The Midnight Bell

by Jack Higgins

  There was music and laughter in the rest of the room, but Cazalet, Ferguson, and company all moved closer, not wishing to miss a word.

  “The enemy came in yelling and screaming,” said Sara. “Alec started to fire the machine gun, I emptied my Glock, Wally was using his AK until he got shot in the throat. Frank had opened a box of RPGs and started to fire them, one after another. A grenade in return put him down, and the shrapnel wounded me above the left eye. Then Alec went over the side, shot in the head, so I took on the machine gun while Frank, bleeding badly, kept launching grenades.”

  She stopped suddenly, looking back into some secret place, and Roper said gently, “Go on, Sara, tell us what happened then. I think it would be good for you.”

  “The machine gun emptied, but I managed to reload with the spare cartridge box and continued shooting. Frank had run out of grenades and was badly wounded in the chest. I’d given him my head cloth to hold against it, and as I resumed firing, I was shot in the leg and held on to the gun to keep from falling over, and then the Taliban started to run away, and I could hear the helicopters, so I slumped down against Frank and waited.”

  “Did he survive?” the ambassador asked.

  “Yes, to receive the Military Cross from the Queen, who told him how grateful everyone was, but that didn’t help Wally and Alec.”

  “But you were awarded the Military Cross also. You’re wearing it.”

  “Quite right, but I received mine from Prince Charles later.”

  There was a complete silence from everyone until Henry Frankel crossed to her, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “God bless you for opening up like that. I’ll never forget it.”

  Roper said, “I’ve always loved you, Sara, but even more after listening to you. By the way, in case you’re wondering where Hunter is, he eased back into the crowd a short while ago, his tail between his legs.”

  The ambassador said, “I served in Vietnam at the age of eighteen, with Blake Johnson here.”

  Blake said, “It was great fun, I don’t think. Fighting Vietcong up to our armpits in some lousy swamp in the Mekong Delta. In defense of the American Army, I must say my opinion of that clown Hunter is unprintable. God alone knows what kind of Special Forces he was involved with.”

  “I’ll drink to that, old buddy,” said the ambassador. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d better circulate.”

  Ferguson moved to them. “An interesting evening. I think it’s time to discuss what to do about Hunter.”

  “Tonight?” Dillon asked.

  “Not much we can do tonight. Tomorrow at breakfast.”

  “He seems to have made quite an impression on you,” Dillon said.

  “I’d like to shoot him myself. What the Algerian foreign minister said to us is true. Hunter’s a rotten apple if ever there was one.”

  “And Havoc?” Dillon asked.

  “Another one of his rotten schemes.”

  “Actually, I don’t think Weber’s heart is in the Havoc affair anymore,” Dillon said.

  “What do you mean?” Ferguson demanded.

  “When Hunter turned up there with his bully boy sergeant, Weber didn’t like it at all. When I asked if Hunter was his partner, he said he was, in a way, and that it was the biggest mistake of his life.”

  “Excellent,” Ferguson said. “We’ll see what comes up tomorrow.”

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, it was a dark and dismal morning, rain drumming relentlessly against the window, as Sara and Hannah went down to the canteen in search of breakfast. They found Dillon and Holley enjoying poached eggs, bacon, and toast. Sara took the same, Hannah the scrambled eggs, and Dillon offered tea or coffee according to their pleasure.

  “No sign of the general?” Sara inquired.

  Dillon shook his head. “Roper was finishing as we got here and is back in the computer room.”

  Holley said, “He told us that Ferguson’s hardly been off the telephone for the past two hours, so when you’re finished, I suggest we go and find out what’s going on.”

  —

  THEY FOUND ROPER pouring a large Irish into a mug of tea. Tony Doyle was watching, dressed to go in a khaki trench coat against the rain and carrying an umbrella.

  “I hope you’ve had breakfast, Tony,” Sara told him. “You might end up asleep in that Daimler.”

  Ferguson, on the way in, said, “And so he will, if necessary. Go and wait for me outside, Staff Sergeant.” He looked at Roper and shook his head. “A bit early in the day even for you, Major.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, General, but I don’t worry about it. So much has happened to me, it’s a miracle I’m here at all. Not that it matters. Hunter and his sergeant friend do, however. How do you want us to handle them?”

  “The problem is that this wretched man is a presidential aide even though we know, thanks to Alice Quarmby, that he’s only got one task, to keep an eye on Jake Cazalet.”

  Holley said, “That doesn’t mean he can use his position for nefarious purposes.”

  “Which this Havoc business at Charnley qualifies as,” Dillon said. “MI5 are aware of Weber’s little enterprise and the Dakota loaded with Muslim treasures looted in Mali.”

  Sara said, “So why not arrest Weber?”

  “He isn’t going anywhere,” Ferguson told her. “And we can use him to snag Hunter.”

  Hannah said, “But why let the bastard in the country at all when we know he’s a crook?”

  “Too difficult at this point. Too sticky.” He shook his head. “An American colonel, a presidential aide, and a CIA operative who we know traffics with arms dealers on behalf of his country but holds out his grasping hand.” Ferguson smiled ruefully. “A strange game we play, but our game. Mind you, there’s nothing I’d like better than to fly Hunter and his sergeant by helicopter to Afghanistan, leave them to rot in Helmand province, and fly away without a second look. What would you say to that, Captain Gideon?”

  “Why, that I’d fly the helicopter for you, sir. You did second me to the Army Air Corps three years ago.”

  “I remember,” he said grimly. “But to be serious, we really must find something to do about the colonel. Any sensible suggestions welcome, so keep thinking. Don’t forget that Cazalet’s speaking again tonight—this one I expect you all to attend. Let’s go, Staff Sergeant.”

  “There goes a remarkable man,” Hannah said. “But one of these days, he’s going to drop dead in his tracks if he keeps up this pace. For a man of his age, it’s ridiculous.”

  “I wouldn’t try telling him that,” Roper said.

  —

  CLOSE TO BELGRAVE SQUARE and adjacent to Buckingham Palace Gardens, Hedley Court was the work of one Henry Hedley, a Victorian entrepreneur who had made a fortune out of coal and railways but was more interested in the cause of his fellow men.

  It had opened in 1850, a Victorian masterpiece that soon became the home of free thinking. As Benjamin Disraeli, the great politician and future prime minister, said of it: “Never the voice of government of whatever brand, only the voice of sensible people, whoever they are.”

  The Great Hall at Hedley Court could hold three hundred people and many more than that had turned up in the hope of seeing Jake Cazalet, but only ticket holders were admitted.

  A loudspeaker system had been installed so that the speech could be heard by the large numbers who stood outside to listen, which explained the sizeable armed police presence.

  The American ambassador, a special guest, sat with the Prime Minister and Cabinet colleagues in the front row.

  In deference to Roper’s wheelchair, Ferguson’s party had squeezed together into a balcony box from where they could observe everything, which explained why Sara saw Hunter and Dolan, still in uniform, sit down at the end of a row that was not too far from the Prime Minister’s party.

  “Look wh
at the cat’s brought in, General,” she pointed out. “It won’t be long before he and his wretched sergeant are on television. The cameras are operating from the box opposite.”

  Ferguson glanced down and exploded. “That bloody man is getting everywhere, and it’s quite improper for him to be in uniform. The reception at the American Embassy was different.”

  “I suppose you could say he’s making his presence felt,” Dillon said, and turned to Blake Johnson. “Don’t you agree?”

  Ferguson exploded again. “Well it’s time somebody took him by the scruff of the neck and dropped him on another planet or something.”

  “Difficult to arrange, General, but I’ll see what can be done,” Dillon told him.

  There was a sudden quiet as the music played by the television company came to an end, and the Prime Minister, without any fuss, nodded to Jake, and they walked to the lectern together. There was scattered applause.

  The Prime Minister said, “Please rise for the American national anthem.”

  With a great shuffling, the audience complied, and the music soared out, Cazalet with his hand on his heart, the Prime Minister with the same, and when the anthem finished and applause broke out, he waved it down.

  “You all know this man,” he said. “A distinguished soldier and great president of the United States. I beg you to listen to him,” and he returned to his seat.

  Cazalet jumped straight in. “Nine-eleven. The London bombing. Both were al-Qaeda, so we went to war with them, and yet al-Qaeda lives on. Sometimes it stands to one side observing the barbarity of new groups such as ISIS, yet there it remains. We thought that the death of Saddam, Gaddafi, and bin Laden would cure the ills of the Middle East, but we never appreciated the extent to which those tyrants had kept the lid on their countries with an iron hand. Now, with Syria, we have an unprecedented refugee problem.”

  There was silence for a moment, then someone called, “What’s to be done about the refugees? Can you tell us that?”

  “Even in the remotest areas, people can look at a television screen. They see the best that Western civilization has to offer, and they want it. Europe, the United States, why wouldn’t they want to go there, and with America’s history of accepting immigrants in large numbers, why shouldn’t their hopes be high?”

  Hunter jumped up. “This is a disgrace. What gives you the right to even suggest that the United States might consider such people in any way suitable to be admitted to our country?”

  There was an angry muttering, but Cazalet waved a dismissive hand. “I knew Damascus before the war. The city had a reputation for being one of the most beautiful and civilized in the Middle East, and it was. Muslims, Christians, and Jews worked together happily, the stores and restaurants were full, no one fought.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense,” Hunter said. “I’m warning about the thousands of migrants who stampede into Europe any way they can like ravenous wolves.”

  “Including doctors, teachers, and many people with valuable professional experience to offer. I think our country might welcome a few.”

  “Then all I can say is thank God you are not in the White House now,” Hunter told him. “We don’t need you.”

  The angry voices started again, telling him to shut up or get out, but when someone called him a Nazi bastard enough was enough, and two large policemen approached Hunter down the aisle and had words. He tried to argue the matter, but raised voices made their point, and he and Dolan left.

  Ferguson said, “And that’s a Special Forces colonel.”

  Roper nodded. “I must check his file again.”

  Sara said, “It’s got to be the greatest work of fiction of all time.”

  Cazalet was addressing the audience again. “Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, the charades are over. Could I have some serious questioning now?”

  A young woman a few rows back raised her hand. “Kate Munro, sir. I’m with the Spectator.”

  “I’m flattered,” he told her. “That’s the oldest political magazine in the country. How can I help?”

  “What fascinates me is not so much that you were president of the United States or that your family was rich and your father a senator. It’s that you walked out of Harvard—”

  Cazalet cut in on her with a smile. “And went downtown to the recruiting office and joined the army for two tours in Vietnam.”

  “Exactly. Your draft lottery number hadn’t come up. You could have avoided it all. You were even wounded twice. Why did you do it?”

  The crowd was completely quiet, everyone waiting, and Cazalet started to talk. “The Vietnam War was a bad business. Many Americans didn’t agree with it and unfortunately often took their anger out on the soldiers. One morning, I dropped by my dining hall to have coffee and noticed a new student who’d lost most of his left arm, obviously a veteran.”

  There was a pin-drop silence as the young woman asked, “What happened next?”

  “Oh, another student came in and started to give him a hard time. I suggested he leave him alone, but he refused, so I knocked him out. Of course, I was called to the dean’s office to be told what a bad thing I’d done to a rather unpleasant bully. I realized at that time, for the first time, really, that I had a different set of values, so I marched into a Cambridge recruiting office and joined up. My mother was a great lady and took it well, my father not as much—he’d been convinced I’d never be able to get any kind of decent career in the future, but he changed his mind when I got shot and received a few medals. It was good for a political career, he used to say.” Cazalet smiled wryly. “He never understood I did it because I had to.”

  “Well, we understand,” the young woman said. “Thank you very much for your service.”

  “To be interviewed by the Spectator is reward enough. Now—can we get back to the business in hand? Who else has got a question for me?” A forest of hands was raised instantly.

  —

  IN THE END, the evening had to be brought to a close because of the hour, and Jake Cazalet had enjoyed the triumph of a lifetime. Ferguson and the others hung on for a while out of consideration for Roper in his wheelchair.

  Sara turned to Ferguson as Henry Frankel and Ambassador Hardy joined them, Cazalet delayed by outstretched hands.

  “An amazing speech, it’ll be on every front page. The big question I’ll bet everyone will be asking, though, is who on earth was the idiot in American uniform who was trying to give him a hard time.”

  Hardy said, “The one thing I dread is that some newspaper reporter will find out he’s actually a presidential aide. The President never did make it clear to me what the colonel was doing in London.”

  Cazalet joined them at that moment, and Blake Johnson, right behind him, said, “I can answer that, although I’m breaking a presidential confidence.”

  There was a pause, startled looks were exchanged, and Philip Hardy said, “I’d hate to see you put yourself in a difficult position because of that bastard, Blake.”

  “I’m not. Yesterday, Jake and I were being driven in General Ferguson’s Daimler when my secretary spoke to me from the White House. She had overheard the President and Hunter—the man was only given the appointment to empower him. In effect, he was to spy on Jake and be sure of where he was at any given moment. The implication was that perhaps Jake should pull back on public appearances and realize that he is no longer president.”

  Philip Hardy laughed out loud. “Well, if that’s the general hope, it has just been shattered by the finest speech I’ve heard in years.” He turned to Cazalet and shook his hand. “You surely made me proud to be an American tonight, Jake. We both served as boys in Vietnam, both were wounded, and I just want to apologize for the insults you received from that wretched man while he was wearing the uniform of our country.”

  “Kind of you to say that, Phil,” Cazalet told him. “Sticks and stones to gu
ys like you, me, and Blake.”

  “Of course,” Hardy said, glancing at Ferguson and nodding slightly. “I must leave you now and prepare my answers for the publicity that I’m sure will come my way.”

  “I’ll go with you, Mr. Ambassador,” Henry Frankel said. “Just in case there are any questions you may have for the Prime Minister.”

  They departed, and Ferguson turned to the others. “I don’t know about you lot, but I must say that this was quite an invigorating experience. Now we must go home, my friends, and try to rest while we can to prepare for what lies ahead.”

  —

  DESPITE THE HOUR, Weber was not asleep when the telephone rang in his flat, and the Master said, “I imagine you’ve been watching television.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” Weber told him. “What a clown Hunter proved to be. He made a complete fool of himself.”

  “That’s because he is,” the Master said. “While Cazalet, on the other hand, was amazing. Having said that, it’s very disappointing from al-Qaeda’s point of view. The last thing we were looking for was an American hero inspiring people.”

  “What do you think will happen now?” Weber asked.

  “It’s a great story, but on the other hand, what does it really mean? Cazalet was a fine soldier and a great president, but those things were then, and this is now. The unfortunate thing is Hunter. It was only his approach to you that brought him to my attention.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get in touch with me when he approaches you again. He’ll be desperate now, and his hope of getting into the illegal Mali trade is all he has left because his little tirade could cause his recall to Washington at any moment. If he approaches you, let me know at once.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I’m tempted to have him shot, but we’ll see.”

  —

  THE MASTER OPENED the door leading to the stern of the barge on the Quai des Brumes and gazed with pleasure at the floodlit splendor of Notre Dame, a glass of red wine in his right hand. The stupidity of Hunter had been beyond belief, but before giving orders for his assassination, it would be sensible to see what the new day would bring. In a certain way, it would be quite entertaining, and he smiled, finished his wine, and returned inside.