A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  She checked on the screen again, thoroughly annoyed, and brought up Daniel Holley. Medium height, brown hair that was rather long, the slight smile of a man who didn’t take his world too seriously and who looked ten years younger than he was.

  In spite of the tattoos on his arms, common to convicts who’d spent time in the Lubyanka Prison, there was no sign of the killer on that handsome and rather attractive face, and yet that was exactly what he was. It was all there, his record in the field, meticulously put together by Giles Roper.

  She went and unpacked, just the essentials since she was accompanying Ferguson to London, but she’d made sure to bring her dress uniform for tonight’s reception. The Yanks would be there, but they were friends. The Russians were another matter, and she had heard that Colonel Josef Lermov of Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, head of station at the London Embassy, would be present. His book on international terrorism had become essential reading in military circles.

  She hung up her uniform tunic with the medal ribbons, the neat skirt, shirt and tie, high-polished shoes, the dress cap. Good old khaki splendor. Just like graduating at Sandhurst, except for the medals. Ten years of her life.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sara,” she murmured, then went into the splendid bathroom and started to fill the tub.

  At seven-thirty that evening, Dillon was sitting at a corner seat in the bar at the Pierre, dressed in a black velvet corduroy suit and enjoying a Bushmills whiskey, when Holley entered, wearing a beautifully tailored single-breasted suit of midnight blue, a snow-white shirt, and a blue striped tie.

  “Daniel, you look like a whiskey advert. You’ve excelled yourself. What about our new associate?”

  Holley waved to the waiter and called for a vodka on crushed ice. “I tried to get through to her room, but the duty manager said she was resting. Roper’s put everything online, though.”

  “Is there much there?”

  “The usual identity card photos that make anyone, male or female, look like a prison officer. She has red hair.”

  “I look forward to that,” Dillon said. “I love red hair.”

  “There was one unusual thing. Some video footage of her undergoing therapy for her wounded leg at Hadleigh Court.”

  “The army rehab center?” Dillon said.

  “I found it a bit disturbing.”

  “What’s her birth date?”

  “Fourth of September.”

  “Virgo.” Dillon shook his head. “The only zodiac sign represented by a female. Still waters run deep with one of those, and you being the wrong sort of Leo, with Mars in opposition to Venus, you’ve got nothing but trouble on your plate where the ladies are concerned.”

  “Thanks very much, Sean, most helpful, particularly as I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  “What did Roper have to say about Sara Gideon?”

  “She’s a bit bothered about being dragooned into Holland Park. And apparently she’s up for a Military Cross for Abusan. He read me the details.”

  “Impressive?”

  “You could say that. I had a call from Harry. They’re about to land, and they’ll see us here.”

  “And Sara Gideon?”

  “I’ve just checked at the Plaza desk. She left in a military vehicle.”

  “Seems a bit excessive, since we’re only a few blocks away.”

  “It seems her boss, this Colonel Hector Grant, was in the car.”

  “Well, there you are,” Dillon told him. “Privileges of rank. Probably fancies her. Let’s drink up, go upstairs, and see if we can ruin his evening.”

  The UN reception was all that you might expect: politicians from many countries, plus their military, the great and the good, and many familiar television faces. Waiters passed to and fro, the champagne flowed, and a four-piece band played music, helped out by an attractive vocalist.

  A few couples were already taking a turn on the floor, among them Sara Gideon with a gray-haired colonel in British uniform who, at a couple or three inches over six feet, towered above her—at a guess, Colonel Hector Grant.

  Holley said, “That red hair is fantastic.”

  “A lovely creature she is, to be sure.” Dillon nodded. “I’d seize the day if I were you, while I go and embarrass Ferguson and Harry. I can see them over there queuing up with Josef Lermov, waiting their turn to shake hands with the ambassador.”

  He walked away, and Holley stayed there, watching. Colonel Grant was smiling fondly, and she was smiling up at him with such charm that it touched the heart. They were dancing slowly, and the limp in her right leg was apparent, but only a little, and she laughed at something the colonel said.

  At that moment, they turned and she was facing Holley. She stopped smiling, frowning a little as if she knew him and was surprised to see him there. The music finished. She reached up to speak to the colonel, then turned, glanced briefly at Holley, and moved toward the exit leading to the restrooms.

  A voice said, “Heh, I bet that colonel’s more than just her boss. I love a girl in uniform, and that limp is kind of sexy. Maybe I could do myself some good here.”

  There were two of them, middle-aged, well-dressed and arrogant, and already drunk. They made for the exit, drinking from their glasses as the music started up again, and Holley went after them.

  At that moment, the corridor happened to be empty, just Sara Gideon approaching the restroom door, and the one who was doing all the talking put his glass down on a stand in front of a mirror, moved up fast behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Hang on there, young lady. I know you soldier girls like a little action. We know just the place to take you.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said as Holley approached behind them. “I think my friend wouldn’t like that.”

  “And which friend would that be?” the second man asked.

  Holley punched him very hard in the kidneys and, as he cried in pain and doubled over, kicked his feet from under him and stamped in the small of his back. The other man reached into his inside breast pocket and tried to withdraw what turned out to be a small pistol. Sara put her elbow in the man’s mouth, then twisted his wrist in entirely the wrong direction until he moaned with pain and dropped the weapon. Holley picked it up. “Two-shot derringer with hollow points. I didn’t know there were still any of these around. Very lethal.” He smacked the man’s face. “What’s your name?”

  “Leo,” the man gasped. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “The NYPD would just love to catch you with one of these. You’d be in a cell in Rikers tonight and, what’s worse, the showers in the morning. So I suggest you pick your friend up by the scruff of the neck and get out of here while I’m in a good mood.”

  “Anything you say, anything.” Leo was terrified and reached down to his friend, hauling him up.

  Holley said to Sara, “I get the impression you know who I am.”

  “Let’s say I’ve seen you on screen.”

  “Do you still need the restroom?”

  “No, I think that can wait. I could do with a drink, but I’d prefer to go to the hotel bar for it and catch my breath.”

  “The bar it is, then.” He offered her his arm, and, behind them, Leo managed to get his friend on his feet, and they lurched away.

  They sat at a corner table and waited until a waiter brought a martini cocktail for her and a large vodka for him. She picked up her glass.

  “You don’t take prisoners, do you?” she asked.

  “I could never see the point. The way you handled that guy with the derringer, though, suggests you could have managed quite well on your own.”

  “I have a black belt in aikido. Giles Roper warned me about you, you know.”

  “So you’re familiar with my wicked past?”

  “And Holland Park,” she said. “And what goes on there. I’ve been given full access. I must say he’s very thorough.”

  “He’s that, all right.”

  “That horrible man.” She
sipped her martini. “He was afraid for his life. You frightened the hell out of him.”

  “I meant to, he deserved it.” He took his vodka down in a quick swallow, Russian style, and she watched him gravely, waiting for more. “Look, I was involved in a terrible incident years ago that makes it impossible for me to stand by and do nothing when I see a woman in trouble.”

  “Being familiar with your file, I understand why.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” Holley said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “I saw you watching me dancing with Colonel Grant, but you looked startled for some reason.”

  He shrugged. “Just astonished at finding the best-looking woman I’d seen in a uniform for years.”

  She smiled. “Why, Daniel, you certainly know how to please a lady.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve never had much time for relationships, not in my line of work. Here today and possibly gone forever tomorrow, if you follow me. What about you?”

  “If you’ve immersed yourself in my career, you’ll know that the past ten years have been one bloody war after another. There was a chap I got close to in Bosnia who was killed by a Serb sniper. Then there was a major in Iraq who went the same way, courtesy of the Taliban.”

  “What about Afghanistan?”

  “With my Pashtu and Iranian, I traveled the country a lot.” She smiled bleakly. “Death seemed to follow me around.”

  “Well, he must have thought he’d got you in his clutches at last on the road to Abusan.” He smiled. “If somebody did decide to make a movie, they couldn’t do better than let you play yourself.”

  “You should be my agent, Daniel.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me by my first name. That’s got to mean something.” He looked beyond her and saw Ferguson, Miller, and Dillon entering the bar, Colonel Josef Lermov with them. “Look who’s here.”

  The Russian, instead of his uniform, was wearing an old tweed country suit, blue shirt, and brown woolen tie. He advanced on Holley and hugged him.

  “I must say you’re looking wonderful, Daniel.” He looked down at Sara. “And this can only be the remarkable Captain Sara Gideon.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “A great honor and privilege, one soldier to another.”

  “Coming from the author of Total War, Colonel Lermov, I must say the privilege is all mine,” she replied in perfect Russian.

  He smiled. “So your reputation as an exceptional linguist speaks for itself. I’m impressed.”

  Miller called for coffee and they all sat down, Ferguson beside Sara. “Been in the wars, my dear, so Security tells me? You were on camera.”

  “I’ve just seen it, Daniel,” Dillon told Holley. “You were your normal totally brutal self, and served those bastards right.”

  “I agree,” Lermov said. “Frankly, I’d like to sentence them to a year in Station Gorky in Siberia and see what they made of that. Unfortunately, this is not my parish.”

  “So what’s going to happen?” Sara asked.

  “We’ve discussed it with management, and the gentlemen involved, having been suitably threatened and banned from ever visiting the hotel again, have departed with their tails between their legs.”

  “They can count themselves lucky,” Holley said. “NYPD could have caused them real trouble over that derringer.”

  “Anyway, there it is,” Ferguson said. “Welcome to the club, Sara, glad to have you on board. Congratulations to you, Dillon and Holley, for your handling of the Amity business. Though Murphy wasn’t shot to death in Brooklyn, as we thought. He must have been wearing some sort of body armor. He’s turned up close to his apartment, stabbed in the heart. Whoever he was dealing with obviously wanted his mouth shut.”

  “It must have been a hell of a good vest he was wearing when I shot him into the East River,” Dillon said.

  “Yes, but the important thing was the Irish connection you turned up and our old friend Jack Kelly.” Coffee was being passed around and he carried on, “You may be surprised that we’re talking about our highly illegal conduct in Brooklyn in front of Colonel Lermov here.” He turned to Lermov. “Perhaps you’d like to make a point, Josef?”

  “Of course, Charles.” He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “In the old Cold War days, we were sworn enemies, but in a world of international terrorism, we’d be fools not to help each other out. Putin agrees with me.” He turned to Holley. “The Al Qaeda plot to assassinate Putin in Chechnya last year was foiled by information supplied by you, Daniel. He will never forget that.”

  “I wish he would,” Holley said.

  Ferguson ignored him. “So we have common interests, but never mind that now. I’ll be in touch with you sooner than you think, Josef, but for the moment, we’ll say good-bye. We’re all heading back to London tonight.”

  He shook hands with Lermov, walked to the door, and they all followed, Holley taking Sara’s hand. “Is it always like this?” she demanded.

  “Only most of the time,” Dillon said, and turned to glance at them, smiling. “I see you two seem to have met somewhere.”

  And they walked into the night.

  FOUR

  It was an hour before midnight, New York time, when Ferguson’s Gulfstream rose up through heavy rain to forty thousand feet and headed out into the Atlantic. Lacey and Parry, his usual RAF pilots, were at the controls—Sara had met them in the departure lounge and they’d indicated their approval. She was lying back in a red seat, and Parry passed her and spoke to Ferguson.

  “Definitely heavy winds in mid-Atlantic, General. Could take us seven hours at least. Will that be all right?”

  “It will have to be, Flight Lieutenant,” Ferguson told him. “Carry on.”

  Parry paused as he passed Sara and grinned. “He can be grumpy on occasion. Sorry we didn’t have a steward, but you’ll find anything you could want in the kitchen area. We’re very free and easy.”

  He returned to the cockpit and she stretched out comfortably and listened to what was going on, for they had the screen on and were having a face-to-face with Roper.

  “I can see you in the back there, Sara,” Roper called. “I warned you about Daniel.”

  “Enough of this erotic byplay,” Ferguson growled, “and let’s get down to business. These different kinds of IRA dissidents, Giles, is it really possible for them to work together?”

  “I don’t see why not, but Dillon and Holley are the ones to ask. They’ve been there and done that, Dillon since he was nineteen. What’s your opinion, Sara? After all, the peace process was supposed to solve things, giving Sinn Fein seats at Stormont.”

  “But the ideal to strive for has always been a united Ireland,” Dillon said. “So as long as Ulster remains with the Crown, dissident factions will have a reason to continue the struggle.”

  “A bleak prospect,” Ferguson said. “Which simply means they—whoever they are—have an excuse for continuing general mayhem.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Dillon shrugged. “There are supposed to be sleepers all over London, just awaiting the call to action.”

  “Which brings us to Jack Kelly,” Roper said. “A well-known Provo who’s served time in the Maze Prison he may be, but he was automatically pardoned as part of the peace process. So what’s to be done?”

  “A bullet in the head as he walks home some wet night?” Holley suggested.

  Sara said, “I wonder how many times he did that himself during his years with the IRA.”

  “So what do we do?” Holley asked. “Lift him?”

  “Impossible,” Roper said. “His lawyers would run rings around the prosecution.”

  “You’re all right,” Ferguson told them. “Even you, Sara, though I would point out that assassination is the business we’re in. No, we’ll apparently do nothing, leaving you, Roper, genius that you are, to come up with some way of monitoring his comings and goings.”

  “That’s asking a lot,” Miller said. “He’ll be using only
encrypted mobiles.”

  Roper shrugged. “We’ll see. Something might turn up.”

  “I’d sleep on it if I were you,” Miller told him.

  “You clown, Harry, it’s breakfast time here.”

  The screen went dark and Ferguson promptly fell asleep. Sara was in the rear of the cabin and Holley took the next seat.

  “Are you tired?”

  “I certainly should be.”

  “Because it’s all so exciting.” He said it as a statement.

  “Disturbing, Daniel, that’s what I’d say, and rather frightening.”