LITMIR.BIZ

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what would that be?’ Tod demanded.

      ‘I’ve just heard from a source that the target is receiving guests tonight by helicopter.’

      ‘We heard one arriving somewhere in the island not long ago,’ Tod told him.

      The Master’s voice was unemotional. ‘Probably the one delivering them.’

      ‘They’ll get a shock when they find themselves invaded by two crazy Chechens.’

      ‘It’s the Chechens we need to worry about,’ the Master said. ‘His guests are General Charles Ferguson – who commands the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad – and two of his top people, a Captain Sara Gideon and one Sean Dillon, a notorious IRA gunman who now works for Ferguson.’

      ‘But I know these people, everyone in the Death Trade does.’ Flynn was angry now. ‘Why the hell would they be here?’

      ‘It’s time to tell you who our target is. It’s the former President of the United States, Jake Cazalet.’

      Tod was shocked. ‘You lousy bastard.’

      The Master continued. ‘You must cancel the operation. I can’t do it. Yanni and Khalid have no phone.’

      ‘I see,’ Tod said. ‘You knew they were wild cards and too untrustworthy to handle your special phone.’

      ‘You must try and stop them. Surely there’s still time?’

      Tod was so angry he switched off.

      Kelly said, ‘Christ, what a cockup. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch them walking the beach to Cazalet’s house.’

      ‘No, we won’t,’ Tod told him. ‘I don’t want anything more to do with this. We’ll cast off right now, sail overnight to Long Island, and leave the boat at Quogue. Then we’ll head straight to the airport and find the first plane that’ll take us back to Dublin.’

      ‘And not even try to pick the boys up?’

      ‘Do you really think there’ll be anyone to pick up? Sean Dillon is a bloody living legend of the IRA, as no one knows better than you, and this Sara Gideon lass has a Military Cross for killing Taliban. Not to mention Ferguson himself. No, those Chechens are dead meat. And frankly, I couldn’t care less.’

      The house stood in trees behind a vast beach reaching out from town. The helicopter had landed some distance away, where Cazalet’s Secret Service man, Dalton, waited in a Jeep. He went to greet Ferguson and his people, who walked to meet him.

      Ferguson shook hands. ‘Here I am again, Agent Dalton. Nice to see you.’ They waited as the helicopter drifted away.

      Dalton said, ‘It’ll be back in the morning.’ He eased Sara’s bag from her hand and led the way to the Jeep.

      ‘President Cazalet’s really pleased to be seeing you. Mrs Boulder has left out a lovely supper in the conservatory.’

      ‘The President? Is that how you still address him?’ Sara asked.

      Ferguson said, ‘Technically, all former holders of the office retain the title for life, but I think it’s a matter of individual choice. Cazalet says there can only be one Mr President and asks that I call him Jake. I could never bring myself to do it, so I make do with “sir”.’

      ‘Then “sir”’ it will be for me also,’ Sara said.

      ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Murchison again,’ Ferguson said. ‘That’s the dog of the house, Sara, a wonderful flat-coated retriever.’

      ‘Who once saved the President’s life, as I recall,’ Dillon said. ‘Although there’s no official documentation of that.’

      ‘Too bad he isn’t here tonight,’ said Dalton. ‘Mrs Boulder has taken him home with her. She gets lonely since her husband died last year, and the President doesn’t mind.’

      He turned off the road at a point where high-wire fencing fronted the trees. He paused, waiting for a ten-foot gate to open slowly between stone pillars, and drove through, pine trees and lots of shrubbery crowding in from both sides. To the left, they could see a terraced conservatory and they continued, circling around to a formal garden that fronted the old Colonial-style house with steps leading up to a pillared entrance, the door standing open, light pouring out, and Jake Cazalet waiting to greet them.

      ‘Charles, my dear old friend,’ he cried. ‘Marvellous to see you, marvellous to see all of you.’

      Then he rushed down the steps to greet them, arms outstretched.

      After embraces, Ferguson said, ‘Now, this was all most mysterious. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir, but why were we summoned?’

      Cazalet said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing dire. The President wanted to invite you to the Oval Office, but couldn’t because of the publicity such a visit would have caused. He said you were in New York to meet the British ambassador and proposed that we kidnap you for a night so that I could say a heartfelt thanks on his behalf for your handling of the Husseini affair. If Iran had been able to use his work to perfect their nuclear bomb – well, it wouldn’t bear thinking of. All three of you did a remarkable job, and we are in your debt.’

      ‘Please tell the President how grateful we are,’ Ferguson said. ‘But it’s all in the game these days, and a damn ugly game it is.’

      ‘You’ve got that right,’ Cazalet said. ‘It’s a complete mess. Jihadists allied to Al Qaeda have infiltrated international terrorism like the plague, linking groups worldwide, each controlled by that anonymous leader always known as the Master, a shadowy figure, a voice on the phone. Backed by millions obtained from oil-rich states in the Middle East. They’re extremely dangerous.’

      ‘As Captain Gideon can attest to first-hand,’ said Ferguson.

      Cazalet turned to Sara, who said, ‘Dillon and I were targeted by Al Qaeda in London, with orders to dispose of us.’

      ‘I notice you’re still here,’ Cazalet said.

      ‘You should see her in action, sir,’ Dillon told him.

      ‘So there’s a Master responsible for London?’

      ‘He also handled affairs in Paris,’ Dillon said. ‘And later in Beirut.’

      ‘And turned out to be General Ali ben Levi, the commander of the Iranian Army’s Secret Field Police.’

      ‘He was killed in London, though we weren’t responsible,’ Ferguson said. ‘But we had his body disposed of. We couldn’t see the point of sending the details to the Iranian military, and they’re still looking for him. They had no idea of his Al Qaeda connection.’

      ‘And I’m sure he has already been replaced,’ said Cazalet. ‘That there’s a new Master out there now. Terrorism has completely changed warfare as we know it. Enemies without uniforms, bombs everywhere.’ He shivered. ‘End of an era. But enough of that for this one night. Tonight, let’s go out on the terrace and have some champagne. Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of port, Charles?’

      ‘Now you’re talking, sir,’ Ferguson said, and led the way out.

      The dining room opened into the conservatory, where great sliding doors gave access to the terrace with tables and lounging chairs, the garden crowding in, flowering shrubs of every description, tall pines and palm trees that someone had experimented with over many years. The scent of flowers, the sound of grasshoppers chirping in the lights, all combined to create a kind of tropical splendour.

      ‘Wonderful,’ Sara said. ‘I love the smell of it.’

      Cazalet said, ‘It’s a bit of a jungle really, but at my age I can do as I please, so I let it run riot. Reminds me of my tours in Vietnam. Come, have something to eat.’

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