A Devil Is Waiting (3 page)

Dillon shook his head. “And you listened in on an extension.”

Murphy nodded. “He said it was Jack Kelly from New York, confirming that Operation Amity is a go. Arriving on the night of the eighth, landfall north beach at Dundrum Bay, close to St. John’s Point.”

“That’s County Down,” Dillon said. “Anything else?”

“I put the phone down. I didn’t want to get caught. I had the number checked on my phone bill and found it was to a call box in Belfast on the Falls Road.”

Holley said, “Whoever they are, they’re being very careful. That would have been untraceable.” He paused. “Could Jack Kelly be who I think it is? It’s a common enough name in Ireland, God knows.”

“You mean the Jack Kelly we ran up against, working for our old friend Jean Talbot?”

“I know it doesn’t seem likely,” Holley began, and Dillon cut in.

“The same Jack Kelly who became an IRA volunteer at eighteen, was involved for over thirty years in the Troubles, and served on the Army Council?”

“And never too happy about the peace process,” Holley said. “So if it
is
him . . . I wonder what he’s up to.”

“That’s for Ferguson and Roper to decide.”

“Strange, us having a foot in both camps,” Holley said. “How do you think that happened?”

“Daniel, me boy, if I was of a religious turn of mind, I’d say God must have a purpose in mind for us, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Well, I’m damned if I can,” Holley said. “Although I should imagine that the general will pay Kelly a call sooner rather than later.”

Dillon turned to Murphy. “Happy, are you, Patrick, now that you’ve come clean? I mean, as you did turn out to have lied, you must have thought I might take it the wrong way?”

“Of course not, Mr. Dillon,” Murphy said, but there was a gathering alarm on his face.

“Don’t worry,” Dillon carried on. “You’ve done us a good turn. Although it would help the situation, restore mutual trust, you might say, if you produced my friend’s Colt .25. It doesn’t seem to be on the spring clip, which I can see quite clearly inside the rain hat on the desk there.”

Murphy managed to look astonished. “But that’s nonsense,” he said, and then moved with lightning speed behind Holley, grabbed him by the collar, and produced the Colt.

“I don’t want trouble, I just want out, but if I have to, I’ll kill your friend. So just drop that Walther into the sewage, and then we’ll walk to the door and I’ll get into my car and vanish. Otherwise, your friend’s a dead man.”

“Now, we can’t have that, can we? Here we go, a perfectly good Walther down the toilet, in a manner of speaking.” Dillon dropped it in.

Murphy pushed Holley toward the entrance, the Colt against his skull, and as Dillon trailed them, cried, “Stay back or I’ll drop him.”

Holley said to Murphy, “Hey, take it easy. Just be careful, all right? I hope you’re familiar with the Colt .25. If you don’t have the plus button on, those hollow-point cartridges’ll blow up in your face.”

They were just reaching the door. Murphy loosened his grip, a look of panic on his face, and fumbled at the weapon. Holley kicked out at him, caught him off guard, then ran away and ducked behind one of the old vans. Murphy fired after him reflexively and then, seeing that the Colt worked perfectly well, he realized he’d been had. He turned and ran out through the heavy rain into the courtyard.

Dillon had a replica of Holley’s Colt in a holder on his right ankle. He drew it now, ran to the entrance and fired at Murphy, who was trying to open the door of a green Lincoln. Murphy fired back wildly, then turned, ran across the road and up the stone steps leading to the walkway, the East River lapping below it. At the top, he hesitated, unsure of which way to go, turned, and found Dillon closing in, Holley behind.

“No way out, Patrick. So have you told me the truth or not?”

“Damn you,” Murphy called, half blinded by the heavy rain, and tried to take aim.

Dillon shot him twice in the heart, twisting him around, his third shot driving him over the low rail into the river. He reached the rail in time to see Murphy surface once, then roll over and disappear in the fast-running current.

Holley moved up to join him. “What was all that about? Sometimes you play games too much, Sean.”

“Sure, and all I wanted was to make sure he was telling the truth. He’d lied at first—isn’t that a fact?”

“So is the name really Jack Kelly?”

“We’ll see, but for now, it’s time for the joys of the Plaza and our first meeting with the intriguing Captain Sara Gideon.”

“Definitely something to look forward to,” Holley said, and followed him down the steps.

A
t the same time they were driving away in their delivery truck, Patrick Murphy, choking and gasping, was swept under a pier two hundred yards away downstream. He drifted
through the pilings, banged into stone steps with a railing, hauled himself out, and paused at the top, where there was a roofed shelter with a bench.

He sat down, shivering with cold, pulled off his soaking jacket, then his shirt. The bulletproof vest he’d been wearing was the best on the market, even against hollow points. He ripped open the Velcro tabs, tossed the rest down into the river with his shirt, struggled back into his jacket, and walked through the rain to the warehouse.

He expected Dillon and Holley to be long gone and went straight inside and up to his office. He peeled off his jacket, pulled on an old sweater that was hanging behind the door, then lifted the carpet in the corner, revealing a floor safe, opened it, and removed a linen bag containing his mad money, twenty grand in large bills. He got a valise from the cupboard, put the money into it, and sat there thinking about the situation.

He had to get away for a while, the kind of place where he’d be swallowed up by the crowds. Vegas would be good, but he needed to cover his back, just in case he wanted to return to New York. He rang a number and, when a man replied, said, “I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Mr. Cagney.”

“And what would that be?”

“You sent me a nice piece of business. The man from Ulster, Michael Flynn.”

“What’s happened?”

“I had a client calling himself Grimshaw. He said he was seeking a consignment of weaponry, but the truth was he wanted information about the
Amity
and who’d been behind it.”

“And did you tell him about Michael Flynn?”

“Of course I did. He and another man with him killed Ivan and threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t tell them. Anyway, your client’s name isn’t Flynn, it’s Jack Kelly. He got careless using my phone one night.”

“How unfortunate. Have you any idea who these people are?”

“One posed as an NYPD officer, had an Ulster accent, and was called Dillon. The other was English, named Holley.”

“They seem to have been rather careless with their names.”

“That’s because I was supposed to end up dead, which I nearly was. Look, they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA. I thought your client, Flynn or Kelly or whatever his name is, should know about that.”

Cagney said, “I appreciate your warning, Patrick. What do you intend to do now?”

“Get the hell out of New York.”

“Where can I contact you?”

“I’ll let you know.”

Murphy replaced the phone, grabbed the valise, and went out. Within minutes, he was driving the undamaged car, a Ford sedan, out of the courtyard.

S
hortly afterward, Liam Cagney, a prosperous sixty-year-old stockbroker by profession and Irish American to the core, was phoning Jack Kelly in Kilmartin, County Down, in Northern Ireland.

“It’s Liam, Jack,” he said when the receiver was picked up. “You’ve got a problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“Somebody’s asked Murphy about the
Amity
. Do the names Dillon and Holley mean anything to you?”

“By God, they do. They’re both Provisional IRA renegades now working for Charles Ferguson and British Intelligence. What did Murphy tell them?”

“He told me they killed his man Ivan and almost got him. He also heard you using your real name in a phone call.”

Kelly swore. “I
knew
that was dangerous, but I had no choice. So he’s on the run? I don’t like that. You never know what he might do.”

“Don’t worry, it’s taken care of. He won’t be going anywhere.”

“That’s good to know. You’ve served our cause well, Liam, and thanks for the information about Dillon and Holley. If they turn up here, we’ll be ready for them. It’s time someone sorted those two out. Take care, old friend.”

He was seated behind his desk in his office at Talbot Place, the great country house in County Down, where he was estate manager. He sat there thinking about it, then opened a drawer, took out an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number.

There was a delay, and he was about to ring off when a voice said, “Owen Rashid.”

“This is Kelly, Owen. Sorry to bother you.”

In London, Rashid’s apartment was huge and luxurious, and as he got rid of his tie, he walked to the windows overlooking Park Lane. “Is there a problem? Tell me.”

Which Kelly did. When he was finished, he said, “Sorry about this.”

“Not your fault.” Rashid poured himself a brandy. “Dillon
and Holley. They’re bad news, but nothing I can’t deal with. My sources will tell me if they try anything.”

“I’m always amazed by what you know, Owen.”

“Not me, Jack, Al Qaeda. In spite of bin Laden’s death, it’s still a worldwide organization. We have people at every level, from a waiter serving lunch to a talkative senator in New York, to a disgruntled police chief in Pakistan, to a disenchanted government minister in some Arab state who hates corruption—or a humble gardener right here in London’s Hyde Park, watching me take my early-morning run and seeing who I’m with. In this wonderful age of the mobile phone, all they have to do is call in.”

“And I’m not sure I like that,” Kelly said.

“No sane person would. Is Mrs. Talbot still with you?”

“She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.”

“I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.”

“Where is he?” Kelly demanded.

“Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.”

“Okay, I will,” and Kelly switched off.

O
wen stood under the awning on the terrace, rain dripping down, late-night Park Lane traffic below and Hyde Park in the darkness. He loved London and always had. Half Welsh, thanks to the doctor’s daughter his father had met at Cambridge University, who had died in childbirth; half Arab from one of the smaller Oman states.

Rubat had little to commend it except its oil. It didn’t have the interminable billions of the other states, but the wealth generated by Rashid Oil was enough to keep the small population happy. Sultan Ibrahim Rashid was chairman, and his nephew, Owen Rashid, was CEO, running the company from the Mayfair office and living in considerable comfort, especially as he’d managed to avoid marriage during his forty-five years.

His one mistake had been to get involved with Al Qaeda. He was not a jihadist and wasn’t interested in the religious side of things, but he’d reasoned that it would give him more muscle in the workplace and more power in the business world for Rashid Oil. He had been welcomed with open arms, but then found he had made a devil’s bargain, for he had to obey orders like everyone else.

Right now his task was to cultivate Jean Talbot, the chairman of Talbot International. Her son had been under Al Qaeda’s thumb—pure blackmail—until he died, and he had started by attending her son’s funeral. She had apparently known nothing about the connection, but Jack Kelly had, an old IRA hand who was itching to see some action again.

To meet Jean Talbot, he’d visited the Zion Gallery in Bond
Street, where there was an exhibition of her art, and loitered until she’d turned up. A compliment on her famous portrait of her son had led to lunch at the Ivy.

T
he point of all this had only recently been made clear by his Al Qaeda masters. A single-track railway ran down from Saudi Arabia and ended up in Hazar next door to Rubat. It was called the Bacu. In modern times, it had been convenient to run pipes alongside the railway from the oil wells in southern Arabia, and over years of wheeler-dealing, the Bacu had ended up being owned by Talbot International.