Rain on the Dead

Book 21: Sean Dillon

by Jack Higgins

Genres: Thrillers; Spy Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The past comes back to haunt Sean Dillon and his colleagues, as the New York Times bestselling master of suspense returns with a knife-edge story of terrorism, revenge, and a very old nemesis.

In the past few years, the killing and capture of many Al-Qaeda leaders has left the terrorist organization wounded-but by no means dead. And they intend to prove it.

On a dark summer night, two Chechen mercenaries emerge from the waters off Nantucket to kill a high-value target, the former president of the United States, Jake Cazalet. Unfortunately for them, Cazalet has guests with him, including black ops specialist Sean Dillon and his colleague, Afghan war hero Captain Sara Gideon.

The Chechens do not survive the night, but Dillon is curious as to how they even got on the island. What he discovers sends a chill through his bones-a name from very far back in Dillon's past. If this man is working with the terrorists now, the assassination attempt is only the beginning-and the next time, the results might be much, much different.

Release date: December 30, 2014

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 320

Sample

The island of Nantucket, Massachusetts—high summer, the western end of the harbor crowded with boats, many tied up at the jetty. Among them was a scarlet-and-white sportfisherman named Dolphin. On the flying bridge, a gray-haired man sat at the wheel playing a clarinet, something plaintive and touching. He was around sixty, a white curling beard giving him the look of an old sailor.

The man who joined him from below, wearing swimming trunks, had dark tousled hair and the beard of some medieval bravo. He was fit and muscular, his smile pleasant enough, his only unusual feature two scars on his left chest which any doctor would have recognized as relics from old bullet wounds.

He spoke in Irish. “Big night, Kelly!”

The other answered in the same. “You could say that. It’ll be dark soon, Tod—if you’re going to grab that swim, it’d better be now.”

“I will. Keep your eye out for that kid, Henry, from the harbormaster’s office. He’s bringing our passports and the credit card, so don’t forget to speak like the Yank your passport says you are.”

He slid down the ladder, vaulted over the rail, and swam away. Kelly heard a call from the dock.

“Mr. Jackson, are you there?”

Kelly descended the ladder. “He’s having a swim. I’m his partner, Jeremy Hawkins.”

Henry handed over the two passports. “There you go, sir, Mr. Jackson’s credit card is in the envelope and your mooring license covers you until Friday.”

Kelly took the package. “Thanks, son.”

“That’s great clarinet I just heard. Kind of sounds like Gershwin, though I don’t recognize the tune.”

“It’s an Irish folk song called ‘The Lark in the Clear Air.’ And you’re right, I did put a bit of Gershwin in there.”

“I think he would have been pleased, sir. Are you and your friend professional musicians?”

“I was for a while and he does play decent piano, but on the whole, we found other things kept getting in the way.”

“Well, that seems like a damn shame to me,” Henry said, and walked away, calling at another boat.

Kelly turned and looked out over the harbor to see how Tod was getting on, and saw him swimming toward a round buoy floating on a chain. Many people were diving or jumping off the boats, some in wet suits, generally having a good time while the light still held.

For his part, Tod stroked the last couple of yards, then grabbed onto the chain, aware of the unmistakable sound of a helicopter descending somewhere in the distance.

He hung there, listening, and two young men erupted from the water, like black seals in their wet suits. They were like twins, darkly handsome, the same wildness apparent in their faces.

The nearest one grabbed the chain and laughed as his brother joined them. “Mr. Jackson, I recognize you from your photo. We’re the ones you came to meet. The Master sends his regards and hopes that success in our venture will make us your favorite Chechens. I’m Yanni and this is Khalid.”

He had no accent, which his brother explained in a rather mocking tone. “Our parents were killed by barbaric Russian soldiers in the Chechen war. The wonderful American Red Cross saved us and our grandparents, and gave us a new life in good old New York.”

“Where thanks to the public school system, we emerged as normal American teenagers,” Yanni said.

“Creating a problem for Westerners who expect Muslims to look and sound like Arabs,” Khalid said.

“So what can Muslims who look like Westerners do?” Yanni added.

“Why, serve Allah as undercover warriors in the great struggle,” his brother said. “And here we are. We’ve already checked out the house of our target. It’s just off the beach, surrounded by trees, no problem. An easy one, this.”

Tod said, “Except that every security camera on every property you passed walking along that beach probably has your faces now.”

“So we’ll wear ski masks for the hit,” Khalid said. “Why should it matter as long as the target is dead? That’s all that counts.”

They were no longer smiling. Their faces were like death masks, their eyes pinpricks. They were obviously on drugs, which exasperated Tod, though there was no point in mentioning it now.

“I’m going back to that boat.” He indicated the Dolphin.“I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes.”

They didn’t reply, simply turned and swam away, and so did he.

—

Hawkins was Tim Kelly, and Jackson, Tod Flynn, both of them Provisional IRA who had served sentences in the Maze Prison in Northern Ireland for many killings. Released during the peace process, they had become mercenaries. The situations in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and elsewhere offered highly paid security work and sometimes rather more than that, for Flynn had been a top enforcer with the IRA, and reputation was everything in the Death Trade. It brought the cautious phone calls, the offers of the big money that went with them, and the offer for this present job had been very big.

In the cabin belowdecks, he had a large whiskey, feeling strangely cold, and told Kelly about his meeting with the Chechens. Kelly said, “I knew it was a mistake to get involved with sodding Muslims. What are we going to do?”

“There’s not much we can do, but I’ll tell you this. I’m putting a pistol in my pocket for when they come, just in case it gets nasty. You should, too,” and he hurried away to his cabin.

—

He showered and dressed, and as he did so, remembered the first time he’d heard the Master’s voice, filled with quiet authority, and a touch of English upper class.

“Would that be Mr. Tod Flynn?” the voice had asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’ve just credited your bank account with a hundred thousand dollars. Check for yourself, and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

Tod frowned, but called his bank and received the happy news that the money had indeed been deposited from a Swiss bank in Geneva.

When the second call came, he said instantly, “Who is this?”

“People know me as the Master. That will do for the moment.”

“Al-Qaeda,” Tod said. “Everyone in the business knows about you guys and the way you operate. Don’t you have enough of your own people to call on? What do you want me for?”

“Oh, I’m a great admirer. That finance man in Nigeria you took care of—five hundred yards through an open window of a car doing seventy. Splendid work. I have a list. My favorite was the Russian paratroop general who glanced out of the turret of his tank for a moment during a street battle and you took him at five hundred yards.”

“Four hundred,” Tod said. “And it was snowing. So what do you want?”

“I have a target, living quietly in a house on the island of Nantucket with a manservant. I’m sending in a couple of Chechen boys to knock him off. All I need from you is to keep an eye on things and pick them up when they’re done. You’ll be waiting in a boat off the beach and they’ll swim out to you.”

“So I’m the getaway driver, is that it?” Tod laughed harshly. “What’s he done, this target?”

“No need for you to know. Let’s just say he’s an old enemy.”

Tod nodded. “And what would be in it for me?”

“You’ve already got one hundred thousand. That’s for you and your friend Kelly. I’ll give you another hundred afterward and take care of your expenses.”

As usual, greed won the day. “Add another fifty thousand,” Tod said. “Which rounds it to a quarter of a million, and I expect the full advance before we go.”

The man who called himself the Master paused, then said, “Agreed.”

And Tod, some part of him already regretting it, said, “Done. When do we meet?”

“That will never happen, my friend. You’ll have to be content with my voice on the phone. I’ll send you a coded mobile with the tickets.”

—

Tim Kelly was shocked when Tod told him about the call. “Holy Mary, do we have to get involved with a bunch of Muslims like al-Qaeda?”

“You’ll dance a jig when that money turns up in your bank account,” Tod said. Later, he did wonder why the Master wanted him at all. The mystery man had made all the arrangements and the plan itself was simple enough. It was the height of tourist season, and the two assassins would be just another couple of people strolling along by night, carrying beach bags that would contain a couple of silenced Glocks, more than adequate to handle the situation. When they were done, they could just walk away from the scene of silent slaughter, which wouldn’t be discovered until morning, long after they had swum out to sea, each with a phosphorescent signaling ball held in his palm to guide in the waiting Dolphin.

It seemed too simple, and Tod couldn’t think why, still couldn’t as he finished dressing now, and then he heard a disturbance above. He hurried through the cabin, went on deck, and found Kelly switching on all the lights against the hurrying dark. The Chechens were there.

“What’s going on?” Tod demanded.

“These two bastards are cracked, if you ask me,” Kelly said. “They were sharing a bottle as they came along the jetty. That young guy from the harbormaster’s office remonstrated with them as they were boarding.” He pointed at Khalid. “This one told him to fuck off.”

Tod grabbed Khalid by the front of his shirt. “Stupid bastard, are you crazy? That kind of trouble is the last thing we need.”

Yanni reached in his beach bag and produced a silenced Glock. “Touch my brother again and I’ll kill you.”

Kelly, standing behind them, drew a Walther, but Tod released Khalid, laughing harshly. “Go on, do it. Kill both of us, why don’t you? Then tell me who’s going to wait off that beach to pick you up.”

Yanni put the Glock away and smiled falsely. “Hey, can’t you take a joke, Mr. Jackson? Khalid was having a laugh. Like boxers going in the ring for a big fight. You get kind of nervous waiting for the action.”

“Then I suggest you go, find the action, and get on with it, and we’ll get on with our part of the job.”

Yanni laughed out loud. “You know something, you’re a real funny man, Mr. Jackson. I like you, I really do . . .”

He gave his brother a push and they scrambled up onto the jetty. Khalid took a bottle from his pocket, held it up, then tossed it into the harbor. “Just kidding, Mr. Jackson,” he said, and they walked away.

“Total fruitcakes,” Kelly said in disgust. “Where the hell did this Master find them? Don’t tell me he didn’t know they had problems.”

“Never mind that for now. We’ve got half an hour to spare before we have to cast off and go round the coast to wait for them. I could do with coffee and a sandwich,” Todd said.

He led the way below, and as they reached the kitchen area, the coded mobile phone the Master had given him trembled. He took it out and switched it to speaker. He turned to Kelly, touched a finger to his lips and waited.

“Mr. Flynn, I’m afraid something’s come up that affects our plans,” the voice said.

“And what would that be?” Tod demanded.

“I’ve just heard from a source that the target is receiving guests tonight by helicopter.”

“We heard one arriving somewhere in the island not long ago,” Tod told him.

The Master’s voice was unemotional. “Probably the one delivering them.”

“They’ll get a shock when they find themselves invaded by two crazy Chechens.”

“It’s the Chechens we need to worry about,” the Master said. “His guests are General Charles Ferguson, who commands the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad, and he has two of his top people with him. A Captain Sara Gideon and one Sean Dillon, a notorious IRA gunman who now works for Ferguson.”

“But I know these people, everyone in the Death Trade does.” Flynn was angry now. “Why the hell would they be here?”

“It’s time to tell you who our target is. It’s the former president of the United States, Jake Cazalet.”

Tod was shocked. “You lousy bastard.”

The Master continued. “You must cancel the operation. I can’t do it. Yanni and Khalid have no phone.”

“I see,” Tod said. “You knew they were wild cards and too untrustworthy to handle your special phone.”

“You must try and stop them. Surely there’s still time?”

Tod was so angry he switched off.

Kelly said, “Christ, what a cock-up. Maybe we’ll be lucky and catch them walking the beach to Cazalet’s house.”

“No, we won’t,” Tod told him. “I don’t want anything more to do with this. We’ll cast off right now, sail overnight to Long Island, and leave the boat at Quogue. Then we’ll head straight to the airport and find the first plane that’ll take us back to Dublin.”

“And not even try to pick the boys up?”

“Do you really think there’ll be anyone to pick up? Sean Dillon is a bloody living legend of the IRA, as no one knows better than you, and this Sara Gideon lass has a Military Cross for killing Taliban. Not to mention Ferguson himself. No, those Chechens are dead meat. And frankly, I couldn’t care less.”

—

The house stood in trees behind a vast beach reaching out from town. The helicopter had landed some distance away, where Cazalet’s Secret Service man, Dalton, waited in a Jeep. He went to greet Ferguson and his people, who walked to meet him.

Ferguson shook hands. “Here I am again, Agent Dalton. Nice to see you.” They waited as the helicopter drifted away.

Dalton said, “It’ll be back in the morning.” He eased Sara’s bag from her hand and led the way to the Jeep.

“President Cazalet’s really pleased to be seeing you. Mrs. Boulder has left out a lovely supper in the conservatory.”

“The President? Is that how you still address him?” Sara asked.

Ferguson said, “Technically, all former holders of the office retain the title for life, but I think it’s a matter of individual choice. Cazalet says there can only be one Mr. President and asks that I call him Jake. I could never bring myself to do it, so I make do with ‘sir.’”

“Then ‘sir’ it will be for me also,” Sara said.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Murchison again,” Ferguson said. “That’s the dog of the house, Sara, a wonderful flat-coated retriever.”

“Who once saved the President’s life, as I recall,” Dillon said. “Although there’s no official documentation of that.”

“Too bad he isn’t here tonight,” said Dalton. “Mrs. Boulder has taken him home with her. She gets lonely since her husband died last year, and the President doesn’t mind.”

He turned off the road at a point where high-wire fencing fronted the trees. He paused, waiting for a ten-foot gate to open slowly between stone pillars, and drove through, pine trees and lots of shrubbery crowding in from both sides. To the left, they could see a terraced conservatory and they continued, circling around to a formal garden that fronted the old Colonial-style house with steps leading up to a pillared entrance, the door standing open, light pouring out, and Jake Cazalet waiting to greet them.

“Charles, my dear old friend,” he cried. “Marvelous to see you, marvelous to see all of you.”

Then he rushed down the steps to greet them, arms outstretched.

After embraces, Ferguson said, “Now, this was all most mysterious. It’s always a pleasure to see you, sir, but why were we summoned?”

Cazalet said, “Oh, it’s nothing dire. The President wanted to invite you to the Oval Office, but couldn’t because of the publicity such a visit would have caused. He said you were in New York to meet the British ambassador and proposed that we kidnap you for a night so that I could say a heartfelt thanks on his behalf for your handling of the Husseini affair. If Iran had been able to use his work to perfect their nuclear bomb—well, it wouldn’t bear thinking of. All three of you did a remarkable job, and we are in your debt.”

“Please tell the President how grateful we are,” Ferguson said. “But it’s all in the game these days, and a damn ugly game it is.”

“You’ve got that right,” Cazalet said. “It’s a complete mess. Jihadists allied to al-Qaeda have infiltrated international terrorism like the plague, linking groups worldwide, each controlled by that anonymous leader always known as the Master, a shadowy figure, a voice on the phone. Backed by millions obtained from oil-rich states in the Middle East. They’re extremely dangerous.”

“As Captain Gideon can attest to firsthand,” said Ferguson.

Cazalet turned to Sara, who said, “Dillon and I were targeted by al-Qaeda in London, with orders to dispose of us.”

“I notice you’re still here,” Cazalet said.

“You should see her in action, sir,” Dillon told him.

“So there’s a Master responsible for London?”

“He also handled affairs in Paris,” Dillon said. “And later in Beirut.”

“And turned out to be General Ali ben Levi, the commander of the Iranian Army’s Secret Field Police.”

“He was killed in London, though we weren’t responsible,” Ferguson said. “But we had his body disposed of. We couldn’t see the point of sending the details to the Iranian military, and they’re still looking for him. They had no idea of his al-Qaeda connection.”

“And I’m sure he has already been replaced,” said Cazalet. “That there’s a new Master out there now. Terrorism has completely changed warfare as we know it. Enemies without uniforms, bombs everywhere.” He shivered. “End of an era. But enough of that for this one night. Tonight, let’s go out on the terrace and have some champagne. Or perhaps you’d prefer a glass of port, Charles?”

“Now you’re talking, sir,” Ferguson said, and led the way out.

The dining room opened into the conservatory, where great sliding doors gave access to the terrace with tables and lounging chairs, the garden crowding in, flowering shrubs of every description, tall pines and palm trees that someone had experimented with over many years. The scent of flowers, the sound of grasshoppers chirping in the lights, all combined to create a kind of tropical splendor.

“Wonderful,” Sara said. “I love the smell of it.”

Cazalet said, “It’s a bit of a jungle really, but at my age I can do as I please, so I let it run riot. Reminds me of my tours in Vietnam. Come, have something to eat.”

Yanni and Khalid had reached the house without the slightest trouble, following the beach, passing the occasional barbecue, sometimes a fire. There were lots of other people in the darkness, laughter, guitar music, but there was no one by the Cazalet house.

They passed it, turning up the left side of the estate through a marshy area with reeds growing high, found a place where the fencing gaped and squeezed into the garden. They could hear conversation and laughter, light through the trees and shrubbery.

They had taken pills before leaving the cottage and were feeling the effects. “Are you getting high, brother?” Yanni whispered.

“I’m floating, man,” Khalid told him.

“Then put on your face.”

Yanni pulled the ski mask on, and grinned as his brother did the same. “You look like a clown.”

“So do you,” Khalid told him, and took his Glock out and dropped the shoulder bag to the ground. “Let’s do it,” he said to Yanni, and led the way cautiously.

—

On the terrace, they were at the coffee stage, Ferguson and Cazalet sitting down and Dalton pouring it out. Dillon was standing by the open window, enjoying a cigarette. There were three stone steps leading up to the terrace crowded with overgrown shrubbery, and Sara stood there waiting for her coffee. Yanni crouched, watching her admiringly. His brother stood a few feet away in heavy bushes behind the balustrade.

They could have killed everyone if they’d fired without hesitating, but the drugs had taken full control and they were shaking with excitement, and it was Yanni who made the first move.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, and took three quick steps up to the terrace. Sara half turned and he hit her sideways in the face, pulled her against him, and rammed the barrel of the Glock into her side. “A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.”

“Oh God,” she moaned, as if terrified, and closed her eyes, apparently fainting, starting to slide to the floor so that he was losing his grasp.

Dalton was already drawing his weapon and jumping in front of Cazalet. Khalid stepped out of the bushes and shot him in the chest. In the same moment, Dillon drew the Colt .25 he always carried in a rear belt holder and fired rapidly three times, the hollow-point cartridges tearing Khalid apart, hurling him back into the shrubbery.

Yanni howled in rage, allowed Sara to slide, and fired once at Dillon, denting the wall. Sara withdrew the flick knife from the sheath she always wore around her right ankle, sprang the blade, and stabbed him under the chin. He dropped his weapon, fell back down the steps, and lay in the middle of rosebushes, kicking as he choked to death.

There had been surprisingly little sound, just the dull thud of silenced weapons, and Cazalet was already on his knees with Ferguson, examining Dalton, Dillon standing over them, his gun still in his hand. Dalton groaned and Cazalet looked up in relief.

“Thank God, he was wearing his vest. I’ll leave him to you, Charles, while I raise the alarm.”

He found Dalton’s cell phone and called in. “This is Cazalet. Empire down. Two intruders down. Request Nightbird Retrieval.”

He said to the others, “Which means a cover-up job by the CIA. It should be easy enough, since all the weapons were silenced, so the neighbors shouldn’t have any idea what’s been going on, and as you know, the occasional helicopter landing is nothing new here.” He turned to Sara. “I can see why they awarded you a Military Cross in Afghanistan, but your suit will never be the same again. It’s badly bloodstained.”

“No problem, sir, I have another in my luggage. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to my room to shower and change.”

“Of course,” he said.

As she moved out, Dillon murmured, “Are you okay?”

She held up a bloodstained hand. “As usual, not even shaking.”

“Just like in the Bible. The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.”

“Which doesn’t help me in the slightest,” she said, and went out.

Cazalet eased Dalton onto a chair and gave him some brandy to sip. Dillon poured champagne for himself and Ferguson, who said, “God knows why we’re drinking this, but it’s a pity to waste good stuff.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Dillon toasted him.

Cazalet cut in: “Did you two hear what the one she killed said to her?”

Dillon nodded. “A present from Osama, with regards from the Master.”

“It appears that al-Qaeda has found us, right here in Nantucket.”

—

The Nightbird was of medium size, black in color, the engine noise remarkably quiet. A dozen men in black overalls got out. The officer in charge, wearing the same black uniform, was calm and efficient.

“Colonel Sam Caxton, Mr. President. We’ll be treating this as a crime scene, although it’s not a police investigation. If you would, I’d like you all to wait inside and two of my men will record interviews with you, both individually and together, to cover all the bases. We also have a doctor with us, just to check you all out.”

“We’re at your service, Colonel,” Cazalet said.

“If you could move in, we’ll get started. It goes without saying that we’re delighted to find you in one piece.”

He went out, and Cazalet said to Dalton, “How do you feel, Frank?”

“The vest I’m wearing can stop a forty-four.”

“You deserve a medal, jumping in front of me like that.”

“That’s what I’m paid to do, sir.”

Cazalet clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s all return to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

—

On the Dolphin out at sea, the lights of Nantucket had faded when Kelly entered the wheelhouse with two mugs of tea and gave one to Tod, who was listening to a jazz trio.

“Sounds good. Who is it?” Kelly asked.

“No idea. It’s Nantucket local radio. I was waiting to hear if there were any news reports.”

“What are you going to tell the Master?”

“I’ll think of something.” He sighed. “Probably better get it over with.”

“I’d like to hear that,” Kelly said. “Put it on speaker.”

In a moment, they were connected.

“This is Tod Flynn.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Are you still in Nantucket?”

“We’re at sea. Couldn’t contact the Chechens, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of action at the Cazalet house. Nothing on local news, either, so I decided the smart thing to do was leave.”

The Master cut in. “Then I have news for you. Yanni and Khalid are dead, bagged, and waiting to be flown away.”

Shocked, Tod made an instinctive response. “That’s impossible. How could you know that?”

“Because I provided backup that even the Chechens did not know about. A woman sympathetic to our cause that I had in place. After I phoned you, I called her. She had seen you casting off to go to sea and smelled a rat, went after the Chechens herself, and was right behind when they entered Cazalet’s jungle of a garden. There was no time to warn them.”

“So what happened?” Tod asked.

“The Chechens were butchered. Dillon shot Khalid, and the Gideon woman stabbed Yanni with a knife. When a CIA black unit arrived by helicopter, she slipped away.”

“A hell of a cool customer,” Tod said.

“Yes, a remarkable lady—but to business. Admit it, you were doing a runner. You never even attempted to warn those boys.”

“Okay, we were. We know Dillon from way back in the Troubles. Nobody messes with him, he’s a killing machine and the Gideon woman is the same. If we had tried to find them, we’d be lying dead next to the Chechens.”

“Nevertheless, that was your charge. You owe me a quarter of a million dollars.”

Tod said, “We didn’t sign up for any of this. You lied about everything. It wasn’t our fault that things turned out the way they did.”

“Don’t think you can shirk your responsibility. Everybody is accountable. But you can keep the money.”

Tod was astonished. “What do you mean?”

“You and Kelly are men of a mercenary persuasion, as the song goes. Go home to Drumgoole, to your horses and the stud and your aunt Meg—she runs things there, correct? Oh, and you’ll be losing your niece Hannah; she just heard yesterday that she’s been accepted by the Royal College of Music in London.”

“Damn you, how do you know all this?”

“I know everything, Tod, I thought you knew that. I just want to make sure you realize that there