Jack Higgins: A Devil is vaiting

Which it was bitter winter, with ice-cold rain in bursts and occasional flurries of wet snow. The canvas roof offered a certain protection, and Sara folded her arms, closed her eyes, and dozed.

She came awake with a start as Frank touched her shoulder.

We re leaving the convoy soon and going off to the left.

She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see that an hour had slipped by since leaving the compound. As she pulled herself together and sat up, a tremendous explosion blew the lead truck apart, the sudden glare lighting up the surrounding countryside.

Christ almighty, Frank said. The bastards are ambushing us. As he spoke, the rear truck behind them exploded.

Passing through a defile at that part of the road, the convoy was completely bottled up and the light from the explosions showed a large number of Taliban advancing.

Guns opened up all along the length of the convoy, and Alec started to fire the machine gun as Wally called in on the radio. There was general mayhem now, the tribesmen crying out like banshees, firing as they ran, and several bullets struck the Sultan. Sara crouched to one side in the rear seat and fired her Glock very carefully, taking her time. Frank leaned over, opened the box of RPGs, loaded up and got to work, the first grenade he fired exploding into the advancing ranks. There was a hand grenade hurled in return that fell short, exploding, and Sara was struck by shrapnel just above her left eye.

She fell back, still clutching her Glock, and fired into the face of the bearded man who rushed out of the darkness, the hollow-point cartridges blowing him back and the man behind him. There was blood in her eye, but she wiped it away with the end of her headcloth and rammed another clip into the butt of the Glock.

Wally, behind the wheel, was firing his AK over the side into the advancing ranks and suddenly cried out as a bullet caught him in the throat. Alec was standing up behind the machine gun, working it furiously from side to side, while Frank fired another grenade and then a third.

The headcloth pressed against the shrapnel wound stemmed the blood, and Sara fired calmly, making every shot count as the Taliban rushed in out of the darkness.

Frank, standing behind her to fire another grenade, cried out, staggered, dropped the launcher, and fell back against the seat, hit in his right side. Above him, Wally was blown backward from his machine gun, vanishing over the side of the Sultan.

Sara pulled off her headcloth, explored Frank with her fingers until she found the hole in his shirt and the wound itself. She compressed her headcloth and held it firmly in place. As he opened his eyes, she reached for his hand.

His eyes flickered open, and she said, Can you hear me? He nodded dimly. Press hard until help comes.

She scrambled up behind the machine gun, gripped the handles, and started to fire in short bursts at the advancing figures. The gun faltered, the magazine box empty. There weren t as many out there now, but they were still coming. Very slowly, and in great pain, she took off the empty cartridge box and replaced it with the spare. There was blood in her eye, and she was more tired than she had ever been in her life.

She stood there, somehow indomitable in the light of the fires, with her red hair, and the blood on her face, and glanced down at Frank.

Are you still with me? He nodded slightly.

Good man.

She reached for the machine gun again and was hit somewhere in the right leg so that she had to grab the handles to keep from falling over. There was no particular pain, which was common with gunshot wounds the pain would come later. She heaved herself up.

A final group of Taliban was moving forward, and she started firing again, methodically sweeping away a whole line of them. Suddenly, they were all gone, fading into the darkness. She stood there, her leg starting to hurt.

There was a sound of helicopters approaching fast, the crackle of flames, the smell of battle, the cries of soldiers calling to one another as they came down the line of trucks. She was still gripping the handles of the machine gun, holding herself upright, but now she let go, wiped her bloody face with the back of her hand, and leaned down.

It s over, Frank. Are you all right?

He looked up at her, still clutching her headcloth to his body.

My God, I wouldn t like to get on the wrong side of you, ma am, he croaked.

She reached down, grabbing his other hand, filled with profound relief, and then she became aware of the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life, cried out, and, at that instant, found herself back in her seat on the plane to New York.

The flight attendant was leaning over her anxiously. Are you okay? You called out.

Fine, just fine. A bad dream. I ve been under a lot of stress lately. I think I ll go to the restroom and freshen up.

She moved along the aisle, limping slightly, a permanent fixture now, although it didn t bother her unless she got overtired. She stood at the mirror, ran a comb through her hair, touched up what little makeup she wore, and smiled at herself.

No sad songs, Sara Gideon, she said. We ll go now and have a delicious martini, then think about tonight s reception at the Pierre.

At Kennedy, her diplomatic status passed her straight through, and she was at the Plaza just after five o clock. The duty manager escorted her personally to her suite.

Would you have any news on General Ferguson s time of arrival? she inquired.

Eight o clock, but I believe that s open, ma am.

And his two associates, Mr. Dillon and Mr. Holley?

They booked into the hotel yesterday, but I think they re out. I could check.

No, leave it. I think I ll rest. Would you be kind enough to see that no calls are put through, unless it s the general?

I ll see to it, ma am. Your suitcase was delivered this morning. You ll find it in the bedroom. If you need any assistance, the housekeeper will be happy to oblige.

He withdrew, and she didn t bother to unpack. Instead of lying down, though, she put her laptop on the desk in the sitting room and sat there going over all the material sent to her by Major Giles Roper, whose burned and ravaged face had become as familiar to her as her own, this man who had once been one of the greatest bomb-disposal experts in the British Army, now reduced to life in a wheelchair.

It would be after eleven at night in London, but experience had taught her that if he was sleeping, it would be in his wheelchair anyway, in front of his computer bank, which was where she found him when she called him on Skype.

Giles, I m at the Plaza and just in from Arizona. My report on Reaper drones will curl your hair.

I look forward to reading it, Sara. You re looking fit. They d already become good friends.

Are you likely to enjoy tonight s little soir e?

There will be nothing little about it. No word from the general yet?

I ve spoken to him. He and Harry Miller have met with the President and should arrive at Kennedy around eight, if the weather holds. I was going to call you anyway. Your boss, Colonel Hector Grant boss until midnight anyway would appreciate you being there before eight.

Happy to oblige him. I haven t seen Dillon and Holley. They re apparently out at the moment.

Yes, they re seeing to something for Ferguson.

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.