A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [15]
“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 gray ash.”
“What happened to the paymaster?” Sara asked.
“Harry made that personal. Went round to the Al Qaeda guy’s house, shot him dead, and left Al Qaeda to clear up. I mean, they wouldn’t be likely to call in the police, would they?”
“I wonder if I’m going to be able to cope with Holland Park.”
“You’ll do fine. I’ve seen your file. There were at least twenty Taliban corpses around that Sultan.”
“That was war.”
“And so is this, sweetheart. By the way, I’m told you’ve been awarded a Military Cross for Abusan.”
She was reeling now. “But that can’t be true.”
“The Intelligence Corps couldn’t resist pulling their golden girl up for a medal for bravery. Of course, people like us don’t get medals, it’s too public, so Ferguson isn’t pleased. But don’t worry, you’ll get it. Just don’t expect a fuss.”
“Giles, why don’t you go to hell and take Ferguson with you?”
“I’ve been there, Sara, and it wasn’t good. Enjoy the Pierre, give my best to Sean, and watch it with Daniel.”
“Just go, Giles.” And he did.
She checked on the screen again, thoroughly annoyed, and brought up Daniel Holley. Medium height, brown hair that was rather long, the slight smile of a man who didn’t take his world too seriously and who looked ten years younger than he was.
In spite of the tattoos on his arms, common to convicts who’d spent time in the Lubyanka Prison, there was no sign of the killer on that handsome and rather attractive face, and yet that was exactly what he was. It was all there, his record in the field, meticulously put together by Giles Roper.
She went and unpacked, just the essentials since she was accompanying Ferguson to London, but she’d made sure to bring her dress uniform for tonight’s reception. The Yanks would be there, but they were friends. The Russians were another matter, and she had heard that Colonel Josef Lermov of Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, head of station at the London Embassy, would be present. His book on international terrorism had become essential reading in military circles.
She hung up her uniform tunic with the medal ribbons, the neat skirt, shirt and tie, high-polished shoes, the dress cap. Good old khaki splendor. Just like graduating at Sandhurst, except for the medals. Ten years of her life.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Sara,” she murmured, then went into the splendid bathroom and started to fill the tub.
At seven-thirty that evening, Dillon was sitting at a corner seat in the bar at the Pierre, dressed in a black velvet corduroy suit and enjoying a Bushmills whiskey, when Holley entered, wearing a beautifully tailored single-breasted suit of midnight blue, a snow-white shirt, and a blue striped tie.
“Daniel, you look like a whiskey advert. You’ve excelled yourself.