The Midnight Bell

by Jack Higgins

  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, don’t tell me you didn’t know I’d be calling sooner or later. There are debts to be paid. I intend to see they are.”

  “So you’re 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. I’m 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 Ferguson—tell him it’s a different world. His time is done. Come to think of it, never mind. I’ll tell him myself.”

  “I’m sure he’ll 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 I’ll 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. “He’s staying in the guest wing. Were you surprised by the call?”

  “No, I’ve always thought al-Qaeda would seek revenge. We’ve 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 he’s got to say.”

  When it was finished, Ferguson smiled. “Cheeky sod. Run it through again.”

  Roper complied, and this time Ferguson didn’t smile. “He’s 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 can’t believe his charming approach is going to fool anyone, so what’s his game?”

  “Maybe it’s just meant to confuse,” Blake suggested.

  Ferguson said, “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give you that. And well informed. Sara’s 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 that’s 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. It’s exactly the kind of thing they want to avoid.”

  “Leave it to me, General.”

  “I fully intend to, because I’m going back to bed for a couple of hours.” He turned to Tony Doyle. “As for you, Sergeant, when it’s 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 I’ll have your stripes.”

  Ferguson went out, and Doyle turned to Roper. “So we’re 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.

  “Don’t worry, Master,” he murmured softly. “I’ll find you in the end. I always do.”

  2

  ON THE LONDON WATERFRONT, fog had descended early, rolling in across the Thames at Wapping, a mile downriver from Harry Salter’s 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 landlord’s name was George Moon amused many people. It didn’t bother Moon, though. His family had owned the pub since Queen Victoria’s 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 he’d call back.”

  “So it will keep,” Moon said. “I’ve told you before, you worry too much. I’d turned my mobile off.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss out on anything tasty,” Harold told him.

  “I know, sunshine.” George tweaked the big man’s cheek. “Now get me a mug of scalding-hot tea and an Irish whiskey, and we’ll 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. I’ve 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?”

  “I’ll call you again in fifteen minutes. If you say no, I can cancel the deposit, but as I can’t envisage your being that stupid, I don’t 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 haven’t 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 can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely to Harold. “What’s this geezer’s game?”

  “George, I couldn’t care less. All I know is it’s 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 wouldn’t 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 you’ve failed to touch on.”

  “And proud of it,” Moon said.

  “You’ve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europe—but no drugs, you’re too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. You’ve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time they’re 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?”

  “You’ve heard of al-Qaeda, I’m sure. Our information system is as good as the CIA’s—better!—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.”

  “That’s good, because if I didn’t, I’d 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.”

  “I’m 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. I’ll be in touch.”

  —

  MOON SAID, “He’s gone, but I can’t say I’m happy about working for a Muslim.”

  “Didn’t 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 I’ll cook you breakfast.”

  “I wonder where he lives,” Moon said.

  “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 all looks as if it could get worse. Our most senior politicians are beginning to feel that they can’t cope. Take the people I just left. There was Sir Charles Glynn, Director General of MI5; Ferguson representing your lot; the home secretary; the man from Scotland Yard; Uncle Tom Cobley, I swear; and we mustn’t forget Jake Cazalet.”