LITMIR.BIZ

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a glass of champagne first would be nice.”

      She vanished toward the kitchen, and Sara said, “We’ll go in the study and be comfortable. I’ll light the fire.”

      “Where’s Hannah?” Blake said.

      “Slaving in the kitchen, helping Sadie like a decent Irish girl should. Ah, here’s the footman, come to serve the champagne,” and Dillon entered pushing the drinks trolley.

      THE MEAL WAS as excellent as everyone had expected, and afterward, over coffee and tea, the situation was discussed.

      “The problem is the nighttime,” Cazalet said. “I think Blake and I should come up from the Dorchester and move in for the night. Would that suit?”

      “That would be fantastic,” Sara said.

      “Then can we say that’s a given?” Cazalet asked Ferguson.

      “Very generous of you, Mr. President. I’m sure Sadie will be delighted.”

      “With what?” she said, walking in with a fresh pot of coffee.

      “You’re going to have lodgers, my dear,” Ferguson told her, and the front doorbell started to ring.

      “Now who in the hell can that be?” Dillon said, and he was out of the study in a moment, a Colt .25 ready as he approached the door, followed by Hannah, pulling out her own gun and running to cover him.

      She was like a different person, calm and assured, her weapon ready in both hands as he reached for the key to open the door.

      She said, “Take care now, Sean, and don’t be dying on me. I’ve lost enough from my family.”

      “Yes, well, I’m cleverer than that, girl.” He pulled the flap of the letterbox open.

      “Who’s there?”

      The voice was broken, strange, and very slow when it said, “My name is Hamid Abed, and I seek the memsahib that she may show me mercy.”

      “Holy Mother,” Hannah said. “That’s the man I shot! But what would he be doing here?”

      “We’ll soon see.” Dillon, gun in hand, opened the door, and Sadie screamed.

      The light from the hall showed the terrible beating Abed had taken, blood all over him, and Hannah pushed Dillon to one side and kneeled.

      “Who did this to you?”

      “The imam at Pound Street. He had me whipped and broken, thrown in the Thames by Omar Bey, the man they call the Beast.”

      “Forget him now, you are safe with me, but why call me memsahib?”

      “I was in the Pakistan Army, like my father before me, but my grandfather and his father were in the Indian Army under the Raj, memsahib.” He laughed. “I was thrown into the Thames to die, and a miracle took me to St. Mary’s Stairs. Mary, the Mother of Jesus, is in the Koran. There was nowhere else to go, so I came here. It was a long walk in the rain.”

      “I understand, and there’s no need to worry.” She glanced at Ferguson. “General?”

      “I’ve already called Maggie Duncan at Rosedene, my dear. An ambulance is on the way.”

      MAGGIE DUNCAN HAD BEEN MATRON for many years at Rosedene, a very special medical establishment that offered only the best of treatment to those damaged in their service to Charles Ferguson’s organization. Her boss was Professor Charles Bellamy, considered by many to be the finest general surgeon in London.

      Hannah had accompanied Hamid in the ambulance, and after a discussion of what had happened with the others, Dillon and Sara followed in the Mini.

      “It doesn’t look good, Sean,” Sara said.

      “About as bad as it could, dear girl.” His voice was angry and the harsh Ulster accent plain. “Omar the Beast is it, the imam’s hit man. I’d like to meet that one.”

      He swerved slightly, and she said, “Easy, Sean, your time will come, God willing, or mine.”

      He glanced at her, frowning, then turned the Mini into the entrance to Rosedene and parked.

      MAGGIE DUNCAN MET THEM as she came out of her office in reception. She was dressed for the operating theater.

      “That bad is it, Maggie?” Sara asked.

      “That man’s condition is appalling, multiple fractures, damage to many organs, a ruptured kidney. Frankly, I don’t even know how he made it to you.”

      “He had a pole of sorts, which I suppose he found somewhere on St. Mary’s Stairs, and he used it to help him walk. All very biblical, Maggie.”

      “Over the years, Sean, I’ve often put this question to you—when is it all going to end?”

      “You’re a good and honest Christian, Maggie. Book of Revelation. Behold a Pale Horse, his rider was called Death, and Hell followed close behind.”

      “The Apocalypse?” she said. “You surely can’t be meaning that?”

      “And why not, when people are meeting a bad end in every bloody country on earth?”

      Hannah appeared suddenly, crashing through the swinging doors that led to the medical units. “He needs you, Matron, as quickly as possible.”

      Maggie pushed straight through the door, and Hannah turned to Dillon and Sara, and slumped down beside them. “He hasn’t got a hope in hell.”

      Sara said, “Miracles can happen, love. Bellamy is an extraordinary surgeon.”

      “I know he is, but I also know the smell of death well from my childhood in an IRA household, the boys turning up bleeding all over the place with the SAS on their tails and only the village doctor to do the best he could for anyone wounded.”

      The door opened, and Maggie, splashed with blood, said wearily, “He’s going, Hannah. I’m so sorry.”

      Hannah was on her feet and darting past her. Dillon and Sara hesitated, and Maggie led the way to an operating theater at the far end of the corridor, where they were able to observe through a window. Hannah stood beside the bed, and Bellamy was there, his theater scrubs stained with blood. Maggie said, “It was one thing after another. The professor really fought for him, but … just a minute. What’s happening?”

      Very slowly, Hamid raised his right arm, which was swathed in bandages, and Hannah held his fingers, and his lips moved, and then his head lolled to one side as he died, the alarm calling in more staff, and Dillon and Sara turned and went back to reception.

      “A bad one, Sean,” she said, as they sat. “I saw plenty killed in Afghanistan, but some things you never get over.”

      “You could say that. If this Omar the Beast was standing in front of Hannah, she’d empty her gun in him.”

      Before Sara could reply, the entrance door swung open and Ferguson entered, face grim, followed by Tony Doyle.

      “Has he gone?” he asked.

      “I’m afraid so,” Sara told him.

      “I thought he might.” He offered a folder to Dillon. “Roper looked up this Omar Bey for you. MI5 have him on file.”

      Dillon opened it, and Sara leaned over to look at the enormous animal that Omar Bey appeared to be. “My God,” she said. “A monster.”

      “He’s certainly murdered a number of fellow Muslims, but Scotland Yard got nowhere with those. There’s a total unwillingness amongst the Muslim community to get involved,” said Dillon.

      “I can believe that,” Ferguson said. “But we’ll keep the file, Dillon. It may prove useful.”

      Hannah joined them, looking bleak. “So that bastard gets away with it?”

      Dillon

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