Jack Higgins - A Devil is Waiting

Dillon had a replica of Holley’s Colt in a holder on his right ankle. He drew it now, ran to the entrance and fired at Murphy, who was trying to open the door of a green Lincoln. Murphy fired back wildly, then turned, ran across the road and up the stone steps leading to the walkway, the East River lapping below it. At the top, he hesitated, unsure of which way to go, turned, and found Dillon closing in, Holley behind.

‘No way out, Patrick. So have you told me the truth or not?’

‘Damn you,’ Murphy called, half-blinded by the heavy rain, and tried to take aim.

Dillon shot him twice in the heart, twisting him around, his third shot driving him over the low rail into the river. He reached the rail in time to see Murphy surface once, then roll over and disappear in the fast-running current.

Holley moved up to join him. ‘What was all that about? Sometimes you play games too much, Sean.’

‘Sure, and all I wanted was to make sure he was telling the truth. He’d lied at first – isn’t that a fact?’

‘So is the name really Jack Kelly?’

‘We’ll see, but for now, it’s time for the joys of the Plaza and our first meeting with the intriguing Captain Sara Gideon.’

‘Definitely something to look forward to,’ Holley said, and followed him down the steps.

At the same time they were driving away in their delivery truck, Patrick Murphy, choking and gasping, was swept under a pier two hundred yards away downstream. He drifted through the pilings, banged into stone steps with a railing, hauled himself out, and paused at the top, where there was a roofed shelter with a bench.

He sat down, shivering with cold, pulled off his soaking jacket, then his shirt. The bullet-proof vest he’d been wearing was the best on the market, even against hollow points. He ripped open the Velcro tabs, tossed the rest down into the river with his shirt, struggled back into his jacket, and walked through the rain to the warehouse.

He expected Dillon and Holley to be long gone and went straight inside and up to his office. He peeled off his jacket, pulled on an old sweater that was hanging behind the door, then lifted the carpet in the corner, revealing a floor safe, opened it, and removed a linen bag containing his mad money, twenty grand in large bills. He got a suitcase from the cupboard, put the money into it, and sat there thinking about the situation.

He had to get away for a while, the kind of place where he’d be swallowed up by the crowds. Vegas would be good, but he needed to cover his back, just in case he wanted to return to New York. He rang a number and, when a man replied, said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a problem, Mr Cagney.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘You sent me a nice piece of business. The man from Ulster, Michael Flynn.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I had a client calling himself Grimshaw. He said he was seeking a consignment of weaponry, but the truth was he wanted information about the Amity and who’d been behind it.’

‘And did you tell him about Michael Flynn?’

‘Of course I did. He and another man with him killed Ivan and threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t tell them. Anyway, your client’s name isn’t Flynn, it’s Jack Kelly. He got careless using my phone one night.’

‘How unfortunate. Have you any idea who these people are?’

‘One posed as an NYPD officer, had an Ulster accent, and was called Dillon. The other was English, named Holley.’

‘They seem to have been rather careless with their names.’

‘That’s because I was supposed to end up dead, which I nearly was. Look, they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA. I thought your client, Flynn or Kelly or whatever his name is, should know about that.’

Cagney said, ‘I appreciate your warning, Patrick. What do you intend to do now?’

‘Get the hell out of New York.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Murphy replaced the phone, grabbed the suitcase, and went out. Within minutes, he was driving the undamaged car, a Ford sedan, out of the courtyard.

Shortly afterwards, Liam Cagney, a prosperous 60-year-old stockbroker by profession and Irish American to the core, was phoning Jack Kelly in Kilmartin, County Down, in Northern Ireland.

‘It’s Liam, Jack,’ he said when the receiver was picked up. ‘You’ve got a problem.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Somebody’s asked Murphy about the Amity . Do the names Dillon and Holley mean anything to you?’

‘By God, they do. They’re both Provisional IRA renegades now working for Charles Ferguson and British Intelligence. What did Murphy tell them?’

‘He told me they killed his man Ivan and almost got him. He also heard you using your real name in a phone call.’

Kelly swore. ‘I knew that was dangerous, but I had no choice. So he’s on the run? I don’t like that. You never know what he might do.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s taken care of. He won’t be going anywhere.’

‘That’s good to know. You’ve served our cause well, Liam, and thanks for the information about Dillon and Holley. If they turn up here, we’ll be ready for them. It’s time someone sorted those two out. Take care, old friend.’

He was seated behind his desk in his office at Talbot Place, the great country house in County Down, where he was estate manager. He sat there thinking about it, then opened a drawer, took out an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number.

There was a delay, and he was about to ring off when a voice said, ‘Owen Rashid.’

‘This is Kelly, Owen. Sorry to bother you.’

In London, Rashid’s flat was huge and luxurious, and as he got rid of his tie, he walked to the windows overlooking Park Lane. ‘Is there a problem? Tell me.’

Which Kelly did. When he was finished, he said, ‘Sorry about this.’

‘Not your fault.’ Rashid poured himself a brandy. ‘Dillon and Holley. They’re bad news, but nothing I can’t deal with. My sources will tell me if they try anything.’

‘I’m always amazed by what you know, Owen.’

‘Not me, Jack, Al Qaeda. In spite of bin Laden’s death, it’s still a worldwide organization. We have people at every level, from a waiter serving lunch to a talkative senator in New York, to a disgruntled police chief in Pakistan, to a disenchanted government minister in some Arab state who hates corruption – or a humble gardener right here in London’s Hyde Park, watching me take my early-morning run and seeing who I’m with. In this wonderful age of the mobile phone, all they have to do is call in.’

‘And I’m not sure I like that,’ Kelly said.

‘No sane person would. Is Mrs Talbot still with you?’

‘She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.’

‘I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.’

‘Where is he?’ Kelly demanded.

‘Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.’

‘Okay, I will,’ and Kelly switched off.

Owen stood under the awning on the terrace, rain dripping down, late-night Park Lane traffic below and Hyde Park in the darkness. He loved London and always had. Half-Welsh, thanks to the doctor’s daughter his father had met at Cambridge University, who had died in childbirth; half-Arab from one of the smaller Oman states.