Jack Higgins - A Devil is Waiting

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 make-up 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 enquired.

‘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 soirée?’

‘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 rumours 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.’

‘I can’t deny any of it.’

Tony Doyle, a black London Cockney and sergeant in the military police, appeared beside Roper with a mug of tea. He handed it to him and smiled at Sara. ‘Good to see you, ma’am.’

‘Tony, just go away.’ He laughed and went out.

‘It’s like a movie, Giles. I only see what you want me to. I have to take your word for everything.’

‘My dearest girl, all that I’ve told you about Holland Park is true, and you’ve got photos of everyone who works here, the details of their lives, their doings.’

‘So Dillon trying to blow up John Major and his Cabinet in London all those years ago, that’s true?’

‘And he got well paid for it.’

‘And Daniel Holley really was IRA and now he’s a millionaire and some sort of a diplomat for the Algerian foreign minister?’

‘Absolutely. He’s not just a pretty face in a Brioni suit, our Daniel.’

‘I didn’t say he was.’ She shrugged. ‘Obviously, he’s killed a few people.’

‘A lot of people, Sara, don’t kid yourself. And he’s too old for you. By the way, I went to hear your grandfather give a sermon.’

‘You what?’

‘I looked him up online. Rabbi Nathan Gideon, Emeritus Professor at London University, and famous for his sermons, so I went to hear one. I saw him at a synagogue in West Hampstead. Tony took me in the van. People were most kind, loaned me a yarmulke for my head and provided one for Tony, also. He thoroughly enjoyed the sermon. Human rights and what to do about its failures. I introduced myself and told him I worked for the Ministry of Defence and that we were going to be colleagues. He asked us back for tea. Whether this broke the Sabbath ruling, I’m not sure, but he did also provide some rather delicious biscuits.’

‘And this was at the Highfield Court house in Mayfair?’

‘That’s right. Tony was fascinated. Your grandfather gave him a book on Judaism, and he talks of nothing else.’

‘Are you completely mad?’

‘I sometimes think I am, but one thing is certain – Nathan Gideon is a wonderful man, and I’d be privileged to have his friendship.’

‘Is there anything else I should know?’

‘Yes, since you appear to be interested in Holley. His father was a hardline Protestant who didn’t like Catholics, but happened to fall in love with one who came from an equally hardline IRA family.’

‘So that explains his foot in both camps?’

‘Yes. And it led him as a young man to take refuge with the IRA, who sent him to a terrorist training camp in the Algerian desert, from which he emerged a thoroughly dangerous individual. So be warned. Anything else?’

‘Holland Park. What’s its purpose?’

‘To keep watch over terrorism. London is the dream destination for any jihadist. He can speak openly about intending to destroy our way of life and even involve himself in a plot or two.’

‘But the security services and the police are there to do something about that.’

‘Like arrest him and then discover that because of human rights laws, he can’t even be deported when he entered the country illegally?’

‘It’s hard to believe that.’

‘You’ll take worse things than that in your stride when you work for us. A couple of years ago, an Al Qaeda-based unit caused a terrible accident to happen to Harry Miller’s limousine on Park Lane. Unfortunately, Harry’s wife was using the car that morning. She and the chauffeur were killed.’

‘That’s terrible. What happened then?’

‘The bombmaker was traced. It was an IRA sleeper living in London. He was dying of cancer and fingered his Al Qaeda paymaster. After he died, Dillon called in a disposal team.’

‘Disposal team?’

‘A quick bullet solves most problems, but you need our personal undertaker, Mr Teague, and his associates to clean up and take the body away. A couple of hours later and it’s six pounds of grey ash.’