Bad Company

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2003

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124922

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007380299

Version: 2015-07-20

For Amber

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

DAUNCEY VILLAGE WEST SUSSEX 2002

Chapter 1

BERLIN THE FÜHRER BUNKER 30 APRIL 1945

Chapter 2

LONDON THE EMPTY QUARTER IRAQ

Chapter 3

GERMANY

Chapter 4

LONDON THE PRESENT

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

NANTUCKET

Chapter 8

LONDON SCOTLAND IRELAND

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

GERMANY LONDON GERMANY

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Further Reading

About the Publisher

It was raining when they buried Kate Rashid, Countess of Loch Dhu, a rain that swept in across Dauncey Village like a solid curtain, sending people hurrying for the shelter of the church. They were all there, the great and the good, to say farewell, their cars blocking the High Street.

General Charles Ferguson’s Daimler had just arrived. He sat there in the rear with Sean Dillon, who took a silver flask from his inside pocket, swallowed a little Bushmills whiskey and lit a cigarette.

‘Are we going in?’

‘No,’ Ferguson said.

‘Then why are we here?’

‘It’s the civilized thing to do, Dillon. It’s a great story, after all. The world’s richest woman crashing into the sea off the English coast at the controls of her own plane. Her cousin Rupert mysteriously disappeared.’ He leaned back. ‘You couldn’t improve on it if it was a made-for-television movie.’

Dillon took another swig from his flask. ‘I’ve said it before, but it’s the cold-blooded bastard you are, General.’

‘Really? I thought that was you, Dillon.’

‘All right. But I repeat: if we’re not going in, what are we doing here?’

‘Patience, Dillon. I’m waiting for someone.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Well, for starters, a good friend of yours.’ A Mercedes rolled in and braked behind them. ‘And here he is.’

Blake Johnson emerged, ran through the rain and scrambled into the back of the Daimler.

‘Great to see you, General.’ He took Dillon’s hand. ‘And you, my fine Irish friend.’

‘And where in the hell have you come from?’ Dillon demanded.

‘The White House, of course.’

Blake was in his early fifties, his hair still black, and an ex-Marine. He was also Director of the White House’s General Affairs Department, though everyone who knew it – which wasn’t many – just called it ‘the Basement’. In actuality, it was the President’s private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service, or any other governmental organization.

Dillon was intrigued. ‘But what are you here for?’

Ferguson ignored him. ‘Is it true? About the Baron?’

‘Yep. Just announced. The President ordered me straight to you, General, and here I am.’

‘And who’s this Baron creature when he’s at home?’ said Dillon.

‘You’re about to find out,’ Ferguson said.

A Rolls-Royce pulled in at the church gate. A uniformed chauffeur emerged, got an umbrella up, and opened the rear door. A young man in his early thirties emerged, a trench coat over his shoulders, hurried to the other door and waited.

The man who stepped out was very old, wore a black leather overcoat and slouch hat, and carried a silver-topped walking stick. The young man held the umbrella over him, offered his arm and they went up the path to the church.

‘There he goes,’ Blake said.

Dillon frowned. ‘Who is he?’

‘Baron Max von Berger,’ Ferguson said. ‘An exceedingly rich man. And – as Blake has just confirmed – none other than Kate Rashid’s silent partner.’

‘Rashid?’ Dillon said. ‘Just a minute. Are you saying Berger as in Berger International?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But they’re worth billions.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And they now have control of Rashid Investments?’

‘Unfortunately so.’