Rain on the Dead Read Free

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,