A Devil Is Waiting

by Jack Higgins

“Like Sara said, hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Just imagine, we could be both out of a job.”

  “Or claiming all the success, as politicians do, if everything succeeds.”

  “Exactly.” Henry smiled. “It’s going to be a long night, Charles. Brandy and bridge, is my suggestion.”

  The Falcon landed, taxied up to Slay’s hangar, and parked. He immediately ordered priority refueling, reminding the tower that it was an Algerian plane on diplomatic business.

  In the hangar, they met Feisal, got him to find a blanket, and laid out the weapons. Each of them was wearing a bulletproof vest, and the personal weapons were the same for each: a Walther and a .25 Colt, an Uzi submachine gun—all silent versions—a useful flick-knife for the left boot, a couple of pineapple grenades, Semtex with five-minute pencil timers.

  Feisal had gone off to check with the tower, and returned as the refueling truck finished its work and drove away. The wind was beginning to pick up again, and one could feel the sand.

  He came into the comparative warmth of the hangar and found the three men pulling on desert fatigue tunics and loading up the capacious pockets.

  “They landed at Rubat just under an hour ago. I have reminded my friend on night dispatch that the Falcon is on an important Algerian diplomatic mission and must be allowed a priority departure when you are ready to leave.”

  Greg went out to his office and returned with a small leather purse, which he handed to Feisal. “If something goes wrong, you must flee at once with your wife and child into the Empty Quarter. In the bag are fifty gold sovereigns, worth a couple of thousand pounds sterling in today’s market. You have been a good friend.”

  Feisal embraced him. “My wife is already waiting for me fifteen miles out at the Shaba Oasis with her extended family to protect her, all Rashid Bedu warriors who have no fear where Al Qaeda is concerned.” He smiled. “So I can take my chances here and wait for you. I have told my friend on night dispatch that you go to Rubat on a medical emergency with drugs.”

  “Good man, yourself,” Dillon told him, and turned to the others. “Here we go, then.”

  They went out through the Judas gate, it slammed shut, and the wind rattled the roof, making a strange moaning sound. Then there was the unmistakable clatter of a helicopter starting to move, the sound very powerful, but then fading into the distance as the Scorpion moved away into the night.

  Ali Selim sat at the end of the table, Fatima on one side, Sara the other. Owen Rashid and Henri faced each other, and Captain Ahmed and Colonel Khazid were at the far end, Khazid stuffing himself. Five of his men were at a table in the far corner, a waiter ladling some sort of stew to them, and three other waiters stood ready to handle any of the main table’s requirements.

  So long had it been since she had eaten at all that Sara had accepted what was offered to her, baked fish with rice. Ali Selim said, “I can’t ask if you enjoyed your flight, since you weren’t aware that it was happening. It must have been an alarming experience. Tell me about it?”

  “Do you really want to know?” she said.

  “I do indeed. It’s certainly to be preferred to watching two fat swine gorging themselves like pigs at the far end of the table.”

  “I’ll tell you, then. I believe that what I experienced was very much how death is going to be. I was alive one second when Legrande gave me the needle and then I didn’t exist until I came back to life as the plane descended.”

  Owen looked uncomfortable, and Henri sat there, face set, as Ali Selim said, “So you experienced resurrection, which ordinary people don’t after they die.”

  Fatima’s mobile phone sounded. She answered, her look immediately grave, and leaned over and whispered to him. He listened, face expressionless, then raised his hand and called for silence.

  He turned to Owen. “Do you believe in the resurrection, my friend?”

  There was total silence. “I’ve never given the matter much thought,” Owen said.

  “Not even your Christian half, where the Gospels tell us that Christ died and rose again after three days?”

  Ibrahim, who had been standing against the wall, eased forward, as if at a signal, and stood behind Owen. Ali Selim said, “What if I told you the Sultan is dead? Would you be pleased or sad at the prospect of replacing him?”

  Owen looked pale and desperate. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Ali Selim nodded. Ibrahim pulled the leather whip from his belt, flung it around Owen’s neck, and proceeded to throttle him, jerking his head over the back of the chair.

  Sara shouted, “Stop it, damn you. I don’t know what your game is, but it’s gone far enough.”

  “Quite simple, really,” Ali Selim said, watching Owen coughing and choking as he fought his way back to normality as Ibrahim released him. “I have provided your resurrection, Owen, so that you may occupy your uncle’s place. I’ll make your decision, of course, on behalf of Al Qaeda. You’ll need to marry, people will expect it. Fatima will make a perfect bride—no problem there, Fatima?”

  She was obviously troubled, glanced at Owen for only a moment, then said, “As you command, master.”

  Before he could reply, there was a disturbance down at the far door, as a sailor came in, leaned down, and spoke to Ahmed and Khazid.

  Ali Selim called, “What is it?”

  Khazid said, “There seems to be a helicopter landing somewhere in the town.”

  Selim glanced at Fatima. “Hakim turning up at last, perhaps?” He nodded to Khazid. “Well, do something useful for once, Colonel, go and investigate.”

  “Of course, master,” Khazid gestured to his men, who followed him out, followed by Ahmed. They stood at the rail, listening, but the only sound was the moaning of the wind.

  “Maybe it was a mistake,” Ahmed said.

  “Perhaps, but the last time I saw him in this kind of mood, Ibrahim strangled the man concerned, then threw him overboard. I prefer to go and check. I’ll take one man to pilot the launch and leave the others with you. With sailors, that will give you a dozen men. Tell them to stay alert. I’ll be back soon.”

  As the Scorpion drifted down over the town, the wind started to blow again. Slay said, “I was looking this sandstorm business up on screen. It seems there can sometimes be a resurgence pattern where the second shock can be worse than the first, just like an earthquake.”

  “Then let’s get on with it,” Dillon said. “Where are we landing?”

  Greg Slay said, “By the cargo hangars at the east end of the pier. I’ve used it often to pick up stuff that’s come in by boat. There’s a small police station near it, and the police launches tie up at the steps.”

  “How many police?”

  “I’ve never seen more than a handful.”

  Dillon pulled a ski mask from his pocket and pulled it on, just the eyes and the gash of the mouth showing. “Put us down, Greg, and let’s get on with it. Maybe we can frighten them to death.”

  Holley said, “Very funny, Sean, but remember where you are. The kind of country where leg irons are a permanent fixture. Torture of every kind is on the menu, and the sexual varieties don’t bear thinking about. I’m here to get Sara. I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.”

  “All right,” Dillon said, “we get the point. So let’s do it.”

  They skimmed flat roofs, noticing that in most places where there was a light it was quickly turned off, dropped in beside the cargo building, hovered and descended. Slay switched off, pulled on a ski mask, pulled an Uzi out of the capacious pocket of his desert fatigues, turned and followed the other two out.

  A uniformed policeman with an AK-47 moved out from behind a container and called out in Arabic, “Stay where you are and identify yourselves.”

  Holley turned, pulled out his silenced Walther, and fired on the instant, knocking the policeman over the edge of the pier and into the water.

  “Give the man a coconut,” Dillon said softly, and they paused at the sound of the launch approaching from th
e Monsoon.

  “What now?” Slay asked, as they crouched, watching the launch come in, the pilot jump to the pier to the step. Khazid joined him, paused to light a cigarette, then walked toward the police post, the pilot following, opened the front door and entered.

  “That was Khazid, the chief of police,” Slay said.

  “Excellent,” Holley said. “And as he’s just over from the dhow, he’ll be able to tell us exactly what’s going on out there.”

  He ran toward the police post, flung open the front door, and rushed inside. Khazid was handing out cigarettes to his pilot and four others, and they all turned in alarm.

  “Who are you? What is this?” Khazid demanded in Arabic.

  Holley took a step toward him, pulled the Walther from his pocket, and struck him across the face. Khazid cried out and fell back across a desk.

  “We’ve come for the English woman,” Holley said. “She only arrived an hour or so ago, so tell me the truth or I’ll kill you.” That his threat was delivered in Arabic made it even more impressive.

  Khazid, fear of Ali Selim heavily on his mind, moaned and said, “What are you talking about? This is madness. Captain Slay, why are you mixed up in this?”

  One of the policemen at the back of the group made a move to draw his pistol from its holster, and Slay knocked him back against the wall with a blast from the Uzi. It was enough, and those unharmed put their hands on their heads.

  “Tell him,” someone called.

  So Khazid did. What was happening on the Monsoon, who was on board—everything. Someone passed him a towel, which he held to his broken face.

  Holley said, “This is how it goes. You and your pilot will take us to the dhow in the launch and we’ll go on board to retrieve the woman. The slightest thing you do wrong, you die. Is this understood?”

  “We will do as you say.”

  “We’ll have three of those police oilskins so we look right on the launch. You and the pilot will handcuff the others, put them in leg irons and then lock them in a cell. Anyone who causes trouble will be shot instantly.”

  The pilot, a wild young man, looked angry, but Khazid put a hand on his arm. “Do as you are told and help me, Abdul, that’s an order.”

  The pilot nodded reluctantly. “If you say so, Colonel.”

  The gunplay so far had been with silenced weapons, so there had been no cause for alarm for Captain Ahmed, the three sailors and four policemen standing at the rail, watching the launch come in.

  One of the sailors said, “The colonel appears to be bringing more police with him.”

  “I don’t see anyone I know,” Ahmed said. “Who are they?”

  It was at that moment that Abdul, the pilot, angry and dissatisfied with the turn of events in the launch, grabbed for the very light signaling pistol that hung by the open starboard window. He reached out, raised the pistol and fired, the flare soaring into the night sky, illuminating everything in harsh white light.

  He shouted at the top of his voice, “They come for the English woman! Slay and his friends!”

  Captain Ahmed ran away along the deck, and Holley clubbed Abdul across the side of his head, and, as he went down, Slay grabbed the wheel. There was still some way to go, and shots rang out, and a bullet punched through the windshield.

  “Keep down,” he said to the others. “I’ll go in fast, then swerve up close. A couple of grenades might give them something to think about.”

  “You’re on,” Dillon said.

  They all crouched, Dillon pulling Khazid down, and Slay pushed the launch as hard as it would go, aiming for the landing platform, turning at the last moment so Dillon and Holley could lob over two pineapple grenades. There were cries of dismay, men running to get away from the carnage. Slay brought the launch in again, bouncing against the landing platform. Dillon and Holley jumped to the deck, guns blazing, cutting some of the police and crew down, while others, shocked by the ferocity of the attack, turned and fled. Slay leapt on to the platform, the painter in one hand, and looped it over a hook to hold the launch ready against their departure.

  He turned to see Khazid cowering back in the boat and shouted to him, “Get up here—now!”

  Suddenly Khazid was knocked out of the way by Abdul, the pilot, blood on his face and the signaling pistol in his right hand. As he raised it, Dillon, above him at the rail, fired a long burst with his Uzi that knocked him back over the side of the launch, the pistol discharging so that the flare glowed white hot under dark water for a moment before being extinguished.

  Slay grabbed Khazid by the front of his tunic and said again, “Get up here.”

  Khazid was half sobbing, and Dillon reached down and pulled him up. Someone was firing from along the deck, AK-47 shots that you could hear. “Together,” he said, as he scrambled up with Holley and Slay, and they loosed off long bursts, sweeping the decks clear toward the prow.

  There was only silence up there now and Holley pushed Khazid in the direction of the stern. “You know where we want to be, so just take us there, if you want to live, that is.”

  The sound of shooting had everyone at the dining table jumping to their feet, and Ahmed burst in through the door from the deck.

  “Captain Slay is here—Slay from Hazar—with others. They say they have come for the English woman.”

  A burst from Dillon’s Uzi drove him headlong to his knees at the end of the table, and the police there fired back with their AK-47s. One of them fell sideways to the floor close to Henri Legrande, who drew his Beretta.

  He said to Owen, “I shouldn’t imagine we’d get anywhere shouting, ‘I surrender to these people.’ Are you armed?”

  “I’ve never had to be.”

  Henri leaned down and pulled a Makarov from the dead policeman’s holster. He passed it across. “Nine shots, make them count.”

  At that moment, Slay, on the deck outside, fired through a porthole window, a sustained burst that hurled both men back across the table, killing them instantly.

  Ibrahim was at the deck entrance with his AK-47, Ali Selim firing a pistol he had produced from under his robe. Seeing what had happened to Owen and Henri, he turned to Ibrahim, taking another magazine from his pocket and reloading.

  “The women, Ibrahim, into the owner’s quarters. I’ll follow you. We can get away from this mess in the stern launch.”

  Fatima hurried ahead, pulling Sara behind her, and when she tried to struggle, Ibrahim gave her a heavy slap across the side of her head. Fatima got the wide mahogany door open to the bedrooms and pulled Sara in, Ibrahim at their heels.

  The police and crew at the far end of the dining table had taken heavy casualties, and now Greg Slay, Dillon, and Holley rushed in low, sweeping the room, the men who were still standing dropping their weapons and raising their hands. Only one man was still on his feet with a weapon in his hand, and it was Ali Selim.

  He leveled his pistol at Dillon and shot him twice in the chest, which because of the nylon-and-titanium vest Dillon was wearing only succeeded in knocking him down. Holley, in turn, emptied the magazine of his Uzi into him, throwing Selim backward and close to the open door to the owner’s quarters, where Ibrahim, Sara, and Fatima could see him as he fell.

  “He’s dead,” Ibrahim said, kicking the door shut, as Holley and Slay pulled Dillon to his feet.

  Fatima cried out as Ibrahim locked the door. “No, you can’t leave him like that,” she cried in Arabic.

  He knocked her down with a punch to the face. She rolled over, then got to her feet, a small pistol in her hand. Without the slightest hesitation, he pulled a Makarov out of his sash and shot her dead.

  He turned to face Sara, a figure of total menace, and spoke in English. “The small door in the corner opens to steps leading down to the stern. A launch is moored there, which is how we shall depart.” He went and opened it. “Lead the way.”

  There was a kick on the other door. She said, “Like hell I will.”

  Ibrahim slapped her face, his fingers tightene
d on the hair, and he pulled her close. “You will obey me by the time I finish with you.” He laughed, his head back, as a thunderous knocking sounded.

  “I don’t think so.” Her right hand found the knife that Henri Legrande had given her. She pressed the button, springing the razor-sharp blade, and stabbed Ibrahim under the chin, the blade shearing up through the roof of the mouth into the brain. His eyes burned into her, he started to fold, his hands clutching at her, the door crashed open, and Holley and Slay rushed in. Sara pushed, and he went down.

  She stood there, looking at her hands, which were covered in blood, and Holley and Slay pulled off their ski masks. She gazed at them wildly. “God knows how you managed it. I really was facing the prospect of a fate worse than death with this animal.”