A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  “There’s the van parked to the right of that police line.” Holley pointed. “That’s Roper in his wheelchair talking to Claude Duval in the navy blue trench coat, and the black guy standing at the front of the vehicle is Sergeant Tony Doyle.”

  Roper saw them and waved, and they approached. “We meet properly at last, Sara. Tony, you’ve only met on screen, like me.”

  Doyle held out his hand. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Roper turned to the man in the trench coat. “This is Claude Duval of the DGSE, who is not supposed to be here at all.”

  Duval took her hand and kissed it gallantly. “Your behavior at Abusan was truly remarkable. It is an honor to meet you.”

  She said, “I appreciate the compliment coming from a man like you, Colonel, but when you think about it, I didn’t have much choice at Abusan. It was fight or die.”

  He turned to the others. “Only a woman could be so practical.”

  “This Ali Selim that Daniel has mentioned—he’s not here yet, I presume?”

  “No, but he’s what most people are waiting for, and he explains the police presence,” Roper said. “There are many young Muslims in the crowd, the sort of people he’s been urging to fight the good fight for a new Muslim empire, and pointing out that it’s their duty to break as many wicked Western laws as possible.”

  Holley said, “To the Arab world, the British government is the villain of the piece here, for harassing a devout holy man.”

  “What if that’s exactly what he is?” Sara said.

  Claude Duval said, “What he is, Sara, is Al Qaeda’s most important mover and shaker in London. He’s been responsible for recruiting scores of young British Muslims for training camps in Waziristan.”

  Roper said, “The Prime Minister and the government have handled him with kid gloves so far, but yesterday he made a very unhelpful speech regarding the President’s visit here on Friday. That can’t be allowed.”

  “If you examine the crowd carefully,” Holley said to Sara, “you’ll notice a decidedly rough element.”

  Tony Doyle put in, “So as soon as Selim starts preaching fire and brimstone, they’ll begin throwing things, the Muslims will respond, and we’ll have a riot situation because the police will have to contain it.”

  “Looking like Fascist bullyboys to the Arab world,” Roper said. “Which is exactly what Ali Selim wants.” There was an outcry just beyond the crowd. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, here he comes.”

  Henri Legrande had been standing as close as he dared to the van, hoping to hear something useful, and found himself among those who were not interested in getting involved in this unfolding drama but wanted to see what was going on. At the sound of Ali Selim’s approach, pressure from behind caused a surge forward and scuffling broke out.

  Henri, involved in the pushing and shoving, voiced his displeasure in bad language, French style. Claude Duval, close by in the melee, hearing him, called in French, “What do you expect, they’re English!”

  They were swept apart, and Henri lost himself in the crowd fast. He had not been close enough to hear the exchanges between Roper and the others, so he did not realize who Duval was, but there had been something about him, a face from the past perhaps.

  The group of Muslims who forced their way through the crowd covered a wide age range. Some wore Western clothes, others wholly traditional, and there were those who wore a mixture of both. Ali Selim sat in a palanquin carried on the shoulders of six men. He wore a large white skullcap, his long black hair flecked with silver, as was his beard, and his face was fiercely intelligent. A young woman ran alongside, a hand on the palanquin. She was all in black, as if mourning, and wore a silk chador, a loose shirt, and leggings. She had big eyes and high cheekbones in an olive face.

  As the group passed, Selim’s eyes swept over Roper and his party, showing no interest, no emotion, as if they didn’t exist, and two people plunged on into the crowd, joined up with others waiting beside a stand. The palanquin was lowered, disappearing from view, and a moment later Ali Selim was standing high above the crowd to a roar of acclaim and an equally loud chorus of jeers and shouts. His voice boomed through a loudspeaker.

  “I have a right to be here, to speak the truth. As a British citizen, I am affronted that the President of the United States can be welcomed here in the city of my birth without any consultation with those citizens who think as I do. He is a war criminal who deserves only execution as retribution for the thousands of innocents who have died in an unjust war. Praise be to he who becomes his executioner!”

  An egg hit him on the side of the face, and as he turned he was caught by another, and then some sort of ball struck him in the mouth, which immediately started to bleed. He disappeared quickly, and the crowd roared as fighting began.

  The riot police surged past the van, their shields up, batons ready, and Roper said, “That’s it, folks. Heave me inside, Tony, and let’s get out of here.”

  Holley helped, wheeling him onto the hydraulic lift, which had the chair inside in seconds. “If anyone wants a lift, jump in,” Roper said.

  “I’ll walk,” Duval said. “I’ve other things to do, but I’ll be in touch.”

  “You don’t want to hang about here,” Roper said to Holley and Sara. “Maggie Hall does a lovely lunch at Holland Park.”

  “You could try your new weapon on the firing range,” Holley suggested.

  “Good idea,” Sara said. “We’ll do that.”

  SEVEN

  They climbed in, and Tony turned from the rioting mob and drove off. Henri Legrande, some little distance away, saw them go, and Duval make his way toward the subway, as many people did, fleeing from the violence. He joined in, keeping an eye on Duval, who was some distance ahead.

  On the other side, some people made for bus stops and others hailed taxis or walked down Park Lane. Duval was on the heels of a group of seven or eight who turned into Upper Brook Street. As Henri rounded the corner, Duval, concealed in a doorway on the other side of the street, took a photo with his mobile phone.

  Henri hurried after the group, realizing that he had lost his quarry when they reached Grosvenor Square, not that it really mattered. He’d just been interested in who the fellow Frenchman might be. Kelly was parked across from the American Embassy, and Henri joined him.

  “What was it like?” Kelly asked.

  “Terrible. A real bloody riot,” Henri told him, and Kelly drove away, passing Duval, who had been watching.

  Duval called Roper on his mobile and told him what had happened. Roper said, “I must say, Claude, it would be a remarkable coincidence.”

  “My dear Giles, I understand life to be full of them, but admit I could be wrong. If he hadn’t cursed someone he was wrestling with in that mob in rather rude French, I would not have paid him the slightest attention, but why was he following me?”

  “You’re quite right, so first things first. I’ll have Dora look at the photo. If she says it’s the Pernod drinker from the Dark Man, then we’ll obviously seek assistance from your Paris files.”

  “Excellent. Give me your number and I’ll patch the photo through now.”

  Roper did as he was asked. “We’re still in the van on the way to Holland Park, but it will be waiting when we get there.”

  Duval lit a cigarette, thinking of the sign he had noticed on the side of the Citroën van as it passed. Mary’s Bower. Quite intriguing, that. Something to do with religion perhaps. And he walked away.

  When they arrived at Holland Park, the four of them went into the computer room, and Henri Legrande was on one of the many screens. Roper had explained the situation to them on the way.

  He said to Doyle, “You’re the copper. What do you think?”

  Doyle said, “Mid-sixties, could be older. Very self-contained. Don’t let the glasses fool you— that’s just age. He’s been a soldier.”

  Sara said, “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because I’ve been a military police
man for seventeen years. We guard the wall, we take care of the bad things that ordinary folk can’t face. We can kill when we have to. Not many people can do that.”

  “Now then, Tony, you’re waxing lyrical again.”

  “Yes, I’ll put myself on report, Major. There was some talk of Captain Gideon trying out her new weapon on the firing range. Shall I go down and prepare?”

  “An excellent idea,” Roper said. “You carry on, Tony, and we’ll catch up with you in fifteen minutes.”

  The firing range was at the rear of the main building, a long concrete bunker under the garden and dating from the Second World War. It was reached by a lengthy sloping tunnel, Roper leading the way into a cold and gloomy room, harsh white light at one end, illuminating a line of twelve targets representing charging soldiers in uniform, nationality unspecified. Tony Doyle was standing at a long table with a range of handguns laid out and sound mufflers for everyone.

  “Here we are, then,” Roper said. “What have you got for us, Tony?”

  “There’s a Glock here, a Browning Hi-Power, a .44 Magnum, and a Beretta.” Tony picked up the Browning. “My personal favorite, Major.”

  “Give it to me.” Roper held out his hand, took the weapon, and lifted it. “It’s been a long time.”

  Tony slipped some mufflers on him. Roper gripped the left arm of his chair and fired from left to right three times, hitting each target in the chest.

  “You’re still up for it, sir,” Tony said, and Roper handed him the weapon. “You finish.”

  Which Tony did, all heart shots. “Will that do, sir?”

  “Try not to sound so satisfied, Tony,” Roper said. “And see to Captain Gideon.”

  Sara had covered her ears, taken the Colt from her shoulder bag, and loaded it. She weighed it, then fired, double-handed, very fast at the fourth target, riddling the heart and chest area.

  Tony took the Colt from her. “Not much left with those hollow points, ma’am.”

  She picked up the Glock, remembering, face serious, extended her arm, and shot the fifth target in the heart. No one said a word, and she laid it down carefully. “A good gun to have in a bad place.”

  She picked up her Colt and returned it to her shoulder bag, and Holley said, “Lunch, anyone?”

  Roper sat there, a slight smile on his face, as if waiting for something, and Tony picked up the Browning, held it out without saying a word, and Holley took it. “Do I have to?”

  “Josef Lermov called it a gift from God,” said Roper. “We must show Sara.”

  “More like a curse.” Holley turned sideways, left hand on hip, right arm extended like some old Western gunfighter and double-tapped the last three soldiers, shooting out their eyes.

  “Oh, my God,” Sara said softly.

  “Satisfied, Giles?” Holley asked.

  “Absolutely,” Roper said calmly. “Let’s go and have Maggie Hall’s idea of a simple lunch. French onion soup, tossed salad, poached salmon with Lyonnais potatoes. Join us, Tony, when you’re finished here.”

  He coasted out in his electric chair. Sara took Holley’s hand without a word, and they walked after him.

  After the meal, they went to the computer room and discovered the news screen alive with footage of the riot in Hyde Park. It had all been caught: Ali Selim’s dramatic arrival, his appearance and subversive speech high above the crowd, including the rain of missiles, the riot police surging past the van. There was some further footage of Ali Selim, with what appeared to be blood on his face, emerging from the crowd, surrounded by minders, who bundled him into the back of a van waiting beside the Marble Arch entrance to the park and which had last been seen driving toward Bayswater.

  A Scotland Yard commissioner made excuses for the police failure to arrest and detain Ali Selim, who could not be found at his home or the Pond Street Mosque. The Prime Minister emerged from 10 Downing Street to inform journalists that the speech could only be construed as advocating the assassination of the President of the United States and every effort would be made to find and arrest Selim.

  Roper cleared the screen for a while. “You noticed Ferguson, of course, standing at the back with a few other functionaries?”

  “We certainly did,” Holley said.

  “For future information, Sara, the rather jolly-looking chap with the permanent smile and the blond hair is a good friend of ours. Henry Frankel, the cabinet secretary.”

  “He looked nice,” she said. “But what do you think Ali Selim was up to making such a speech? Was it really incitement to murder?”

  “Others have made similar speeches with the hope that they will be imprisoned. They need martyrs to attract more followers to their cause. Al Qaeda knows damn well that the majority of Muslims don’t want this kind of trouble.”

  “So what do you think he’s done?”

  “Who knows?” Roper said. “Gone into hiding, done a runner. Maybe Al Qaeda has a plan for him. Anyway, I was thinking, Sara, maybe it would be a good idea if you spent the afternoon with me. I’ll show you everything we get up to here, who our contacts are with outfits like GCHQ, the CIA, and the GRU, all the tricks of our rather nefarious trade.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said. “What do you think, Daniel?”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea. They coined the word Machiavellian for the great Giles Roper. Cunning and underhanded, but in the nicest possible way.”

  “I would suggest you leave now,” Roper said.

  “Well, make sure Tony takes the lady home.” He smiled at Sara. “Noon tomorrow, I’ll pick you up.”

  Tony followed him out, and Sara found a swivel chair and sat beside Roper, looking up at the screens. “It must make you feel like sort of lord of the universe.”

  “That’s true, particularly when I’m watching people, their comings and goings. And the really spooky thing is they have no idea that it’s happening.”

  Tony came in at that moment. “Sorry to break this up, but it’s shower time, Major, the full works. Can’t have you sitting there smelling like an ashtray all day.”

  “I hear and obey.” Roper turned to Sara. “Here’s an exercise for you. Look up Professor Jean Talbot and a man named Jack Kelly.”

  At that precise moment, Mullah Ali Selim was enjoying a cup of coffee in the library of a country house called Stukely Towers. There was a knock at the door, it opened, and the young woman Sara Gideon had noticed running beside the palanquin entered, followed by a darkly handsome young man in jeans and a black bomber jacket. He was her fiancé, Jemal Fateh, and she was Asan Selim, the mullah’s niece. They were both dedicated jihadists.

  “So there you are,” he said. “Do you approve of the house, Asan?”

  “Quite wonderful, Uncle.”

  “Owned by a wealthy sheikh from the Gulf, one of many dedicated friends that we can always rely on. He also keeps a jet just ten miles from here.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Now that Osama has been so brutally torn from our lives, your safety from our enemies is of crucial importance. You must leave England as soon as possible,” she said.

  “Not yet. For the moment, I am safe here. Eventually, I shall leave for Pakistan, for Peshawar, and from there cross the border to a village called Amira, west of the Khyber Pass. I’ll be safe amongst friends there, and I can plan our future campaign in peace. America, the Great Satan, shall pay for what they did to Osama. This I promise you.”

  “In what way can we serve, master?” Jemal asked.

  “Come with me and I’ll show you,” Ali Selim said, and led the way out.

  It took a sizable staff to take care of such a house, and yet there was no sign of anyone, as if they were keeping out of sight. Selim led the way to a rear conservatory, through a tunnel, and they emerged in a vast garage containing many vehicles, the most interesting of which was an imposing yellow Central Accident & Emergency ambulance.

  “This is exactly the same as the old and battered one you both spent two days being taught at the proving gr
ound last week,” Ali Selim said. “The only difference is that this one is brand new and provided by the Brotherhood. Inside you will find uniforms and identity cards, plus a worksheet authorizing you to deliver emergency oxygen cylinders to level three of the underground garage at the House of Commons.”

  “May we try driving it, master?” Jemal asked.