Free Rain on the Dead by Jack Higgins Page A

off.
    —
    Next, he phoned Lily Shah. “There’s something I want you to do,” and he told her what he had just arranged with the imam.
    “What will be the purpose of this?” she asked. “If Ali Saif has gunshot wounds, he will be laid low for some time, but when he left the Army of God to join Ferguson, he must have been an invaluable source of information. About me, for instance.”
    “Every embassy in London has an intelligence unit. People like us know who they are and they know who we are. The real work is trying to find out what the other people are up to and what their next move will be.”
    “I see, so it doesn’t matter that Ali Saif has told Ferguson what kind of people we are at Pound Street?”
    “Exactly, because that’s quite different from knowing what we intend to do next. So you’ll help?”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Just keep your eyes open, if indeed you are allowed in to Rosedene. Any information about the place could be important. Another patient there and suffering gunshot wounds is Colonel Declan Rashid, once deputy commander of the Secret Field Police, now a traitor to Iran and an associate of Ferguson’s. I especially want to know about him.”
    He sauntered off, leaving her anxious and troubled, mainly because she was no longer sure that she wanted to do this and was beginning to query what was happening. It was a new experience, but it was real enough. She shook her head, pulled herself together, and moved downstairs to reception, where help was always needed.
    —
    Major Max Shelby, superintendent of MI5’s Tenby Street safe house, was sitting alone in the lounge at Rosedene when Sara arrived. An old Intelligence Corps hand, he was, like Sara, a Pashto and Arabic speaker. Although in his sixties, he’d returned to the army because of the pressures of terrorism, and glad to do it. His only son, a Household Cavalry captain, had been killed by a roadside bomb on his third tour in Afghanistan.
    He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re looking wonderful, as usual. Ferguson is in Bellamy’s office, discussing Ali’s condition.” He and Sara had first met in Afghanistan.
    “Have you seen him?” she asked.
    “Only through the window of his room. He’s all wired up, but Bellamy’s confident he’ll pull through.”
    “But what as?” she asked.
    “God knows, but at least he’s alive.” There was pain in his voice.
    She reached to squeeze his hand. “How’s Mary?”
    “When she discovered that the Taliban had displayed the body parts of my son in a thorn tree, she became a walking corpse and overdosed on sleeping pills. I got a closed court order and had her cremated eight days ago. I didn’t see the need to advertise.” He shrugged. “Price of war, as they say.”
    She gave him a sudden fierce hug. “Come on, Max, remember what we used to say in Helmand Province about the Taliban? Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
    He said gravely, “The trouble is, love, that some days I think they’ve succeeded.” There was real pain there for a moment, and then he hugged her. “What a marvelous woman you are.”
    “Allow me to second that.” Declan Rashid emerged from the corridor in a tracksuit, a towel around his neck, a walking stick in his right hand. “How are things at Tenby Street, Max?” he asked, for they had become good friends.
    “We’ll miss Ali for sure. He’s got a real gift for interrogation,” the major told him, as Ferguson and Bellamy appeared.
    “What’s the situation?” Sara asked.
    “He’ll occasionally surface, say a few words, then sink back again. I do believe he’ll recover eventually, but we’re not talking a week or two like the colonel here, more like a couple of months.” That was Bellamy.
    “That’s all I wanted to know,” Shelby said. “I’ve lost my best interrogator, so I’ll leave you to it and get back to Tenby Street.”
    “Give me a moment, Major, if you don’t mind,” Ferguson said.