A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [27]
“Just remember that.”
Seeing Sara returning, she retreated into the cloakroom. Sara opened the front door, turned, and smiled at him. “Seven-thirty okay with you?”
“Do you mean it?”
“Not too dressy. Somewhere interesting. Don’t be late—I’m hungry.”
She pushed him outside, shut the door and leaned against it, smiling as Sadie emerged from the cloakroom. “So you’re going out on a date with him?”
“I know what you’re going to say. He isn’t Jewish.”
“Why would I say that, and what does it matter as long as it’s you having the kids?” Sadie told her. “As it happens, I like him, so there.” She turned and went back to her kitchen.
The moment he was out of the shower, and sober, Jack Kelly lost no time in contacting Owen Rashid, who was delighted with the turn of events.
“Legrande is obviously the right man for this, no question. Don’t tell him you’ve told me about his cancer. I don’t think he’d like that.”
“I’ll keep that from him, then,” Kelly said. “But it will make that bastard Abu sit up and take notice. It should keep him off our backs for a while.”
“Let’s make sure of that by getting things moving right away. I’ll expect you at my apartment in half an hour. I’d like to meet him.”
He was immediately impressed with the Frenchman, who was everything he could have wished for. Rashid had been putting on his tie when they arrived, told them to help themselves to a drink, and found them enjoying a whiskey at the table by the open terrace window.
“I’ve been looking at your record, Henri, and I think you’re the man for this job. Do you?”
“But certainly, Monsieur Rashid, or I wouldn’t be here.”
Owen reached for the red file and put it on the table. “Every scrap of information Al Qaeda has on Ferguson and his people is in there.”
“The facts in here are all guaranteed, then?” Legrande asked.
“Yes. Unfortunately, we don’t have an internal source in his organization, so we can’t tell you what his intentions are.”
“It would be a miracle if you could with an old fox like Ferguson,” Henri said.
“Money is no problem,” Owen said. “Anything you need, you get. My people want him finished once and for all.”
“It will be my pleasure.” Henri shook hands and led the way out.
Jean rang a couple of minutes later. “I don’t really feel like anything exotic tonight. Would you mind if we just go to that little Italian place at the end of Curzon Street?”
“Not at all,” he said. “We might as well walk. Not worth taking the car.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was pressing the bell at her front door. She was out in a moment, wearing a French beret and a short navy blue bridge coat. He kissed her on the cheek, and she took his arm.
“You look very Parisian tonight,” he told her. “Most becoming. How are you?”
“I had students to see, end-of-term papers to discuss with other staff. Dammit, Owen, I’m a painter, an artist, that’s what it’s all about.”
“I know that,” he said.
“This title I have, visiting professor in fine arts, sounds very prestigious, and I suppose it is for some people, but I couldn’t care less. The only difference between me and my colleagues is that I’m filthy rich. I feel guilty about that.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m in the same position when it comes to money. I haven’t the slightest intention of feeling guilty about it. What else is new?”
“Just that Kelly’s in town,” she said.
“You didn’t mention he was coming.”
“I didn’t know. It’s happening in a hurry. He’s needed to see my finance director at the firm about the estate accounts for some time, then he discovered that a man he was involved with in his wild youth, and thought was dead, is running an antiques shop in Shepherd Market.”
“By his wild youth do we mean his IRA days?” Owen asked. “You did tell me all about that, remember.”
“Yes, the friend is French, as I understand it. Anyway, I’ve told Jack that under the circumstances he might as well make a bit of a holiday out of it. He’s staying at this chap’s place for a few days.”
“Well, there you are, then,” Owen said, and a moment later, they reached the restaurant.
They sat in a corner booth, had