A Devil Is Waiting (25 page)

“Good to see you, Abdul, but get me inside, this rain bothers me.” He ignored Omar but nodded to Ibrahim, went off with Abdul to the Hawker, and followed him up the steps.

Omar said, “Where do I go now?”

“Inside, and I’ll tell you,” Ibrahim said.

Omar pulled himself into the Raptor, turned, and Ibrahim, already holding a Beretta in his right hand, shot him in the head, knocking him back into the hold. He opened the bag, took out a magnesium night flare, pulled the toggle, and tossed it inside. As the flames took hold, he turned and hurried to the Hawker, went up the steps where Abdul waited, and ducked inside. He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin from his master and waited.

Ali Selim looked up from his book. “Captain Feisal has had a word. We can forget winter in northern Afghanistan. In Rubat it’s hot, with enough sun to satisfy even you.”

Ibrahim made no reply, simply nodded, clicked his seat belt into place, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

I
n London, Owen Rashid, unable to sleep, was sitting by the terrace window in his dressing gown, a glass of red wine by his hand, as he worked his way through a report on the current finances of Rashid Oil.

When he answered the phone, Ali Selim said, “This is Abu. Were you asleep?”

“A touch of insomnia. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just letting you know the game is afoot again—isn’t that the English phrase? Ferguson and his people are on their way back to London. This Sara Gideon has become very important, not only to me but to Ali Selim and to Al Qaeda.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Warn the Frenchman and Kelly that I’m particularly interested in Gideon. I want them on her case.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Not at the moment. One of my assets has left you a package in the glove compartment of your Mercedes. It contains several ampoules of Seconal.”

“What on earth would I need that stuff for?”

“All in good time, Owen. Put Legrande and Kelly to work, and I’ll be back in touch very soon.”

So he was gone, leaving Owen Rashid more frustrated than he had ever felt before.

W
hen the Raptor landed at Peshawar in front of the Hussein Air hangar, Hamid was waiting beside a military ambulance for Miller, who was stretchered and put in the back and taken away, accompanied by Ferguson and Hamza.

At the hospital, the two of them sat in the waiting room, drinking tea and discussing what had happened. “One thing is certain, if you’ll allow me to make a point,” Hamza said. “Ali Selim must have an agenda.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Ferguson said, but before he could carry on, a gray-haired and rather distinguished-looking man in green scrubs came in.

“Well, my boy, how are you?”

“Very well, sir.” Hamza turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier Mahmud is my uncle. This is Major General Ferguson.”

Mahmud shook his hand. “How interesting all this becomes, General. But I am just a simple surgeon who knows his place, so I ask no questions. Major Miller has been patched up for the moment, pumped full of drugs and sedated. He should survive a flight by private jet, but will need the best of treatment at the earliest possible moment.”

“I promise he’ll get it. We’re very grateful.” Ferguson shook his hand.

“Happy to help,” Mahmud said. “And you, Nephew, remember where we live. Your aunt thinks you’ve forgotten.”

At that moment a comatose Miller was wheeled out, and they followed him down the corridor and outside to the ambulance, where he was lifted inside by two male nurses. Hamza and Ferguson joined him and the ambulance drove away.

The Gulfstream was waiting outside the hangar, and Lacey and Parry supervised the careful loading of Miller into the cabin. They were all there now.

Ferguson said, “Time to go, people, but not before thanking Colonel Hamza for conduct far above the call of duty, and Captain Slay for some extraordinary flying.” He gave Slay a package. “It’s a bit late in the day, but here’s one of our nylon-and-titanium vests with our appreciation.”

Slay smiled and took it. “One never knows.”

Ferguson shook his hand. “So Hamza’s arranged a lift back to Hazar for you?”

“Yes, all taken care of. All I can say is it’s been an amazing couple of days and I wouldn’t have missed them for anything,” Slay said. “Watch your backs, you lot.”

He walked across to where Hamid waited and was driven away. The others said their good-byes to Hamza and boarded, leaving him and Ferguson alone.

“Our governments may sometimes disagree,” Ferguson said. “But in the world we inhabit today, it’s vital for us to keep in touch. What we’ve just been through together proves that. It was good working with you, Colonel.”

“And you, General. And I have one last piece of information. Ali Selim’s plane left an hour and a half ago with a flight plan for Bahrain. Only the two pilots on board.”

“I’m sure Roper will find that useful.” Ferguson shook hands. “Take care, my friend.”

He turned, went up the steps to where Parry waited, and went inside. As Hamza turned away, the Gulfstream started to move.

I
t rose to thirty thousand feet and turned northwest, still climbing into a darkening sky. Ferguson sat on his own at one end of the cabin and talked to Roper by Skype. He told him of his final conversation with Hamza.

“I’ll put a trace on that jet and I’ll try and do something about the Raptor helicopter Ali Selim cleared off in,” Roper said. “How’s Harry?”

“Out for the count, thanks to the medication Brigadier Mahmud gave him. It’s all a bit subdued on the plane at the moment, but, then, night flights usually are. Walking on eggshells around a wounded man makes it even more so. Any word from Downing Street?”

“I believe the Prime Minister was speaking in the House today. Maybe Henry’s not been able to give him the bad news yet.”

“Damn Frankel,” Ferguson said. “He’s enjoying my humiliation.”

“Don’t be so silly,” Roper told him. “If he was, it would mean he was treating Harry’s being wounded unimportant, which is rubbish. This damn operation was a complete failure. We couldn’t
lay hands on Ali Selim, and every one of our people had to kill to survive. It was like a bad day in Afghanistan. You’re lucky we got away with just one wounded man.”

“Good God, Giles,” Ferguson said. “You’re angry with me?”

“You’re damn right I am,” Roper said. “So go and get yourself a large Scotch and shut up.”

He logged off, the screen cleared, and Ferguson sat there, completely deflated. “God help me, I’m getting old,” he said softly, turned to get up, and found Sara holding out a glass of whiskey.

“I heard,” she said. “Try not to take it to heart. But he was right, you know. A lot of people died so we could be here. If it weren’t for Greg Slay and Hamza—well, they saved the day.”

“The way I heard it, you, Daniel, and Dillon were into it up to your necks, too. But there you are.” He toasted her. “My sincere thanks.”

She turned and went back to Harry Miller, tucked in his blanket, then sat beside Holley, who lay back, eyes closed.

A
n hour later, a signal beeped and the screen flickered into life again, bringing Ferguson awake from his doze to find Henry Frankel on his screen.

“Ah, there you are, Charles.”

“So what do
you
want?” Ferguson asked.

“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.

A
bout 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?”

S
ara 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?”