Jack Higgins - A Devil is Waiting

‘Because at nineteen, she was at college in Jerusalem brushing up on her Hebrew before going up to Oxford when her parents visited her and were killed in a Hamas bus bombing.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Holley said. ‘So she chose Sandhurst instead of Oxford.’

‘Correct. And in the last nine years has served with the Intelligence Corps in Belfast, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and two tours in Afghanistan.’

‘Jesus, what in the hell is she after?’ Dillon said. ‘Is she seeking revenge, is she a war junkie, what?’

‘Roper’s just posted her full history, so you can read it for yourself.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything,’ Dillon said.

‘Yes, I’m sure you’ll find it instructive, particularly the account of the nasty ambush near Abusan, where she took a bullet in the right thigh which left her with a permanent limp.’

‘All right, General, I surrender,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll keep my big gob shut. I can’t wait to meet her in person.’

‘What do we do with her until you get to the Pierre?’ Holley asked.

‘Keep her happy. She was booking in at the Plaza after a flight from Arizona. There’s some secret base out there that the RAF are involved in, something to do with pilotless aircraft. She’ll be returning to London with us. She’s been on the staff of Colonel Hector Grant, our military attaché at the UN, and this will be her final appearance for him, so she’ll be in uniform.’

‘Does she know what she’s getting into with us?’

‘I’ve told Roper to brief her on everything – including you two and your rather murky pasts.’

‘You’re so kind,’ Holley said. ‘It’s a real privilege to know you.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Miller is very impressed with her, and I’m happy about the whole thing.’

‘Well, we’re happy if you’re happy,’ Dillon told him.

‘We’ve got to go now. Why don’t you two clear off and do something useful. I’ll see you tonight.’

Dillon walked away through the downpour, the nightstick in his right hand. He turned left into an alley and Holley waited for a few moments, then took from his pocket a crumpled Burberry rain hat in which a spring clip held a Colt .25. He eased it onto his head, got out of the truck, and walked quickly through the rain.

Dressed as he was as a beat cop, Dillon didn’t need to show any particular caution, tried a door, which opened to his touch, and passed into a decaying kitchen, a broken sink in one corner, cupboards on the peeling walls, and a half-open door that indicated a toilet.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever’s going on here, there can’t be money in it.’

He opened the far door, discovered a corridor dimly lit by a single lightbulb, and heard voices somewhere ahead. He started forward, still grasping the nightstick in his right hand, his left clutching a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer in the capacious pocket of his storm coat.

The voices were raised now as if in argument and someone said, ‘Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.’

There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.

When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on further ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.

He called out, ‘Hello, is anyone there? I’ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.’

‘Would that be Mr Grimshaw?’ a voice called – Irish, not American.

The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.

‘Yes, I’m Daniel Grimshaw,’ Holley said.

‘Then come away in.’

‘Thank you.’ Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.

‘Do you want me to kill him now?’ he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.

‘Let’s hear what his game is first,’ Murphy told him in the same language.

‘Now, that’s what I like to hear,’ Holley said in Russian. ‘A sensible man.’

‘So you speak the lingo?’ Murphy was suddenly wary. ‘Arms for the Kosovans? Are the Serbs turning nasty again this year? Ivan here’s on their side, being Russian, but I’ll hear what you’ve got to say.’ This was said in English, but now he added in Russian, ‘Make sure he’s clean.’

Ivan’s hands explored Holley thoroughly, particularly between the legs, and Holley said, ‘It must be a big one you’re looking for.’

Ivan gave him a shove so violent that Holley went staggering, and his Burberry rain hat fell to the floor, disclosing the Colt, which the Russian picked up at once, throwing the hat across to the desk.

‘Now can I shoot him?’

Murphy pulled the Colt from the clip in the rain hat and examined it. ‘Very nice. I like it.’ He left the cap on the desk and slipped the Colt into his pocket.

Ivan said, ‘Only a pro would use a shooter like that.’

‘I know that, I’m not a fool. Show him where he’s going to end up if he doesn’t answer a few questions.’

Ivan leaned down, grasped a ring in the floor, and heaved back a trapdoor. There was the sound of running water, the smell of sewage.

Where the hell are you, Dillon? That was the only thought running through Holley’s mind. He glanced about him wildly, trying to act like a man in panic.

He said to Murphy, ‘What is this? What are you doing? I told you my name is Daniel Grimshaw.’

‘Well, I think you’re a damn liar, so you’d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won’t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re making a big mistake.’

‘It’s not my mistake, my friend.’ Murphy shook his head and said to Ivan in Russian, ‘Break his arm.’

Dillon called in the same language, ‘I don’t think so,’ and shot Ivan in his gun hand. Ivan cried out, dropped the Makarov, and slumped to one knee beside the open sewer.

Murphy took the whole thing surprisingly calmly. Remembering that he’d slipped the Colt .25 into his pocket, he watched Holley pick up the Makarov and realized there was still a chance things might go his way.

‘I assume I’d be right in supposing that your fortunate arrival isn’t coincidental, Officer. I congratulate you on your performance – the NYPD would be proud of you.’

‘I used to be an actor,’ Dillon said. ‘But then I discovered the theatre of the street had more appeal. Audience guaranteed, you see, especially in Belfast.’

Murphy was immediately wary. ‘Ah, that theatre of the street? So which side did you play for? You couldn’t be IRA, not the both of you.’

‘Why not?’ Dillon asked.

‘Well, admittedly you’ve got an Ulster accent, but your friend here is English.’