“Dear God.” Hannah crossed herself. “Damn him to hell.”
“A truly dreadful man,” Sara said. “But still their father, that’s the problem. What do you think the brothers will do?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “I don’t even know whether the funeral’s today or tomorrow. I’m going to see Tad and Larry now. How often do you see me in a black suit, but this one is just in case.”
“Can I go with you?” Hannah asked. “Mine’s dark blue, but acceptable.”
Roper said, “It’s okay by me, but if there’s a funeral, I want you back here as soon as it’s over.”
Dillon grabbed Hannah’s hand, they hurried out, and Roper turned to the Salters. “You are the only two I can accept living out, so off you go.”
Harry grinned, said, “Let’s move it, Billy,” and they were gone.
Blake, Henry Frankel, and Jake Cazalet had been talking quietly. They turned expectantly. “The guest wing can meet your needs unless you’d care to return to the Dorchester,” Roper said.
“I’ll hang on here for the moment,” Blake told him. “Any word from General Ferguson?”
“He’ll be here as soon as he can. Begs your indulgence.”
“How wonderfully British of him,” Cazalet replied. “So let’s have tea or something and resume our conversation.”
“I’ll join you in a few minutes.” Roper moved out into the computer room.
He was followed by Doyle with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich on a small tray.
“You haven’t eaten a thing, sir, too busy talking.”
Sara came in, and at the same moment Roper’s Codex sounded. He picked it up but didn’t answer at once, saying to Sara, “We need to talk about Highfield Court, your grandfather, and Sadie. Obviously, it’s a concern. Just give me a minute.”
He raised the phone in his hand. “Giles Roper. Who is this?”
“You know me as the Master. I thought it time we had a chat.”
Tony Doyle was shocked. “It’s him, all right, Captain Gideon. I recognize his voice from the recording.”
“Go and get the others now,” she said, and shoved him out of the door.
“A pleasure to hear your voice, Captain Gideon. I’m a great admirer.”
The others came in, Henry Frankel leading. “What in the hell’s going on?”
“Ah, the reinforcements have arrived,” the Master said. “Not necessary. I’d intended to speak to each of you individually, but I’m happy to tell all of you together: You’ll get no warning of the gun that barks at you from the darkness when you least expect it or the car bomb that will launch you into eternity.”
“I’m trembling in my boots,” Henry Frankel told him. “I can hardly stand.”
“Ah, Mr. Frankel. Your partner must have a permanent smile on his face. You’re such a funny little man. Why is that?”
“It’s the only way I can cope with the prospect of being bored to death by a creature like you.”
“Ah, you have claws. I’ll have to think of an answer to that. I’ll let you know next time.”
“And when will that be?” Roper asked.
“Whenever I want, wherever I want. I can find you, but you cannot find me. I have a network of true believers and criminals who will do anything for money. I am invisible.”
“So there you are, gentlemen,” Henry Frankel said. “On top of that, he won’t be happy until sharia law rules the roost at the Old Bailey.”
“An interesting thought,” agreed the Master.
Jake Cazalet said, “Do you think the people of the free world are going to stand by and just allow all this to happen?”
“Oh dear, the voice of America speaks. Go home, President Cazalet, while you will can.”
“Or what? You’ll declare jihad?”
Charles Ferguson, alerted by Tony Doyle on his arrival, had eased in quietly behind them and heard enough to realize what was going on.
“Why, yes. You have earned jihad,” said the Master.
Ferguson called, “Charles Ferguson here. On me, too, then?”
But the Master had switched off. There was quiet, then Ferguson said, “I think a drink is in order. Let’s all go get one, sit down, and decide what we’ve going to do about this creature.”
IN THE BARGE on the Quai des Brumes in Paris, the Master sipped coffee and considered the call. He had enjoyed baiting Ferguson and company at Holland Park, but it was time to get to business. He should speak to the new Army of God man at Pound Street, Yousef Shah, freshly arrived from Oxford University, where he had lectured in comparative religion.
As Dr. Yousef Shah sat at his desk in the office of the Army of God Charity, beginning the task of familiarizing himself with his many duties, he was shocked at what the quiet voice had to say when he answered the phone.
“There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”
Yousef Shah’s reply was automatic. “Osama is risen.”
“This is the Master, wishing you well. Has the Grand Council in Paris warned you about what you will be up against in this appointment, supplied you with details of our particular enemies here?”
“Such material has been supplied to me in full, and I’ve already started to work through it.”
“You will find strong backing in the Army of God and the Muslim Brotherhood. Those numbers we gave you—call upon them in a time of need and the people will follow your orders without argument because they know the word of Osama is behind you.”
“May his name be blessed,” Yousef Shah answered automatically.
“And may it be so, but remember at all times that there is a particular danger there. We have had two Masters killed because of the activities of a British intelligence group led by Major General Charles Ferguson.”
“I shall take care at all times, I promise you, particularly with these people.”
“The blessing of Osama go with you,” the Master told him, and hung up.
Yousef Shah sat there, thinking about the call, then reached for the information file he’d been given and started to look for Charles Ferguson. He read the information he was seeking, then phoned the Brotherhood’s special number and identified himself.
“A house called Highfield Court at the end of South Audley Street. The people are Jewish, the name Gideon. Check the situation at night thoroughly, and I do mean thoroughly.”
“At your orders, Imam.”
He sat back. He had no idea what he had done or intended, but it was a beginning.
UNAWARE OF THE HIGH DRAMA they had left behind them, Dillon and Hannah drove toward