A Devil Is Waiting (6 page)

“In New York? Is that legal?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

She shook her head. “This whole business is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. That General Charles Ferguson could take over my military career by Prime Minister’s warrant, which I never even knew existed, and make me a member of his private hit squad, which I’d always heard rumors about but never believed in.”

“Well, it does.”

“And I find myself in your hands, face-to-face on screen with a man who sits in a wheelchair, hair down to his shoulders, smokes cigarettes, constantly drinks whiskey, and seems to eat only bacon sandwiches at all hours, day and night.”

“I can’t deny any of it.”

Tony Doyle, a black London Cockney and sergeant in the military police, appeared beside Roper with a mug of tea. He handed it to him and smiled at Sara. “Good to see you, ma’am.”

“Tony, just go away.” He laughed and went out.

“It’s like a movie, Giles. I only see what
you
want me to. I have to take
your
word for everything.”

“My dearest girl, all that I’ve told you about Holland Park
is true, and you’ve got photos of everyone who works here, the details of their lives, their doings.”

“So Dillon trying to blow up John Major and his cabinet in London all those years ago, that’s true?”

“And he got well paid for it.”

“And Daniel Holley really was IRA and now he’s a millionaire and some sort of a diplomat for the Algerian foreign minister?”

“Absolutely. He’s not just a pretty face in a Brioni suit, our Daniel.”

“I didn’t say he was.” She shrugged. “Obviously, he’s killed a few people.”

“A lot of people, Sara, don’t kid yourself. And he’s too old for you. By the way, I went to hear your grandfather give a sermon.”

“You what?”

“I looked him up online. Rabbi Nathan Gideon, Emeritus Professor at London University, and famous for his sermons, so I went to hear one. I saw him at a synagogue in West Hampstead. Tony took me in the van. People were most kind, loaned me a yarmulke for my head and provided one for Tony, also. He thoroughly enjoyed the sermon. Human rights and what to do about its failures. I introduced myself and told him I worked for the Ministry of Defence and that we were going to be colleagues. He asked us back for tea. Whether this broke the Sabbath ruling, I’m not sure, but he did also provide some rather delicious biscuits.”

“And this was at the Highfield Court house in Mayfair?”

“That’s right. Tony was fascinated. Your grandfather gave him a book on Judaism, and he talks of nothing else.”

“Are you completely mad?”

“I sometimes think I am, but one thing is certain—Nathan Gideon is a wonderful man, and I’d be privileged to have his friendship.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes, since you appear to be interested in Holley. His father was a hard-line Protestant who didn’t like Catholics, but happened to fall in love with one who came from an equally hard-line IRA family.”

“So that explains his foot in both camps?”

“Yes. And it led him as a young man to take refuge with the IRA, who sent him to a terrorist training camp in the Algerian desert, from which he emerged a thoroughly dangerous individual. So be warned. Anything else?”

“Holland Park. What’s its purpose?”

“To keep watch over terrorism. London is the dream destination for any jihadist. He can speak openly about intending to destroy our way of life and even involve himself in a plot or two.”

“But the security services and the police are there to do something about that.”

“Like arrest him and then discover that because of human rights laws, he can’t even be deported when he entered the country illegally?”

“It’s hard to believe that.”

“You’ll take worse things than that in your stride when you work for us. A couple of years ago, an Al Qaeda–based unit caused a terrible accident to happen to Harry Miller’s limousine on Park Lane. Unfortunately, Harry’s wife was using the car that morning. She and the chauffeur were killed.”

“That’s terrible. What happened then?”

“The bombmaker was traced. It was an IRA sleeper living in London. He was dying of cancer and fingered his Al Qaeda paymaster. After he died, Dillon called in a disposal team.”

“Disposal team?”

“A quick bullet solves most problems, but you need our personal undertaker, Mr. Teague, and his associates to clean up and take the body away. A couple of hours later and it’s six pounds of gray ash.”

“What happened to the paymaster?” Sara asked.

“Harry made that personal. Went round to the Al Qaeda guy’s house, shot him dead, and left Al Qaeda to clear up. I mean, they wouldn’t be likely to call in the police, would they?”

“I wonder if I’m going to be able to cope with Holland Park.”

“You’ll do fine. I’ve seen your file. There were at least twenty Taliban corpses around that Sultan.”

“That was war.”

“And so is this, sweetheart. By the way, I’m told you’ve been awarded a Military Cross for Abusan.”

She was reeling now. “But that can’t be true.”

“The Intelligence Corps couldn’t resist pulling their golden girl up for a medal for bravery. Of course, people like us don’t get medals, it’s too public, so Ferguson isn’t pleased. But don’t worry, you’ll get it. Just don’t expect a fuss.”

“Giles, why don’t you go to hell and take Ferguson with you?”

“I’ve been there, Sara, and it wasn’t good. Enjoy the Pierre, give my best to Sean, and watch it with Daniel.”

“Just go, Giles.” And he did.

She checked on the screen again, thoroughly annoyed, and brought up Daniel Holley. Medium height, brown hair that was
rather long, the slight smile of a man who didn’t take his world too seriously and who looked ten years younger than he was.

In spite of the tattoos on his arms, common to convicts who’d spent time in the Lubyanka Prison, there was no sign of the killer on that handsome and rather attractive face, and yet that was exactly what he was. It was all there, his record in the field, meticulously put together by Giles Roper.

She went and unpacked, just the essentials since she was accompanying Ferguson to London, but she’d made sure to bring her dress uniform for tonight’s reception. The Yanks would be there, but they were friends. The Russians were another matter, and she had heard that Colonel Josef Lermov of Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, head of station at the London Embassy, would be present. His book on international terrorism had become essential reading in military circles.

She hung up her uniform tunic with the medal ribbons, the neat skirt, shirt and tie, high-polished shoes, the dress cap. Good old khaki splendor. Just like graduating at Sandhurst, except for the medals.
Ten years of her life.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sara,” she murmured, then went into the splendid bathroom and started to fill the tub.

A
t seven-thirty that evening, Dillon was sitting at a corner seat in the bar at the Pierre, dressed in a black velvet corduroy suit and enjoying a Bushmills whiskey, when Holley entered, wearing a beautifully tailored single-breasted suit of midnight blue, a snow-white shirt, and a blue striped tie.

“Daniel, you look like a whiskey advert. You’ve excelled yourself. What about our new associate?”

Holley waved to the waiter and called for a vodka on crushed ice. “I tried to get through to her room, but the duty manager said she was resting. Roper’s put everything online, though.”

“Is there much there?”

“The usual identity card photos that make anyone, male or female, look like a prison officer. She has red hair.”

“I look forward to that,” Dillon said. “I love red hair.”

“There was one unusual thing. Some video footage of her undergoing therapy for her wounded leg at Hadleigh Court.”

“The army rehab center?” Dillon said.

“I found it a bit disturbing.”

“What’s her birth date?”

“Fourth of September.”

“Virgo.” Dillon shook his head. “The only zodiac sign represented by a female. Still waters run deep with one of those, and you being the wrong sort of Leo, with Mars in opposition to Venus, you’ve got nothing but trouble on your plate where the ladies are concerned.”

“Thanks very much, Sean, most helpful, particularly as I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

“What did Roper have to say about Sara Gideon?”

“She’s a bit bothered about being dragooned into Holland Park. And apparently she’s up for a Military Cross for Abusan. He read me the details.”

“Impressive?”

“You could say that. I had a call from Harry. They’re about to land, and they’ll see us here.”

“And Sara Gideon?”

“I’ve just checked at the Plaza desk. She left in a military vehicle.”

“Seems a bit excessive, since we’re only a few blocks away.”

“It seems her boss, this Colonel Hector Grant, was in the car.”

“Well, there you are,” Dillon told him. “Privileges of rank. Probably fancies her. Let’s drink up, go upstairs, and see if we can ruin his evening.”

T
he UN reception was all that you might expect: politicians from many countries, plus their military, the great and the good, and many familiar television faces. Waiters passed to and fro, the champagne flowed, and a four-piece band played music, helped out by an attractive vocalist.

A few couples were already taking a turn on the floor, among them Sara Gideon with a gray-haired colonel in British uniform who, at a couple or three inches over six feet, towered above her—at a guess, Colonel Hector Grant.

Holley said, “That red hair is fantastic.”

“A lovely creature she is, to be sure.” Dillon nodded. “I’d seize the day if I were you, while I go and embarrass Ferguson and Harry. I can see them over there queuing up with Josef Lermov, waiting their turn to shake hands with the ambassador.”

He walked away, and Holley stayed there, watching. Colonel Grant was smiling fondly, and she was smiling up at him with such charm that it touched the heart. They were dancing slowly, and the limp in her right leg was apparent, but only a little, and she laughed at something the colonel said.

At that moment, they turned and she was facing Holley. She stopped smiling, frowning a little as if she knew him and was surprised to see him there. The music finished. She reached up to speak to the colonel, then turned, glanced briefly at Holley, and moved toward the exit leading to the restrooms.

A voice said, “Heh, I bet that colonel’s more than just her boss. I love a girl in uniform, and that limp is kind of sexy. Maybe I could do myself some good here.”

There were two of them, middle-aged, well-dressed and arrogant, and already drunk. They made for the exit, drinking from their glasses as the music started up again, and Holley went after them.

At that moment, the corridor happened to be empty, just Sara Gideon approaching the restroom door, and the one who was doing all the talking put his glass down on a stand in front of a mirror, moved up fast behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hang on there, young lady. I know you soldier girls like a little action. We know just the place to take you.”

“I don’t think so,” she said as Holley approached behind them. “I think my friend wouldn’t like that.”

“And which friend would that be?” the second man asked.

Holley punched him very hard in the kidneys and, as he cried in pain and doubled over, kicked his feet from under him and stamped in the small of his back. The other man reached into his inside breast pocket and tried to withdraw what turned out to be a small pistol. Sara put her elbow in the man’s mouth, then twisted his wrist in entirely the wrong direction until he moaned with pain and dropped the weapon. Holley picked
it up. “Two-shot derringer with hollow points. I didn’t know there were still any of these around. Very lethal.” He smacked the man’s face. “What’s your name?”

“Leo,” the man gasped. “Don’t hurt me.”

“The NYPD would just love to catch you with one of these. You’d be in a cell in Rikers tonight and, what’s worse, the showers in the morning. So I suggest you pick your friend up by the scruff of the neck and get out of here while I’m in a good mood.”

“Anything you say, anything.” Leo was terrified and reached down to his friend, hauling him up.

Holley said to Sara, “I get the impression you know who I am.”

“Let’s say I’ve seen you on screen.”

“Do you still need the restroom?”

“No, I think that can wait. I could do with a drink, but I’d prefer to go to the hotel bar for it and catch my breath.”

“The bar it is, then.” He offered her his arm, and, behind them, Leo managed to get his friend on his feet, and they lurched away.