A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [58]
She vanished into a wardrobe she’d paused at earlier; he lit a cigarette and sat there waiting. The shock when she appeared was considerable, for she drifted toward him, a strange and ghostly figure, wearing a head-to-toe black burka and a black face veil that left only the eyes exposed.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Perhaps a little dark eye shadow to reinforce the illusion, but first I would recommend a black cowl over that flaming hair of yours, just to make sure. Let’s take another look.”
They went back to the particular wardrobe, where she found what he’d suggested and held it up. “The very thing.”
“Now to the armory down here. The end wardrobe.”
When she slid back the door, she found a selection of body armor on display, starting with heavy flak jackets. She took one in particular down.
“I wore this in three different wars.”
“Put it back. You need something a bit more sophisticated.” He pointed to one that looked rather flimsy. “That will suit you very well.”
“Why, it’s so light,” she said in wonder.
“Nylon and titanium, we all have one. It will stop a Magnum round at point-blank range. I’d wear it at all times now, if I were you.”
“I will.”
“Excellent. Let’s return and see what the others make of you.”
Lacey and Parry had appeared, and Ferguson was talking to everybody. He stopped abruptly on seeing Sara, and she drifted into the room to the astonishment of all.
“Will I do?” she demanded.
“Oh yes.” Ferguson smiled. “I think we can all agree on that. You look absolutely splendid.” He turned to the others. “So, as we all agree, it’s a go. We’ll leave at ten o’clock in the morning from Farley Field.”
Sara said, “I’d better go and change.” She pulled down the veil, made a face at Holley, beckoned, and he followed her. “I need to disrobe and pack my burka for the plane trip. Warm up the car, and I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
She emerged, looking amused, dumped a large bag in the back of the car, and sat next to him. “Ferguson wanted a word.”
“What about?” Holley asked as he drove away.
“He said he was sorry for plunging me into the deep end so soon after joining the department. If there were problems, I must say so. Hasn’t he read my file? I’ve spent the last ten years fighting wars.”
“So where are we going?”
“My place for clothes and things, and the Dorchester for you, then back here.”
“What about your granddad and Sadie?”
“Well, it’s useful that both of them are away. With luck, this could just be an in-and-out job, forty-eight hours at the most.” She shrugged. “We’ll see.”
“Well, let’s hope you’re right,” Holley told her, and turned the Alfa out into the main road.
TEN
Four hours earlier, Greg Slay had been sitting at the desk of his small office at the old railway airfield in Hazar, bemoaning the fact to his partner, Hakim Amal, that business was seriously slack, when his mobile had sounded. The names of Major Giles Roper and General Charles Ferguson were more than impressive to any old army man, and the use of phrases like “highly dangerous” and “top secret” finished it off nicely.
A call to the control tower produced information that a jet was due to refuel in thirty minutes, then proceed onward to Peshawar with a cargo of jeeps for the Pakistani Army. It wasn’t RAF, but the captain knew Greg Slay and was able to offer a lift.
So he was a happy man, striding purposefully across the cracked concrete of the old runway. He was an inch or so over six feet, wearing jeans and a bush shirt under an old Luftwaffe flying jacket, and Ray-Bans that shrouded a heavily tanned face with tousled hair that had needed a barber for some considerable time.
He said hello to the crew on the flight deck, then went to the rest area, where there was a small kitchen, a shower, and some seats, and belted up for the takeoff. Everything had happened so fast. He glanced at his watch. Only an hour and a half had elapsed since Roper’s call, and he still didn’t know what he’d let himself in for. He tilted back in his seat, lay there thinking about it, and fell asleep.
Two