A Devil Is Waiting (9 page)

“But I don’t know if he’s still around,” Kelly said. “We haven’t spoken in years.”

“I just phoned him three minutes ago. When he answered, I said sorry, wrong number. What I suggest is you phone him, tell him you’ll be in London later today and thought you’d look him up.”

“But what do I say to him?”

“Stick with the truth. After all, your IRA past is no surprise to him. Stress that all you’re seeking is his expertise on the best way to handle Ferguson, and that you’re not expecting him to carry a gun for you or anything like that. Don’t offer him money—the kind of man he is would be offended, and I suspect he’s got more than he knows what to do with.”

Kelly said, “Owen, you’re a genius.”

“I’m not going to argue with that. Now, get moving.”

“Right,” Kelly said. “I’ll phone Henri, then I’ll get the Beech Baron to pick me up from Drumgoole. I’ll cover my back by phoning the finance director at Talbot International and telling him I need to discuss the estate’s books. What are you up to?”

“I’m taking Jean out to dinner tonight.”

“You seem to be seeing a lot of her these days.”

“Don’t get ideas. I’m just a substitute for her son. You once told me he apologized to her in front of you for not having told her he’d served in the SAS and that he’d killed many members of the Provisional IRA.”

“That’s true.”

“And you really think she wasn’t aware of his involvement with Al Qaeda?”

“I’m sure of it, Owen,” Kelly said. “I was as close to him as anyone, and he didn’t tell me about it until the last couple of months of his life. Why do you ask?”

“I like Jean very much, but I also feel a certain amount of guilt where she is concerned.”

“Why is that?” Kelly asked.

“She adored her son, she makes that very obvious, and yet the blunt truth is that he lied to her about his life and what he’d been doing.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m doing the same to her, and I don’t like it.”

“Explain that,” Kelly told him.

“It concerns Rubat and an old railway that Talbot International owns. Al Qaeda would like to see it extended for their own reasons.” He gave Kelly chapter and verse and ended by saying, “But just as her son did, I’m feeding her Al Qaeda lies. What the hell can I do?”

“Nothing,” Kelly told him. “And don’t go beating yourself up. Poor wild Justin suffered at the hands of Al Qaeda, and you and I are caught in the same web—there isn’t a thing we can do about it. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. The Saudis, backed by America and the UN, will never allow the Bacu extension. It would be madness.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“Well, sometimes I am.” Kelly laughed. “You know something, Owen? I’m feeling better already, so let’s just play the hand the Good Lord’s given us for the moment and see where
it leads. You take Jean out tonight and give her a good time, but drop the idea of being the son substitute. It doesn’t suit you.”

He rang off, and Owen crossed to the window and opened it to the terrace. The morning traffic was nose-to-tail and he stood there, smoking a cigarette and thinking about what Kelly had said. One thing was certain. The advent of Henri Legrande was going to make life very interesting.

He flicked his cigarette out into the traffic and went back inside.

L
ater that day, Jack Kelly was on the corner of Park Lane and Curzon Street, walking down toward Shepherd Market, carrying a modest overnight bag. He had never visited this area before, and it fascinated him, the narrow streets, the wide variety of restaurants and shops.

He found Mary’s Bower, two narrow windows, each featuring a painting, flanking a Georgian door with a brass knocker, a lovely hand-painted sign above with the name above a drooping mulberry over an empty sofa. He felt sad about that, realizing what the imagery meant, and stepped back into a doorway as it started to rain.

The truth was that he hadn’t phoned Legrande, perhaps because of a fear of rejection, and yet he
had
come, which had to mean something. At that moment, the red velvet curtain behind the painting in the window to the left was pulled back and the Frenchman appeared.

Despite the years, it was undeniably the Henri Legrande who had meant so much in the life of Jack Kelly all those years
ago. A little heavier, gray-haired, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles and a green apron. He made an adjustment to the painting on its easel, glanced up, and saw Kelly. He stood there, very still, then disappeared behind the curtain. A moment later, the door opened.

Kelly crossed over, and Legrande said, “Jack, is it really you?”

“As ever was, Henri.”

Legrande removed his spectacles, stuffed them into his apron pocket, hugged him, and kissed him on both cheeks. “After all these years. Come in at once.”

I
n the Victorian sitting room in the apartment above the shop, Kelly was amazed at the number of photos, not only of Mary but of Mary and Henri. Legrande found him examining them when he came in with champagne.

“So she’s still with you,” Kelly said.

“Always has been.”

“No room for another woman in your life.”

Henri thumbed off the champagne cork and paused. “Now and then. After all, a man needs a woman, but nothing serious.” He raised his glass. “To me and to you and all those other young bastards at Camp Fuad, most of whom are probably dead by now.”

“I can certainly think of a few Provos who are,” Kelly told him.

Henri poured him another and they sat down. “You were in the news when this peace process went through,” Henri said.
“There were lists of the prisoners pardoned. So you were serving five life sentences in the Maze Prison? A formidable record.”

“I never shot anyone who wasn’t shooting at me first,” Kelly said. “We were fighting a war.”

“So what do you do now, how do you make a living?” Henri reached for a second bottle and opened it. “Get on with it—I want to know it all.”

So Kelly did, talking through the drink and while Henri Legrande sat there impassively, smoking one Gauloise after another, taking in everything, including the Talbot saga, which somehow merged seamlessly into the Al Qaeda connection.

There was a long silence when Kelly finished talking, and then Henri Legrande sighed and shook his head. “You would appear to be in deep shite here, my friend—isn’t that what you say in Ulster? The situation seems plain. Either you sort out this General Ferguson and his people or Al Qaeda’s merry men will hold you to account, and whatever they decide is bound to be unpleasant.”

“So what the hell do I do?” Kelly asked.

“You go and have a long hot shower and sober up.” Henri checked his watch. “I’ve got to close the shop and make some calls, so you sort yourself out and we’ll go and have a great dinner somewhere and decide on our next move later tonight. I’m going to help you to get you out of this stupid mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Who better than your old teacher?”

“For God’s sake, Henri, I turn up out of the blue after all these years.” Kelly shook his head. “It’s not right.”

“As it happens, it’s exactly what I need.”

Kelly frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve got cancer, my friend, a bad one. I’ve got six months at the most.” He smiled. “So you see, this will be as much for me as it is for you.”

He turned and walked through the shop. Kelly stood there for a moment, then picked up his overnight bag and went in search of the spare bedroom.

T
he Gulfstream had landed, and its passengers were going their separate ways. Ferguson in his Daimler was dropping Harry Miller at his house in Dover Street. Dillon had his Mini Cooper, and Holley an Alfa Romeo Spider.

“I’m staying at the Dorchester,” he said to Sara. “Highfield Court is only just up the road, isn’t it? I’ll drop you off if you’d like.”

“Why not?” she said, and got in the Alfa.

Ferguson called: “Take a break. We’ll meet at noon on Thursday to take one last look at the security plans. That includes the RAF,” he added as Parry and Lacey emerged from the Gulfstream.

“No peace for the wicked,” Squadron Leader Lacey said.

“Stop moaning. You could be in Afghanistan,” Holley told him.

“All right for some people, getting to chauffeur good-looking women,” Parry called.

Holley slid behind the wheel. “Bloody flyboys.”

He drove away, and Sara said, “What have you got against pilots?”

“Not a thing. As it happens, I’m one myself.”

“Is there no end to your talents?”

“Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Which for the moment shut her up, and he turned out onto the main road and headed for London.

She fiddled with his CD player and immediately found Sinatra belting out “Night and Day.” She joined in for a while, word perfect.

As it finished, Holley said, “You like Cole Porter, then?”

“Love him. It’s not just the music—the lyrics stand up as poetry in their own right.”

She tilted her seat a little and lay back, listening.

Holley said, “Are you feeling reasonably happy about things now? I mean, Ferguson forcing you to join the team?”

She glanced at him sharply. “Are you worried about me?”

“Of course not.”

She smiled. “Oh yes, you are.”

“Worried about the hero of Abusan? Why would I be?”

Instead of annoying her, the remark made her smile, but with a certain complacency. “Poor Daniel,” she said, turned up the volume, and started to hum along with Sinatra.

H
e left Park Lane at the Dorchester Hotel and drove along South Audley Street, turning right before Grosvenor Square into Highfield Court. It was a fine mid-Victorian property of four stories, standing back from the road so that there was no parking problem. He drove into the drive, got out of the Alfa, and retrieved her luggage.

“Why don’t you come in. I’d like you to meet my grandfather.”

She turned, walked to the door, and he followed, suddenly awkward. As she got her key out, he said, “Look, you’ve been away for some time. He’ll be thrilled to see you. I’ll just be intruding.”

She turned to look at him, quite calm. “Daniel, do you have a problem with me?”

For a moment he was speechless, then he said, “Look, Sara, what is this?”

She prodded a finger into his chest. “I’d like you to meet my grandfather because I think you should.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll have to work that out for yourself.”

As she turned, the door was opened by a comfortable-looking dark-haired woman who wore horn-rimmed spectacles and a green smock. “So you’re back?” she said. “We wondered when to expect you. You’ve never heard of the telephone? A great invention.”

“Sadie, I love you desperately.” She gave the woman a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I was in Arizona, the other end of the world. Is Granddad at home?”

“In the study. But he’s going out this evening.”

She was examining Holley as she spoke, and Sara said, “Mrs. Cohen is our housekeeper, Daniel.”

That the woman was running an eye over him made Holley feel foolish, standing there with a bag in each hand. He put them down.

“A pleasure, Mrs. Cohen.” He held out his hand.

She took it briefly, then turned to Sara. “I’ll bring you tea.”

She moved down a wide corridor, obviously making for
the kitchen area. They followed her for a moment, then Sara opened a large mahogany door to the left and led the way in.

The room was a relic from the past, a wonderful Victorian library, walls lined with mahogany paneling or bookshelves, a period fireplace, Turkish carpeting on the floor. Rabbi Nathan Gideon was seated at his desk in a swivel chair and turned around as they entered. He had the look of a scholar and wise man, but with the kind of face that seemed ready to break into a smile at any time. The fringe of gray beard suited him, and his unruly hair topped by a black velvet yarmulke somehow made him look quite dashing. So did the old black velvet smoking jacket he wore.

He flung his arms wide and stood to greet her, removing his reading glasses. “My dearest girl, how wonderful to see you.”

They hugged for a few moments. “I love you so damn much, Granddad,” she said fiercely.

“Such language,” he told her. “You’re bringing tears to my eyes.” He took out a hanky to dab at them. “What will your friend think?”

“That you’re a lucky man to have such a beautiful granddaughter, Rabbi.” Holley held out his hand. “Daniel Holley. Sara and I are colleagues.”

“Is that so?” Nathan Gideon led the way across to the fireplace, where two sofas faced each other across a glass coffee table. He sat down with Sara in one, Daniel facing them. The door opened and Sadie Cohen pushed in a trolley.