by Jack Higgins
“No, but I’d say it’s a strong possibility,” Roper told him. “Think of the times you’ve been involved with beating the air traffic control system, dropping in and out again from some decaying airfield deep in the countryside.”
“True enough,” Dillon said. “He could be over the English Channel in a small plane inside two hours, and once in France, transfer to a jet, and the world’s his oyster.”
“There was a chance that the President’s Secret Service people would persuade him to cancel and carry straight on to Paris, though that would have left the Prime Minister with egg on his face.”
“But he’s still coming?” Sara asked.
“Insisted on it, but the Prime Minister is as incandescent on the whole matter as Ferguson is with you two,” Roper carried on.
“You told him about last night?” Holley said.
“Come off it, Daniel,” Dillon put in. “Club rules, old son. Even if the threat is only a possibility, it’s the kind of thing that touches us all. An attempted mugging is one thing, assault as a result of being targeted is something else again. Roper’s right—you should have squeezed the truth out of one of them.”
“Just shut up, the both of you.” Sara was angry. “It wasn’t Daniel’s fault. So those two guys were pretty foul, but I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I was being childish and stupid. The truth is this is a whole different world I’ve been plunged into.”
Dillon put an arm about her shoulders. “You’ll be fine, girl dear, just give it time.”
“It’s all right saying that, Sean.” She smiled bitterly. “But perhaps I was being targeted. Who knows?”
“Well, it won’t happen again, because I’ll see it doesn’t.” Holley turned to Roper. “So what now?”
“I’ve had orders to go down to the House of Commons and check out the terrace, and I’m to take you three with me. Tony is going to take us in the van.”
“Well, that will certainly be a new experience,” Sara said.
“Not for Dillon,” Roper said. “He’s something of an expert where the terrace is concerned, but I’ll tell you about that when we get there. Let’s get moving.”
At the House of Commons, Tony stayed with the van while Roper and his friends joined the queue to get in. It was mainly constituents hoping to see their MP or people on official business. Tourists were being turned away by the security staff, obviously because of the pending arrival of the President. Some were complaining bitterly as they were firmly moved on.
A uniformed police inspector, obviously in charge, standing back surveying the scene, wore the campaign medal for Ireland, among others. He stared at Roper, then walked forward.
“Major Roper, isn’t it? What a pleasure to see you, sir. My name’s Halloran. I was the military police sergeant major in charge of the entrance to the Portland Hotel in Belfast when you spent nine hours defusing that bomb in the foyer.”
“I remember you well.” Roper shook hands. “You were on that door when I went in, and you were still there when I came out.”
“A privilege to be there, Major. I’ll never forget it.”
“We’re here on behalf of the Cabinet Office to have a look at the security situation on the terrace.”
“I was notified about it, Major. I just didn’t realize it was going to be you. Allow me to lead the way.”
He left them on the terrace beside the Thames, which was surprisingly busy—MPs enjoying a drink, waiters passing to and fro from what was called the Terrace Bar. It was very pleasant there, slightly chilly but the sun shining enough to bring the awnings out, and the famous tall Victorian lamps ranged along the parapet added to the scene.
“I’ve never been here before,” Sara said. “Why is the carpet green here and red up there?”
“That’s the House of Lords end,” Dillon said, and ordered champagne for all of them from a passing waiter. “A grand place, this, restaurants and bars all over the show.”
With remarkable speed, the waiter was back with four glasses of champagne on a tray, and they each took one. “So what makes you such an expert on the terrace?” Sara demanded.
“An old story, my love, no big deal. I’ve no wish to bore you.”
“What a humbug you are.” Roper touched glasses with Sara. “Some years ago, President Clinton graced the terrace with a visit, and the security services will never forgive Dillon for turning up as a waiter and serving canapés to President Clinton and the Prime Minister.”
Sara turned in appeal to Holley, who shrugged. “Before my time.”
Which left only Dillon. “But how did you do that?” she asked.
“It was very simple. The Salters dropped me in the river from a passing boat in the middle of the night. I hauled myself up to the terrace, hid in a storage room, and stayed there until the action started, when I came out dressed as a waiter.”
Before she could say a word, Henry Frankel appeared, a file under his arm, and he was smiling hugely.
“Captain Gideon, what a pleasure.” He shook Sara’s hand warmly. “You exceed my expectations, and that doesn’t happen very often.” He turned to Dillon. “So, what have you got to say, Sean? Is our security acceptable?”
“Well, there’s still twenty-six restaurants and bars, entrances and exits galore, MPs, workmen, cleaning staff—in other words, far too many people, and you notice I haven’t even mentioned the river?”
“Well, we’d rather you didn’t,” Henry Frankel told him. “We don’t want to be alarmist.”
“I’m just being realistic, Henry. In Belfast in the bad days of the Troubles, Catholic women of all ages queued up to get jobs as cleaning ladies in schools and factories that housed British troops. There were sympathizers to the Cause in the Royal Ulster Constabulary itself, and the civil service.”
“What are you trying to say?” Frankel asked.
“We live in a cosmopolitan society, Henry, and London is a splendid example. We’ve left a vehicle in the underground garage, where people in overalls, obviously from many cultures, work as mechanics and sweepers. It was the same coming through the House of Commons to get here—lots of cleaning women in the corridors, for example. The champagne I ordered? The waiter was obviously Muslim. People were talking and didn’t notice that I ordered in Arabic, which pleased him, by the way. Did you notice, Daniel?”
Holley shook his head. “No. I didn’t notice.”
“The place is a sieve, Henry, but so is the whole country, just like Belfast was. People can’t help hearing conversations, good people who don’t want to be involved with terrorism, but when you’ve got a family, you’ll respond to pressure for obvious reasons.”
“Everything you say is true,” Henry Frankel said. “We can only travel hopefully. You are team leader, Giles,” he said to Roper. “Everybody loves a hero, and the George Cross certainly makes you that. We are keeping quiet about your exploits at Abusan, Sara. There are good reasons why, so no offense.”
“None taken,” she said.
“Blake Johnson tells me the President asked for you, Dillon, to be included in the luncheon, and you, Daniel. I believe he knows both of you.”
“True enough,” Dillon acknowledged.
“So the four of you return tomorrow morning. Harry Miller and Charles Ferguson have been ordered to stay at the Prime Minister’s beck and call all day.” Frankel chuckled. “I’ve never seen Ferguson so fussed. He said to tell you, Giles, to make sure there’s no more nonsense with Daniel and Sara, whatever that means. I’d love to know, but I haven’t got time to listen. Ciao, everyone, I’ll see you in the morning,” and he was gone.
Roper smiled at Sara. “Well, there you are. You’ve been warned to avoid bad company at all times.”
“Thanks very much,” Holley told him. “Can we go to lunch now?”
Roper laughed and led the way out.
EIGHT
With only failure to report, Henri Legrande and Kelly had kept quiet about the two attempts to cause mischief with Hol
ley and Sara. It left Owen Rashid, seated at his laptop by the terrace in his apartment, with little to say when Abu came on the line.
“I’ve heard nothing from you. What’s happening with Legrande and Kelly?”
“I understand they’re familiarizing themselves with the background of Ferguson’s people.”
“Then I trust they were at the riot in Hyde Park yesterday morning. They were all there.”
“What do you want from me?” Owen asked him.
“I thought I’d made that clear. Ferguson and his people have not only caused constant trouble for Ali Selim, they have murdered some of our most important people over the last few years. Death for death, Owen, that’s what they deserve and it’s a result I intend to have.”
“And this includes the woman?”
“I’m surprised you need to ask. Her service record speaks for itself, and not only in Afghanistan. Owen, these people call us terrorists and speak of being at war with us. Well, we are at war with them, and to the knife. So what about some action from the Frenchman? He was supposed to be serious business, but I’ve seen little evidence of it. A bullet in the back when your target walks home in the rain is serious business; so is a bomb under someone’s car. What I’m getting here is nothing.”
“He’s only been on the case for a couple of days,” Owen protested.
“I’m not interested in excuses. If he lets me down, my retribution will be not only swift but final. I want results and I want them now. Fire from heaven, Owen. That would be appropriate while the President is in town, don’t you think?”
Owen sat there thinking about it, thoroughly angry at the position he was in, but there was no way out, so he phoned Kelly.
“Where are you?”
“The shop.”
“And Legrande is with you?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“Not for me, for you. I’ve had Abu on my back, and he isn’t pleased at the lack of action from you two. I’ll be round in fifteen minutes.”
Henri Legrande was in the workshop repairing an antique chair when Kelly hurried in to warn him of Owen Rashid’s imminent arrival. He was worried, and it showed.
“What the hell are we going to do?”
“Well, for one thing, we still keep quiet about the Dark Man affair and the business with the woman last night,” Henri told him. “Failure is the last thing Abu wants to hear about, so not a hint to Rashid. So we tell him we’ve been making a general reconnaissance, checked out the Salters’ pub, followed Holley from the Dorchester to Highfield Court, where the woman lives, sussed out the situation at her house.”
“And you followed them to Hyde Park,” Kelly said.
“Exactly. Not bad for two days.”
There was no time for more, because the bell sounded as the shop door opened and Owen Rashid called, “I’m here. Where are you?”
Henri produced a bottle of Beaujolais and three glasses. They sat around the workbench, and Owen told them exactly what Abu had said. Henri offered the defense he and Kelly had prepared, pointing out that he had followed Sara and Holley to Hyde Park and witnessed Ali Selim’s speech and the riot that had followed.
“We’ve been on the case—surely you can see that?”
“I can, but that isn’t the point. I’ve told you what Abu said. The bullet in the back, the car bomb.”
“I heard you,” Henri told him. “Fire from heaven.”
“And can you handle that?”
Henri got up and went to a door in one corner. He reached up to a lintel, found a key and opened it, and switched on a light. “Have a look, why don’t you?”
Owen was amazed. There were three shotguns, two Lee Enfield rifles and an AK-47, ranged neatly against one wall on racks. A shelf on the other side displayed a number of handguns. There were boxes of assorted ammunition and several large tin boxes painted khaki green.
“What’s that?” Owen asked.
“Semtex in one, pencil timers in the other. I’ve had this stuff for years. The guns came from house sales. It’s astonishing what turns up in the antiques business.”
Kelly was examining a Beretta. “This is in lovely condition.” He replaced it on the shelf and took another. “Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer. Real stopping power.”
Owen said, “When did you last use any of these?”
“This particular weaponry? Never. It just came into my possession through the house sales, as I told you. The Semtex is a different matter, but I’ve kept it carefully preserved. I’m sure Jack has told you my story. It was last used many years ago when I sought retribution for a great wrong.”
They went out, and he locked the door, then poured them each another glass of wine. Owen said, “Fire from heaven, a spectacular to ruin the President’s visit and demonstrate the power of Al Qaeda. Would you be up for that—a car bomb?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“It would be like old times to Jack here, he was involved in so many similar affairs during his IRA past. But why are you sure of yourself?”
So Legrande told him. “As Jack knows, I have a cancer. Six months is all I’ve got.”
Owen pretended shock. “My God, that’s terrible.”
“No it isn’t, it’s a fact, so I don’t give a damn about anything anymore. That’s why I took on the job.”
“And if the woman were involved?”
“To me, my friend, she is no longer a woman as you mean it. She is a soldier, and a damn good one, so she is just another member of Ferguson’s team.”
Owen nodded. “So what do you intend to do?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what Holley plans for this evening. With a man like him as my quarry, I’ll certainly wear a bulletproof vest. I may be on borrowed time, but there’s no need to hurry things. All I can say is that if a suitable opportunity presents itself, I’ll take advantage of it, but Abu must understand that I can’t promise anything.”
“Which is perfectly reasonable,” Owen said. “The only problem there is that he’s the most unreasonable sod I know.” He stood up. “I’d better go and leave you to get on with it. I’ll be in touch,” and he went out.
Lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Shepherd Market had been so convivial that it lasted until three.
“Nine-thirty tomorrow morning at Holland Park,” Roper said as Tony Doyle loaded him into the van, Dillon already on board.
“Well, that was nice.” Sara slipped her hand inside Holley’s arm as they started the short walk to the Dorchester. “What shall we do tonight?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
They arrived at the small art-house cinema on the corner, the Curzon. She paused to look at the posters and said, “Hey, they’re showing Manhattan.”
“Woody Allen. A great movie,” Holley said.
She was checking the performance times and turned, delight on her face. “It’s starting in fifteen minutes. I truly adore this film, Daniel, all that glorious Gershwin music.”
“Then let’s go and see it.” He put an arm around her, pushed open the door, and they went in.
It was a quarter to six when they came out, happy, into the early-evening darkness and walked back toward the Dorchester.
“What are you going to do?” Holley asked. “Come up to my suite?”
“Love to, but it might be a good idea to check the house out, since Sadie is away—get the mail and so on.”
“Fine by me,” he said. “I’ll tell them to bring the Alfa round.”
Standing on the steps a few moments later, handing his car keys to the doorman, Sara at his side, he was immediately spotted by Jack Kelly, who had taken turns with Henri to stand on the corner of the side street where they’d parked the Citroën. He watched them for a moment, then hurried back to the Frenchman, who sat behind the wheel with a magazine, the silenced Walther in his pocket.
“They’re here,” he said, and got in the Citroën.
“About time. What are they doing?” Henri asked.
“Then let’s be ready,” Henri said. “You drive. Take me round to South Audley Street to wait for them. My bet is they’re going to her home. I’ll get ready in the rear.”
There was a magnet on the lid of the cake tin box that he held on his knees. He removed the lid, revealing the block of Semtex, three scarlet-rimmed pencil timers in a small box beside it. He sat back.
A few moments later, the Alfa passed him, and Kelly went after it. “Don’t follow them into Highfield Court,” Henri said. “Drop me at the entrance of the street, then continue into Grosvenor Square and wait for me. It will all happen very fast, so be ready for a quick departure.”