Free Rain on the Dead by Jack Higgins

and opened it. Ali joined him. They moved into the street where the Mini Cooper was parked, found a hole in the road, three workmen sheltering in a doorway smoking cigarettes and talking. Two of them were older, rough and brutal-looking, badly shaved, wearing pea jackets. A youth in a yellow oilskin had been telling a joke and stopped as the Iranians approached.
    “Look what we’ve got here, a couple of bleeding nancy boys.” His companions roared with laughter.
    Ali said, “Isn’t nature wonderful? That thing can actually talk.”
    The youth ran up behind, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Come here, you.”
    Khalid dodged out of the way with the umbrella, leaving Ali to turn, grab the youth’s wrist, twist it into a rigid bar, and run himinto the yellow van. The nose crunched, the youth cried out, falling to his knees, rain washing the blood down over his face.
    There was a roar of anger from the two men. The first out of the doorstep reached for Ali, who spun around and stamped on his kneecap. As the man started to go down, Khalid raised a knee into the descending face, lifting him back to fall across the youth. The other man retreated.
    Ali said, “Chalk it up to experience, boys. Now, if I were you,” he said to the standing man, “I’d shove them in the back of your van and get round to accident and emergency at St. Wilfred’s. They do a lovely job, and it’s for free.”
    Khalid was already behind the Mini Cooper’s wheel, and he started the engine. Ali climbed in beside him.
    “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the Ivy for a bite to eat and a discussion on a plan of campaign.”
    —
    At the same time, the Master was phoning Hamid Bey. “I bring you some interesting news, An attempt was made on the life of Dr. Ali Saif last night as he was leaving the Holland Park safe house.”
    “Allah be praised,” the imam said. “Who was responsible?”
    “Better not to know,” the Master said. “There’s such wildness around these days, and so many of our young people become angry and disturbed when they hear what is happening to our people in Syria, Somalia, or Egypt.”
    “I agree wholeheartedly, but Allah will forgive me for branding Ali Saif as a black-hearted traitor to his religion and people.”
    “To put it mildly, he has faltered on his spiritual journey, but he may yet be saved, and I believe you could assist in this regard.”
    “I am at your command.”
    “He was badly wounded and is at present in a private hospital named Rosedene, where General Charles Ferguson provides treatment for those injured in his service.”
    “Ferguson, as I hardly need to remind you, is one of al-Qaeda’s most implacable enemies, he’s done great harm to us on occasion,” Hamid Bey said. “What do you suggest I do?”
    “Ask to see Ali Saif. A not unreasonable request. As imam, you were his spiritual guide.”
    “Until he betrayed the Cause,” Hamid Bey said.
    “Yes, but you will put Ferguson on the spot with your request. He looks upon the Army of God and the Brotherhood that goes with it as the enemy.”
    “Which we are,” Hamid Bey said.
    “You are missing the point. We must at all times appear to be what we claim, which is a spiritual and educational organization, offering the services of a multifaith dispensary to the local population. I also suggest you take Lily Shah with you.”
    “Why would I do that?” Hamid asked.
    “Because the fact that she is a Christian may smooth the way, indeed make things rather awkward for them. She is already something of a saint in Muslim eyes. All this helps to wrong-foot the police and the city authorities. A whole range of municipal workers are members of the Army of God Brotherhood—a Muslim trade union, if you like—but to us, a private army. And there is little they can do about it.”
    “I am proud to serve,” Hamid Bey said.
    “Prove it by having one of your vans call on Captain Sara Gideon at Highfield Court tonight,” the Master told him, and switched