A Devil Is Waiting (14 page)

“Not yet. For the moment, I am safe here. Eventually, I shall leave for Pakistan, for Peshawar, and from there cross the border to a village called Amira, west of the Khyber Pass. I’ll be safe amongst friends there, and I can plan our future campaign in peace. America, the Great Satan, shall pay for what they did to Osama. This I promise you.”

“In what way can we serve, master?” Jemal asked.

“Come with me and I’ll show you,” Ali Selim said, and led the way out.

I
t took a sizable staff to take care of such a house, and yet there was no sign of anyone, as if they were keeping out of sight. Selim led the way to a rear conservatory, through a tunnel, and they emerged in a vast garage containing many vehicles, the most interesting of which was an imposing yellow Central Accident & Emergency ambulance.

“This is exactly the same as the old and battered one you both spent two days being taught at the proving ground last week,” Ali Selim said. “The only difference is that this one is brand new and provided by the Brotherhood. Inside you will find uniforms and identity cards, plus a worksheet authorizing you to deliver emergency oxygen cylinders to level three of the underground garage at the House of Commons.”

“May we try driving it, master?” Jemal asked.

“Of course, but only in the courtyard. I’ll see you in an hour—and wear your uniforms.”

H
e was going over papers at the library desk when the knock came, and they entered and stood together in the yellow uniforms, waiting for his approval.

“Excellent.” He nodded. “It should work, particularly because there’ll be so many vehicles that day. An obvious workhorse has a better chance than anything else of being accepted. Now, sit down and let me explain what we’re attempting here.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Asan said, and she and Jemal pulled chairs forward and sat.

“Both of you can pass as Europeans—particularly you, Asan, with your hair cut and dyed. You proved that by going on that guided tour of Parliament last week, when they showed you and the other tourists the terrace.”

“Which was interesting,” Jemal said. “But I don’t see how we could possibly get that far on Friday.”

“Of course not,” Ali Selim said. “Certainly not in uniform, and not with this.”

He picked up a large and very yellow paramedic’s bag and dumped it on the desk.

“You’re not going to the terrace. There’s no way you could get close enough to blow up the Prime Minister and the President, as wonderful as that would be. But there is something we can do. We can remind them that Al Qaeda is still a force to be reckoned with. We’re going to blow up the underground garage
in the House of Commons. It will reverberate around the entire world. There’s enough Semtex in the bag to cause huge damage. All you have to do is leave the ambulance there and switch on the timer. You’ll have thirty minutes to walk away.”

“And what then?” Jemal asked.

“Cross from Parliament to Northend Street, where a Mr. Aziz will be waiting in a white Ford van. You will change in the back of the van while he drives you back here, then we’ll leave at once for the jet. Naturally, I’ll be taking you to Pakistan with me.”

There was a heavy silence as they glanced at each other, Asan with rather more enthusiasm than Jemal. Her eyes were shining as she said to Ali Selim, “It is an honor to do this, Uncle.”

“You make me proud, child.” He nodded to Jemal. “I’d appreciate a word with my niece alone.”

“Of course, master,” Jemal told him, got up with some reluctance, and went out.

Ali Selim took a small pillbox from a drawer, got up, came round the desk, and placed a hand on her head. “Bless you, my child. Your parents would have been so proud. If anything untoward happens, if you were to fall into the hands of our enemies, I fear what they might do. These evil ones use torture of the worst kind.”

She looked up in adoration. “Nothing could ever make me speak, Uncle.”

“I’m sure you would do your best, but I’d hate to think of you suffering.” He slipped the small pillbox into her hand. “The capsule in there will take you to eternity in an instant, where you will wait for me until my time comes. Hold it in your mouth until all is lost and then bite on it.”

She took the box without hesitation. “You are so good to me.”

“This is our secret, of course—Jemal would not understand. You, child, have become a woman, and he is still a boy.” He patted her on the head. “Go to him now.”

Jemal was waiting in the hall anxiously and took her hand. “What did he say to you?”

“My uncle only wished to hear that I was strong enough for this, and I was able to assure him I am. We are privileged to be tasked with such a thing, Jemal, so let us be as one.”

He nodded, still a touch reluctant. “If that is how you see it, so be it.”

“It is, loved one.” She took his hand. “Now we are no longer two, but one, and it is a time for acting, not talking,” and she led him toward the kitchen.

A
t Holland Park, when Roper returned, he found Sara watching the news. “Anything of interest?”

“Still no sign of Selim.”

“And how have you been getting on with the Talbot saga?”

“It’s an incredible story. I can see where Jack Kelly would give you a problem. The peace process totally wiped the slate clean for men like him.” She shook her head. “And now he’s at it again. Do you think Jean Talbot knows?”

“The received wisdom would be that she doesn’t, but I was never totally certain about her.”

“So what can you do about Kelly?”

“The IRA threat at the moment is from a ragbag army
composed of various factions,” Roper said. “Kelly, with all those years in the Provisional IRA under his belt, has a membership in the Army Council and is a force to be reckoned with, but coming to grips legally with men like him is very difficult. After all, some of them are serving in Parliament at Stormont.”

“So how do you keep an eye on him?”

“I allow my computer to do that. Apparently, he flew in on a private Talbot plane yesterday. If he turns up at Jean Talbot’s house, we’ll know.”

“How?”

“We have an asset in the area. Talbot goes for a run in Hyde Park most mornings, and often has dinner with Owen Rashid of Rashid Oil. Good-looking chap, unmarried, younger than her. Welsh mother, Bedu father. Lives in Park Lane.”

“You mean she’s under surveillance?” She frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Her son was a traitor to the Crown, and she is chairman of one of the biggest arms groups in the world. It’s the name of the game. Do you want to go on?”

She took a deep breath. “Of course I do. So what next?”

H
olley had spent his day on Malik Shipping business, dealing with agents worldwide, mainly on screen. A final hour had been with Hamid Malik, his partner in Algiers, who treated him like a recalcitrant son.

“Why can’t the firm be enough for you, Daniel? Business has never been better. We’re making millions.”

“I’ve got millions,” Holley told him.

“Since they gave you Algerian nationality, the foreign minister is delighted with how well you speak for us abroad, even the President.”

“I’m glad to do it, and not only for the diplomatic immunity it gives me. Algeria means a lot to me.”

“But still you crave for this violent world of action that Ferguson offers you. You’re soon to be fifty, and still no woman in your life.”

Holley answered instinctively, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Malik was on it like a tiger. “Ah, so there is someone? Tell me at once, Daniel. After all these years, am I not a father to you? Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s twenty years too young for me.”

“Are you mad?” Malik demanded. “What is twenty years to a man and a woman in love? In any case, the way you live your life, you could take the fatal bullet at any time—and probably will if you don’t change your ways.”

“She also happens to be a Sephardic Jew.”

Malik was suddenly angry. “Daniel, I’ve managed to survive with a Christian for my partner for almost thirty years. I’m that kind of Muslim. Seize the day. Now go in peace. And by the way, there were Sephardic Jews living in Algiers a thousand years ago.”

H
e was so tired that he undressed and went to bed in the early evening and drifted into sleep. It was the sound of
his mobile that pulled him awake at ten-thirty. He was surprised at how late it was, but then, it had been a long day.

It was Sara. “It’s me, Daniel—what a day I’ve had. Roper is a hard taskmaster. Come and pick me up. I’d love to sit on the terrace and have a drink with you.”

He wanted to say yes, but forced himself to say no. It couldn’t go on, it wasn’t right, and to his surprise he realized that for once in a reasonably self-centered life, he was thinking of the welfare of another human being as more important than his own.

“I don’t think so, Sara. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, the noon meeting. Try and get a good night’s sleep.”

“Damn you, Daniel Holley.” She sounded close to tears. “I’m going to walk all the way down South Audley Street to the Dorchester, look up and imagine you in your solitary splendor on the terrace, wish you a thoroughly rotten night, and then walk back.”

She clicked off. Holley lay there thinking about it. Was it a tantrum or had she really meant it? But then, he didn’t have a choice, because if they
were
being targeted, the last thing she should be doing was walking down any street at night, even in Mayfair. So he got out of bed and dressed quickly, cords and boots, a khaki shirt and his flying jacket, the holster on his right ankle. He was out the door fast, and behind him the curtains ballooned, stirred, then settled again.

E
vents had made it clear to Henri Legrande that Holley and Sara were more than just good friends. Their behavior on
the walk to Hyde Park and during the riot had convinced him that they were a couple. The chance that Holley would deliver Sara home late from dinner or a show one night seemed obvious, as did the planning of an ambush. It might take two or three nights of waiting, but the moment would surely come.

He sat behind the wheel of the Citroën now, Kelly beside him, and behind were two hardheaded London Irish boys named Fahy and Regan, who had salivated over the prospect of a thousand pounds cash between them for crippling Daniel Holley. They were already drunk, a half bottle of whiskey shared between them, and were rowdy with it.

“Where the fuck is this red Alfa you’re going on about?” Fahy demanded. “We’ve been here for an hour, man.”

“Just shut up and wait,” Henri said grimly. “That’s if you want to see the other half of your money.”

From the dark end of Highfield Court where they were parked, they could see the house, and suddenly the door opened and security lights came on and Sara appeared. She was wearing a black leather belted coat, a scarf around her neck, carried a walking stick in her right hand, and her shoulder bag was slung across her front. She started to walk briskly, using the stick, already limping.

“Would you look at that?” Fahy cried. “A fella could have a great time giving that one a seeing-to.”

“I saw her first.” Regan reached for the door handle.

“Leave it,” Henri said. “She’s not the target.” He triggered the internal locking device, securing all four doors.

Fahy said, “She’s getting away, for Christ’s sake. This is stupid.”

He reached over and punched Henri in the side of the head, leaned down, and unlocked the doors. The next moment he was standing on the pavement, pulling up his friend, who’d fallen out. They were both swaying a little with the drink taken.

“Get back in, you bloody fools,” Henri said, tried to open his door, but Regan kicked it close.

They both broke into a shambling run. Along the pavement and for the full length ahead, the only sign of life was Sara.

“Will you wait for us, darling?” Fahy called. “We’ll give you the time of your life.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then turned and hurried on, her hand reaching for the Colt, which she was carrying in the right pocket of her leather coat for easy access.

“We must do something,” Kelly said.

“Yes, like getting the hell out of here,” Henri told him as the Alfa appeared down the road, and he swerved the Citroën into the nearest side street, parked, then jumped out and moved back to the corner to see what was going on. As he watched, Kelly joined him, peering over his shoulder.

S
ara had just reached the corner of a dark cobbled lane. Regan was a few yards behind and Fahy reached her first, grabbing her scarf, forcing her round and swinging her into the entrance of the lane. She went down, and as she drew the Colt, he leaned over and tried to kiss her. She shot off the lobe of his left ear, and he cried out, blood staining his fingers.

Holley swung the Alfa into the curb, was out in a flash and, as Fahy tried to get up, booted him in the face, sending him backward into the gutter. Regan took one look, swerved into the lane, and kept on running. Fahy heaved himself up, a hand to his ear, and backed away in horror from the Colt in Sara’s right hand, shaking his head dumbly, then turned and stumbled into the darkness.