by Jack Higgins
“And I’m not sure I like that,” Kelly said.
“No sane person would. Is Mrs. Talbot still with you?”
“She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.”
“I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.”
“Where is he?” Kelly demanded.
“Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.”
“Okay, I will,” and Kelly switched off.
Owen stood under the awning on the terrace, rain dripping down, late-night Park Lane traffic below and Hyde Park in the darkness. He loved London and always had. Half Welsh, thanks to the doctor’s daughter his father had met at Cambridge University, who had died in childbirth; half Arab from one of the smaller Oman states.
Rubat had little to commend it except its oil. It didn’t have the interminable billions of the other states, but the wealth generated by Rashid Oil was enough to keep the small population happy. Sultan Ibrahim Rashid was chairman, and his nephew, Owen Rashid, was CEO, running the company from the Mayfair office and living in considerable comfort, especially as he’d managed to avoid marriage during his forty-five years.
His one mistake had been to get involved with Al Qaeda. He was not a jihadist and wasn’t interested in the religious side of things, but he’d reasoned that it would give him more muscle in the workplace and more power in the business world for Rashid Oil. He had been welcomed with open arms, but then found he had made a devil’s bargain, for he had to obey orders like everyone else.
Right now his task was to cultivate Jean Talbot, the chairman of Talbot International. Her son had been under Al Qaeda’s thumb—pure blackmail—until he died, and he had started by attending her son’s funeral. She had apparently known nothing about the connection, but Jack Kelly had, an old IRA hand who was itching to see some action again.
To meet Jean Talbot, he’d visited the Zion Gallery in Bond Street, where there was an exhibition of her art, and loitered until she’d turned up. A compliment on her famous portrait of her son had led to lunch at the Ivy.
The point of all this had only recently been made clear by his Al Qaeda masters. A single-track railway ran down from Saudi Arabia and ended up in Hazar next door to Rubat. It was called the Bacu. In modern times, it had been convenient to run pipes alongside the railway from the oil wells in southern Arabia, and over years of wheeler-dealing, the Bacu had ended up being owned by Talbot International.
Owen Rashid’s primary task was to persuade Jean Talbot to look favorably on the idea of extending the Bacu line through Rubat. The benefit to Yemen, a hotbed of Al Qaeda activity, was obvious: the possibility of instant access to the world’s biggest oil fields.
The truth was that he’d come to like Jean immensely, but that was just too bad. He had his orders, so he raised his glass and said, softly, “To you, Jean. Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait one day.”
At the same time in New York, Patrick Murphy was leaving his apartment and proceeding along the street to catch a cab. He hadn’t packed a suitcase. He’d decided he’d buy new clothes in Vegas, so he was just carrying the valise. He didn’t hear a thing, was just suddenly conscious of someone behind him and a needle point slicing into his clothes.
“Just turn right into the next doorway.” The voice was very calm.
Murphy did as he was told. “Please listen. If Cagney’s sent you, there’s no need for this. I’ve got money, lots of money. Just take it.”
The knife went right in under the ribs, finding the heart, killing him so quickly that he wasn’t even aware of the man picking up his valise and walking away, leaving him dead in the doorway.
TWO
A veteran of both Vietnam and the Secret Service, Blake Johnson had served a string of presidents as personal security adviser and was something of a White House institution. He’d known Ferguson and Miller for years.
Now he joined them in the rear of the limousine, closing the window that cut them off from the driver. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” he said. “Things are pretty rough for all of us these days. I wonder how the Prime Minister would cope if he didn’t have you.”
“Oh, he’d manage, I’m sure,” said Ferguson. “But my team is always ready to handle any situation with the appropriate response.”
“Which usually means general mayhem,” Harry Miller put in. Miller was the Prime Minister’s main troubleshooter and an undersecretary of state.
“Well, you should know,” Ferguson told Miller. “Mayhem is your general job description. When you’re not being used to frighten other Members of Parliament to death.”
“A total exaggeration, as usual,” Miller told Blake. “Anyway, I’m sure the President will be happy with our security arrangements for his brief visit to London. We wish it could be longer, but I know he’s expected in Paris and Berlin.”
Ferguson said, “I’m surprised he can find the time at all with everything going on in the Middle East and Africa.”
“And Al Qaeda threatening worldwide spectaculars in capital cities,” Miller put in. “In revenge for the death of bin Laden.”
“We can’t just sit back and wait for things to happen,” Ferguson said. “We’ve got to go in hard, find those responsible for running the show these days, and take them out.”
“Well, I think you’ll find that’s exactly what the President wants to talk to you about,” Blake said. “You know he supports action when necessary. But I think you’ll find he favors a more conciliatory approach where possible.”
Ferguson frowned. “What does that mean?”
Miller put a warning hand on Ferguson’s knee. “Let’s just see what the President says.”
The general pulled himself together. “Yes, of course, we must hear what the President has to say.”
In the Oval Office, the President and Blake faced Ferguson and Miller across a large coffee table. Clancy Smith, the President’s favorite Secret Service man, stood back, ever watchful.
“London, Paris, Berlin, Brussels—it’s going to be quite a stretch in four days,” said the President. “But I’m really looking forward to London, particularly the luncheon reception at Parliament.”
“It’ll be a great day, Mr. President,” Ferguson said. “We’ve completely overhauled our security system for your visit. Major Miller is the coordinator.”
“Yes, I’ve read your report. I couldn’t leave it in better hands. What I actually wanted to ask you about was your report of the inquiry into the Mirbat ambush in Afghanistan that cost us so many lives. It seems you were right when you supposed that British-born Muslims were fighting in the Taliban ranks.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s bad enough in itself, but the fact that the man leading them was a decorated war hero, that he was chairman of one of the most respected arms corporations in the business—it defies belief.”
“Talbot was a wild young man, hungry for war,” Miller said. “Originally his supplying illegal arms to the Taliban across the border was strictly for kicks, but that led to Al Qaeda blackmailing him.”
“As you can see from our report, he had Dillon’s bullet in him when he crashed his plane into the sea off the Irish coast,” Ferguson shrugged. “An act of suicide to protect the family name.”
“So his mother knew nothing about this Al Qaeda business?”
“No. And she’s now chairman of Talbot International simply because she owns most of the shares.”
“And in the world’s eyes, he just died in a tragic ac
cident?”
Ferguson said, “Of course, Al Qaeda knows the truth, but it wouldn’t be to their benefit to admit to it. Nobody would believe such a story anyway.”
“And thank God for that, and for the part you and your people played in bringing the affair to a successful conclusion, particularly your Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley. I see the Algerian foreign minister has given Holley a diplomatic passport.”
“The Algerian government is just as disenchanted with Al Qaeda as we are,” said Ferguson. “That passport makes him a very valuable asset.”
“Who in his youth was a member of the Provisional IRA, as was Sean Dillon. Men who are the product of extreme violence tend perhaps to believe that a violent response is the only way forward.”
“International terrorism is the scourge of our times, Mr. President, powered by fanatics who insist on extreme views. It’s like a cancer that needs to be cut out to stop it spreading.”
The President said, “As you know, General, I believe in necessary force. But you can’t kill them all. The only way forward is to engage in dialogue with people with extreme views and attempt to reach a compromise. With Osama out of the way, I have great hopes for such an approach.”
“I agree,” Ferguson said. “But what about those who believe in the purity of violence and are willing to bomb the hell out of anyone who refuses to agree with them? Wouldn’t it be better to have people like Dillon and Holley stamp out such a fire before it spreads?”
“Can such actions ever be condoned?” the President asked.
Ferguson said, “In 1947, a brilliant commando leader named Otto Skorzeny was accused of war crimes because he had sent his men into action behind American lines wearing GI uniforms. Many of these men, when captured, were executed out of hand by the American forces.”
“What’s your point?”
“The chief witness for the defense was one of the most brilliant British Secret Service agents operating in occupied France. He admitted he’d been responsible for many operations in which his men had fought and killed German soldiers while wearing German uniforms. He also spoke of his superiors handing out such orders that could only be concluded by assassination. He told the court that if Skorzeny was guilty of a war crime, then he was just as guilty.”
There was a brief silence, and the President said, “What was the verdict?”
“The case was thrown out of court. Skorzeny was acquitted of all charges.”
There was a long silence, and then the President said bleakly, “So what is the answer?”
“That the kind of war we now face is a nasty business,” Miller said. “And you can only survive if you play as dirty as the other side. That’s what twenty years of army service during the Irish Troubles taught me.”
The President sighed heavily. “I suppose I could have picked a better time to take up the highest office in the land, but here I am and, by God, I’ll see it through.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We’ll meet again on Friday.”
Blake insisted on returning them to the hotel personally. In spite of the rain, there were a number of people outside the White House gates, mainly tourists by the look of them.
“I told you how it would be,” Blake said. “This is America, land of the free. The President has a difficult path to tread. We tried the Guantánamo Bay solution and received hate mail from all over the world. And there are even those who disapprove of the way we handled Osama.”
“We know that, Blake. The trouble is that you can say what you want about universal freedom, individual liberty, the rule of law, but when you get into power, the intelligence services pass confidential dossiers across your desk full of information that proves how bloody awful the threat really is. More nine-elevens have been foiled by the skin of our teeth than the public could imagine.”
“And often because the Sean Dillons and Daniel Holleys of this world are prepared to act in the way they do,” Harry Miller said, “and take responsibility for it in a way other people can’t.”
“And thank God for it,” Ferguson said. “You know, we’ve been good friends with the French Secret Service for some time now.”
Blake said, “I’m surprised. I thought you used to be at odds with them?”
“Not anymore. Their agents, some of whom have Algerian Muslim roots, infiltrate Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the information gained has enabled the French to crush many terrorist cells in France since nine-eleven. But not only in France.” Ferguson laughed grimly. “They call our capital city Londistan—did you know that? From time to time, they pass over information to us of crazy plots to blow up Nelson’s Column, the Tower Bridge, Harrods. You get the picture?”
“I surely do,” Blake said. “I suppose in Paris it’s the Eiffel Tower.”
“I’d hate to be a Muslim living in Paris,” Miller said. “I remember how the French reacted in the Algerian War. Nobody would want that.”
“Al Qaeda would,” Ferguson said as the limousine turned in to the hotel. “It would suit them down to the ground to return to the bad old days, so they could produce a few martyrs who’d been fixed up for sound.”
“Dillon and Holley would seem tame by comparison,” Miller said.
The limousine drove away with Blake and they watched it go. Harry Miller said, “What do you think?”
“That I’d like a large bourbon on the rocks, but I’ll leave it until we’re on the Gulfstream. Let’s get our things and go,” Ferguson said, and he led the way into the hotel.
When Captain Sara Gideon boarded the plane at Tucson for her flight to New York, she wore combat fatigues. This was America, where patriotism ruled and the military were received with enthusiasm, especially when the wearer was a good-looking young woman with cropped red hair. The shrapnel scar that slanted down from the hairline to just above the left eye made her even more interesting-looking. She was five foot six with high cheekbones in a calmly beautiful face that gave nothing away. It was as if she was saying: This is me, take me or leave me, I don’t give a damn. She had a window seat in first class, and people glanced curiously as a flight attendant approached to offer her a glass of champagne.
“Actually, I think that would be very nice,” Sara Gideon told her.
“Oh Lord, you’re English,” the young woman said.
Sara gave her a smile of unexpected charm. “I’m afraid so. Is that all right? I mean, we’re all fighting the same war, aren’t we?”
The flight attendant was totally thrown. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. My older brother is a Marine, serving in Afghanistan. Sangin Province. I don’t suppose you’ve been there?”
“I have, actually. The British Army was in Sangin for some time before the Marines took over.”
“I’m so glad,” the attendant said. “Let me get you your drink.”
She went away and Sara stood up, took her shoulder bag out of the locker, removed her laptop, and put it on the seat beside her. She replaced the shoulder bag and sat down as the flight attendant returned and gave her the champagne.
“This Sangin place? It’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, Ron always says there’s not much going on.”
A good man, Ron, lying to his family so they wouldn’t worry about him. She’d been through two tours attached to an infantry battalion that suffered two hundred dead and wounded, herself one of them. But how could she tell that to this girl?
She drank her champagne down and handed the glass to her. “Don’t you worry. They’ve got a great base at Sangin. Showers, a PX, burgers and TV, everything. Ron will be fine, believe me.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” The girl was in tears.
“Now you must excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”
The attendant departed, and Sara opened her laptop, feeling lousy about having to lie, and started to write her report. At the Arizona military base, location classified, she had been observing the new face of war: pilotless Reaper drones flying in Afghanistan and Pakistan but
operated from Arizona, and targeting dozens of Taliban and Al Qaeda leaders.
It took her around two hours to complete. When she finished, she replaced the laptop in her shoulder bag. It had been a hell of an assignment—and where was it all going to end? It was like some mad Hollywood science-fiction movie, and yet it was all true.
Her head was splitting, so she found a couple of pills in her purse, swallowed them with some bottled water, and pushed the button for attention.