“I wouldn’t mind betting that he’d rather you didn’t know. Besides, it could be anywhere—London, Madrid, Timbuktu!”
“You think so?”
“All you need these days is a coded mobile, and you can cover the world.”
HAROLD WAS RIGHT, of course, for the Master did move frequently, for obvious reasons. At that moment he was living in Paris on a furnished barge next to the other barges moored on the Quai des Brumes on the Seine.
The Master thought the business with the Moons had gone well. Despite a certain criminal cunning on their part, they had missed the fact that he had taken complete control of them. They’d sold their souls to the Devil, which amused him. Just like Faust. Life was all about power.
Things had gone well so far, and he could proceed with confidence to the next step, but there was always the unexpected in life—there’d just been a death in the family of the other people relevant to his plans. For the moment, he hesitated, waiting for God to select the right time to move for, as in all things, there was only one God and Osama was his Prophet.
But he decided the time was now, and he took out his coded mobile and made a call to Drumore House in County Down in Ulster, still the old family home, in spite of a certain decay, of the Magee family.
Finbar Magee, seated at the breakfast table in the farm’s kitchen, pushed away his plate and reached for the half glass of whiskey that his cousin Eli had shoved over to him.
“Who the hell is bothering me now?” Finbar said, taking out his mobile and putting it on speaker.
Eli, white haired and bearded, was pouring tea. “Answer it, for God’s sake.”
Finbar did. “Who the hell is this? I’m not in the best of moods.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be,” the Master told him. “I’ve heard about the accident that killed your wife. You’re being treated very unfairly. Come to London, and I’ll help make it right.”
“That takes bloody money, ye madman,” Finbar shouted.
“Which is why I’ve placed twenty thousand pounds in your bank account for traveling expenses.”
“Damn you, I’ve no time for jokes.” Finbar switched off. “Did you hear that idiot?”
“I did, but I didn’t hear you calling the bank to check the situation,” Eli said.
Finbar stared at him, frowning, then did just that. Minutes later, he was staring wild-eyed at Eli. “It’s true. The money’s been deposited.”
“Then you’ll have to hope he calls back.”
In the same moment, the Master did. “Are you happy now?”
“Why should I be?” Finbar said. “But how do you know about the accident, and why should it concern you?”
“I represent an organization that has had problems with a certain General Charles Ferguson and some people who work for him, including an IRA assassin named Sean Dillon.”
“That bastard!” Finbar slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “May he die before I do, so I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s dead.”
“I can imagine. I also know about the unfortunate business concerning your sons some years ago when he left one of your boys crippled for life. He’s given you a very rough time.”
“Too bloody true,” Finbar said, and shook his head. “How do you know so much?”
“Because I represent the most powerful organization of its kind in the world, al-Qaeda. Our access to information is limitless, and the money I have given you is just the beginning. I know you’ve got your phone on speaker—this concerns your cousin Eli as well.”
“And if I say no?” Finbar asked.
“That would prove how stupid you are, and I would have to arrange for your disposal.”
Finbar laughed harshly. “Well, we can’t have that. I’m in, and that includes Eli.”
“I knew you were a sensible man. Who knows, we might even solve the mystery of the Maria Blanco and its cargo.”
“You know about that, do you? Twenty-five million pounds in gold bars when it was taken. God knows how much that would be worth today.”
“A lot,” the Master said. “It could have kept the IRA going for years, and they let it slip through their fingers.”
“I think it was Dillon, the bastard. Could it have been?”
“Supposedly, he was in the deserts of Algeria at the time training new recruits for the IRA. But you never know for sure with a man like Sean Dillon.”
“So what do I do now?”
“Get yourself to London, and I’ll be in touch. But remember that you belong to us now. It would be unfortunate if you forgot.”
The Master was gone in a moment, and Eli said, “What was all that?”
“It was about us being in the money again, so happy days, old son. I’m on my way to London.”
AT THE SAME TIME, Sean Dillon was driving his Mini into the Holland Park safe house in response to Roper’s call about the arrival of a new Master and Ferguson’s suggestion of a breakfast meeting.
He went straight to the computer room, which was empty, but the sound of voices and laughter sent him through to the canteen, where Maggie Hall had provided breakfast and Tony Doyle was helping her serve it.
Blake was there, and Sara had brought Dillon’s cousin Hannah, and Harry and Billy Salter arrived, both in black tracksuits. Hannah was young, only nineteen, but she had grown up in an IRA family and knew how to handle a gun. She was also studying at the Royal College of Music, but Dillon worried sometimes that she was just a little too attracted to the outlaw life.
As for the Salters, they were gangsters who had discovered they could make millions legitimately in London these days—and young Billy had even gone so legit, he’d joined MI5.
“Turnup for the books, this, but the smell of your cooking always drives me potty, so let’s get to it, Maggie,” Harry Salter said.
They all started to eat, and Blake asked, “So what does everyone think about another Master on the scene?”
“I’d like to shoot the bastard,” Harry said, with feeling.
“You can hear a recording of him in the computer room,” Roper said. “What’s your take on all this, Billy?”
“As long as I have room for a pistol in my pocket, I’ll manage.”
“And you, Sean?” Sara asked.
“Well, it isn’t Afghanistan, where you won your medals, Sara, more like Belfast City during the Troubles, and I survived that.”
There was a somber moment as if no one knew what to say, and then came the sound of a car arriving outside, where it had started to rain. A moment later, Henry Frankel, the cabinet secretary, walked in, a navy blue trench coat draped over his shoulders.
He kissed Harry on the head. “Restore me to sanity, you old devil. No matter how well I do my job, it’s hell down there: Sunni or Shia, ISIS or ISIL, what is Hamas up to now, what is Iran going to do, will Yemen survive, is Palestine going to blow up again?” He threw up his arms.
“Take it easy, Henry,” Roper said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
“Giles, I may be cabinet secretary, but I’m just another bloody civil servant, a kind of superior office boy, passing to the Prime Minister news about what’s going on in the wider world and it ain’t good. Terrorism is creating havoc everywhere, we’re facing one war after another, and it