A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  “The Prime Minister would like a word.” Frankel smiled. “If you can spare him one.”

  He was replaced by the PM sitting at his desk, who said, “A bad business, Charles.”

  It was impossible to argue with that, and Ferguson said, “I’m afraid so.”

  “How we play this with the newspapers is beyond me,” the Prime Minister said. “They’ll be wanting a statement in the House. I can see the headlines now. ‘Where Is Ali Selim?’ Lots more juicy publicity for Al Qaeda. So what’s your next move?”

  “It’s difficult to say. He’s being protected by important people in Arab circles. Almost anything we do could be made to look like harassment of a holy man.”

  “And he’s certain to play that card. He could even surface in London again, for all I know, and defy us to do anything about him. One would have hoped, Charles, that during this little battle of yours, a stray bullet might have gone his way, or was that expecting too much?”

  To which there could be no answer. Ferguson took a deep breath and tried to be honest. “Right now, we’re in his hands, Prime Minister. We have no idea where he is, what his intentions are, or what he plans next.”

  “Which is no use to me at all. Find him, Charles. Put everything else to one side and find him, and that’s an order. I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

  His image faded, the screen went dark, and Ferguson contacted Roper and found him, as usual, in the computer room at Holland Park. He relayed what the Prime Minister had said.

  “My head’s on the block here, Giles.”

  “Nothing new in that,” Roper said cheerfully.

  “Is there anything you can do to trace the sod?”

  “I’m doing everything I can, Charles. There’s no instant response possible here. You’ll just have to sit it out and hope. The moment I’ve got any news at all, you’ll be the first to know.”

  So the screen went dark again, leaving Charles Ferguson more embattled than he had been in years.

  TWELVE

  About two hours later, Harry Miller came back to life to a certain extent, groaning and trying to sit up. Sara was with him instantly, and Dillon and Holley scrambled up to see if there was anything to be done.

  Harry was hot and feverish. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

  Dillon got an arm round him, and Sara said, “The instructions the brigadier left with him say more morphine and penicillin if an episode like this occurs. Just hold him while I take care of it.”

  After a while, he slipped back into troubled sleep, and Parry, who had come in to see what was happening, said, “Another four hours before we land, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll just have to make him as comfortable as possible,” Ferguson said. “Rosedene has been notified, and Charles Bellamy will be available for advice, Sara, if Harry’s condition gives you cause for concern.”

  Roper came on screen again. “Bad news, I’m afraid. That jet for Bahrain altered destination twice, then vanished.”

  “How can that be?” Ferguson demanded.

  “It happens all the time. I shouldn’t need to remind you, Charles, how often we’ve done the same thing in our line of work. All the pilot has to do is stop calling in, and in this case, Arab pilots flying in Arab aircraft in Arab airspace can usually do anything they want.”

  “So what now?” Ferguson asked in despair.

  “Hang on, there’s more,” Roper said. “That Raptor helicopter that cleared off from Amira carrying Ali Selim?”

  “What about it?”

  “Its wreckage has been discovered by a Canadian special forces patrol on an old Russian airfield in a place called Herat, about fifty miles west of Amira. There was a badly burned corpse in it.”

  “Are you suggesting Selim was picked up?”

  “I’ve looked up Russian Army records for that place. It has a concrete runway and was originally constructed to take large fixed-wing transport planes. Selim’s Hawker, even though it’s a jet, would have had no trouble landing,” Roper said. “In fact, the only problem would be an inconvenient Raptor helicopter and its pilot. I think it’s obvious what happened there. It is a cliché, but dead men tell no tales.”

  “Fascinating stuff,” Dillon put in. “But it still doesn’t tell us where Selim is at this precise moment in time and, even more important, what his intentions are.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Ferguson said. “I think the next thing we might hear is another of Ali Selim’s anti-West diatribes in the interest of self-advertisement for his glorious cause.”

  “The newspapers will love that,” Holley said.

  “Which is exactly why he says that kind of thing,” Sara put in. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Just like Adolf Hitler, when you think of it. The villain who is so outrageous that you can laugh at him becomes tolerated by the public.”

  “Which is when he becomes most dangerous,” Holley observed. “Because he takes himself seriously.”

  “A fascinating theory,” Ferguson said to Sara, “but also a depressing one. The most important thing is that the Prime Minister is not a happy man. His orders are to find Ali Selim and to put everything to one side until we do. Let’s get going on that, shall we?”

  Sara checked out Harry Miller, then sat down beside Holley again as her Codex sounded. It was Sadie. “Where are you?” the housekeeper demanded. “I tried the house last night. No one was home, and I got worried.”

  “I’ve been on a training course,” Sara told her. “We’re on our way back. A night flight. How are things?”

  “The baby is doing well, but my niece isn’t so good. I need to give her another week to see how things work out.” A smile crept into her voice. “Have you been seeing any more of that Mr. Holley?”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sadie, I have.”

  “Oh, well, at least you’re getting looked after.”

  They talked for a minute more, then hung up.

  “Sadie,” Sara said to Holley. “Her niece needs her for longer than she thought.”

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t got in touch with you before this,” Holley said. “If only she knew what you’ve been up to, she’d have a fit. What about your granddad?”

  “I haven’t exactly had time on my hands,” she said. “But you’re right to remind me. It’s a little early. I’ll have some coffee and call him in an hour.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” Holley said, and left her there for a few moments, thinking about what had happened in an astonishingly short period of time and wondering how she would manage to appear normal and collected when she spoke to her grandfather. In fact, he took care of the situation for her.

  He sounded very cheerful. “You must have wondered what happened to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve never been so busy. Where are you, by the way, not at home? I called you there.”

  “In an airplane,” Sara told him. “London-bound. I’ve been away on a training trip for a couple of days. How are things going?”

  “That’s what I’m calling you about. Such good news! St. Andrews University wants me to hold a seminar on comparative religion for doctoral students. It’s a great honor.”

  “When do you start?”

  “I’m already there! Two weeks, my love, I hope you don’t mind. I know Sadie is away.”

  “Nonsense. Why should I mind?” She’d put her Codex on speaker.

  He said, “Is Daniel with you?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Excellent. I’m not a fool, and I’m sure you’re up to all sorts of devious things which occasion danger now and then. I’m glad he’s around to keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that,” she said, deciding not to tell him he was on speaker.

  “He’s almost biblical in a way, just like his name. A man who will always do the right thing, in spite of himself. That’s very rare. I must go now—I’ve got an early meeting. Stay in touch.”

  Holley couldn’t think of a thing to say. She took h
is hand and held it tight. “There we are, then, a good girl I am. I always believe everything my granddad tells me.”

  Every aspect of Rubat society was so touched by Al Qaeda that Colonel Abdul Khazid, the chief of police, had long since learned to go with the flow like everyone else and do as he was told. When the Hawker put down to refuel, he knew who was on board and exactly what was expected of him. He drove out personally in an airport security van to make an apparent courtesy call on the pilots, but returned with Ali Selim and Ibrahim concealed in the back.

  The Hawker was already taking off as the security van left the airport, and Khazid said, “It’s good to see you again. They’ve been giving you problems in London, it seems.”

  “They always are,” Ali Selim said. “Which is why I try to give them problems.”

  Khazid, ever the diplomat, said, “That was a great speech in Hyde Park. Al Jazeera had it on television.”

  “Unfortunately, such popularity also brings some inconvenience, which is why I’ve dropped in here incognito. I stopped off in northern Afghanistan with British agents on my tail, intent on killing me. I’m lucky to be here, out of sight while I consider the future.”

  “Naturally, I will do everything in my power to assist in this unwelcome situation,” Khazid said. “My police force is small but well trained.”

  “And capable of recognizing strangers when they see them, or those asking the wrong sort of questions?”

  “Are you suggesting that the British know you are here?”

  “They’ll just look everywhere, and the CIA will help them. Tell me, is anything different from the last time I was here? Does Captain Ahmed still command the ship?”

  “He likes to think he does, but only when it suits, which is seldom.”

  “And Fatima Karim?”

  “Is still administrator, which means she runs everything, including Ahmed, who lusts after her helplessly.”

  He had breached the hill with the view of the port below, a jumble of white terraces and flat roofs tumbling down to the harbor crowded with boats. Anchored in the center was the Monsoon, a three-masted traditional Arab dhow, lovingly restored by the same Gulf sheikh who owned the Hawker.

  “Why have we stopped?” Ali Selim demanded.

  “You usually like the view.”

  “Damn the view. And as far as Ahmed is concerned, that big oaf may be able to handle a ship in a storm, but it beats me how he can let a woman like Fatima walk all over him.” He sighed. “Just drive.”

  At the main jetty, Ali Selim and Ibrahim parted from Khazid and boarded a motorboat crewed by two sailors from the Monsoon. They reached the boat in fifteen minutes and found Captain Ahmed waiting at the rail to greet them. A gaunt and anxious-looking man with an iron-gray beard, he wore traditional robes plus a dark blue naval blazer with brass buttons and a cap with gold braid.

  He spoke in Arabic. “Welcome, master, it is good to see you.”

  “You look ridiculous,” Ali Selim told him. “Where is Fatima?”

  “She waits for you in the owner’s quarters.”

  “Then go about your business. When I need you, I’ll send for you. Go with him, Ibrahim. Get something to eat.”

  The owner’s quarters were in the stern of the ship and very fine indeed, with polished and restored wooden floors, Persian and Indian carpets everywhere. Shuttered doors stood open in the stateroom, revealing the study behind, beautifully paneled in finest walnut and oak. Fatima Karim stood at the side of a wide Victorian desk.

  She wore a black jumpsuit of raw silk and a chador in the same material. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with olive skin and violet eyes that made her extremely attractive. Her degree from the London School of Economics also made her attractive, but for different reasons.

  Ali Selim spoke first and used English, reaching for her hands. “It is good to see you.”

  She responded warmly, her English faultless. “So good to have you here safely. Things haven’t gone well, from what I heard. Can I serve you coffee? It’s all ready.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  A section of paneling opened into a thoroughly modern kitchen, the coffee smell heavy on the air. He sat at a small table, and she served coffee for both of them, sitting opposite. The coffee was Yemeni and excellent.

  “I needed that.” He pushed his cup over and she refilled it.

  “It was bad, then?”

  She was totally dedicated to Al Qaeda and completely trustworthy, so he told her everything, and she listened intently, taking it all in.

  He was rather somber when he finished. “So death for death was my aim with Ferguson and his people, and we’ve failed miserably.”

  “You must not talk so. It’s not you who has failed, but those who were supposed to serve you.”

  “How is the Sultan?”

  “Dr. Hassan does his best. He has an excellent setup at the palace, top staff and equipment.” She shrugged. “But what do you do with strokes, heart attacks, and age?”

  “Aptly put. Do you think the Council of Elders would favor Owen for Sultan?”

  “I wouldn’t bank on that. A majority of them are traditionalists who don’t care for him at all. They also don’t like that he’s not even married, and a known womanizer.” She poured him more coffee. “What do you think?”

  “I’ve only met him once,” Ali Selim told her. “The first time I visited the Monsoon when the sheikh brought it down to Rubat and gave a party. You hadn’t joined then. Owen was a guest, and so was I.”

  “So you’ve never met again.”

  “Well, to be honest, I’ve haunted his life in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been a ghost in his machine.” He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. “A ghost called Abu.”

  What an amazing story,” Fatima said when he was finished.

  Ali Selim said, “Owen Rashid is not the only one who made the mistake of responding to Al Qaeda advances for corrupt reasons. He believed it would give him an advantage in the oil business, some extra muscle when wheeler-dealing in the marketplace. But like others, he discovered there was a price to pay. He had to obey orders. Osama bin Laden made that clear. There can be no difference between rich and poor in this matter.”

  “And so it should be,” she said. “But where does that leave Rashid? I suppose if the Elders do choose him as Sultan, that would at least be good from Al Qaeda’s point of view.”

  “But Al Qaeda is already powerful in Rubat,” Ali Selim told her. “Powerful in its effect on ordinary people, most of whom work in the oil industry. You know this is true, I’ve seen the reports you’ve collated. However, as you say, such people are not the majority of the Council of Elders. They may well say no to Owen.”

  There was silence for a moment between them, and she frowned uncertainly. “Are you suggesting something else? If so, what is it?”

  So he told her.

  She was unable to speak for a few moments when he had finished, staring at him in awe. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  Ali Selim said, “In a newsroom, this is what a reporter would describe as a hell of a story.”

  “In any newsroom,” Fatima said. “It could run for weeks.”

  “Thanks for the input,” Ali Selim told her. “Now go and find Ibrahim for me and bring him here. I know he looks frightening, but he has a highly developed sense of low cunning—and that’s just what we need.”

  Owen Rashid was running in Hyde Park when his mobile sounded. Ali Selim said, “Good morning, Owen. Starting the day as usual with a run?”

  “God help me, what do you want now?” Owen demanded. “It’s breakfast time, Abu, though since I’ve no idea where you are, I don’t know what you’re up to.”

  “Looking out the stern window of the Monsoon in Rubat Harbor.”

  “What bloody nonsense are you giving me now?”

  “No nonsense, Owen, I’m calling you from the Monsoon. I’m here on Al Qaeda b
usiness. By the way, it isn’t Abu. You must excuse my little subterfuge.”

  Owen said, “So who the hell are you?”

  “Mullah Ali Selim.”

  Owen laughed wildly. “I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life.”

  “What a shame. I never pegged you for a stupid man. I’m just calling you to tell you I’m going to phone Henri Legrande in twenty minutes. He’s utterly failed me, and I thought I’d let him know his shop could burn down one night this week—unless he does what I say. I’ve got a job for you all. If you leave now, you should be able to get there in time for me to talk to the three of you.”