Jack Higgins - A Devil is Waiting

‘No, but there was an election going on at the time, the government was taking a very anti-IRA line, and the MP was a spokesman. Who knows what was going on in Henri’s head? The important thing was that there were no more mercury tilt bombs after that.’

‘What happened when you put all this to Legrande?’ Owen asked.

‘But I never did,’ Kelly told him. ‘I was serving five life sentences for murder in the Maze Prison until the peace process pardoned me.’

‘So what is Legrande doing now?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t certain whether people like me were still under police surveillance, so I decided to leave well enough alone where certain old friends were concerned.’

Owen, who’d been examining the phone book on his desk, said, ‘Here we are. Henri Legrande. Rare books, fine art, antiques. It’s called Mary’s Bower.’

Kelly said, ‘Well, we know where the shop’s name comes from. Where are you going with this?’

‘Abu is just a messenger boy passing on orders, but orders they are. You’ve boasted of your sleepers in London. Now you’re supposed to activate them to sort out Ferguson and his people.’

Kelly said, ‘It isn’t as easy as that. When the Troubles were in full swing, we had a network of them, but …’

‘Are you telling me it would be impossible?’

Kelly had an edge of desperation in his voice. ‘It would be difficult.’

‘Then you’re a dead man walking, because you’ve been lying to Abu and Al Qaeda. I don’t intend for you to pull me down with you. Stay on the phone for five minutes. I’ll be back.’

He went out to the kitchen and dialled a number on the wall phone. A man’s voice answered. Owen listened, then said, ‘Sorry, wrong number.’ He spoke into his mobile: ‘Are you still there, Jack?’

‘Yes, what the hell are we going to do?’

‘Revisit your glory days. You used to be the pride of the IRA – now you’re going to take on Ferguson yourself. I’ll provide you with money if you need to hire three or four foot soldiers. All you need is a plan.’

‘And where would that come from?’

‘Henri Legrande, of course. He survived the Legion, the Casbah, the Battle of Algiers. If he can’t sort your problem, nobody can.’

‘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.

Later that day, Jack Kelly was on the corner of Park Lane and Curzon Street, walking down towards 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, grey-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.’

In the Victorian sitting room in the flat 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.’