A Devil Is Waiting (30 page)

“So she followed him?” Dillon asked.

“So did our asset right to the antiques shop in Shepherd Market, where Rashid hammered on the door and was admitted by not only Henri Legrande but Jack Kelly. She watched from a doorway and then left, not looking very happy.”

“So what’s it all add up to?” Dillon asked. “These incidents involving Holley and Sara?”

“The way I see it, I would guess that Jean Talbot was shocked to see Owen Rashid and the other two together,” Holley said.

“So anything not kosher that they’ve been up to has nothing to do with her,” Dillon added. “Does Ferguson know about this?”

“He isn’t in London. The Prime Minister invited Henry Frankel and him to join him at Chequers for the weekend.”

“Have you tried to pull Sara into the frame?”

“Good God, no,” Roper said. “She’s really been through it the last few days. She’s sleeping the sleep of the just, I trust.”

“So we can go and lift Jack Kelly and Henri Legrande?”

“I don’t see why not,” Roper said. “You’ve got your SIS warrants. Technically, you should be accompanied by the police, but when did we let that stand in the way? I’d get on with it, if I were you.”

A
t Hazar, the wind was blowing curtains of sand every which way, but visibility wasn’t so bad that Hakim couldn’t see where he was going. He made a bad landing outside the hangars, rocking from side to side. Opening the door to get out was a struggle, the wind gusting, and Feisal had closed the great hangar door for obvious reasons. Hakim, holding the tail of his headcloth across his nose and mouth, lurched to the Judas gate, opened it, and stepped inside.

Feisal, working on the Cessna, turned to greet him, wrench in hand. He spoke in Arabic. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, I’m here.” Hakim crossed to the office, opened a corner cupboard, took out an AK-47, selected a magazine from several on offer, and returned to the hangar.

Feisal, wiping oil from his hands with a rag, frowned. “What’s happening? What’s the AK for?”

“The execution of Gregory Slay. He should be arriving shortly from Gila.”

“What madness is this? Why would you wish to do such a thing?” Feisal demanded.

“He is not only an enemy of Islam but an enemy of Al Qaeda.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mullah Ali Selim, at this moment staying in Rubat on the
Monsoon
. I am privileged to have been given this task, just as you are privileged to have the opportunity to aid me.”

Feisal said, “I am a Bedouin of the Rashid tribe, born in the Rub al Khali, the Empty Quarter, where a man’s word is his bond and honor comes before everything. Slay risked his life to save mine. I won’t let you do this thing.”

Hakim reversed the AK-47 and rammed the stock into the side of his face, Feisal collapsing sideways. He had just missed the Cessna wing as he fell, and lay there, blood on his face. Hakim pulled off his headcloth, using the folds to tie his wrists, then propped him up against a wheel, stuffing another loose fold into his mouth. The wind was rising out there, howling in from the desert, and Hakim opened the Judas, peered out, and immediately drew back quickly as sand blasted into his face.

He went over to Feisal, who had his eyes open now. Hakim kicked him. “Wake up. I’ll let you watch the fun before I kill you.”

There was a genuine menace in the voice of the wind now, and then it grew louder unexpectedly and changed into the
distinctive clatter of the helicopter, which rose to a crescendo outside, and then stopped. The wind howled as if trying to get in, rattling the hangar door, and then the Judas gate opened and Gregory Slay entered.

He stood there, shaking sand from his hair, wiping it from his face with the palms of his hands, and paused at the sight of the tableau before him. Outside, the wind had subsided a little, so that it seemed rather quieter in the hangar.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why is Feisal tied up?”

“Because he’s a traitor to his own people,” Hakim said. “He actually refused to help me kill you, even though it’s in the name of Islam. It seems it’s a matter of honor. Can you believe that?”

Feisal groaned, eyes desperate, but Slay smiled. “Yes, I can.”

Hakim said, “Take off your flying jacket. I know you always carry a .38 Smith & Wesson in the left-hand inside pocket. Toss it away and kneel.”

“Anything to oblige.”

Slay did as he was told, dropping to one knee, drawing the 
.25 Belgian Leon from his ankle holster very quickly as he went down, shooting Hakim in the forehead, the hollow-point cartridge blowing away the back of his skull.

He untied Feisal and heaved him up. “He made a mess of your face.”

Feisal kicked the body. “This dog tried to get me to help him kill you.”

“What was his reason?” Slay asked.

“He was under orders from Mullah Ali Selim, who is staying
on a boat called the
Monsoon
in Rubat Harbor. It seems you are an enemy of Al Qaeda.”

Gregory Slay said in astonishment, “Are you certain about this?”

“That’s what Hakim told me.”

“Does it bother you that we’ve just killed an Al Qaeda follower?”

“Why should it? I’ll probably take my family, travel far out into the Empty Quarter, and join up with my fellow tribesmen. They won’t find me.”

“No need for that,” Slay said. “We’ll empty his pockets, take his watch and wallet, drive him into the outskirts of town, ditch the jeep, and leave his body beside it in an alley. Such robberies occur all the time. You take him in one jeep, I’ll follow in the other to bring you back. If a story is needed, he left here to go home. He’s living on his own these days anyway.”

“That is true. An excellent plan,” Feisal said.

“Then let’s get on with it.”

Everything worked perfectly, they did what was necessary on the way into town, and were back in forty minutes. The drive through the increasingly bad weather had been difficult and truly frightening, the sandstorm raging at full blast.

They returned through the Judas gate into the comparative calm of the hangars, but the storm still raged outside.

“I’ll make some coffee in the kitchen,” Feisal said. “And there is a goat stew that may be heated up if you are hungry.”

“Excellent. You see to it, while I phone friends to reassure them of my safety.”

“In such a storm as this, I think not,” Feisal said. “It makes the signal for the mobile phones impossible for a while. You have not experienced such a great storm as this during your time here, but it happens.”

Slay was already calling Roper, praying for a connection but without success. He tried several times, then went into the kitchen. The stew was heating on a bottle gas stove and smelled good as Feisal stirred.

“No luck, sahib?”

“I’m afraid not. How long will this last, would you say?”

“As Allah wills.” Feisal shrugged. “I remember several years ago a storm of such anger that there was no connection for five hours. You could keep trying, though.”

“I hope we can do better than that,” Slay said. “But what about some of that goat’s stew while we’re waiting?”

J
ack Kelly had made it back to Shepherd Market in the Citroën, had let himself into the shop in despair at the situation into which he had gotten himself. His years in prison should have taught him a lesson.

He’d had it all, the chance of a new life, a good job as the estate manager at Talbot Place, his pub in the village. Why had he listened to the siren voices of dissidents who wanted Ulster to return to armed struggle? It had been total madness.

Suddenly the quiet of the place was too much for him. What he needed was people and more whiskey, so he went out
through the shop and started along the street to an Irish bar he knew.

As he was about to enter, he glanced back and saw a red Mini pull up in front of the shop. To his horror, Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley got out and moved to the entrance. Kelly panicked on the instant, and dashed into another narrow alley that brought him into Curzon Street.

He paused at a boarded-up house with a builder’s sign and was violently sick, then moved out into Curzon Street, wiping his face with a handkerchief. The drizzle he’d been walking in suddenly increased into a downpour. He stood there in total despair, then realized there was only one place he could go, so he crossed the road and made for Jean Talbot’s house in Marley Court.

She opened the door, hair tied back. “Good God, Jack, you
are
in a mess,” she said.

“I’m in trouble.” He was half sobbing. “Deep trouble. Can I come in?”

“Of course you can.” He staggered past so close that he bumped into her and made for the sitting room. She frowned then, some inner caution making her leave the front door slightly ajar, and went after him.

He was helping himself to a whiskey from the sideboard. She said, “I’d say you’d had strong drink in abundance, from the state of you. What’s this all about?”

“Well, your good friend Owen Rashid could make a better story of it than I can. Not that he’s available to tell you anything, as he’s out there in the wild blue yonder flying to Rubat in his Learjet.”

“He’s what?” She was not pleased, and it showed. “I think
you’d better explain what you’re talking about, or Talbot Place will be needing a new estate manager.”

Kelly was helping himself to another whiskey. “You wouldn’t want to know what lover boy got us all into.”

She was furiously angry now. “Tell me what all this is about, damn you.”

“Why not?” He held his glass high. “To Owen Rashid, the Real IRA, and Ali Selim and Al Qaeda, may they all rot in hell. I was in over my head, I was so stupid, but I can’t go to prison again. I’d rather die.”

So he took a deep breath, tried to pull himself together, and told her everything.

F
ive minutes was all it took and her life changed totally. She sat there, looking at him gravely and rather sadly.

“So you’ve told me the truth, Jack? They’ve flown off with the young woman and are on their way to Rubat right now?”

“Absolutely, Jean, you’ve hit the nail right on the head.”

“If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ve just got something to do. Have another drink if you want.”

She walked out, crossed the hall into the study. There was no way she could leave Sara Gideon to her fate. How strange then that the man she needed to do the right thing now was the man she had threatened to have killed. She had put Sean Dillon’s mobile number into her phone from the card he’d given her at the luncheon, called him now, and he answered at once.

“Who is this?”

“Jean Talbot. I believe you might still be in the vicinity of Shepherd Market?”

“How the hell did you know that?”

“I think you should know that Henri Legrande and Owen Rashid have kidnapped and drugged your friend Sara Gideon and are en route to Rubat with her, acting under the orders of Ali Selim. Jack Kelly’s at my house now, drunk out of his wits, and has confessed everything to me.”

Kelly appeared in the doorway of her study in time to hear, and pulled a Colt .38 semi-automatic from his pocket and aimed at her, hand shaking.

“Stop that,” he bellowed.

“You can go to hell,” she replied.

He fired, bouncing her back against the wall. He stood there staring at her, shocked at what he had done. There was the roar of the Mini Cooper arriving outside, and Holley, first out, came through the front door, already ajar, and flung himself down, firing blindly. Kelly appeared from the study, gun raised, and it was Sean Dillon who shot him twice in the heart.

He stepped across Kelly as Holley picked himself up. Jean Talbot was trying to stand, blood seeping from her sleeve and soaking her blouse.

“Oh, dear,” she said, as he raised her, then eased her into a chair. “I’m stuck with having to thank you for saving my life instead of making plans to end yours.”

“I’ll expect you learn to live with it,” he said, as Holley came in with some kitchen towels. “Good man, Daniel. I’ll see to Jean, you call Roper, tell him what’s happened and what she
said about Sara. Also, a disposal team will be needed for Kelly. We’ll leave the front door unlocked.”

“A disposal team?” Jean inquired, as Dillon padded a towel and slipped it inside her blouse.

“We have our own funeral people. They’ll clean the place up, take the body away and deal with it.”

“And what happens to me?”

“We’re going to take you to Rosedene, our own private hospital.”

“How kind.” She smiled, but winced. “It’s beginning to hurt.”

“Don’t worry, they’re the best in London for gunshot wounds. They also do a great cup of tea.”

“That’s comforting,” she told him and fainted. He caught her, held her close, and called Holley, who had been in the hall, talking to Roper, then trying to contact Sara.