Jack Higgins - A Devil is Waiting

‘International terrorism is the scourge of our times, Mr President, powered by fanatics who insist on extreme views. It’s like a cancer that needs to be cut out to stop it spreading.’

The President said, ‘As you know, General, I believe in necessary force. But you can’t kill them all. The only way forward is to engage in dialogue with people with extreme views and attempt to reach a compromise. With Osama out of the way, I have great hopes for such an approach.’

‘I agree,’ Ferguson said. ‘But what about those who believe in the purity of violence and are willing to bomb the hell out of anyone who refuses to agree with them? Wouldn’t it be better to have people like Dillon and Holley stamp out such a fire before it spreads?’

‘Can such actions ever be condoned?’ the President asked.

Ferguson said, ‘In 1947, a brilliant commando leader named Otto Skorzeny was accused of war crimes because he had sent his men into action behind American lines wearing GI uniforms. Many of these men, when captured, were executed out of hand by the American forces.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘The chief witness for the defence was one of the most brilliant British Secret Service agents operating in occupied France. He admitted he’d been responsible for many operations in which his men had fought and killed German soldiers while wearing German uniforms. He also spoke of his superiors handing out such orders that could only be concluded by assassination. He told the court that if Skorzeny was guilty of a war crime, then he was just as guilty.’

There was a brief silence, and the President said, ‘What was the verdict?’

‘The case was thrown out of court. Skorzeny was acquitted of all charges.’

There was a long silence, and then the President said bleakly, ‘So what is the answer?’

‘That the kind of war we now face is a nasty business,’ Miller said. ‘And you can only survive if you play as dirty as the other side. That’s what twenty years of army service during the Irish Troubles taught me.’

The President sighed heavily. ‘I suppose I could have picked a better time to take up the highest office in the land, but here I am and, by God, I’ll see it through.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We’ll meet again on Friday.’

Blake insisted on returning them to the hotel personally. In spite of the rain, there were a number of people outside the White House gates, mainly tourists by the look of them.

‘I told you how it would be,’ Blake said. ‘This is America, land of the free. The President has a difficult path to tread. We tried the Guantánamo Bay solution and received hate mail from all over the world. And there are even those who disapprove of the way we handled Osama.’

‘We know that, Blake. The trouble is that you can say what you want about universal freedom, individual liberty, the rule of law, but when you get into power, the intelligence services pass confidential dossiers across your desk full of information that proves how bloody awful the threat really is. More 9/11s have been foiled by the skin of our teeth than the public could imagine.’

‘And often because the Sean Dillons and Daniel Holleys of this world are prepared to act in the way they do,’ Harry Miller said, ‘and take responsibility for it in a way other people can’t.’

‘And thank God for it,’ Ferguson said. ‘You know, we’ve been good friends with the French Secret Service for some time now.’

Blake said, ‘I’m surprised. I thought you used to be at odds with them?’

‘Not any more. Their agents, some of whom have Algerian Muslim roots, infiltrate Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the information gained has enabled the French to crush many terrorist cells in France since 9/11. But not only in France.’ Ferguson laughed grimly. ‘They call our capital city Londonistan – did you know that? From time to time, they pass over information to us of crazy plots to blow up Nelson’s Column, Tower Bridge, Harrods. You get the picture?’

‘I surely do,’ Blake said. ‘I suppose in Paris it’s the Eiffel Tower.’

‘I’d hate to be a Muslim living in Paris,’ Miller said. ‘I remember how the French reacted in the Algerian War. Nobody would want that.’

‘Al Qaeda would,’ Ferguson said as the limousine turned in to the hotel. ‘It would suit them down to the ground to return to the bad old days, so they could produce a few martyrs who’d been fixed up for sound.’

‘Dillon and Holley would seem tame by comparison,’ Miller said.

The limousine drove away with Blake and they watched it go. Harry Miller said, ‘What do you think?’

‘That I’d like a large bourbon on the rocks, but I’ll leave it until we’re on the Gulfstream. Let’s get our things and go,’ Ferguson said, and he led the way into the hotel.

When Captain Sara Gideon boarded the plane at Tucson for her flight to New York, she wore combat fatigues. This was America, where patriotism ruled and the military were received with enthusiasm, especially when the wearer was a good-looking young woman with cropped red hair. The shrapnel scar that slanted down from the hairline to just above the left eye made her even more interesting-looking. She was five foot six with high cheekbones in a calmly beautiful face that gave nothing away. It was as if she was saying: This is me, take me or leave me, I don’t give a damn. She had a window seat in first-class, and people glanced curiously as a flight attendant approached to offer her a glass of champagne.

‘Actually, I think that would be very nice,’ Sara Gideon told her.

‘Oh Lord, you’re English,’ the young woman said.

Sara gave her a smile of unexpected charm. ‘I’m afraid so. Is that all right? I mean, we’re all fighting the same war, aren’t we?’

The flight attendant was totally thrown. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. My older brother is a Marine, serving in Afghanistan. Sangin Province. I don’t suppose you’ve been there?’

‘I have, actually. The British Army was in Sangin for some time before the Marines took over.’

‘I’m so glad,’ the attendant said. ‘Let me get you your drink.’

She went away and Sara stood up, took her shoulder bag out of the locker, removed her laptop, and put it on the seat beside her. She replaced the shoulder bag and sat down as the flight attendant returned and gave her the champagne.

‘This Sangin place? It’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, Ron always says there’s not much going on.’

A good man, Ron, lying to his family so they wouldn’t worry about him. She’d been through two tours attached to an infantry battalion that suffered two hundred dead and wounded, herself one of them. But how could she tell that to this girl?

She drank her champagne down and handed the glass to her. ‘Don’t you worry. They’ve got a great base at Sangin. Showers, a shop, burgers and TV, everything. Ron will be fine, believe me.’

‘Oh, thank you so much.’ The girl was in tears.

‘Now you must excuse me. I’ve got work to do.’

The attendant departed, and Sara opened her laptop, feeling lousy about having to lie, and started to write her report. At the Arizona military base, location classified, she had been observing the new face of war: pilotless Reaper drones flying in Afghanistan and Pakistan but operated from Arizona, and targeting dozens of Taliban and Al Qaeda leaders.

It took her around two hours to complete. When she finished, she replaced the laptop in her shoulder bag. It had been a hell of an assignment – and where was it all going to end? It was like some mad Hollywood science-fiction movie, and yet it was all true.

Her head was splitting, so she found a couple of pills in her purse, swallowed them with some bottled water, and pushed the button for attention.