A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  A police sergeant in khaki was sitting in a canvas chair, smoking a cigarette, a man Slay had met many times, so he simply waved and went to the foreman on duty, gave him the consignment bill, and stood watching as his goods were loaded.

  He had reasonable Arabic, and used it when offering the man a cigarette, which was accepted. “Not so busy. It must get boring for you,” he said, offering a light.

  In spite of the fact that Khazid had issued an order that any mention of the Hawker would be a serious breach of airport security, the foreman, who had dealt with Slay many times, answered instinctively.

  “Oh, one never knows what the day will bring us. For example, earlier we had a very beautiful jet plane land, gold in color. One of the mechanics, Achmed, told me it was called a Hawker.”

  “So where is this marvel of the skies?” Slay asked.

  “It did not stay. The chief of police drove out to meet it in a security van to speak to the pilots, but came back alone. It refueled and took off again.”

  “To have seen such a thing must have been a wonder,” Greg Slay told him. “I must go now. The cargo you loaded is needed urgently at Gila.”

  “Take care,” the foreman said. “I sense a wind coming, a sandstorm perhaps. May Allah guard you.”

  “He always does,” Greg said, and took off.

  Fifteen minutes out into the desert, he called Giles Roper, who answered at once. “Slay, my man, good to hear from you. Where are you?”

  “Straight back to work. There’s a lot of pressure due to a big oil strike. I’ve just done a cargo pickup at Rubat airfield and heard something strange.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “A golden Hawker dropped in at Rubat earlier. The police chief drove out to greet it in a security van on his own, spoke to the pilots, then returned on his own, and the Hawker flew away after refueling.”

  “Are you sure no one was in the back of the van?”

  “No idea. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

  “Well, I’ve got something strange for you.” He told Slay about the Canadian patrol finding the burned-out Raptor at Herat with a corpse in it.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Slay said. “I haven’t the slightest idea what it all means, but if I find out, you’ll be the first to know. I must press on. I could be flying into a sandstorm.”

  The police sergeant at Rubat airfield noticed the lengthy conversation between the cargo foreman and Slay, after the gift of a cigarette, and questioned the man.

  “You seemed to be getting friendly with the Englishman from Hazar. Enjoying a smoke and a chat? What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, the usual things. The comings and goings,” the foreman said uneasily, wondering where this was headed. “He’s flying up to Gila to the new strike with urgent equipment. I warned him I thought a sandstorm was coming.”

  “So the comings and goings did not include a mention of a certain golden jet plane landing here?”

  The foreman could have said no and left it at that, but such was his fear of Khazid, he went into denial at once and, in a garbled panic, put all the blame on Slay.

  “It was no doing of mine, but he did raise the matter. He said he’d heard a mention of some such plane making a brief visit and asked me if anyone had got off.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “The truth, Sergeant, that nobody did. What else should I have said?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Good man. Get back to work.”

  Ali Selim had been working on a speech at one end of the desk, Fatima at the other end working on accounts and taking phone calls on speaker so that he could listen if he wanted to.

  Khazid finished his account of the incident involving Greg Slay at the airfield, and Fatima said to Ali Selim, “I’m sure this is nothing. We know about this man. He retired from the British Army Air Corps last year, bought the air taxi firm Ben Carver had been running in Hazar for years. His partner is one of our own people in Hazar, Hakim Asan.”

  “Would you be surprised to know that he attacked me in Amira flying a Raptor helicopter, acting under Charles Ferguson’s orders?”

  She looked bewildered. “Are you certain it was the same man?”

  “Get in touch with this partner of his and ask him where Slay has been for the past few days. I’m going out for a cigarette.”

  He was standing at the rail when she joined him ten minutes later with two cups and a pot of coffee on a serving tray. She hung the tray up, poured and handed him a cup, and raised hers in a kind of salute.

  “He got a lift from a plane refueling at Hazar, to Peshawar, day before yesterday. Was dropped off from an RAF Hercules on a run from Peshawar to London, refueling at Hazar, no more than a couple or three hours ago. Is he a danger to your plans?”

  “I don’t know. It could be nothing. He returns to Hazar and goes about his business, flying to Rubat to pick up cargo for Gila, so it is only by chance that he is here not long after the Hawker landed. As far as he knows, I didn’t get off and the plane had a legitimate reason to be here. You could argue that perhaps I was on board all the time, but that won’t help people like Ferguson unless they know where the Hawker is going, and they don’t.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “On the other hand, I don’t trust people who ask nosy questions.” He turned to her. “Contact his partner, this Hakim, at Gila. Tell him Gregory Slay is a threat to Al Qaeda and must be disposed of at once. Is he reliable?”

  “A dedicated jihadist.”

  “Then tell him that Allah is great and he is privileged to have been given this task. You will not say my name.” He smiled. “I am not worthy of even being mentioned.”

  “At your orders, master.”

  The wind was coming in forcefully from the desert beyond the town, stirring the sea into waves, the Monsoon pitching on its two great anchors, the one at the stern, the other forward. He stood there gripping the rail, looking out to sea, thinking of Slay flying in such weather. A good man, and there was much to admire in him, but this was war and he was on the wrong side.

  Fatima appeared. “It is taken care of. Hakim says he knows his duty.”

  “Thank you, Fatima,” he said calmly.

  A sudden fierce gust dashed sand in his face, and she grabbed his arm with surprising strength. “You will come in now. You could damage your eyes. Such behavior is foolishness when so many depend on you.”

  His smile was unlooked for and unexpected. “Why, Fatima, you are quite right. I stand corrected.”

  He passed inside, and she closed the shutter.

  THIRTEEN

  During the run from Rubat, the wind had increased considerably, picking up more and more sand, but it wasn’t at the stage where it was giving Slay any serious trouble, although he thought it likely that might happen. His mobile sounded, and once more it was Roper.

  “It’s me again. Did you really mean that about the sandstorm?”

  “It’s shaping up to one now. This is the last place God made,” Slay told him. “In other places, people go to market to buy food. Here down on the border with Yemen they go to market to buy arms. Anything from a general-purpose machine gun to a pistol for your pocket, and most things in between. It’s a savage old world.”

  “Are you regretting you ever went there?”

  “I didn’t have much choice, old son—the cutbacks in the military in the UK saw to that.” A violent wind rocked the Scorpion. Slay managed to control it. “All of a sudden, it’s getting interesting. I’ll check in with you later.”

  “I’m open at all hours.”

  Slay tried going up above the storm and seemed to do better, so he increased speed and pushed on until in the distance he saw three or four derricks next to various trucks, cars, and prefabricated buildings. He dropped to where red and green lights marked the landing site, and he put down.

  Sand was beginning to coat everything like a different kind of snow; he noticed that as three men manhandled a trolley toward him, the foreman leading
. Slay got out of the pilot’s seat, opened the side door, and jumped out.

  “Help yourselves,” he shouted to the foreman in Arabic. “Where is Hakim?”

  The men were already transferring the cargo. “He’s gone,” the foreman shouted back. “He said he thought it was going to get worse. I told him he should stay until it blows over, but apparently he needed to get back to base.”

  “Damn fool,” Slay said.

  “That’s what I thought. You’ll be staying, then?”

  “No, I’m a damn fool, too.”

  The men had finished their task, were driving the cargo away. The foreman said in English, “It’s your funeral—isn’t this what you British say?”

  He was laughing as he followed his men into the buildings. Slay closed the main door of the Scorpion, went back to the cockpit, and took off, sand devils dancing all around as the helicopter lifted.

  Hakim had envied Gregory Slay from the start, although he had managed to conceal his feelings. There was more than one reason why. He had been taught to fly by Ben Carver, but hadn’t been able to raise the money to buy it when Ben retired. Slay referred to Hakim as his partner, but he knew it was more to salve the man’s pride than anything else, and Hakim’s flying was only adequate, whereas Slay gave a master class in how to fly a helicopter every time he took off. Hakim, however, was totally dedicated to Al Qaeda, what Osama himself had described as the perfect jihadist, a man who gave no indication of being one.

  He knew nothing of Fatima personally. To him, she was just a voice on the phone who occasionally passed on orders to him in Al Qaeda’s name. Even more important, he had to keep her informed well in advance of flights to anywhere, such as Djibouti, Muscat, Bahrain, or Dubai, so that he could act as postman when required.

  Fatima’s first call, asking for details of Greg Slay’s recent whereabouts, had excited his curiosity, but she had not explained the reason for her interest. Her second, just before he landed at Gila, certainly did.

  Gregory Slay was a direct threat to Al Qaeda. He had been given the task of disposing of him, she told him, and by a famous man, Mullah Ali Selim—surely he had seen him recently on Al Jazeera? Hakim had. Fatima had disobeyed the master’s order not to reveal his name because she hadn’t been able to stand his questioning his own worthiness. Such nonsense. She wanted to shout out his greatness to the whole world, but had to be content with just telling Hakim.

  “I want to hear from you the instant Slay is disposed of,” she said. There was crackling on the line. “What’s wrong with the reception?”

  “The wind will get worse before it gets better,” he told her. “If a full sandstorm drives in from the Empty Quarter, it will probably kill any signals for mobile phones for some time. I will handle this matter as fast as possible, but may not be able to report a successful outcome for a while.”

  “Then you must fly down to Rubat and make your report to us here on the Monsoon.”

  “As you wish.”

  He gripped the steering column tightly and laughed, head thrown back. So Al Qaeda wanted Greg Slay disposed of? How perfect an answer to all his problems. Change was coming; it was inevitable that Al Qaeda would fill the vacuum of power that would bring to Hazar. With Slay disposed of and the goodwill of Al Qaeda behind Hakim, there was nothing to stop him from taking over the company and its aircraft.

  Gila loomed up in the distance, and he increased speed. He couldn’t wait to land, discharge his cargo, and get back in the air and strike out for Hazar before Slay arrived.

  It was pouring with rain in London as Henri waited in the Citroën. Owen Rashid had called him, saying he expected to be there in half an hour, but still hadn’t arrived, probably because of some holdup with the weather. Kelly had taken an

  old umbrella from the rear of the Citroën and gone off to the shop, ostensibly for more coffee, but in reality for whiskey, having emptied the half bottle. He got two coffees and more whiskey, stopping in a doorway to drink some, then carried on, to find Owen’s Mercedes parked just beside the entrance to Highfield Court. He and Henri were loading the collapsible wheelchair and a couple of bags into the luggage compartment.

  Owen turned to face Kelly, disgust on his face. “For God’s sake, what are you playing at? You’re drunk.” He knocked the two paper coffee cups on the cardboard tray from Kelly’s hand and grabbed the umbrella. “Go and wait in the Citroën.”

  He pushed Kelly violently away. Henri said, “What’s your plan?”

  “We’ll break in from the back if we have to, but let’s try the frontal approach. Did you bring the white coat and the stethoscope I suggested?”

  “I’m wearing it under my raincoat, and the stethoscope’s in my pocket.” He took his raincoat off and put it in the luggage compartment. “Let’s do it.”

  Sprawled across her bed hugging a pillow and still fully dressed, Sara came awake to the insistent pealing of the front doorbell. Dazed and conscious only of her throbbing headache, she lay there waiting for the bell to stop ringing, but when it didn’t, she got up wearily, pulled on her desert boots, and limped down the stairs to the hall, feeling decidedly shaky. She opened the door and found the two men confronting her, Owen holding the umbrella over their heads, a small wheelchair beside them.

  “Captain Gideon. I had the pleasure of meeting you on the terrace of the luncheon for the President. Owen Rashid.”

  “Oh yes,” she murmured, deeply tired, conscious only of that throbbing headache. “What can I do for you?”

  “General Ferguson asked me to look in on you and introduce Doctor Legrande here.”

  He lowered the umbrella, took a step forward, and instinctively she moved back so that Henri followed her in. She was so tired, she felt no alarm at all, so that what happened was so very simple.

  “What’s it all about?” she asked wearily.

  “You seem tired,” Henri said. “Permit me to take your pulse,” and he reached for her left hand. The prick itself was of no account, but the Seconal was so instantly effective that Owen had to grab her as she started to slide to the floor.

  Henri pulled the wheelchair inside and, leaving Owen to lower her into it, opened the cloakroom door, searched hurriedly, and came back with a black beret and a gray rug, with which he covered Sara, adjusting the beret over the red hair. He went back to the cloakroom and returned with a khaki trench coat, which he draped over the back of the chair.

  “So, my friend, let’s go.”

  They lifted the chair down the steps just in time to see Kelly drive away in the Citroën.

  “The bloody fool’s drunk out of his wits,” Owen said. “He’ll probably hit the first car he sees.”

  “Nothing to be done about that.” Henri lifted Sara in strong arms. Owen opened the rear door for him, and the Frenchman placed her carefully inside and belted her in. “I’ll sit beside her, playing the doctor, and you will do the driving. Are you still convinced we can get away with this?”

  “I told you, we’ll be waved straight through the gates.”

  He joined the traffic in Park Lane, moving toward Marble Arch, then Bayswater. Henri said, “It sounds too good to be true, but I suppose we have no choice.”

  “No, we don’t,” Owen told him. “We’re not playing the game anymore, it’s playing us, so think positive and keep your fingers crossed.”

  The rain was torrential as they drove in through the members’ entrance at Frensham, and the security officer on duty simply peered out the half-open office window, recognizing him at once.

  “Nice weather for ducks, Mr. Rashid,” he called. “I hope you’re going somewhere better than this.” He didn’t bother coming out, simply raised the bar, and Owen drove in.

  He threaded his way through an array of parked airplanes and helicopters, and pulled up under an overhang where cars were parked in bays that bore company logos. The Learjet was some little distance away. It took only two or three minutes to get out the wheelchair for Henri, who handed Sara into it. Owen raised the umbrell
a and walked with him toward the Lear, going ahead and opening the airstair door.

  Henri carried Sara’s limp body up the steps, ducking his head to pass inside, and Owen followed with her coat and the rug. He squeezed past them and lowered one of the rear seats into the reclining position. Henri passed her to him.

  “Gently, now, she’ll need the belt, and cover her well. The change in body temperature may not be helped by the Seconal.”

  “Why, Henri, I didn’t know you cared,” Owen said.