A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  “Like your boss?”

  “I think so. She doesn’t answer her mobile, and I walked round again today and knocked on her door in Marley Court, but no answer.”

  “Wasn’t I with you twice yesterday and no response? Perhaps they were in bed. She’s no chicken, but she’s a fine-looking woman for all that.”

  “Maybe so,” Kelly said. “Anyway, go and sit down, and I’ll serve the meal.”

  So Henri took the two glasses and the bottle of wine and went off to the dining room.

  At Holland Park, Dillon had decided to keep Roper company by staying over in staff quarters, something he often did. Holley and Sara, having long since departed for the Dorchester, had dined in The Grill and ended up, as before, enjoying a nightcap on the terrace of his suite.

  Holley checked his watch. “Eleven o’clock, so the President is well on his way by now, and things can get back to normal.”

  “Whatever normal means to you people,” Sara said.

  His Codex sounded, Roper on the line, and Holley switched to speaker. Roper’s voice boomed. “All hell’s broken out at Downing Street.”

  “Why?”

  “The Prime Minister feels humiliated about what happened while he was entertaining the world’s most important head of state—”

  “But we prevented it from happening,” Sara cut in.

  “That’s not good enough, it seems. Young Jemal—the boy you shot, Sara—has told us exactly what Ali Selim’s plans are, and where he’s going. The Prime Minister has ordered Ferguson to take us in hot pursuit. Ferguson will bring you up to speed on everything. He’s on his way now. You’d better get here fast.”

  He switched off, and Holley said, “So much for the quiet life. You heard the man, Sara. Get dressed, and I’ll call the doorman to have the Alfa ready.”

  NINE

  When they got to Holland Park, Ferguson was sitting with Dillon and Roper, Doyle serving tea and coffee.

  “There you are.” Ferguson was remarkably cheerful. “Let’s get started. It could be a long night, thanks to Ali Selim. The Prime Minister is furious, thinks the whole business makes us look very bad in Washington, so Ali Selim must be dealt with once and for all.”

  “Which is where hot pursuit comes in,” Sara said. “But what does that mean, sir?”

  “Exactly what I was going to ask,” Dillon said. “Do we try and capture the man or just put a bullet between his eyes?”

  “That would obviously depend on the situation,” Ferguson told him.

  “But the bullet would make more sense,” Holley said. “In any case, do we know if he’s actually reached Peshawar?”

  “Not to our knowledge,” Roper said. “His plane had a flight plan to Bahrain. Since then it’s dropped out of view. It’s an Arab plane owned by a wealthy sheikh, flying in Gulf airspace.” He shrugged. “It might as well be invisible. On the other hand, if it has landed at Peshawar, it hasn’t done anything wrong. We all know how corrupt the situation is in Pakistan. It’s easy for Ali Selim to be passed through, and after all, he isn’t going to stay there. According to Jemal, he intends to cross the border into Afghanistan to this village called Amira.”

  “One thing in our favor,” Ferguson said. “Our old friend Seleman Hamza has been promoted to colonel in charge of the military police headquarters in Peshawar. He’s not only on our side, he hates Al Qaeda.”

  “So you are completely in charge, General, not the Cabinet Office,” Roper said.

  A statement, not a query, and Ferguson smiled. “Just the way I like it. Tell me about this Amira place.”

  “About forty miles inside Afghanistan, west of the Khyber Pass.”

  “So an illegal crossing is necessary.” Ferguson nodded, thinking about it.

  “Definitely,” Roper said. “A dangerous trip by road in the backcountry, which I believe they call the Wilderness. A helicopter would be better.”

  “Which would mean the Pakistani Army having to look the other way. That’s where Colonel Hamza would be useful. I believe there are private firms flying cargo in old Soviet Raptor helicopters and vehicles like that. Money talks, so something could be arranged. He’s bound to have the right contacts.”

  It was Dillon who said, “Remember Ben Carver, who we used to use in Hazar? He sold his air taxi firm to a guy named Greg Slay, a captain in the Army Air Corps. Helicopters and fixed-wing. Got a DFC in Iraq. The old military airfield where he’s based is used regularly for refueling by RAF traffic on the way to the war zone in Pakistan.”

  “Good thinking,” Ferguson said. “Get in touch with him, Giles. Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and tell him I want him at Peshawar International Airport within twelve hours. He’ll arrange a lift, I’ve no doubt, from some RAF transport plane passing through.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “I suggest we all stay over in staff quarters, but I’ll be in my office for a while discussing things with the Cabinet Office. So contact this chap Slay, Giles, then Colonel Hamza in Peshawar, and notify Parry and Lacey to be on standby with the Gulfstream at Farley Field. Have I missed anything?”

  “With respect, sir, it’s important to know every aspect of the situation, and I don’t think we have that,” Sara said.

  Ferguson frowned. “In what way are we lacking?”

  “The Art of War says: Allowing your enemy to choose the field of battle will only serve his purpose, not yours.”

  “And what exactly is that pearl of wisdom supposed to tell us?”

  “The village of Amira. Why has he chosen it and what goes on there?”

  Roper cut in. “I looked it up, Sara. The population is no more than seventeen or so. It’s too barren for poppy cultivation, and the climate isn’t right—there’s rain and a certain amount of snow at this time of year. It’s goats, sheep, subsistence farming. They’re mountain people, and Pashtu speaking.”

  “A fair description of Poverty Row,” Dillon put in.

  “So what’s his agenda and what’s he doing there? We fought a battle in the garage with silenced weapons, foiled his bomb attack on Parliament, his niece is dead, Jemal is in our hands. There’s been nothing in the newspapers or on television, so he can only conclude that it all ended in failure,” Sara said.

  “So what are you saying?” Ferguson demanded.

  “When you’re on the run, having done bad things, you expect to be hounded. It’s the law of nature. For every action, there’s a reaction.”

  Ferguson said patiently, “And what would that be, my dear?”

  She took a deep breath, glanced at the others, then back to Ferguson and smiled sweetly. “I haven’t the slightest idea, General, dear, except that you’ll be in a village at the backside of nowhere with a bunch of tough mountain Pashtu-speaking boys who won’t even go to the lavatory without an AK-47 dangling from one shoulder, and maybe, just maybe, Ali Selim is waiting for you to turn up.”

  Ferguson burst into laughter. “Sara Gideon, I suspected you were a woman of parts, and I’ve just been proved right. Anything to add?”

  “Well, I would point out that you all speak Arabic to some degree or other, but as Pashtu was one of the main reasons you recruited me, I do think I should be included on this one. I’m good, sir, my Pashtu is fluent, and I can pass myself off as an Afghan woman.”

  Holley couldn’t help himself. “Not with that scarlet mop of hair, you can’t.”

  “I’ve done it before in the right clothing, Daniel—you’ll see.”

  He wasn’t pleased, but he gave up. Ferguson said, “My decision. You’ll go as interpreter, Sara, I’ll supervise things in Peshawar. Harry will be representing the Prime Minister, and Dillon and Daniel can handle any rough stuff. Now I really must go to my office.”

  Ferguson reappeared almost an hour later to find Sara, Holley, and Dillon deep in conversation while Roper worked at his screens. “They want me back at Downing Street. Sergeant Doyle can drive me. What’s been happening?”

  Roper said, “I contacted Gr
eg Slay in Hazar, and he snapped my hand off before I even got a chance to discuss money. He’ll definitely be there when we reach Peshawar. I contacted Colonel Hamza. The Hawker landed three hours ago and is still there. They can’t touch it because the owner is too important politically. No sign of Ali Selim, who is obviously on the other side of the border making for Amira. Colonel Hamza will give us all the support he can, but it will have to be unofficial.”

  “Fair enough,” Ferguson said.

  “He’s suggested an air taxi firm run by a man named Wali Hussein as our best bet if we want to hire a helicopter. Hussein apparently operates three old Russian Raptors and has the right dodgy reputation—smuggling, illegal pickups over the border, that kind of thing. Colonel Hamza is going to suggest to him that it would be in his best interests to help us. It will be a comfort to have an exceptional pilot like Slay along.”

  “You seem to have covered just about everything,” Ferguson said.

  “We aim to please,” Roper told him. “We’re going to be in and out on this one, so no point in staying at one of the downtown hotels. Colonel Hamza suggests a place called Rangoon close to the airport. He’s having a word with them.”

  “Excellent,” Ferguson said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this, but I’d better get moving and see what they want at Downing Street.”

  He went out, followed by Doyle, and Sara said to Holley, “Is he always so cheerful?”

  “A rare occurrence. Enjoy it while you can.”

  Dillon said, “The smell of power, the possibility of action, is what brings an old soldier to life again, Sara, so you’ve got something to look forward to. I’d grab a little shut-eye while you can, if I were you. You’ve got a long flight ahead of you tomorrow morning.”

  “A sensible thought. I’ll see you here later.” She gave Holley that special smile and walked out.

  At the same moment, Ferguson had arrived outside the Prime Minister’s study at Downing Street to find Henry Frankel, sitting alone and working his way through a file.

  He glanced up. “You look agitated, Charles.”

  “I am, Henry. We’ve got a lot on, and that’s putting it mildly.”

  “Miller’s already here, Charles. The PM wanted a private word.”

  Ferguson frowned. “Without me? Why is that?”

  “To be frank, I think the PM believes this enterprise to be rather more hazardous than he at first thought.”

  Ferguson was immensely irritated. “I’m damned if I can see why.”

  Frankel smiled pleasantly. “Well, you can go and find out, Charles, they’re ready for you now.” He went and opened the study door and ushered Ferguson in.

  Harry Miller got up from his seat opposite the PM, who said, “There you are, Charles, do come in. I wanted to have a word with Harry to make sure that he fully appreciates the personal risk he is taking in this matter.”

  “But, Prime Minister, the whole thing will be quite simple, I can assure you. I shall be at our Peshawar base to handle matters, the Pakistan authorities will look the other way, and I have arranged for a clandestine helicopter flight with a trusted pilot to take in Major Miller and my two best operatives to assess the situation.”

  “Of course, he may not be there at all.”

  “We’ll only know that by taking a look at the place. I doubt young Jemal is lying. He’s too distressed,” Ferguson said.

  “I accept that,” the Prime Minister said. “But on the other hand, Amira may be a nest of Taliban, who would like nothing better than laying hands on my personal representative here. Harry has years of experience in British intelligence that would make him liquid gold to Al Qaeda.”

  Ferguson was badly thrown as he tried to think of the right thing to say, and it was Harry Miller who intervened. “On the other hand, nothing is ever wholly certain in this business. I’m willing to take a risk as long as my friends appreciate the danger.”

  The PM said to Ferguson, “Do you, Charles?”

  “Of course I do, Prime Minister.”

  The Prime Minister sighed. “All right. Then I can only wish you Godspeed,” and he shook hands with both of them.

  Sitting in the rear of the Daimler as it turned into Whitehall, Ferguson said, “What on earth was all that about? Stirring it up a bit, weren’t you?”

  “Nothing to do with me,” Miller told him. “I got a call from Henry Frankel changing the time of the meeting. When I arrived, I was surprised to find you weren’t there.”

  “Bloody Henry, sticking his nose in again.” Ferguson was annoyed.

  “He was only doing his job as cabinet secretary,” Miller said. “He saw an element of danger in the plan.”

  “And that’s your opinion, too?” Ferguson demanded.

  “Yes, but I also think it’s worth taking the risk. I want to make sure both things are made clear to everyone. Is that agreed?”

  “Yes, damn you, I suppose it is,” Ferguson said, and spent the rest of the trip scowling out the window.

  When they arrived at Holland Park, Ferguson went straight to his office, and Miller to the computer room, where he found Gideon and Holley talking to Roper and Dillon.

  “What’s happened to the general?” Roper asked.

  “He’s in a black mood. We’ve just been to see the PM at Downing Street, who was having second thoughts about what we intend.”

  “And why would that be?” Holley asked.

  So Miller obliged. Dillon said cheerfully, “For once, a politician is acting like a human being. He actually cares what happens to us, folks, it warms my heart.”

  “Well, it didn’t exactly please the general,” Miller said. “I’ve made it clear I’m willing to take my chances, but I don’t think anyone should be ordered to do this one, and there’s one thing I want you all to remember. Al Qaeda terrorists have taken many people hostage, and they have had a bad track record of not only keeping them for a long time but occasionally beheading them on video.”

  “Yes, we had heard,” Dillon said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, I’d be remiss not to point out what would happen to a good-looking London lady who fell into their hands, particularly when they discovered she was Jewish.” There was a heavy silence. “I just want you all to consider these facts.”

  Sara said to Roper, “Giles, I believe you have quite a collection of costumes here for people going into the field?”

  “Yes, we do,” Roper said. “I’ll lead the way.”

  She turned and put a hand on Holley’s arm as he stirred, ignoring everyone else. “No, love, I’d rather do this by myself.”

  She followed Roper’s wheelchair as he coasted along the corridor, taking a remote control from a pocket in his chair and activating it. A broad door slid back at the far end and revealed a theatrical treasure-house.

  There was anything one could ever need. Full makeup facilities at mirrored tables ranged against the rear wall; there were changing- and shower-room facilities; and walk-in wardrobes with sliding doors contained a wide selection of clothes and uniforms, both military and police, as authentic as could be wished for.

  “All this is amazing.” She emerged from one wardrobe, holding up a uniform. “A captain in the GRU. I could wear this in Moscow and be totally accepted.”

  “But not in the wilderness of North Afghanistan,” he said. “What would you wear?”

  “I’ve already seen it, Giles. Wait here.”

  She vanished into a wardrobe she’d paused at earlier; he lit a cigarette and sat there waiting. The shock when she appeared was considerable, for she drifted toward him, a strange and ghostly figure, wearing a head-to-toe black burka and a black face veil that left only the eyes exposed.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Perhaps a little dark eye shadow to reinforce the illusion, but first I would recommend a black cowl over that flaming hair of yours, just to make sure. Let’s take another look.”

  They went back to the particular wardrobe, where she found what he’d s
uggested and held it up. “The very thing.”

  “Now to the armory down here. The end wardrobe.”

  When she slid back the door, she found a selection of body armor on display, starting with heavy flak jackets. She took one in particular down.

  “I wore this in three different wars.”

  “Put it back. You need something a bit more sophisticated.” He pointed to one that looked rather flimsy. “That will suit you very well.”

  “Why, it’s so light,” she said in wonder.

  “Nylon and titanium, we all have one. It will stop a Magnum round at point-blank range. I’d wear it at all times now, if I were you.”