The Midnight Bell

by Jack Higgins

  “But I live with you,” Hannah said. “For four years. That was the deal. I think I managed to prove myself last year when the going got tough.”

  “You have a point,” Roper said. “And I know you also break the law by carrying a gun in your pocket. But your primary responsibility is the Royal College of Music, and don’t you forget it.”

  “I won’t,” Hannah said. “But to take care, I need to know who the enemy is.”

  “All right,” Roper said. “Besides the new Master, our own small part of the front, as Sean put it, has to do with the Muslim Brotherhood and the rascals at the Pound Street mosque. They had a go at us when Imam Hamid Bey was in charge there. His death was none of our doing—a car crash—but a new man has just moved in there. His name is Yousef Shah, an Oxford graduate and an unknown quantity. We’re going to be keeping a very close eye on him.”

  “If I meet him, I’ll remember to give him Sean’s favorite greeting,” Hannah said. “God bless all here.”

  Roper laughed, and said to Sara, “I think she’ll do just fine. But speaking of security, if we’re a target, then so are those close to us, probably. I think it’s time you checked in with your grandfather, Sara.”

  —

  SHE DID, but it was Sadie Cohen, the housekeeper, who answered the phone. “So you’ve finally remembered where you live.”

  “We’ve been really busy, love,” Sara told her. “Things aren’t looking too good at the moment. General Ferguson was wondering whether you and Grandad would care to move in with us for a while just in case anyone might show an unhealthy interest.”

  “You could be offering the Dorchester, but it wouldn’t do you any good. He’s on his way to Leeds. Some important person has taken ill, tickets sold out, could Professor Rabbi Nathan Gideon step in. He said he’d call you.”

  “Well, he didn’t.”

  “He has a lot on his plate.”

  “I’m sure, but never mind. We can’t leave you alone. It won’t do, not the way things are at the moment.”

  “So you and Hannah won’t be here tonight?” Sadie asked.

  “Well, that is the general idea.”

  “Leaving the house with no one in it? What nonsense; I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that. Now you take care of yourself, and we’ll see you when we can,” and she cut off.

  Sara said to Roper and Hannah, “I can’t leave it like that. I must go and try to make her see sense,” and she made for the door.

  Roper called, “Just watch your back.”

  Hannah took the silenced Colt .25 from her pocket. “I’ll take care of that department.”

  “Yes, but who’s going to watch your back,” Roper said. “You’re getting to be worse than Sara. Tell her to use the Land Rover and take care.”

  Which sent Hannah running out of the door smiling.

  4

  THE LATE AFTERNOON RAIN came with a sudden rush at Highfield Court that sent Sadie Cohen running upstairs to see that no windows were open. She checked all the bedrooms, finishing with Hannah’s, where she found one open a little.

  “Naughty girl,” she muttered. “Typical.”

  Not that she meant it, for she had come to realize for some time now that Hannah was the daughter she’d never had. Hannah, who’d lost her mother and father to the car bomb in Northern Ireland that had killed them and crippled her, returned her affection completely. The fact that she was Catholic and Sadie Jewish was irrelevant.

  Sadie slammed the window down, peering out because this was her favorite view, high up on the fourth floor of the house, the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square no more than a couple of hundred yards away.

  It never failed to please, and she looked down at the garden, which was at its best, flowers in season, poplar trees swaying, but then she frowned at a flash of yellow down there. A man in an oilskin jacket stepped out of the rhododendron bushes, stood there in the rain, then stepped back into cover.

  Sadie went downstairs, entered the kitchen, opened a large wooden drawer, and took out a sawed-off shotgun and a packet of cartridges. She loaded the weapon quickly, then went out in the hall, approached the front door cautiously, and waited, the shadow of a man outside.

  Her Codex sounded, and as she pulled it out one-handed to answer, the shadow vanished from view.

  “Sadie Cohen,” she said.

  “Hi, love,” Hannah replied. “Sara and I are on our way. Should be with you in fifteen minutes.”

  “You’ll be welcome,” Sadie told her. “Because we appear to have a guest in the garden. Could be others, too.”

  “Remain inside,” Hannah told her. “Intruder,” she said to Sara, and called Roper. “Where’s Dillon?”

  “When he turned up and found you gone, he said he’d join you,” Roper told her. “I’ll check and tell him to put his foot down.”

  “Dillon’s on his way,” she told Sara, who said, “That’s a comfort. I bet it’s the Brotherhood. They’ve tried before, three or four pretending to be seeing to waterworks or drains or something like that.”

  Hannah produced her Colt .25 and checked it. “Well, the bastards can bring it on as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, love.” Sara was smiling. “Isn’t it great to be a woman?”

  “Absolutely,” Hannah told her.

  “So as the great Bette Davis said, ‘Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night,’” and Sara put her foot down hard as they roared away.

  —

  SADIE TURNED OFF the hall light, but as the darkness had increased considerably and very quickly, she switched on the garden lights. The conservatory was in darkness, and she stood there beside the Schiedmayer concert grand in the study, waiting and watching.

  There was some sort of movement out there. She waited, then switched on the conservatory lights, illuminating two men in yellow oilskin uniforms peering in the window.

  They backed away hurriedly into the darkness, and Sadie was filled with fury, turned the key, and flung open the door.

  “Who the hell are you?” she called. “Get out of this house.” She went down the terrace steps, cocking the sawed-off. “I’ll shoot without hesitation,” which she did, firing one barrel into the night sky.

  One of the men jumped out of the thicket behind her, grabbing at her wrist, forcing the sawed-off up, and tearing it from Sadie’s grip. A second came to his aid, trying to control her as she kicked, and two more men in yellow oilskins ran in through the open gates to help them.

  The Land Rover arrived just after that, swerving in, Sara braking so hard that she sprayed gravel over everyone. She slid from the driver’s side, drawing her Colt, and Hannah joined her on the other side, weapon in hand.

  “All right,” Sara cried. “That’s enough.”

  The one who had picked up the sawed-off said, “I don’t think so, Captain Gideon. If you and the girl don’t put down your weapons, I will blow your housekeeper’s head off.”

  On the instant, Hannah shot off the lower half of his left ear.

  He cried out, blood spurting, and dropped the shotgun, and Dillon seemed to slide in at the wheel of the Mini at the same time, spraying another wave of gravel.

  “My goodness, but you girls have been having fun,” he said, as he got out.

  “What kept you, cousin?” Hannah demanded.

  One of the men reached down to grab the shotgun, and Dillon kicked him in the face. The man fell over, and the others cried out in protest.

  Dillon said, “Line up and shut up, or someone else could lose half an ear.” He turned to Hannah. “There you go, stealing my favorite party trick.”

  “It runs in the family,” she told him. “The way they treated Sadie, they got what they deserved.”

  “On that point, I wouldn’t argue with you.” Dillon turned to the lineup. “Who’s going to tel
l me who sent you, although I don’t expect to be surprised.”

  They stared at him stony faced, and no one said a word except Dillon, who told them exactly what he thought of them in harsh but fluent Arabic. They stared at him in astonishment, and he returned to English.

  “So let’s try again, and I would suggest that one half ear a night is enough.”

  The man with the ear bleeding into the handkerchief he held against it said, “Imam Yousef Shah, although I suspect you know that.”

  “As it happens, I do, so what would your name be?”

  “Hamid Abed.”

  “Well, keep better company is my advice. Take them to their van, Hannah. Send them on their way, and you have my permission to shoot anybody who makes a false move. Keep an eye on her, Sara, while I help Sadie indoors. She’s shaking.”

  Hannah shepherded them outside to their yellow van and waited for them to scramble in. Hamid still held the handkerchief to his ear as he turned to her.

  “You use that gun like a soldier. Who taught you to do that, memsahib?”

  “The Provisional IRA,” she told him.

  “Allah preserve me.” He was shocked. “And the leg? You are crippled?”

  “Car bomb,” she said. “When it comes down to it, you lot are just beginners. Off you go, Hamid Abed, and try to behave yourself in the future.”

  The van drove away; Hannah turned and walked back to Sara, who said, “What was that all about?”

  “He wanted to know where I learned to shoot.”

  “And you told him the IRA?”

  “Which shocked the hell out of him. He called me memsahib; I thought that was Indian?”

  “So it is, and I’m surprised,” Sara told her, as they entered the house. “Their attitude toward women is different from ours, so when they meet someone like you and me, they don’t know how to handle us.”

  “They’ll have to learn,” Hannah said, and followed Sara in, pausing at the umbrella stand, helping herself to one of the several walking sticks.

  “Leg bad tonight?” Sara asked.

  “You could say that.” Hannah grinned. “One cripple to another. You, too?”

  “Yes, it’s an absolute bastard. The fruits of war.”

  “Ah, for that I can only offer you this.” Hannah handed her a walking stick. “On the other hand, for the hero of Abusan, a Military Cross goes with it.”

  Sara gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bless you, Hannah, for being you. I’m beginning to wonder how I ever got by without you. Let’s go and see what Sean’s up to.”

  The door of the rabbi’s study stood open; Sadie had lit a fire in the magnificent Georgian grate. Dillon sat at one side, speaking to Roper, and he paused.

  “Sadie went off to the kitchen to make tea and coffee. I think she’s upset,” he said.

  Hannah had turned and was already on her way. Sara said, “We’ll handle it,” and hurried after her.

  Sadie was sitting in a high kitchen chair sobbing, Hannah’s arm around her. “It’s okay,” Hannah told her. “I’m here now, and so is Sara.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sadie said. “I got the shotgun to chase them away, even fired a round into the sky, but it didn’t stop them. I was terrified, thinking they might be ISIS and knowing what terrible things they’ve done.”

  “Well, Sara and I soon put them in their place,” Hannah said. “And as we know exactly who was responsible for the attack, we’ll be able to do something about it.”

  Sadie brightened at that. “True enough.” She took a deep breath. “Go and see Sean in the study, and I’ll follow you with a trolley.”

  Dillon was putting logs on the fire when they joined him. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Nerves shot,” Sara told him. “Thank God we were able to get to her in time.”

  “Too true, but I won’t allow it to happen again. I’ve just made that clear to Roper.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Ferguson is still at Downing Street but sends his best. He’ll be with us soon, so let’s have a drink or sit down and have a cup of tea Irish-style and relax.”

  At that moment, Sadie wheeled in the trolley, obviously trying to be brave. “Tea up. I’ve managed salad sandwiches and scones. Oh, I forgot to say ‘God bless all here.’ Is that right, Sean?”

  “Sadie, you’re the wonder of the world.”

  —

  THE DAIMLER WAS ON THE ROAD, Sergeant Doyle at the wheel and Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake Johnson in deep discussion, when Ferguson’s Codex rang. He answered, his smile changing to a frown.

  “Roper,” he said. “Let me put it on speaker. He has rather dramatic news for us.”

  Roper then gave them a detailed account of the events at Highfield Court.

  “The bastards,” Blake said. “Those Brotherhood guys.”

  “I agree,” Cazalet told him. “But no match for a woman who is one of the few to be awarded a Military Cross in the British Army.”

  Charles Ferguson chuckled. “Or an even younger one raised all her life in a household that was a hotbed of the Provisional IRA.”

  “What do you want to do?” Roper demanded.

  “We’ll call round to see them,” Ferguson said. “First—get me Imam Yousef Shah on the line.”

  There was a pause, and then, “Shah here.”

  “Charles Ferguson. I shouldn’t think any of the theology departments at Oxford would be too proud of you tonight, you and your Brotherhood.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Muslim Brotherhood has no connection with this mosque. You must look elsewhere for whatever disturbs you.”

  “A nice turn of phrase, Imam, but I was actually considering what might be the best way of disturbing you.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” the imam told him. “But take care—my appointment in Samarra could be yours. May Allah go with you.”

  He went off, and Roper said, “Shakespeare would have loved him.”

  “Good point. But we’ll be off to Highfield Court. Oh, and do a favor for me. Tell Sadie we’re coming and make it clear we aren’t expecting dinner or anything. She takes her hospitality very seriously, you know.”

  “What a hypocrite you are, Charles,” Roper said.

  “A fault I readily admit,” Ferguson told him. “But so useful in this game we play, Giles.”

  —

  IT WAS TWO O’CLOCK in the afternoon in Washington when Alice Quarmby, summoned by the President, arrived at the Oval Office.

  “Do you have the slightest idea what it’s about?” she asked the secretary.

  “Afraid not. It might be a minute, though. Colonel Hunter’s been in there for forty minutes.”

  “Then it’s me for the powder room, Elsie. Be right back.”

  —

  IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President was sitting behind his desk, Hunter standing as he talked.

  “The use of private military companies in the recent ISIS attacks in Mali certainly proves their worth.”

  “As glorified security men, protecting business or preventing the theft of Muslim treasures, yes, I’ll grant you that. Meanwhile, the French flew a hit force of marines in a fleet of aircraft all the way from Paris by night and caught ISIS with its pants down. Rather more impressive, I’d say.”

  There was little Hunter could say to that, but as he turned to leave, the President said, “Actually, there’s something you could do for me, Colonel. You’re heading for London now, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now do me a favor and help Blake watch out for Cazalet over there. Don’t let them know, just be my extra eyes and ears. He’s putting himself in harm’s way. Too public, Colonel. I want him back here where we can protect him. The damn fool seems to court death every time he speaks in public.”

  “Yes,
I can see what you mean, Mr. President. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Excellent. You may need some extra authority, so I’ve made you a presidential aide with a pass to prove it. Don’t forget to call on the ambassador. He’ll be expecting you but won’t know why. Elsie has an envelope for you on the way out, and I’ll phone you from time to time. Remember: This must stay secret, even from the ambassador. Philip Hardy is a good man but has a mind of his own.”

  “Of course, Mr. President, I understand perfectly now.”

  Alice, standing in for Elsie for a few moments in the outer office, had heard everything as Hunter stood with the door ajar. She ducked into the filing cupboard a second before Hunter emerged from the Oval Office and Elsie entered.

  “I believe you have an envelope for me?”

  “Yes, I do, Colonel,” Elsie said, and passed it to him.

  He hurried through the maze of corridors that was the White House, opening the letter and taking out the card and marveling at the gold edges with OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES and COLONEL SAMUEL HUNTER, AIDE TO THE PRESIDENT underneath in bold black print.

  When he got to the car and climbed in the Mercedes, he could hardly breathe.

  Dolan said, “Are you okay, Colonel?”

  “Never been better.” Hunter passed the card. “Read that.”

  Dolan did, then said, “But what does it mean, sir?”

  “Our ticket to prosperity.”

  —

  ONCE HUNTER WAS out of the way, Alice was called into the Oval Office, where she found an angry President behind the desk.

  “There you are, Alice. Any word from Blake, any at all?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. President.”

  “Damn his eyes. I’m worried, Alice, for both of them. These ISIS bastards are capable of anything.”

  “So it would seem, Mr. President.”

  “All right, but if you hear anything—anything at all—get right back to me immediately.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” She returned to her desk, but she knew what she had to do. She had known Blake too long, and it was not, after all, being a traitor to her country, so she called him on his Codex, unaware that he was driving to Highfield Court with Cazalet and Ferguson.