A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [43]
“It’s all right saying that, Sean.” She smiled bitterly. “But perhaps I was being targeted. Who knows?”
“Well, it won’t happen again, because I’ll see it doesn’t.” Holley turned to Roper. “So what now?”
“I’ve had orders to go down to the House of Commons and check out the terrace, and I’m to take you three with me. Tony is going to take us in the van.”
“Well, that will certainly be a new experience,” Sara said.
“Not for Dillon,” Roper said. “He’s something of an expert where the terrace is concerned, but I’ll tell you about that when we get there. Let’s get moving.”
At the House of Commons, Tony stayed with the van while Roper and his friends joined the queue to get in. It was mainly constituents hoping to see their MP or people on official business. Tourists were being turned away by the security staff, obviously because of the pending arrival of the President. Some were complaining bitterly as they were firmly moved on.
A uniformed police inspector, obviously in charge, standing back surveying the scene, wore the campaign medal for Ireland, among others. He stared at Roper, then walked forward.
“Major Roper, isn’t it? What a pleasure to see you, sir. My name’s Halloran. I was the military police sergeant major in charge of the entrance to the Portland Hotel in Belfast when you spent nine hours defusing that bomb in the foyer.”
“I remember you well.” Roper shook hands. “You were on that door when I went in, and you were still there when I came out.”
“A privilege to be there, Major. I’ll never forget it.”
“We’re here on behalf of the Cabinet Office to have a look at the security situation on the terrace.”
“I was notified about it, Major. I just didn’t realize it was going to be you. Allow me to lead the way.”
He left them on the terrace beside the Thames, which was surprisingly busy—MPs enjoying a drink, waiters passing to and fro from what was called the Terrace Bar. It was very pleasant there, slightly chilly but the sun shining enough to bring the awnings out, and the famous tall Victorian lamps ranged along the parapet added to the scene.
“I’ve never been here before,” Sara said. “Why is the carpet green here and red up there?”
“That’s the House of Lords end,” Dillon said, and ordered champagne for all of them from a passing waiter. “A grand place, this, restaurants and bars all over the show.”
With remarkable speed, the waiter was back with four glasses of champagne on a tray, and they each took one. “So what makes you such an expert on the terrace?” Sara demanded.
“An old story, my love, no big deal. I’ve no wish to bore you.”
“What a humbug you are.” Roper touched glasses with Sara. “Some years ago, President Clinton graced the terrace with a visit, and the security services will never forgive Dillon for turning up as a waiter and serving canapés to President Clinton and the Prime Minister.”
Sara turned in appeal to Holley, who shrugged. “Before my time.”
Which left only Dillon. “But how did you do that?” she asked.
“It was very simple. The Salters dropped me in the river from a passing boat in the middle of the night. I hauled myself up to the terrace, hid in a storage room, and stayed there until the action started, when I came out dressed as a waiter.”
Before she could say a word, Henry Frankel appeared, a file under his arm, and he was smiling hugely.
“Captain Gideon, what a pleasure.” He shook Sara’s hand warmly. “You exceed my expectations, and that doesn’t happen very often.” He turned to Dillon. “So, what have you got to say, Sean? Is our security acceptable?”
“Well, there’s still twenty-six restaurants and bars, entrances and exits galore, MPs, workmen, cleaning staff—in other words, far too many people, and you notice I haven’t even mentioned the river?”
“Well, we’d rather you didn’t,” Henry Frankel told him. “We don’t want to be alarmist.”
“I’m just being realistic, Henry. In Belfast in the bad days of the Troubles, Catholic women of all ages queued up to get jobs as cleaning ladies in schools and factories that housed British