A Devil Is Waiting (29 page)

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.

I
t 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.”

S
prawled 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.”

T
he 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 umbrella 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.

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.”

H
olley 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 tracksuit, obviously bound for the park, when Owen Rashid appeared, running along the pavement, on the other side of Curzon Street.”