The Midnight Bell. Jack Higgins

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      He made the call, shrugging, and within minutes received the astonishing news. “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely to Harold. “What’s this geezer’s game?”

      “George, I couldn’t care less. All I know is it’s real money. Here, let me get you another whiskey,” Harold said. “Put a little lead in your pencil for when he gets back to you.”

      Which the Master did as Moon was drinking it. “Satisfied, Mr. Moon?”

      “Who wouldn’t be? So who are you and what do you want?”

      “What I want is your experience of the London underworld, like your family before you. Generation of thieves and river rats. How did Charles Dickens put it? Those who made a living finding corpses in the Thames on behalf of the River Police? There is not a criminal enterprise you’ve failed to touch on.”

      “And proud of it,” Moon said.

      “You’ve been especially busy running booze and cigarettes from Europe—but no drugs, you’re too cunning for that, which is one reason I chose you. You’ve also done well with warehouse developments by the Thames, while Cousin Harold can haul in hoodlums by the score any time they’re needed.”

      “And happy to do it, mister,” Harold called.

      Moon said, “Okay, you know a lot about me, so what?”

      “I know everything about you, my friend, even the fact that some years ago you were employed by Russian military intelligence, the GRU, making yourself useful in many ways right here in London. Remember your recognition code? ‘The midnight bell is ringing’? MI5 would have been interested. You could have got twenty-five years for treason.”

      Moon was transfixed. “But how could you have known that?”

      “You’ve heard of al-Qaeda, I’m sure. Our information system is as good as the CIA’s—better!—and I can access it by pushing a button.”

      “So this is a Muslim thing?”

      “Is that a problem?”

      It was Harold who cut in then. “No problem at all, Master. Whatever you want, you get.”

      “That’s good, because if I didn’t, I’d have to have you killed. Anyway, your first job for me will concern Harry and Billy Salter.”

      Moon brightened up. “We have history, us and the Salters.”

      Harold said, “What do you want us to do? Smash their restaurant up?”

      “Not yet. Something more subtle. Give them just a hint of what we can do.”

      “You can leave that to me,” Harold told him. “Mayhem is my specialty.”

      “I’m delighted to know you can spell it,” the Master said.

      “Well, I can, and it will be a pleasure to give the Salters a black eye.”

      “To a fruitful association, then, gentlemen. I’ll be in touch.”

      MOON SAID, “He’s gone, but I can’t say I’m happy about working for a Muslim.”

      “Didn’t you tell me that we had a great-grandfather who was an Indian seaman who jumped ship in the Pool of London?”

      “True.”

      “Then stop being racist, join me in the kitchen, and I’ll cook you breakfast.”

      “I wonder where he lives,” Moon said.

      “I wouldn’t mind betting that he’d rather you didn’t know. Besides, it could be anywhere—London, Madrid, Timbuktu!”

      “You think so?”

      “All you need these days is a coded mobile, and you can cover the world.”

      HAROLD WAS RIGHT, of course, for the Master did move frequently, for obvious reasons. At that moment he was living in Paris on a furnished barge next to the other barges moored on the Quai des Brumes on the Seine.

      The Master thought the business with the Moons had gone well. Despite a certain criminal cunning on their part, they had missed the fact that he had taken complete control of them. They’d sold their souls to the Devil, which amused him. Just like Faust. Life was all about power.

      Things had gone well so far, and he could proceed with confidence to the next step, but there was always the unexpected in life—there’d just been a death in the family of the other people relevant to his plans. For the moment, he hesitated, waiting for God to select the right time to move for, as in all things, there was only one God and Osama was his Prophet.

      But he decided the time was now, and he took out his coded mobile and made a call to Drumore House in County Down in Ulster, still the old family home, in spite of a certain decay, of the Magee family.

      Finbar Magee, seated at the breakfast table in the farm’s kitchen, pushed away his plate and reached for the half glass of whiskey that his cousin Eli had shoved over to him.

      “Who the hell is bothering me now?” Finbar said, taking out his mobile and putting it on speaker.

      Eli, white haired and bearded, was pouring tea. “Answer it, for God’s sake.”

      Finbar did. “Who the hell is this? I’m not in the best of moods.”

      “Well, you wouldn’t be,” the Master told him. “I’ve heard about the accident that killed your wife. You’re being treated very unfairly. Come to London, and I’ll help make it right.”

      “That takes bloody money, ye madman,” Finbar shouted.

      “Which is why I’ve placed twenty thousand pounds in your bank account for traveling expenses.”

      “Damn you, I’ve no time for jokes.” Finbar switched off. “Did you hear that idiot?”

      “I did, but I didn’t hear you calling the bank to check the situation,” Eli said.

      Finbar stared at him, frowning, then did just that. Minutes later, he was staring wild-eyed at Eli. “It’s true. The money’s been deposited.”

      “Then you’ll have to hope he calls back.”

      In the same moment, the Master did. “Are you happy now?”

      “Why should I be?” Finbar said. “But how do you know about the accident, and why should it concern you?”

      “I represent an organization that has had problems with a certain General Charles Ferguson and some people who work for him, including an IRA assassin named Sean Dillon.”

      “That bastard!” Finbar slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “May he die before I do, so I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s dead.”

      “I can imagine. I also know about the unfortunate business concerning your sons СКАЧАТЬ