A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  “Legrande is obviously the right man for this, no question. Don’t tell him you’ve told me about his cancer. I don’t think he’d like that.”

  “I’ll keep that from him, then,” Kelly said. “But it will make that bastard Abu sit up and take notice. It should keep him off our backs for a while.”

  “Let’s make sure of that by getting things moving right away. I’ll expect you at my apartment in half an hour. I’d like to meet him.”

  He was immediately impressed with the Frenchman, who was everything he could have wished for. Rashid had been putting on his tie when they arrived, told them to help themselves to a drink, and found them enjoying a whiskey at the table by the open terrace window.

  “I’ve been looking at your record, Henri, and I think you’re the man for this job. Do you?”

  “But certainly, Monsieur Rashid, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Owen reached for the red file and put it on the table. “Every scrap of information Al Qaeda has on Ferguson and his people is in there.”

  “The facts in here are all guaranteed, then?” Legrande asked.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we don’t have an internal source in his organization, so we can’t tell you what his intentions are.”

  “It would be a miracle if you could with an old fox like Ferguson,” Henri said.

  “Money is no problem,” Owen said. “Anything you need, you get. My people want him finished once and for all.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” Henri shook hands and led the way out.

  Jean rang a couple of minutes later. “I don’t really feel like anything exotic tonight. Would you mind if we just go to that little Italian place at the end of Curzon Street?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We might as well walk. Not worth taking the car.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was pressing the bell at her front door. She was out in a moment, wearing a French beret and a short navy blue bridge coat. He kissed her on the cheek, and she took his arm.

  “You look very Parisian tonight,” he told her. “Most becoming. How are you?”

  “I had students to see, end-of-term papers to discuss with other staff. Dammit, Owen, I’m a painter, an artist, that’s what it’s all about.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  “This title I have, visiting professor in fine arts, sounds very prestigious, and I suppose it is for some people, but I couldn’t care less. The only difference between me and my colleagues is that I’m filthy rich. I feel guilty about that.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m in the same position when it comes to money. I haven’t the slightest intention of feeling guilty about it. What else is new?”

  “Just that Kelly’s in town,” she said.

  “You didn’t mention he was coming.”

  “I didn’t know. It’s happening in a hurry. He’s needed to see my finance director at the firm about the estate accounts for some time, then he discovered that a man he was involved with in his wild youth, and thought was dead, is running an antiques shop in Shepherd Market.”

  “By his wild youth do we mean his IRA days?” Owen asked. “You did tell me all about that, remember.”

  “Yes, the friend is French, as I understand it. Anyway, I’ve told Jack that under the circumstances he might as well make a bit of a holiday out of it. He’s staying at this chap’s place for a few days.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” Owen said, and a moment later, they reached the restaurant.

  They sat in a corner booth, had a bottle of cheap red wine, and shared some lasagna and crunchy bread that was warm from the oven.

  Over cognac he said, “Kelly’s IRA activity must have been a problem for you, with your son being an officer in the British Army. But when you had me over, it was heartwarming to discover the great affection the people in Kilmartin have for you.”

  “You mean with their being IRA to the core and me a Protestant?” All at once, she felt like unburdening herself. “I knew my son served in the SAS and I kept quiet about it. Kelly found out and lied for me, so that the villagers have never known of my guilt. They never knew that my wild son’s madness resulted in his Al Qaeda connection, nor that he took his own life.” She put a hand on his. “So there you are—lies, deceit, and enough wickedness to choke on.”

  None of this was new to him, but hearing it from her own mouth moved him deeply. He had been so sure that he had served merely as a substitute for the son she had lost so tragically, but realized now that the truth was rather different.

  He paid the bill, and they walked up Curzon Street in silence, arm in arm. When they reached the house, she rummaged in her purse to find her key and he took it from her.

  “Let me,” he said, and opened the door.

  She turned to face him, trying to smile but in obvious distress. “So sorry, Owen, to unload all that garbage and guilt on you like that. I get so damn lonely.” She was close to tears. “Just look at me, chairman of Talbot International, the woman who’s got everything and nothing.”

  “What nonsense. You’ve got me, haven’t you?” He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  As if not quite believing what he had done, she glanced up at him in astonishment and then smiled. “Yes, it is, actually. Would you by any chance fancy a coffee before you go?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, then stepped inside and closed the door.

  On leaving Owen Rashid’s apartment, Henri Legrande and Jack Kelly had returned to the antiques shop, where the Frenchman started to work his way through the file Rashid had given him. Leafing through it, he was immediately aware of the most recent addition, and he read it quickly.

  “Look what we have here,” he said to Kelly. “Captain Sara Gideon just joined Ferguson’s staff from the Intelligence Corps.”

  “A nice-looking woman,” Kelly said, examining Sara’s photograph.

  “There’s a damn sight more to her than good looks,” Henri told him. “Her military record is remarkable, and I know her grandfather by reputation, Rabbi Nathan Gideon. Very popular with the interfaith movement. Preaches all over the place, even in Christian churches. He’s good—I’ve heard him.”

  “So where would he fit in?”

  “When she’s not serving abroad, she lives with him. Since she was a passenger on that Gulfstream of Ferguson’s that just got in from New York, I think we can assume she’s with him now.”

  “Do you want to take a look?”

  “Why not? I’ll need to check where all Ferguson’s people live, but she’ll do for a start. We’ll take my car.”

  Twenty minutes later, he was behind the wheel of his small and battered Citroën van, Kelly beside him, observing Highfield Court, when the Alfa Romeo Spider turned into the drive.

  “Now, there’s a nice car,” Kelly said, and then Holley got out and approached the front door. “It’s Daniel Holley. I know the bastard well. Sean Dillon’s friend. Top Provos in their day, but damn traitors now.”

  The door opened and Sara Gideon appeared, Sadie behind her. She looked very striking, the red hair contrasting vividly with a bomber jacket, shirt, and loose leggings in black raw silk.

  Sadie said, “Don’t let it go to your head, but you look fantastic.”

  “Well, he’s not looking too bad himself, is he?” Sara nodded to Daniel, standing by the Alfa in a leather flying jacket and jeans.

  “For an older guy,” Sadie told her.

  “Don’t be boring.” Sara kissed her on the cheek. “Go and check us out on your tarot cards or something.” She went down the steps and said to Holley, “You’re looking very sharp. Love the jacket.”

  “I told you I was a pilot.” He handed her into the Alfa and slid behind the wheel. “For someone who said not too dressy, you look amazing.”

  “Thank you, Daniel, but the other thing I stipulated was somewhere interesting, so what’s it to be?”

  “You’ve got to meet Harry and Billy Salter sometime, so I thought we�
�d combine business with pleasure and visit the Dark Man down on Cable Wharf at Wapping. That’s Harry’s pub.”

  “Well, that sounds fun,” she said as they drove away.

  The Citroën went after them, and Kelly said, “What are we going to do?”

  “Who knows?” Henri told him. “We’ll just hang in there and see where they go.”

  SIX

  It was dark below by the Thames as the Alfa moved down the hill and pulled up in front of the pub, which was ablaze with lights.

  “Well, here we are, the Dark Man, the first piece of property Harry Salter ever owned, the beginnings of his empire.”

  Sara smiled. “Oh, he has one of those, does he?”

  “Ever since he discovered there was more money to be made from business than crime. He was known in the London underworld as a right villain. He only did prison time once in his youth, and that was enough. These days he’s behind some of the biggest developments on the river.”

  “And his connection with Ferguson? What’s all that about?”

  “A bit like the rest of us, pulling together in these uncertain times to keep the ship afloat. London gangsters have their uses.”

  “Just like reformed IRA gunmen.” She got out and limped quite heavily to the edge of the jetty, looking across at a passing riverboat, music echoing over the water. “I love all this, even the smell of it.”

  He moved to her side. “Are you okay?”

  She glanced at him. “You’re worried about my leg, aren’t you? I’m fine, really I am. So I get a bit cramped in a car and I need to loosen up a touch when I’m on my feet.”

  He felt suddenly awkward. “I was just concerned.”

  “I know, but it is what I am now. It won’t go away.”

  “So I won’t mention it again.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, put one in his mouth. “Do you use these?”

  “Good heavens, no, and neither should you.”

  He’d taken out his lighter and paused. She took it from him, tossed it into the water, and held out her hand, palm up, without a word. He hesitated, then passed the cigarette pack across. It followed the lighter into the Thames.

  “Do you always get your own way?” he asked.

  “When I’m in the right, I do. I insist on it.” She took his arm and walked him a little way along the jetty. “What’s the boat tied up there at the end?”

  “An old riverboat, the Linda Jones, Harry’s pride and joy. He owns bigger boats that do the tourist runs and so on. He knows the Thames better than anyone—a river rat since childhood.”

  “Well, let’s go and meet him, then,” she said, and they turned and walked toward the entrance of the pub.

  Henri Legrande had kept the Citroën well back and he and Kelly sat there, waiting for Holley and Sara to go inside. When they had gone, he turned on the Citroën’s interior light and leafed through the file, paying particular attention to the photos.

  “So here we are, Harry and Billy Salter, but perhaps there could be others in there with them,” he said, and he checked through all the photos again.

  “So what do you want to do?” Kelly asked. “If Holley sees me, we’re done for. He knows me well.”

  “But not me.” Henri smiled and closed the file. “A drink at the bar is called for. You keep your head down. I won’t be long.”

  He turned off the interior light and walked to the entrance.

  The bar was at least half full, certainly enough for him not to feel out of place. He recognized the Salters sitting in the corner booth and also their minders, standing behind them, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. Sara was receiving considerable attention from the men, Holley watching.

  The blond barmaid approached Henri and said, “And what can I do for you, dear?”

  He’d been looking up at the bar shelves and said, “I see you have a bottle of Pernod there. I’ll have a large one.”

  She reached up and took the bottle down. “It’s been up here for ever such a long time. Not even open. A funny-looking screw cap.” She tried it and made a face. “I can’t do a thing with this.”

  “If you would allow me, mam’selle.” He eased the top open effortlessly.

  She pushed a glass over. “You must have a strong hand. Have a large one on the house. I’ll find a stopper for it.”

  “Why, thank you.” He poured and toasted her.

  Harry Salter called, “Over here, Dora, you’ve got to meet this lady.” He was back with Sara again now. “You’ll have something to eat, I hope? Dora’s hot pot is out of this world.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to miss that,” Sara told him, and shook hands with Dora as she came round the bar to meet her.

  “I’ve heard all about you, love,” said Dora, “getting a medal for bravery and everything. Marvelous what a real woman can do when she puts her mind to it. Shows the bleeding men the way for a change.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Sara said.

  “Well, I do. Here, come and have a look at my kitchen.”

  Sara smiled helplessly at Holley and went off with her, and Harry said, “Sit down, my old son. What an amazing girl she is, and how many Taliban did she knock out with that machine gun?”

  “A lot,” Holley said.

  “The newspapers will really go to town with it. A great story.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be allowed to tell it,” Holley said. “A question of security.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “That’s Ferguson’s job, not mine.”

  “What’s this meeting about on Thursday? Roper left a message saying we had to report in.”

  “Something to do with the President flying in Friday morning.”

  “Is it right he’s only here for twenty-four hours?”

  “A whistle-stop tour. Paris, Berlin, Brussels. Harry Miller’s coordinated all the security. Maybe he’s got jobs for us.”

  “We’ll see,” Harry Salter said, and at that moment the two women returned, Dora pushing a trolley.

  “Right, sit round the tables, the lot of you, and let’s get started.”

  Henri, apparently absorbed in an Evening Standard he’d found at the end of the bar, put it down, finished his Pernod, and went out and rejoined Kelly in the Citroën.

  “So what’s the story?”

  Henri told him everything. “It would be interesting to know what’s being said at the meeting on Thursday.”

  “Well, there’s not much you can do about that,” Kelly said.

  “Perhaps not, but it might be amusing to cause a little mischief right now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Watch and learn.” He reached across, opened the glove compartment, and took out a flashlight and a pair of vicious-looking steel wire cutters. “That should do the trick. You stay here.”

  He walked down to the Alfa, ducked until he was out of sight. Kelly couldn’t even get a hint of what he was doing, afraid that someone might emerge from the pub entrance at any moment. Luck was certainly on Henri’s side, for as he reappeared and started to walk back, the door opened to a burst of laughter, and three men emerged. They got into a car and drove away.

  As Henri joined him, Kelly said, “By God, that was close. What were you up to?”

  Henri replaced the flashlight and the wire cutters where he had found them, took out a duster, and wiped his hands.

  “What’s that smell?” Kelly asked.

  “Hydraulic braking fluid. I sliced the main tube. I’m afraid the next time friend Holley drives his car and tries to brake, he’ll get a nasty surprise.”

  “You bastard,” Kelly said. “Are we going to stay to watch?”

  “We don’t need to be here. The accident will occur whether we are or not. But it might be amusing. Let’s give it half an hour.”

  Which they did, and quite a few people left during that period. In fact, forty-five minutes had elapsed when Henri said, “To hell with it, we’ll go.”

  At that moment, Sara and Hol
ley appeared, followed by the Salters, with Baxter and Hall standing in the entrance. There was a short exchange, laughter, then Sara and Holley got in the Alfa. The engine fired, and the Alfa moved forward, turning in a wide circle to point toward the exit road. Suddenly, the engine note deepened, and the Alfa swerved violently toward the edge of the wharf, bouncing sideways into a bollard, which was the only thing that saved it from going over into the Thames.

  Holley scrambled out, turned, and reached for Sara, whose door was jammed. He pulled her toward him and she said, “I’m fine, really I am.”