by Jack Higgins
Jemal opened the door on the passenger side of the ambulance, reached in, and pulled Asan across. There was a look of total astonishment on her face as she tumbled out, then struggled to her feet.
Roper’s voice boomed out. “It’s over. Throw any weapons into the open and then lie down.”
“I don’t know who they are, but he’s right,” Jemal said. “It’s finished.”
“Only if I say so.” Her left hand found the pillbox, and she pulled out the capsule it contained, put it in her mouth, then took out her own Walther. She stood, leaned across to the driver’s window, which she had left open, and fired several times across at the red Ford. It was a strange and eerie sensation, only the dull thuds of the silenced weapons as Dillon and Holley returned fire.
Jemal grabbed at her, turning her and slapping her face. “No more. It’s over.”
She pushed him away, turned, and fired wildly again at the van, her teeth crunching down on the capsule, the sickly sweet smell of cyanide apparent at once. He had no idea what it was, only that it was bad, and he pushed a fresh clip into his Walther.
“Damn you to hell,” he called, and emptied the gun into the van. It was Sara, crouched on the other side with Dillon and Holley, who took the practical approach.
She dropped down flat and saw Asan’s body at once, and the lower half of Jemal’s legs beside it. He was at that moment reloading. She took careful aim and shot him through the right kneecap. He cried out, lurched backward into a Mercedes limousine, and went down.
“That’s the man taken care of,” Sara said. “But I get a bad feeling about the girl.”
“Then we’d better go and see,” Holley told her.
Doyle had found a large police sign saying “Entry Prohibited,” and placed it at the entrance to give them peace. Jemal was lying beside Asan, an arm around her, blood oozing from his shattered kneecap. He looked up in agony at Sara. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. What’s the smell on her mouth?”
“Cyanide, I’m afraid,” Sara said. “A quick exit to the next world. The Nazis made it popular after they lost their war. Hitler handed them out like candy to his nearest and dearest.”
Jemal came apart then. “Oh, dear God, it’s her uncle who’s responsible for this. He must have given it to her.”
Tony Doyle had pushed Roper close in his wheelchair, and with Dillon and Holley they stood waiting for Sara to put the obvious question.
“And who is her uncle?”
“Mullah Ali Selim. I can see now he was using us. I only got involved because I adored her beyond reason.”
“I see.” She frowned at the others, motioning them to be still. “I think we’re going to have to do something about your knee.” She turned to Doyle. “See if you can find a first-aid kit in the rear, Tony.”
Jemal said dully, “Better take care. There’s a couple of blocks of Semtex in a bag, and a thirty-minute timer I was supposed to switch on.”
There was a stillness for a moment, then Giles Roper said, “Well, as you haven’t done that, it leaves the Semtex about as deadly as a large block of plasticine. Bring the bag to me, Tony, and find a first-aid kit for Sara.”
As Roper questioned Jemal further, Sara worked deftly, bandaging Jemal’s knee, giving him morphine, aided by Holley and Dillon, a double dose to help with the pain. “Battlefield style,” she said. “He could be crippled. How do you feel, Jemal?”
“Lousy, but the pain is not as much. Who are you?”
“I’m the person who shot you.”
“Allah will forgive you for that.”
“I don’t think so, but Jehovah might. I’m Jewish.”
“Well, that’s not your fault.” He was fading fast.
Roper, who’d gotten on his Codex, said, “Don’t fall asleep yet, Jemal. You did say he intended to leave Frensham in a Hawker jet and would be waiting for you and Asan to join him?”
“That’s true.” The boy sounded very tired, his words slurring.
“Such a plane did leave Frensham about four hours ago, and I do know one thing for certain.”
“What’s that?” Jemal really was almost out of it now.
“He wasn’t waiting around for you, because he knew you wouldn’t be coming back. That timer I took to pieces wasn’t thirty minutes, it was instant. You and Asan would have been vaporized the moment you switched it on.”
“But she was his niece.” Jemal shook his head. “What kind of man would do such a thing? May he rot in hell.”
His head rolled, and Dillon and Holley picked him up and passed him to Doyle in the ambulance, who laid him out on one of the stretchers. Asan lay on the other in a body bag. Some of the paneling of the ambulance had been pulled away to disclose a considerable quantity of Semtex.
“The major’s suspicions were right,” Doyle said. “It would have been a total disaster, one of the worst bombs to hit London since the Second World War.” He looked up. “No telling what it could have done to this garage—and the building above it.”
“Well, it didn’t,” Roper said. “I noticed a couple of paramedic jackets in one of the lockers. Put one on, you’ll be driving.”
“Rosedene?”
“No, the disposal unit. I’ve warned Mr. Teague. He’s familiar with Muslim customs, so he’ll ensure she’s properly treated, God rest her.”
“And the boy?”
“Bellamy knows what to expect. The general will see we do right by him. To be frank, now the iron’s entered his soul, he might prove useful. Is that okay with you, Sara?”
She surprised herself by saying, “If you mean does it worry me that he’ll walk with a limp for the rest of his life because I shot him in the kneecap, no it doesn’t. That’s what you get.” She gave a crooked smile. “And there’s a bonus—you can always tell it’s going to rain, because your leg hurts even before you get out of bed, just like mine did this morning.”
“Point taken,” Roper said. “Wave good-bye to Tony, everybody.”
They watched him go, stop to move the No Entry sign, then get back in and drive away. Sara said, “I can’t say I’m impressed with the security here. Where are the police, for God’s sake? We must have been on every camera in the place.”
“No, we haven’t, thanks to this.” Roper held up what looked like a TV remote. “This is a Howler. The moment we started to chase them, I punched a button that killed the entire camera system on this floor. There’s no record of any of this happening. It’s also highly illegal, needless to say.”
“Too bad we can’t market it,” said Dillon. “We’d make a fortune.”
“I’m sure we would. Now let me call Ferguson.”
He pressed a priority button on his Codex.
Ferguson answered at once and said in a half whisper, “Not now, Major, I’m with the Prime Minister and the President. What on earth can be so urgent?”
“We’ve just experienced a serious incident involving Empire, General.”
Ferguson’s voice changed completely. During the Second World War, there had been several attempts on Winston Churchill’s life, and the term had come to refer only to matters of the highest seriousness concerning the leadership of the country at either the royal or political level.
“Just a moment,” Ferguson said, and there was a brief pause before he returned. “Meet me at once at the Cabinet Office.”
“Of course, General. What about the others? Dillon, Holley, Gideon?”
“Too many people might cause curiosity. We don’t want people talking. You fill me in, Roper. The others can go to the reception, act normal.”
Roper put his Codex away. “Rage in heaven over this one. How could it happen?”
“But we stopped it,” Sara said. “That’s all that counts.”
Dillon said, “Jesus, girl, but you really do have a lot to learn. They’re very unreasonable, politicians. The way they look at it, we should have known it was going to happen before it did happen.”
“That’s politicians for you,” she said.<
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“Exactly,” Holley told her. “But let’s get Roper upstairs to the Cabinet Office before they set the dogs on him, and we’ll all go on our merry way and try to pretend it didn’t happen.”
On the terrace at lunchtime, all the awnings were out, as the rain showed no sign of stopping. Members of Parliament were starting to appear, guests crowding in behind them, some in traditional dress. In spite of the rain, there was a good atmosphere, a sense of expectancy. And then Jean Talbot appeared, and stopped as she saw Dillon.
She looked remarkably attractive, astonishingly so for her age. Granted, the streaked blond hair owed a great deal to an expert hairdresser, but the black velvet jacket over a white blouse contrasted well with the vivid blue skirt. Owen Rashid paused behind her.
“Why, Mr. Dillon, still alive and kicking?” said Talbot.
“As ever was, ma’am,” Dillon told her.
“We’ll have to see if we can do something about that.”
“Well, as I’ve told you before: People have been trying to kill me for years. I’m still here. You’re welcome to try.” He offered her a visiting card, and she accepted.
“You may regret that invitation.” She smiled at Sara. “I don’t know who you are, my dear, but it’s a pity to see a charming young woman like you in such bad company.”
She turned away, and Owen, who couldn’t think of a thing to say, went after her. She took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and leaned against the balustrade, sipping it as Owen reached her.
“The young woman looked interesting,” she said. “I wonder who she is.”
Owen answered without thinking. “She’s an army captain, wounded and decorated in Afghanistan. A gifted linguist, I understand. Her name’s Sara Gideon.”
“Any connection with the Gideon Bank?”
“She inherited it some years ago when her parents were killed in a bomb attack in Israel. Her grandfather sits in for her as chairman.”
“So what is she doing with Dillon and Holley?”
There was no way round it except to tell the truth. “I believe Charles Ferguson has recruited her for his team.”
“You seem very well informed.”
“Well, you know how it is these days. It pays to keep up, and there’s not much that can’t be found on a computer.”
There was more to it, she knew that, but she shied away from perhaps learning an uncomfortable truth about him. In any case, an announcement sounded over the loudspeakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister and the President of the United States.”
They came through the entrance, Ferguson, Miller, Roper, and Blake Johnson behind them, and the applause was deafening.
The glad-handing went on for thirty or forty minutes, Blake Johnson at the President’s side the whole time, as was Harry Miller with the Prime Minister. Ferguson, who had been standing back, crossed the terrace to speak to them.
“It’s not over yet.”
“No problem,” Dillon said.
Ferguson turned to Sara. “Your performance since you’ve joined us has been remarkable. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth we managed without you.”
“It was a daily occurrence in Afghanistan, General, this sort of thing.”
“But not in Mayfair,” he said. “At least not since the high tide of the IRA’s London campaign. We’ve still got the rest of the day to get through. Then there’s the early-evening cocktail party at Downing Street, but you won’t be required for that. The President flies out to Berlin at ten o’clock, and then it will all be over.”
“Watch out behind you, General,” Dillon said, and Ferguson turned to find both the Prime Minister and the President aiming for the doorway.
The President said, “Mr. Dillon, Mr. Holley, good to see you.” But it was the man in the wheelchair to whom he extended his hand. “Major Roper, it’s an honor to see you. The official accounts I’ve read of your bravery are outstanding—especially that time in the Portland Hotel foyer nine hours on your own.”
“Not quite true, Mr. President. I had the bomb as company, which I found myself occasionally talking to.”
The President roared with laughter. “It’s been a joy meeting you, and if I could, I’d give you the Congressional Medal of Honor to go with your George Cross.”
The words were for public consumption, but at a private meeting he had said as much to Roper already, along with a commendation to all of them for the way they’d handled the incident in the garage, which the powers that be had decided had not taken place at all. No point giving Al Qaeda the oxygen of publicity.
He shook Roper’s hand warmly and went out, followed by the Prime Minister and his entourage. Ferguson said quietly to Roper as he passed, “I’ll speak to you soon.”
Suddenly it was all over, people drifting out in twos and threes, no sign of Jean Talbot and Owen Rashid.
“Now what?” Sara asked.
“Back to Holland Park. Let’s see if any interesting business has come our way.” He took his wheelchair out through the entrance, and they followed.
Early evening, Owen Rashid gave Jean Talbot a call and invited her to join him in an Irish bar in Shepherd Market. They sat in a corner booth and had Irish coffees.
“What did the President say to you?” Owen asked. “I got caught up with the crowd the Secret Service were holding back.”
“Oh, he said what a tragic accident it was, the plane crashing into the Irish Sea like that with my son inside.”
“Do you think he believed that?”
“No, he was just being civilized. Dillon, Holley, Kelly, and myself were all there when Justin slammed the door on all of us and flew off to his death. The President would have been told the facts.” She smiled a little bleakly. “Don’t worry about me, Owen. I’ve survived, and I’ll go on surviving.”
He took her hand. “You’re a remarkable woman.”
“Not really, just practical. Now that the President’s come and gone, what’s next on your agenda?”
“I need to go to Rubat for a few days. I haven’t been for a while, as you know.”
“Because you don’t want to go.” She laughed. “Without Mayfair, you’re like a fish out of water.”
“On the other hand, the Sultan does like to see me every so often. I mean, it’s protocol even if he is my uncle. Just a few days, a week at the most.” He took her hand again. “Is there any chance you’d consider coming with me? You’ve often talked about it. I could show you the Bacu Railway.”
“When would this be?” she asked.
“I’m pretty flexible where that’s concerned.”
“Well, as it happens, we have a half-term vacation coming up at the university on Friday.”
“How long for?”
“Two weeks.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Only if you take me to dinner tonight. Do you think we could go to that little Italian place again?”
He smiled. “Only if you ask me in for coffee afterward.”
“Oh, I think that could be arranged. Let’s go, shall we?”
At the antiques shop, Kelly was in the kitchen, checking on an Irish stew he was preparing for the evening meal. Henri was dozing in a wingback chair beside the fire when he came awake with a start, because he’d suddenly realized why that Frenchman’s face at Hyde Park had been familiar to him.
Kelly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve just realized that I can put a name to the face of that Frenchman I was following. Colonel Claude Duval. He’s with the DGSE, the Secret Service. His face was in newspapers a lot six months ago, having to do with a Muslim terrorism trial.”
“What would he be doing over here?” Kelly asked.
“How do I know? It explains why he was in Roper’s company, though.” Kelly returned to the kitchen, and Henri followed him, found a bottle of red wine, and poured two glasses. “I’ve been thinking. If Rashid phones, which he probably will, I’ll tell him
our impression is that the Gideon woman is staying at the hotel with Holley, so we’re looking at a new target.”
“And what would that be?”
“The Salters’ place, the Dark Man, down by the river.”
“It’s a thought,” Kelly said. “Okay, that’s what we’ll say. Mind you, I think Rashid’s occupied with other things at the moment.”