A Devil Is Waiting (7 page)

T
hey sat at a corner table and waited until a waiter brought a martini cocktail for her and a large vodka for him. She picked up her glass.

“You don’t take prisoners, do you?” she asked.

“I could never see the point. The way you handled that guy with the derringer, though, suggests you could have managed quite well on your own.”

“I have a black belt in aikido. Giles Roper warned me about you, you know.”

“So you’re familiar with my wicked past?”

“And Holland Park,” she said. “And what goes on there. I’ve been given full access. I must say he’s very thorough.”

“He’s that, all right.”

“That horrible man.” She sipped her martini. “He was afraid for his life. You frightened the hell out of him.”

“I meant to, he deserved it.” He took his vodka down in a quick swallow, Russian style, and she watched him gravely, waiting for more. “Look, I was involved in a terrible incident years ago that makes it impossible for me to stand by and do nothing when I see a woman in trouble.”

“Being familiar with your file, I understand why.”

“Well, there you are, then,” Holley said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

“I saw you watching me dancing with Colonel Grant, but you looked startled for some reason.”

He shrugged. “Just astonished at finding the best-looking woman I’d seen in a uniform for years.”

She smiled. “Why, Daniel, you certainly know how to please a lady.”

“No, I don’t. I’ve never had much time for relationships, not in my line of work. Here today and possibly gone forever tomorrow, if you follow me. What about you?”

“If you’ve immersed yourself in my career, you’ll know that the past ten years have been one bloody war after another. There was a chap I got close to in Bosnia who was killed by a Serb sniper. Then there was a major in Iraq who went the same way, courtesy of the Taliban.”

“What about Afghanistan?”

“With my Pashtu and Iranian, I traveled the country a lot.” She smiled bleakly. “Death seemed to follow me around.”

“Well, he must have thought he’d got you in his clutches at last on the road to Abusan.” He smiled. “If somebody did decide to make a movie, they couldn’t do better than let you play yourself.”

“You should be my agent, Daniel.”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me by my first name. That’s got to mean something.” He looked beyond her and saw Ferguson, Miller, and Dillon entering the bar, Colonel Josef Lermov with them. “Look who’s here.”

The Russian, instead of his uniform, was wearing an old tweed country suit, blue shirt, and brown woolen tie. He advanced on Holley and hugged him.

“I must say you’re looking wonderful, Daniel.” He looked down at Sara. “And this can only be the remarkable Captain Sara Gideon.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “A great honor and privilege, one soldier to another.”

“Coming from the author of
Total War
, Colonel Lermov, I must say the privilege is all mine,” she replied in perfect Russian.

He smiled. “So your reputation as an exceptional linguist speaks for itself. I’m impressed.”

Miller called for coffee and they all sat down, Ferguson beside Sara. “Been in the wars, my dear, so Security tells me? You were on camera.”

“I’ve just seen it, Daniel,” Dillon told Holley. “You were your normal totally brutal self, and served those bastards right.”

“I agree,” Lermov said. “Frankly, I’d like to sentence them to a year in Station Gorky in Siberia and see what they made of that. Unfortunately, this is not my parish.”

“So what’s going to happen?” Sara asked.

“We’ve discussed it with management, and the gentlemen involved, having been suitably threatened and banned from ever visiting the hotel again, have departed with their tails between their legs.”

“They can count themselves lucky,” Holley said. “NYPD could have caused them real trouble over that derringer.”

“Anyway, there it is,” Ferguson said. “Welcome to the club, Sara, glad to have you on board. Congratulations to you, Dillon and Holley, for your handling of the
Amity
business. Though Murphy wasn’t shot to death in Brooklyn, as we thought. He must have been wearing some sort of body armor. He’s turned up close to his apartment, stabbed in the heart. Whoever he was dealing with obviously wanted his mouth shut.”

“It must have been a hell of a good vest he was wearing when I shot him into the East River,” Dillon said.

“Yes, but the important thing was the Irish connection you turned up and our old friend Jack Kelly.” Coffee was being passed around and he carried on, “You may be surprised that we’re talking about our highly illegal conduct in Brooklyn in front of Colonel Lermov here.” He turned to Lermov. “Perhaps you’d like to make a point, Josef?”

“Of course, Charles.” He removed his spectacles and polished them with a handkerchief. “In the old Cold War days, we were sworn enemies, but in a world of international terrorism, we’d be fools not to help each other out. Putin agrees with me.” He turned to Holley. “The Al Qaeda plot to assassinate Putin in Chechnya last year was foiled by information supplied by you, Daniel. He will never forget that.”

“I wish he would,” Holley said.

Ferguson ignored him. “So we have common interests, but never mind that now. I’ll be in touch with you sooner than you think, Josef, but for the moment, we’ll say good-bye. We’re all heading back to London tonight.”

He shook hands with Lermov, walked to the door, and they all followed, Holley taking Sara’s hand. “Is it always like this?” she demanded.

“Only most of the time,” Dillon said, and turned to glance at them, smiling. “I see you two seem to have met somewhere.”

And they walked into the night.

I
t was an hour before midnight, New York time, when Ferguson’s Gulfstream rose up through heavy rain to forty thousand feet and headed out into the Atlantic. Lacey and Parry, his usual RAF pilots, were at the controls—Sara had met them in the departure lounge and they’d indicated their approval. She was lying back in a red seat, and Parry passed her and spoke to Ferguson.

“Definitely heavy winds in mid-Atlantic, General. Could take us seven hours at least. Will that be all right?”

“It will have to be, Flight Lieutenant,” Ferguson told him. “Carry on.”

Parry paused as he passed Sara and grinned. “He can be grumpy on occasion. Sorry we didn’t have a steward, but you’ll find anything you could want in the kitchen area. We’re very free and easy.”

He returned to the cockpit and she stretched out comfortably and listened to what was going on, for they had the screen on and were having a face-to-face with Roper.

“I can see you in the back there, Sara,” Roper called. “I warned you about Daniel.”

“Enough of this erotic byplay,” Ferguson growled, “and let’s get down to business. These different kinds of IRA dissidents, Giles, is it really possible for them to work together?”

“I don’t see why not, but Dillon and Holley are the ones to ask. They’ve been there and done that, Dillon since he was nineteen. What’s your opinion, Sara? After all, the peace process was supposed to solve things, giving Sinn Fein seats at Stormont.”

“But the ideal to strive for has always been a united Ireland,” Dillon said. “So as long as Ulster remains with the Crown, dissident factions will have a reason to continue the struggle.”

“A bleak prospect,” Ferguson said. “Which simply means they—whoever
they
are—have an excuse for continuing general mayhem.”

“I’m afraid so.” Dillon shrugged. “There are supposed to be sleepers all over London, just awaiting the call to action.”

“Which brings us to Jack Kelly,” Roper said. “A well-known Provo who’s served time in the Maze Prison he may be, but he was automatically pardoned as part of the peace process. So what’s to be done?”

“A bullet in the head as he walks home some wet night?” Holley suggested.

Sara said, “I wonder how many times he did that himself during his years with the IRA.”

“So what
do
we do?” Holley asked. “Lift him?”

“Impossible,” Roper said. “His lawyers would run rings around the prosecution.”

“You’re all right,” Ferguson told them. “Even you, Sara,
though I would point out that assassination is the business we’re in. No, we’ll apparently do nothing, leaving you, Roper, genius that you are, to come up with some way of monitoring his comings and goings.”

“That’s asking a lot,” Miller said. “He’ll be using only encrypted mobiles.”

Roper shrugged. “We’ll see. Something might turn up.”

“I’d sleep on it if I were you,” Miller told him.

“You clown, Harry, it’s breakfast time here.”

The screen went dark and Ferguson promptly fell asleep. Sara was in the rear of the cabin and Holley took the next seat.

“Are you tired?”

“I certainly should be.”

“Because it’s all so exciting.” He said it as a statement.

“Disturbing, Daniel, that’s what I’d say, and rather frightening.”

Holley smiled through the half-light. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

In front of them, Dillon muttered, “For God’s sake, kiss the girl good night, and let’s get some sleep.”

Sara smiled and murmured to Holley, “See you in the morning.”

She pulled a blanket over her knees, closed her eyes, and lay back. Holley watched her for a while, wondering what was happening to him, then he also closed his eyes.

The drone of the engines in flight was the only sound now. Parry peered in from the cockpit and dimmed the lights even further.

Dillon wasn’t sleeping, just lying back considering what the day had brought. A lovely young woman, Sara Gideon, and
she’d obviously had a profound effect on Holley, but they were in entirely the wrong profession for that kind of thing. A pity, but there it was.

He moved on to analyzing the new situation in Ulster.
Always
the same. Reactionary dissidents who would never be satisfied till the sound of gunfire echoed in the streets and the killing began once more. What the hell was Jack Kelly playing at? He’d lost his only son to the conflict, spent years in jail.

“Christ,” Dillon murmured, “you’d think he’d have learned some sense by now.”

But there was no forgiveness in this world, and he remembered Jean Talbot in the Zion Gallery. She’d appreciated why he’d had to shoot her son, but couldn’t possibly forgive, had put out a contract on him—one of the advantages of being rich, she’d said.

Nothing to be done about that. People had been trying to kill him for years. He remembered the old days, going to the horns in the bullring in Ibiza, waiting for the bull to rush out of the gate of fear.
It comes as God wills,
the toreros used to say, which just about summed it up.

O
ne-thirty over the Atlantic, but seven-thirty in London, where Jean Talbot was already enjoying the first cup of coffee of the day. She’d lived in the Regency House in Marley Court in Mayfair for years. It was just off Curzon Street, convenient for Hyde Park, and only ten minutes’ walk away from Owen Rashid’s apartment, a decided plus in view of the way their relationship was developing.

Her mobile sounded and there he was. “Are you up for lunch today? There’s something I wanted to run by you.”

“Sorry, Owen, I’ve got a meeting with the vice chancellor.” Though she was head of Talbot International, she mostly let her nephew, Gregory, handle things as CEO while she pursued an academic career. “Are you going for a run in the park?”

“Just about to leave.”

“I’ll join you if you like. I’ll be at the Hilton end of the subway.”

Which she was, and they walked through, entered Hyde Park, and had a brisk thirty-minute jog which ended with coffee by the café at the Serpentine. As always, she thoroughly enjoyed his company. No silly ideas of romance at her age. In a sense, he was filling her son’s place, and he was well aware of the fact.