-time for the Spectator but had seen a number of her pieces published by it and had been certain the editor would be happy to consider her work again. In fact, she had already knocked out fifteen hundred words and intended to get straight on it after breakfast.
She turned on the old-fashioned tea maker beside the bed, then crossed to the window to pull back the curtains. In spite of the wind and rain and early morning traffic of Park Lane, the view of Hyde Park never ceased to give her joy, and as the kettle whistled, she turned, feeling good, and went and made her tea. She raised the cup to her lips, and her mobile buzzed.
She picked it up with one hand as she sipped. “Kate Munro,” she said.
“I was very impressed with your question for President Cazalet. It was quite thoughtful.”
“Well, thank you.”
“And then that strange American Colonel Hunter and his rage. I’ve never seen anything like it. Are you actually writing about it for the Spectator?”
“I’m freelance, but they have published me in the past. Tell me, who is this?”
“People just call me the Master, Kate,” he said. “But rest easy, I’m not a crank.”
“Well, I think you might be, my polite friend, so I think I’ll switch off at this point.”
“And miss out on the most remarkable story of your career?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if I told you that Hunter is in a private hospital called Rosedene as we speak—that he’d been shot in the chest yesterday in Timbuktu and flown back last night in a private Falcon jet, nursed all the way by Captain Sara Gideon of the Army Intelligence Corps, one of General Ferguson’s people.”
She hesitated, and then said, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’ve told you. Now let’s see how far you get with the information I’ve given you. I’ll call you again later.”
Kate went straight downstairs to her study, found her smartphone, and sat behind the desk. The door opened and Aunt Molly looked in.
“Breakfast?”
“Not right now, love. I’ll let you know.”
Molly withdrew and Kate looked up Rosedene hospital and there it was. Private referrals only. No reference to medical staff.
She phoned anyway, and when a woman answered, Kate said, “I’m trying to trace a friend, but I’m not sure whether I’ve got the right hospital. A Colonel Samuel Hunter.”
“This is a private establishment, and I’m afraid we can’t give out that kind of information.”
“Thank you,” Kate said.
At Rosedene, Maggie Duncan pressed a button that put her straight through to Roper.
“I just received a query asking if Hunter is here.”
“I’ll get right on it,” he said.
But Kate Munro had moved on, looking up Captain Sara Gideon, and was astounded at what she found. She was moving on to Ferguson when Molly looked in. “It’s on the table now. Anything else can wait.”
Kate followed her along to the kitchen to find perfect scrambled eggs and toast. “Nothing better,” Kate said. “Ian Fleming used to eat it three times a day. Just the food for a writer.”
Halfway through, her phone buzzed and Kate answered.
“How are you doing?” the Master asked.
“I called and they said they’ve no knowledge of a Samuel Hunter. Didn’t seem the kind of place to tell me if they did, though. Sara Gideon, she’s a remarkable lady, only lives minutes away from me, as it happens. So where you are going with this?”
“Did you know that Colonel Hunter was an official presidential aide?”
“He’s what?” Kate said. “That’s terrible.”
“I thought so, too. But what if it was a plot by British Intelligence people to make him look like some sort of bad guy so the really bad guys would be fooled? I believe I know why and who, and I’m willing to give it all to you. Hunter a true American hero, and you could be part of all that, Kate. You’d be famous.”
“Notorious, more like. Why should I believe you? What’s in this for you?”
The Master started to reply when the front doorbell sounded.
She went and peered out of the window. “My goodness, there’s a wonderful old Daimler out there, an army staff sergeant at the wheel and a woman army captain in full uniform. The man holding the umbrella for her wears a trench coat, a slouched hat, and looks dangerous. Do you think they’ve arrived to save me?”
“Something like that, although I don’t think it was intended. I’ll say good-bye for the moment, Kate. We’ll talk again.”
—
MOLLY CAME IN to say she’d answered the door. She was quite excited. “There’s a very nice army officer asking to see you. Very smart she is, a captain, and I’ve never seen a woman wearing so many medal ribbons. The man with her is Irish. I heard him talking to her.”
“Well, let’s have a look,” Kate said.
Her aunt ushered them in, Dillon leaving the umbrella in the hall. Sara, holding her hand out, said, “Captain Sara Gideon, Miss Munro. May I say I admired the part you played in Hedley Court when President Cazalet was making his speech.”
“Well, that’s nice, but what’s this all about?” Kate demanded. “Are you MI5 or 6?”
“No, although we use them when it’s necessary,” Sara said. “We serve under the Prime Minister’s warrant to take care of problems of intelligence for him.”
“I had no idea such an outfit existed,” Kate said. “Is it legal?”
Dillon broke in. “It’s been working successfully since the Second World War. It serves irrespective of political party, and people have died meeting its demands. It’s commanded by Major General Charles Ferguson, and all that is privileged information. You could be arrested for disclosing its existence, and there is no mention of it online although some people used to refer to it as the Prime Minister’s private army.”
“And who are you?” she said. “Another soldier?”
“You have no idea how funny that is,” Dillon told her.
“Don’t mind him, he likes shocking people, but don’t let him. You phoned Rosedene and inquired after Colonel Hunter?” Sara asked.
“Yes, I did, and I was told there was no one of that name there. I deduce from the way you are acting that there is.”
“Yes, and fighting for his life, as it happens.”
“After taking a bullet meant for you point-blank in his chest.”
“How do you know that?” Dillon asked.
“I had a strange ca
ll on the phone this morning,” Kate said. “An older guy who thought I’d done well at the speech. He praised me to the skies, then turned a bit odd. He tried to make me believe that Hunter was obnoxious at the speech on purpose as part of a plot by you people.”
Sara was nonplussed. “Did he give you his name?”
“Not really. He made a big deal of it, but when I asked him for a name, he just said that people called him the Master.”
Dillon said, “There you go, Sara. He’s returned to haunt you. If you and Kate got your heads together and shared notes, then maybe the rest of us could make sense of what’s going on.”
“Sean, he’s playing with us. I don’t know why he’s trying out this story, but maybe he thinks that by pitching it this way it’ll keep us from looking too hard into his business. After all, it makes Hunter into even more of a hero—me, too, in a way. All the press attention—I’d be famous. Maybe he was trying to buy me off with that. And you, too, Kate.”
Dillon said, “Can you be bought, Kate? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Not a chance.” And just then Kate’s smartphone buzzed. She answered it and found the Master.
“Are they still there, Kate?” he asked.
“Standing right here.”
Sara held out her hand. “Give me the phone.” Kate did and Sara turned it on to speaker. “What a fool you made of me on the flight back. All that soft soap you handed out as if you were concerned.”
“But I was and am. That is the civilized way we would like to behave except that we serve on different sides in a war, don’t we? And that means that one has to kill people. You did, didn’t you, Sara, when you fired that heavy machine gun in Afghanistan? What was your score? Forty?”
“Go to hell,” she said, and Sara switched off and turned to Kate. “General Ferguson would like to see you if that’s convenient. Would that be a problem with your aunt?”
“Not at all; she only visits me now and then. Has a cottage in West Sussex, Aldwick Bay, just along from Bognor Regis. I love it so much that whenever I get the blues I jump in my old Mini and drive down there.”