A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [53]
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister and the President of the United States.”
They came through the entrance, Ferguson, Miller, Roper, and Blake Johnson behind them, and the applause was deafening.
The glad-handing went on for thirty or forty minutes, Blake Johnson at the President’s side the whole time, as was Harry Miller with the Prime Minister. Ferguson, who had been standing back, crossed the terrace to speak to them.
“It’s not over yet.”
“No problem,” Dillon said.
Ferguson turned to Sara. “Your performance since you’ve joined us has been remarkable. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth we managed without you.”
“It was a daily occurrence in Afghanistan, General, this sort of thing.”
“But not in Mayfair,” he said. “At least not since the high tide of the IRA’s London campaign. We’ve still got the rest of the day to get through. Then there’s the early-evening cocktail party at Downing Street, but you won’t be required for that. The President flies out to Berlin at ten o’clock, and then it will all be over.”
“Watch out behind you, General,” Dillon said, and Ferguson turned to find both the Prime Minister and the President aiming for the doorway.
The President said, “Mr. Dillon, Mr. Holley, good to see you.” But it was the man in the wheelchair to whom he extended his hand. “Major Roper, it’s an honor to see you. The official accounts I’ve read of your bravery are outstanding—especially that time in the Portland Hotel foyer nine hours on your own.”
“Not quite true, Mr. President. I had the bomb as company, which I found myself occasionally talking to.”
The President roared with laughter. “It’s been a joy meeting you, and if I could, I’d give you the Congressional Medal of Honor to go with your George Cross.”
The words were for public consumption, but at a private meeting he had said as much to Roper already, along with a commendation to all of them for the way they’d handled the incident in the garage, which the powers that be had decided had not taken place at all. No point giving Al Qaeda the oxygen of publicity.
He shook Roper’s hand warmly and went out, followed by the Prime Minister and his entourage. Ferguson said quietly to Roper as he passed, “I’ll speak to you soon.”
Suddenly it was all over, people drifting out in twos and threes, no sign of Jean Talbot and Owen Rashid.
“Now what?” Sara asked.
“Back to Holland Park. Let’s see if any interesting business has come our way.” He took his wheelchair out through the entrance, and they followed.
Early evening, Owen Rashid gave Jean Talbot a call and invited her to join him in an Irish bar in Shepherd Market. They sat in a corner booth and had Irish coffees.
“What did the President say to you?” Owen asked. “I got caught up with the crowd the Secret Service were holding back.”
“Oh, he said what a tragic accident it was, the plane crashing into the Irish Sea like that with my son inside.”
“Do you think he believed that?”
“No, he was just being civilized. Dillon, Holley, Kelly, and myself were all there when Justin slammed the door on all of us and flew off to his death. The President would have been told the facts.” She smiled a little bleakly. “Don’t worry about me, Owen. I’ve survived, and I’ll go on surviving.”
He took her hand. “You’re a remarkable woman.”
“Not really, just practical. Now that the President’s come and gone, what’s next on your agenda?”
“I need to go to Rubat for a few days. I haven’t been for a while, as you know.”
“Because you don’t want to go.” She laughed. “Without Mayfair, you’re like a fish out of water.”
“On the other hand, the Sultan does like to see me every so often. I mean, it’s protocol even if he is my uncle. Just a few days, a week at the most.” He took her hand again. “Is there any chance you’d consider coming with me? You’ve often talked about it. I could show you the Bacu Railway.”
“When would this be?” she asked.
“I’m pretty flexible where that’s concerned.”
“Well, as it happens, we have a half-term vacation