A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

  Henri’s habitual smile vanished. “But I do, my friend—this is a great lady. I respect her both as a woman and a soldier. See that you do. I’ll see to the wheelchair.”

  “Leave it, for God’s sake.”

  “Which would draw attention.” The slight smile was back on Henri’s face. “I would also remind you of the bags in the Mercedes.”

  He went out, and Owen took the deepest of breaths, realizing the stress was beginning to get to him, which wouldn’t do at all. He tucked Sara in, then went to the cockpit, took the right-hand seat, and started preparing for takeoff.

  Henri, holding the umbrella over his head with one hand, pushed the wheelchair with the other to the Mercedes under the overhang. He opened the trunk, took out the two bags, then closed the wheelchair and placed it inside.

  Someone said, “Can I help you, sir?”

  Henri turned as a man moved out of an exit tunnel a few feet away, wearing a peaked cap, yellow oilskins streaming. He half turned, looking toward the Lear, and Henri saw that he had “Airport Police” on his back and he was holding a radio.

  “And what exactly is going on here, sir?”

  “Such a shame,” Henri said as if to himself.

  “What is, sir?” the policeman asked.

  “Oh, life,” Henri said. “Everything going so smoothly one minute and a total fuckup the next.”

  He took a silenced Walther from his right-hand raincoat pocket and shot the policeman in the heart, hurling him back against the next vehicle, a Toyota service van. He’d dropped his radio to the ground, and Henri stamped on it, picked it up and threw it several cars away, then went round to the rear of the Toyota and found that the door was unlocked. He opened it, dragged the body round and heaved it inside, slamming the door shut, then he returned to the Mercedes, picked up the bags, and returned to the Learjet, where the engines were already rumbling.

  Owen, headphones and mike on as he talked to control, glanced over his shoulder and, seeing him enter, closed the door. He received permission to move and felt a sudden elation as Henri eased into the left-hand seat.

  They taxied to the end of the runway, paused, rain drumming against the fuselage, then, on the instruction from the control tower, took off, climbing fast to thirty thousand feet, leaving the rain behind and leveling at forty, setting a general course southwest.

  Henri had put on the copilot’s headphones and mike. “How far?”

  “Four thousand miles, perhaps a little more.”

  “How long would you say?”

  “Depending on weather, particularly wind, eight hours.” Owen laughed. “I told you we’d manage okay at Frensham. You worry too much.”

  “Tell that to the policeman who turned up out of nowhere back there and wanted to know what we were getting up to.” His laugh was ugly, and he shook his head. “No, I was forgetting. You can’t speak to him.”

  “Why not?” Owen’s question was automatic.

  “Because I double-tapped him in the heart.”

  Owen shoved the Lear on autopilot and turned to him. “You killed him?”

  “He wanted to know what was going on, so what did you expect me to say? We’re just kidnapping a British Army officer, so mind your own business and clear off?”

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “There was a Toyota service van parked next to the Mercedes. I put the body in the back.”

  “Was that the best you could do?”

  “Better than sticking it in the boot of the Mercedes. I stamped on his radio and threw it as far as I could along the line of parked cars. A number of the owners must be up there flying. No reason to connect us particularly. It could be anyone.” He got up. “I’m going to go check the woman, then I’ll find the brandy and make some coffee.”

  Owen, filled with despair, said, “Damn you, and damn that interfering cop.”

  His mobile phone sounded. He took it out, sat there looking at it, and Henri said, “Now, I wonder who that is. Probably your master’s voice all the way from Rubat. Aren’t you going to tell him the good news?”

  Owen glared at him helplessly, then answered. Ali Selim said, “There you are, Owen. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Where are you? Do I hear aircraft noises? Are you flying?”

  Owen took a deep breath. “Yes, Henri and I have just left Frensham and are on our way in the Lear. Kelly decided he wanted no further part in the matter at hand and did a runner on us.”

  “How unfortunate for him. Someone should have told him that there’s no place to hide. So, what news of Captain Gideon?”

  “We’ve got her. She’s deep in a Seconal-induced sleep in the back of the cabin.”

  Ali Selim said, “How long before you get here?”

  “Almost eight hours.” The Lear was still on autopilot, but he suddenly felt tired, his brain refusing to function. He could have told Ali Selim about the policeman in the Toyota, but he didn’t. It could come later.

  “You’ve done well, Owen—I’m pleased with you. Al Qaeda will be right behind you when the Council of Elders decides on the succession. I regret to tell you that the Sultan seems close to the end.”

  “Well, I hope he goes to a better place,” Owen told him. “But as far as I’m concerned, Al Qaeda can go to hell. I’m signing off now.”

  Henri clapped his hands. “Excellent, my friend, there’s hope for you yet. I’ll go and see to that coffee now.”

  On the Monsoon, there was unholy joy on Ali Selim’s face as he turned to Fatima, who had been listening on speaker. “So they have her. I am thrice blessed that I should see such a day.”

  Holley and Dillon were enjoying a Turkish bath at Holland Park when Roper called through on the internal phone.

  “I’ve got something very interesting for you lot on my screen.”

  They put on terry-cloth robes and went to see him and found exactly what he was talking about when they went into the computer room. There were photos of Henri Legrande at various stages of his career, medals and all.

  “Just in from Claude Duval. He was called to Paris on another matter, and DGSE records had these for him. Serious business, this man.”

  “And living right here in Mayfair in this antiques shop in Shepherd Market,” Dillon said.

  “Not for the first time, I dare say, that the French know more about someone in London than we do. Have a look at the text on Legrande.”

  There was his military history, not only in the Foreign Legion but of the time he had spent training terrorists at the camp in Algeria. There were even lists of his pupils, including members of the Provisional IRA, particularly one Jack Kelly.

  “This is particularly interesting, because when Legrande inherited the antiques shop in Shepherd Market he also started taking classes at London University, where he met student Mary Barry, a PIRA activist whose father was a friend of Kelly’s, who put her in touch with Henri, who became her lover. You’ll note the details of her unfortunate death at what would appear to be British hands.”

  “All good stuff, but what’s the connection with what happened to me and Sara, and where’s this leading?” Holley asked.

  “Well, the peace process wiped the slate clean for men like Kelly, who was released from prison. As no one knows better than you and Dillon, he’s been at it again. We keep an eye on him. He came over from County Down the other day in a Talbot International plane.”

  “So?” Holley said.

  “We monitor Jean Talbot’s comings and goings. Just look at this film of people visiting her home,” Roper said. “There’s Kelly more than once with Legrande outside the house. There are shots of her with Owen Rashid going into the house together.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Dillon said.

  “That they see a lot of each other,” Roper told him. “But that isn’t the point. Besides surveillance cameras, we have an asset who now and then observes her, sees where she goes, who she speaks to. She was being watched this morning when she emerged from Marley Court in a tracksui
t, obviously bound for the park, when Owen Rashid appeared, running along the pavement, on the other side of Curzon Street.”

  “So she followed him?” Dillon asked.

  “So did our asset right to the antiques shop in Shepherd Market, where Rashid hammered on the door and was admitted by not only Henri Legrande but Jack Kelly. She watched from a doorway and then left, not looking very happy.”

  “So what’s it all add up to?” Dillon asked. “These incidents involving Holley and Sara?”

  “The way I see it, I would guess that Jean Talbot was shocked to see Owen Rashid and the other two together,” Holley said.

  “So anything not kosher that they’ve been up to has nothing to do with her,” Dillon added. “Does Ferguson know about this?”

  “He isn’t in London. The Prime Minister invited Henry Frankel and him to join him at Chequers for the weekend.”

  “Have you tried to pull Sara into the frame?”

  “Good God, no,” Roper said. “She’s really been through it the last few days. She’s sleeping the sleep of the just, I trust.”

  “So we can go and lift Jack Kelly and Henri Legrande?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Roper said. “You’ve got your SIS warrants. Technically, you should be accompanied by the police, but when did we let that stand in the way? I’d get on with it, if I were you.”

  At Hazar, the wind was blowing curtains of sand every which way, but visibility wasn’t so bad that Hakim couldn’t see where he was going. He made a bad landing outside the hangars, rocking from side to side. Opening the door to get out was a struggle, the wind gusting, and Feisal had closed the great hangar door for obvious reasons. Hakim, holding the tail of his headcloth across his nose and mouth, lurched to the Judas gate, opened it, and stepped inside.

  Feisal, working on the Cessna, turned to greet him, wrench in hand. He spoke in Arabic. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Well, I’m here.” Hakim crossed to the office, opened a corner cupboard, took out an AK-47, selected a magazine from several on offer, and returned to the hangar.

  Feisal, wiping oil from his hands with a rag, frowned. “What’s happening? What’s the AK for?”

  “The execution of Gregory Slay. He should be arriving shortly from Gila.”

  “What madness is this? Why would you wish to do such a thing?” Feisal demanded.

  “He is not only an enemy of Islam but an enemy of Al Qaeda.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “Mullah Ali Selim, at this moment staying in Rubat on the Monsoon. I am privileged to have been given this task, just as you are privileged to have the opportunity to aid me.”

  Feisal said, “I am a Bedouin of the Rashid tribe, born in the Rub al Khali, the Empty Quarter, where a man’s word is his bond and honor comes before everything. Slay risked his life to save mine. I won’t let you do this thing.”

  Hakim reversed the AK-47 and rammed the stock into the side of his face, Feisal collapsing sideways. He had just missed the Cessna wing as he fell, and lay there, blood on his face. Hakim pulled off his headcloth, using the folds to tie his wrists, then propped him up against a wheel, stuffing another loose fold into his mouth. The wind was rising out there, howling in from the desert, and Hakim opened the Judas, peered out, and immediately drew back quickly as sand blasted into his face.

  He went over to Feisal, who had his eyes open now. Hakim kicked him. “Wake up. I’ll let you watch the fun before I kill you.”

  There was a genuine menace in the voice of the wind now, and then it grew louder unexpectedly and changed into the distinctive clatter of the helicopter, which rose to a crescendo outside, and then stopped. The wind howled as if trying to get in, rattling the hangar door, and then the Judas gate opened and Gregory Slay entered.

  He stood there, shaking sand from his hair, wiping it from his face with the palms of his hands, and paused at the sight of the tableau before him. Outside, the wind had subsided a little, so that it seemed rather quieter in the hangar.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why is Feisal tied up?”

  “Because he’s a traitor to his own people,” Hakim said. “He actually refused to help me kill you, even though it’s in the name of Islam. It seems it’s a matter of honor. Can you believe that?”

  Feisal groaned, eyes desperate, but Slay smiled. “Yes, I can.”

  Hakim said, “Take off your flying jacket. I know you always carry a .38 Smith & Wesson in the left-hand inside pocket. Toss it away and kneel.”

  “Anything to oblige.”

  Slay did as he was told, dropping to one knee, drawing the

  .25 Belgian Leon from his ankle holster very quickly as he went down, shooting Hakim in the forehead, the hollow-point cartridge blowing away the back of his skull.

  He untied Feisal and heaved him up. “He made a mess of your face.”

  Feisal kicked the body. “This dog tried to get me to help him kill you.”

  “What was his reason?” Slay asked.

  “He was under orders from Mullah Ali Selim, who is staying on a boat called the Monsoon in Rubat Harbor. It seems you are an enemy of Al Qaeda.”

  Gregory Slay said in astonishment, “Are you certain about this?”

  “That’s what Hakim told me.”

  “Does it bother you that we’ve just killed an Al Qaeda follower?”

  “Why should it? I’ll probably take my family, travel far out into the Empty Quarter, and join up with my fellow tribesmen. They won’t find me.”

  “No need for that,” Slay said. “We’ll empty his pockets, take his watch and wallet, drive him into the outskirts of town, ditch the jeep, and leave his body beside it in an alley. Such robberies occur all the time. You take him in one jeep, I’ll follow in the other to bring you back. If a story is needed, he left here to go home. He’s living on his own these days anyway.”

  “That is true. An excellent plan,” Feisal said.

  “Then let’s get on with it.”

  Everything worked perfectly, they did what was necessary on the way into town, and were back in forty minutes. The drive through the increasingly bad weather had been difficult and truly frightening, the sandstorm raging at full blast.

  They returned through the Judas gate into the comparative calm of the hangars, but the storm still raged outside.

  “I’ll make some coffee in the kitchen,” Feisal said. “And there is a goat stew that may be heated up if you are hungry.”

  “Excellent. You see to it, while I phone friends to reassure them of my safety.”

  “In such a storm as this, I think not,” Feisal said. “It makes the signal for the mobile phones impossible for a while. You have not experienced such a great storm as this during your time here, but it happens.”

  Slay was already calling Roper, praying for a connection but without success. He tried several times, then went into the kitchen. The stew was heating on a bottle gas stove and smelled good as Feisal stirred.

  “No luck, sahib?”

  “I’m afraid not. How long will this last, would you say?”

  “As Allah wills.” Feisal shrugged. “I remember several years ago a storm of such anger that there was no connection for five hours. You could keep trying, though.”

  “I hope we can do better than that,” Slay said. “But what about some of that goat’s stew while we’re waiting?”

  Jack Kelly had made it back to Shepherd Market in the Citroën, had let himself into the shop in despair at the situation into which he had gotten himself. His years in prison should have taught him a lesson.

  He’d had it all, the chance of a new life, a good job as the estate manager at Talbot Place, his pub in the village. Why had he listened to the siren voices of dissidents who wanted Ulster to return to armed struggle? It had been total madness.

  Suddenly the quiet of the place was too much for him. What he needed was people and more whiskey, so he went out through the shop and started along the street to an Irish bar he knew.

>   As he was about to enter, he glanced back and saw a red Mini pull up in front of the shop. To his horror, Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley got out and moved to the entrance. Kelly panicked on the instant, and dashed into another narrow alley that brought him into Curzon Street.

  He paused at a boarded-up house with a builder’s sign and was violently sick, then moved out into Curzon Street, wiping his face with a handkerchief. The drizzle he’d been walking in suddenly increased into a downpour. He stood there in total despair, then realized there was only one place he could go, so he crossed the road and made for Jean Talbot’s house in Marley Court.