A Devil Is Waiting (32 page)

“Ferguson must feel he’s finally arrived, so close to the Prime Minister and the seat of power, his advice sought by international politicians. Just think what’s waiting for him tomorrow when I call to break the news about Sara Gideon.”

Owen said, “How’s my uncle?”

“Just the same. When he goes, it will be like the snap of a finger, for everything will change, and for you also, is it not so?”

“Sorry, the weather’s turning turbulent again,” Owen said. “I’ve got to turn off the autopilot and get back to flying this plane.”

He switched off his mobile and took control, breathing deeply, his hands firm on the column. “God, but I hate that bastard.”

“Join the club,” Henri said. “But as it isn’t an option, settle for a cup of coffee, which I’ll get for you now.”

S
lay was speaking to Holley, Dillon listening. “I checked with the control tower. I told them an Algerian Falcon was arriving carrying a diplomatic envoy booked through to Bahrain. It’d only be on the ground for an hour or two. Just passing through, that’s your story. So you’ll be in an hour after the Lear lands at Rubat. Round about midnight.”

“And how long in the Scorpion from Hazar?”

“Half an hour, and since the sandstorm has caused major disruption, we are allowed to land anywhere. The port area, for example.”

“And getting to the
Monsoon
. How would that be done?”

“I’ve seen the police launch going out there from time to time. That could be a possibility for men of enterprise.”

“Which includes you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, old son.”

“And how have you been surviving the sandstorm?”

“I keep myself hidden. A policeman turned up a couple of hours ago to ask where I was, but Feisal, my mechanic, told him that if I wasn’t at my house, he had no idea, and he said the same about Hakim Asan. It’s not surprising someone’s not found his body yet what with all the disruption. Feisal asked the policeman what it was all about, and he told him there had been an inquiry from the Rubat police.”

“Ali Selim seeking information about his Al Qaeda brother,” Holley said. “We’ll have to deliver it personally. See you soon.”

T
he wind blowing out of the desert in Rubat was not as bad as it had been, but still carried sand, enough to keep the streets clear.

On the
Monsoon
, Captain Ahmed stood at the rail, watching Colonel Khazid in a motor launch crewed by three of his officers wearing yellow oilskins with
Police
emblazoned on their backs. They stayed unhappily in the launch while Khazid pulled himself up on the deck, nodded to Ahmed, who was tying the line, and went to report.

Ali Selim sat at one end of the table, Fatima at the other. “There you are, and none too soon,” Selim said. “Since Hakim is not with you, I assume there’s obviously no sign of a Scorpion helicopter at the airport.”

“But there is at Hazar,” Khazid said eagerly, glad to have some sort of news at last. “After repeated attempts, I finally managed to get through to a colleague on the airport police. It’s chaos up there because of the weather. Lots of planes coming in, queuing up to refuel, then passing on.”

“I haven’t got the slightest interest in any of that,” Ali Selim told him. “What about Hakim and this man Slay?”

“The mechanic Feisal said that Hakim returned from a flight to Gila, and then took one of the jeeps and went home. If he isn’t there, he has no idea where he is.”

Fatima said, “And Slay?”

“He flew in from Gila some time after Hakim, when the weather was quite bad. He also took a jeep and left for a small hotel in town where he stays. My colleague checked there, only to find that they haven’t seen him.”

Ali Selim got up and paced around, frowning. “A mystery here, compounded by such extreme weather. Anything could have happened, don’t you think?”

He had turned to Fatima, who nodded. “There are more important things to consider now.” She glanced at her watch. “The Lear will be landing in forty-five minutes. I’ll meet it and bring Sara Gideon to you.”

“Of course. Wait for Fatima on deck, Colonel.”

Khazid retreated and Ali Selim said, “Take Ibrahim with you. Make sure she’s treated with all respect, whatever state she is in.”

“Of course, master, a great day.” She hurried out.

“From the state of the rest of the town, I’d say they’ve had problems with the power supply,” Owen said. “I suspect the airport’s come on by royal command.”

From behind them, there was a clattering noise of something
falling over and then Sara Gideon’s voice was heard. “What is this? Where in the hell am I?”

“Get us landed, and quickly,” Henri said and returned to the cabin.

She had tossed away the cover and was trying to unbuckle the seat belt. She paused and looked up at him angrily. Her voice was normal, yet she was furiously angry.

“Who are you and where am I?” She managed to free herself and swing her legs to the floor.

“Calm yourself,” he told her. “You are about to land in Rubat, which is next door to Yemen. You’ve just enjoyed an eight-hour sleep from England on this Learjet.”

She didn’t even seem bewildered, although that could have been the drug. She simply frowned and said, “Do I know you?”

“You would have liked to get your hands on me, yes. I tried to blow up your friend, Holley’s, Alfa and almost got shot.”

“So you were responsible for that?”

“And a couple of other things.”

“But not for you, for someone else? Am I right?”

“Completely. In a way, you may consider yourself to be a prisoner of war.”

“And who might be my captor?”

“Mullah Ali Selim.”

Throughout their conversation, the Lear had been descending, and now it landed, so that both of them went staggering, grabbing at seats as the plane braked, turning from the runway toward Fatima, Ibrahim, Khazid and several policemen who were waiting.

On the Lear, the engines were switched off, and as Sara
pulled herself up, Owen Rashid moved in to the cabin from the flight deck. He didn’t know what to say, a kind of desperation on his face.

“What on earth are
you
playing at?” she demanded. “Does Jean Talbot know about this?”

“Of course not.”

“Ali Selim?” she said. “What’s
that
all about? You’re a friend of the Prime Minister, for God’s sake.”

“And not only half Arab but nephew of the Sultan of Rubat, who could die any day now.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Al Qaeda has got me by the throat, it’s that simple. They want me to inherit.”

She turned to Henri. “What’s your excuse?”

“We don’t make excuses in the Foreign Legion. If I didn’t do what Ali Selim wanted, I’d be a marked man. Alas, I was looking out for a friend who had enough sense to run away from this party.”

She nodded as Owen opened the airstair door. “So what comes now?”

“Ali Selim is waiting to meet you on a dhow called
Monsoon
, moored in the harbor,” Owen said. “Meet the welcoming committee. The fat man in uniform is Colonel Khazid, the chief of police, and it would be useless to seek his help. He’s Al Qaeda to the hilt—they all are in this town. The woman is Fatima Karim, who handles administration for Selim. The big man in black is Ali Selim’s bodyguard, Ibrahim.”

“We’ve met before,” Sara said. “But at a distance, I’m happy to say.”

She went down the steps, as they moved toward her, and it was Fatima who took charge. “Captain Gideon, you will come with me. Mullah Ali Selim is most anxious to meet you.”

“A great honor, I’m sure, which I could do without, but I don’t appear to have much choice in the matter.” She followed Fatima, Ibrahim leading the way. When he opened the rear door of the car and turned to face her, she said, “Why, Ibrahim, it’s you. Last time I saw you was in Amira, with fifteen or sixteen dead men in the street.” His stare was frightening, but Sara smiled. “Oh, dear, were they friends of yours?”

She got in the car, and Fatima joined her. “Be careful, Captain, Ibrahim is a dangerous man.”

He got in the front beside a police driver, and Sara said, “Not to me, because his boss wouldn’t like it. In any case, if this thing is going the way I suspect, then I’m far too valuable.”

“I’d take care, Captain, I really would.”

“I’m a serving soldier in the British Army, shot in combat in Afghanistan, a permanent limp in the right leg. I’ve killed many Taliban, which means many Muslims. What can Ibrahim do to me that has not been done? Ravish me? But what kind of dog does that? Not a real man, certainly.”

All this was delivered in perfect Arabic. Ibrahim reached up to angle the driving mirror, and she looked into eyes filled with hate.

He said, “A time will come when you beg me for mercy.”

“I’m frightened to death,” Sara said, as the small procession of vehicles drew up on the jetty. Khazid and six of his men led the way to a police launch followed by Ibrahim, Fatima and Sara, Owen Rashid and Henri Legrande behind. They boarded,
only the police remaining on deck in their uniforms, the others under cover. Henri’s chest had been hurting for some time, probably as the result of flying at a great height for so long. He coughed, reaching for a handkerchief, coughed again. When he examined it, he found fresh blood. So it was finally beginning.

He looked at Sara Gideon in the corner and then to Ibrahim, evil personified, and thought of her in the hands of such a man, thought of Mary, the love of his life, and knew what she would have wanted him to do now that he was close to the end. He carried a Beretta in a shoulder holster. He also carried a folded flick-knife in his left trouser pocket.

When the launch reached the landing platform for them to go up the steps, and there was a momentary crush, he murmured,
“Excusez-moi, Capitaine,”
and slipped the knife into her hand. Her fingers closed over it, she gave him not even the briefest of glances, and went after Fatima, who had followed Ibrahim out.

Several sailors had appeared, and Ahmed was talking to them. Ibrahim carried on, leading the way through to where Ali Selim waited, sitting behind the table in his usual place.

“As you ordered, master.”

Ali Selim examined Sara gravely. “You are a remarkable woman, Captain.”

“Why am I here?” Sara asked calmly.

“I’m sure you can answer that for yourself, Sara Gideon. You are the largest stockholder in the Gideon Bank, where your grandfather keeps the chairman’s seat warm for you while you serve Queen and Country. How much would the bank pay to
get you back in one piece? A hundred million sterling, to start with?”

“Oh, a lot more than that. After all, it’s mostly
my
money, isn’t it?”

“You know, you are absolutely right.” He smiled. “But what a poor host I am. Sit down, all of you, at the dining table. I gave orders to the chef to provide something, in spite of the lateness of the hour.”

He nodded to Ibrahim, who went and opened the double door at the far end, and four waiters pushed in trolleys and started transferring a range of rice dishes, salads, and baked fish, working fast to lay it all out.

O
n the other side of the world in Britain, three hours behind Rubat, Charles Ferguson, after a first-class dinner at Chequers with the great and the good, was enjoying a cigar on the garden terrace with Henry Frankel, when the French foreign minister came out, elegant in his black velvet dinner jacket.

“There you are. The Prime Minister sends his apologies. He’ll join us when he can. He’s speaking to someone at the UN in New York. I’ve just been talking to my chief secretary in Paris. I’m glad to hear Claude Duval’s been able to help you with the Frenchman you were after, Charles.”

“Claude Duval?” Ferguson asked.

“Colonel Duval, DGSE. They’ve managed a match on some mysterious Frenchman you had a photo of. It seems he is an
ex–Foreign Legionnaire, one Henri Legrande, who used to train the IRA, and others of a like persuasion, in a camp in the Algerian desert.”

Henry Frankel murmured, “You didn’t tell me, Charles.”

“More like, someone didn’t tell me.” The Prime Minister looked out, called them in for drinks, and Ferguson whispered to Frankel, “Make my excuses, I’ve got a phone call to make.”

H
e said to Roper, “So it would appear that the anonymous Frenchman was very real indeed and up to no good?”

“Absolutely,
mea culpa
,” Roper said. “You had other things on your mind, cabinet stuff, keeping the politicians happy. That’s what it’s all about these days. Mind you, it might get you a knighthood.”

“That’s damn unfair, Giles. What about this Henri Legrande? Who is he?”

“Has an antiques shop in Shepherd Market. Had Jack Kelly staying with him for a few days. They were responsible for the bomb under Holley’s car, amongst other things.”