Read Online Rain on the Dead by Jack Higgins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Higgins
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care of Declan Rashid. It’s a matter of honor, for he did betray all of us. I have two Secret Field Police for you, quite exceptional individuals. Captains Ali Herim and Khalid Abed.” He followed with a phone number. “I shall speak to them and make plain what I expect. They can pass as Westerners without the slightest trouble, and frequently do. However, don’t call me again. Let your results speak for themselves.”
—
Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the U.K.
There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of thefireplace in the parlor of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.
The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.
“Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.” Ali shook his head. “His record in the Iraq war was amazing.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Khalid said. “The man is a true hero.”
“That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,” Ali told him.
The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.
“Holland Park,” Khalid said. “We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.”
“An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,” Ali told him. “This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.”
“And usually does,” Khalid pointed out. “Gangsters play an active role, too—this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.”
“Obviously much in demand,” Ali said. “But let’s not forget thelady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.”
“Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,” Khalid told him.
“Well, we don’t need to argue about it.” Ali shrugged. “If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.”
“You’re on.”
—
It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. “Umbrella time,” Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside,
—
Ali Herim and Khalid Abed were cousins, the sons of upper-class families in Iran, educated at an English public school, Winchester. They’d entered the army in Tehran together, the icing on the cake provided by a special year for foreign students at Sandhurst Military Academy in the U.K.
There was always action somewhere in the Middle East, particularly on the borders of their own country, and they had seen plenty, but a transfer to the army’s Secret Field Police, the SFP, had appealed to both of them and they had never regretted it. Recently, their orders had taken them to London, supported by excellent fake passports that turned Ali into Lance Harvey and Khalid, his younger brother by eighteen months, into Anthony. Dark-haired and handsome, in their late twenties, they looked exactly like what they were supposed to be, two young English gentlemen of means, out for a good time and determined to have one, a role that Ali and Khalid fitted perfectly, as they had a background of family wealth, easily tapped into in the City of London. Seated on either side of thefireplace in the parlor of their mews cottage, they were stunned at the information they’d had to absorb from two phone calls.
The first, from the Minister of War, had been concerned with the new direction they were to take. The shock of that had barely sunk in when the Master had phoned. Religion had never been important for either of them, but orders were orders.
“Colonel Declan Rashid, the Irishman, as they called him when we joined the SFP.” Ali shook his head. “His record in the Iraq war was amazing.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me,” Khalid said. “The man is a true hero.”
“That’s not what they are saying when words like traitor are flying around,” Ali told him.
The door to the study stood open, a computer beeped, there was the sound of the printer working. Ali stood up, went in, and returned with a sheaf of papers. Khalid sat beside him.
“Holland Park,” Khalid said. “We’ll have to have a drive past. Photos of everyone connected to the affair. It would seem we are to consider them all as possible targets. For the time being, totally familiarize ourselves with everyone connected, visit where they live and so on, and be ready when needed.”
“An interesting bunch of people Ferguson has,” Ali told him. “This Major Roper, the bomb expert, is a legend in his own right, and the IRA veteran, Sean Dillon, would appear to be ready to kill anybody.”
“And usually does,” Khalid pointed out. “Gangsters play an active role, too—this is Harry Salter and his nephew Billy.”
“Obviously much in demand,” Ali said. “But let’s not forget thelady. Captain Sara Gideon, the Military Cross in Afghanistan. But don’t get any ideas about her, Khalid. She’s entirely the wrong persuasion for you, my son. Sephardic Jewish. Her people have been in England since Oliver Cromwell.”
“Well, I could say we’re all people of the book,” Khalid told him.
“Well, we don’t need to argue about it.” Ali shrugged. “If she finds out who we are, she’d probably reach for her Glock and shoot us both. To shoot back is something I refuse to contemplate, but enough for now. Let’s go along to the Ivy, have a bite to eat and discuss a plan of campaign. Bring the information file and the photos with you, so we can study them again.”
“You’re on.”
—
It was raining hard, their Mini Cooper parked around the corner. “Umbrella time,” Khalid said, picked one out of the stand, stepped outside,
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