A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  He turned inside the house, found his briefcase and laptop, put them into a bag, and went out to the backyard, where Ibrahim had already driven the jeep out of the barn and was waiting behind the wheel. Ali Selim climbed in and they drove away.

  As they bumped along a track, scattering sheep to one side, Ibrahim said, “A bad business, master.”

  “Life often is—you should have learned that by now. I’m not finished with Ferguson and his people. There will be other days.”

  “So where next?” Ibrahim asked as slush that the windscreen wipers were unable to clear obscured his vision.

  “A place where the sun shines on a regular basis would be a change. Arabia, or Oman—or, I know, Rubat, where our good friend Owen Rashid’s uncle is Sultan. Would you like that?”

  Ibrahim, who was driving one-handed and reaching out through an open window in an attempt to clear the slush with his hand, said, “I would prefer it to this, master.”

  “Excellent. That’s where we shall go. It fits into my plans perfectly,” Selim told him, and they topped the hill and started their descent to the Raptor waiting in the hollow below.

  Greg Slay flew over the rooftops a couple of times, Hamza loosing off a machine-gun burst or two into the air to show that they still meant business, but only Dillon, Holley, and Sara appeared, waving up at them. Slay put the Raptor down and Hamza stood behind the machine gun, an intimidating figure, as Dillon and Holley walked backward, one on each side of Sara, weapons ready for trouble.

  Slay sat in his seat at the controls, waiting for them to arrive, decided to switch off, which he did. The silence was eerie, only the rush of the rain, and nothing stirred until there was the blast of engines breaking into life, the inimitable clatter that could only be from a helicopter. Slay hurriedly switched on again, and Sara picked up her skirt and started for the Raptor, Holley and Dillon running with her. She slowed, limping badly. It was very pronounced now, and there was pain on her face.

  “God dammit,” she said when they got to the Raptor, where Hamza was reaching out to her.

  Behind her, the third Raptor rose into view on the other side of the hill, but immediately swung away to the left. She watched with the others. The engine note deepened as it flew away to the west as fast as possible and was swallowed up by the mist.

  “Are you okay?” Holley asked with concern.

  “Just the damn leg, love.” She managed a smile. “It could be a lot worse. That firefight—I thought we were finished.” She reached up and grasped Hamza’s hand. “Until you decided to intervene. What happened here, and where’s Wali Hussein?”

  “His body’s somewhere close by. We’re in a different spot than when you left. You’ll notice Major Miller feeling sorry for himself in the corner. Wali shot him, so Slay shot Wali dead and threw him out.”

  She turned to look up at Slay in the pilot’s seat. He shrugged. “I didn’t have much choice. He suddenly turned angry with all of us and produced a shooter from up here somewhere. That was what started heating things up.”

  Harry Miller said, “Sara, would you mind checking the medical unit for morphine? After all, I have been shot in the shoulder.” He winced with pain. “And may I suggest to you, Captain Slay, that we get the hell out of here?”

  Hamza said, “I suspect Ferguson is the kind of man who prefers bad news sooner rather than later.”

  “You’re quite right.”

  Miller pulled out his Codex with a bloodstained left hand and called Ferguson, who responded immediately.

  “Harry, where are you? How did it go?”

  “Wali Hussein turned out to be completely untrustworthy, so we found ourselves juggling with three Raptors, not one. There was a brisk firefight, but we’ve come through, thanks to some brilliant flying by Gregory Slay and some good work from Colonel Hamza, who shot down a Raptor for us with an RPG. And I mustn’t forget Sara, who started playing bowls with a couple of pineapple grenades.”

  “And Ali Selim?”

  “Flown off to God knows where in the worst weather imaginable. Can we leave this dreadful place as soon as possible and come home?”

  Sara grabbed the Codex and said, “He has a bullet in his shoulder, General, which I’m trying to do something about, so I’ll pass you to Colonel Hamza.”

  Which she did, cutting Miller’s shirt open, the medical kit at her side. She took out a couple of morphine ampoules and jabbed them in his left arm and then explored the wound.

  “There appears to be an exit hole, which is lucky, but you’ll need a doctor to confirm it.”

  “Thanks, Sara, you’re an angel.” He managed a smile, waiting for the morphine to take effect.

  Hamza was still talking to Ferguson. “I’ll call in and arrange for Major Miller to be patched up at the military hospital, but then I think it would be better for all of us if you got back in that Gulfstream and returned to London as soon as possible.”

  “And how will this affect you?”

  “Why should it affect me at all? Wali Hussein, a man who has long been suspected of making illegal flights over the border, filed a flight plan to Dimla and has gone missing. There is no sign of his helicopter in Pakistan territory, crashed or otherwise, so the inescapable conclusion must be that he’s finally met with a bad end out there in the Wilderness.”

  “How unfortunate,” Ferguson said.

  “Not my jurisdiction. It’s tribal territory and in another country,” Hamza told him. “I’ll have an ambulance waiting for Miller, and we’ll have a surgeon see to him discreetly. No need to make a fuss. Bullet wounds are common enough in these parts. I’ll also have a word with your pilots and suggest they make ready for a quick departure.”

  “And Captain Slay will need a return to Hazar.”

  “No problem. He can go back to Hazar the way he came in. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ferguson sat there in the hangar trying to come to terms with his disappointment. Hamid came in from the kitchen with a tray. “Would you care for a cup of char, General?”

  “To be frank, after the news I’ve just had I’d have preferred something stronger, but in the circumstances tea will be just fine.” He called Roper and gave him a summary of events.

  Roper said, “So where’s he off to now, that’s the thing.”

  “I think Colonel Hamza might be helpful there.”

  “He’s certainly come up trumps so far,” Roper said.

  “The Prime Minister’s going to be furious, especially about Harry being shot,” Ferguson said.

  “As long as it doesn’t kill you, there’s always a slightly heroic thing about taking a bullet,” Roper told him. “I’ve been there, remember, before the bomb? On top of that, the PM will enjoy being able to say I told you so.”

  “Which I don’t look forward to at all.”

  “So what happens now? Will you call him personally, or do you want me to speak to Henry Frankel at the Cabinet Office?”

  “Well, at least that would be following protocol, and it would give me time to get my act together here for the return home. You don’t mind?”

  “Why should I? It will quite make his day. Henry loves being the bearer of bad news.”

  Not long after leaving Amira in the Raptor, Ali Selim spoke to the chief pilot of the Hawker that had delivered him to Peshawar after his flight from London. It had been waiting at Peshawar Airport while he considered his next move.

  Having discussed where the Raptor should meet the Hawker, he stood and leaned up to the flight deck, where the pilot, Omar, sat alone. He gave him a destination and flight instructions, then sat down again.

  Thirty minutes later, they came to a village in ruins named Herat, a crumbling runway beside it, a concrete control tower and some flat-roofed buildings. It was a relic of the Russian occupation, totally uninviting, no signs of life, brooding in the rain as if waiting for something.

  The Raptor was different from the other two in that there was no machine gun and only the one pilot. Omar was a young and energetic
man in his twenties, in a brown flying jacket and jeans. He was obviously overawed by Ali Selim, who told him to land by the tower and switch off.

  Ibrahim stayed impassive, a sinister figure in dark robes, an AK-47 beside him, a bulging bag at his feet. Ali Selim took a book from his briefcase and read, and Omar, on the flight deck, stirred uneasily.

  Finally, Ali Selim looked up and said, “If you want to smoke, do it outside. Go now, I can’t abide your twitching.”

  “Yes, master.” Omar scrambled down, slid back the door, dropped to the runway, then ran through the rain to stand in the doorway of the control tower, where he lit a cigarette.

  There was the sound of an engine approaching, and the gold Hawker dropped in below gray clouds, descending through the heavy rain, rolling to the end of the runway, turning and taxiing toward them, and stopping some little distance away. Omar hurried back to the Raptor, the airstair door opened on the Hawker, and a uniformed pilot came down, opening a large umbrella.

  A handsome, bronzed-faced Arab, he smiled and inclined his head. “It is an honor to see you again,” he said to Ali Selim.

  “Good to see you, Abdul, but get me inside, this rain bothers me.” He ignored Omar but nodded to Ibrahim, went off with Abdul to the Hawker, and followed him up the steps.

  Omar said, “Where do I go now?”

  “Inside, and I’ll tell you,” Ibrahim said.

  Omar pulled himself into the Raptor, turned, and Ibrahim, already holding a Beretta in his right hand, shot him in the head, knocking him back into the hold. He opened the bag, took out a magnesium night flare, pulled the toggle, and tossed it inside. As the flames took hold, he turned and hurried to the Hawker, went up the steps where Abdul waited, and ducked inside. He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin from his master and waited.

  Ali Selim looked up from his book. “Captain Feisal has had a word. We can forget winter in northern Afghanistan. In Rubat it’s hot, with enough sun to satisfy even you.”

  Ibrahim made no reply, simply nodded, clicked his seat belt into place, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  In London, Owen Rashid, unable to sleep, was sitting by the terrace window in his dressing gown, a glass of red wine by his hand, as he worked his way through a report on the current finances of Rashid Oil.

  When he answered the phone, Ali Selim said, “This is Abu. Were you asleep?”

  “A touch of insomnia. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m just letting you know the game is afoot again—isn’t that the English phrase? Ferguson and his people are on their way back to London. This Sara Gideon has become very important, not only to me but to Ali Selim and to Al Qaeda.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “Warn the Frenchman and Kelly that I’m particularly interested in Gideon. I want them on her case.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Not at the moment. One of my assets has left you a package in the glove compartment of your Mercedes. It contains several ampoules of Seconal.”

  “What on earth would I need that stuff for?”

  “All in good time, Owen. Put Legrande and Kelly to work, and I’ll be back in touch very soon.”

  So he was gone, leaving Owen Rashid more frustrated than he had ever felt before.

  When the Raptor landed at Peshawar in front of the Hussein Air hangar, Hamid was waiting beside a military ambulance for Miller, who was stretchered and put in the back and taken away, accompanied by Ferguson and Hamza.

  At the hospital, the two of them sat in the waiting room, drinking tea and discussing what had happened. “One thing is certain, if you’ll allow me to make a point,” Hamza said. “Ali Selim must have an agenda.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Ferguson said, but before he could carry on, a gray-haired and rather distinguished-looking man in green scrubs came in.

  “Well, my boy, how are you?”

  “Very well, sir.” Hamza turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier Mahmud is my uncle. This is Major General Ferguson.”

  Mahmud shook his hand. “How interesting all this becomes, General. But I am just a simple surgeon who knows his place, so I ask no questions. Major Miller has been patched up for the moment, pumped full of drugs and sedated. He should survive a flight by private jet, but will need the best of treatment at the earliest possible moment.”

  “I promise he’ll get it. We’re very grateful.” Ferguson shook his hand.

  “Happy to help,” Mahmud said. “And you, Nephew, remember where we live. Your aunt thinks you’ve forgotten.”

  At that moment a comatose Miller was wheeled out, and they followed him down the corridor and outside to the ambulance, where he was lifted inside by two male nurses. Hamza and Ferguson joined him and the ambulance drove away.

  The Gulfstream was waiting outside the hangar, and Lacey and Parry supervised the careful loading of Miller into the cabin. They were all there now.

  Ferguson said, “Time to go, people, but not before thanking Colonel Hamza for conduct far above the call of duty, and Captain Slay for some extraordinary flying.” He gave Slay a package. “It’s a bit late in the day, but here’s one of our nylon-and-titanium vests with our appreciation.”

  Slay smiled and took it. “One never knows.”

  Ferguson shook his hand. “So Hamza’s arranged a lift back to Hazar for you?”

  “Yes, all taken care of. All I can say is it’s been an amazing couple of days and I wouldn’t have missed them for anything,” Slay said. “Watch your backs, you lot.”

  He walked across to where Hamid waited and was driven away. The others said their good-byes to Hamza and boarded, leaving him and Ferguson alone.

  “Our governments may sometimes disagree,” Ferguson said. “But in the world we inhabit today, it’s vital for us to keep in touch. What we’ve just been through together proves that. It was good working with you, Colonel.”

  “And you, General. And I have one last piece of information. Ali Selim’s plane left an hour and a half ago with a flight plan for Bahrain. Only the two pilots on board.”

  “I’m sure Roper will find that useful.” Ferguson shook hands. “Take care, my friend.”

  He turned, went up the steps to where Parry waited, and went inside. As Hamza turned away, the Gulfstream started to move.

  It rose to thirty thousand feet and turned northwest, still climbing into a darkening sky. Ferguson sat on his own at one end of the cabin and talked to Roper by Skype. He told him of his final conversation with Hamza.

  “I’ll put a trace on that jet and I’ll try and do something about the Raptor helicopter Ali Selim cleared off in,” Roper said. “How’s Harry?”

  “Out for the count, thanks to the medication Brigadier Mahmud gave him. It’s all a bit subdued on the plane at the moment, but, then, night flights usually are. Walking on eggshells around a wounded man makes it even more so. Any word from Downing Street?”

  “I believe the Prime Minister was speaking in the House today. Maybe Henry’s not been able to give him the bad news yet.”

  “Damn Frankel,” Ferguson said. “He’s enjoying my humiliation.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Roper told him. “If he was, it would mean he was treating Harry’s being wounded unimportant, which is rubbish. This damn operation was a complete failure. We couldn’t lay hands on Ali Selim, and every one of our people had to kill to survive. It was like a bad day in Afghanistan. You’re lucky we got away with just one wounded man.”

  “Good God, Giles,” Ferguson said. “You’re angry with me?”

  “You’re damn right I am,” Roper said. “So go and get yourself a large Scotch and shut up.”

  He logged off, the screen cleared, and Ferguson sat there, completely deflated. “God help me, I’m getting old,” he said softly, turned to get up, and found Sara holding out a glass of whiskey.

  “I heard,” she said. “Try not to take it to heart. But he was right, you know. A lot of people died so we could be here. If it weren’t for Greg S
lay and Hamza—well, they saved the day.”

  “The way I heard it, you, Daniel, and Dillon were into it up to your necks, too. But there you are.” He toasted her. “My sincere thanks.”

  She turned and went back to Harry Miller, tucked in his blanket, then sat beside Holley, who lay back, eyes closed.

  An hour later, a signal beeped and the screen flickered into life again, bringing Ferguson awake from his doze to find Henry Frankel on his screen.

  “Ah, there you are, Charles.”

  “So what do you want?” Ferguson asked.