A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [65]
“No, to Ibrahim, his bodyguard. Ali Selim prefers to speak to me in English. I was to call back. He was at his prayers.”
“Then you must try again, but first we must get your story straight.”
To Wali Hussein, deceit and low cunning were second nature, and he was actually smiling when Hamza finished planning what he had to do. “That’s really very clever,” he said. “You’ve got it right about the value of a mullah’s blessing. There are parents who’d pay through the nose for one of those, but from Ali Selim”—he shook his head—“you couldn’t put a price on it. Mind you, the things I’ve done for him, I could ask him this favor, but it would have to be for relatives. My mother’s Italian American, so it’d have to be one of my father’s cousins. Selim is an amazing guy, he knows everything about everybody who works for him. I’d have to use real names.”
“But that wouldn’t matter,” Hamza said. “If everything goes according to plan, Ali Selim would be dead.”
“You’ve got a point.” Wali Hussein smiled strangely. “Or maybe we could be the ones to end up dead. But okay. I’ll say my cousin Malik is marrying Zara Khan. The families have been arguing about it for years.”
“Excellent. What happens now?” Ferguson demanded.
Hamza said to Hamid, “We’ll need suitable clothing for Mr. Holley, Sergeant. You go and see to that.” He turned to Ferguson. “Come into the office with me, and we’ll arrange for the Gulfstream to take off for a simulated trip to Islamabad.”
“Of course,” Ferguson said, and followed him to the office, leaving a disconsolate Wali Hussein sitting with his wrists still handcuffed.
Sara and the three men sat talking about the situation at one of the tables, and Dillon glanced across.
“Are you all right there, Wali, me ould son?”
“What do you bloody think?” Wali Hussein replied.
Dillon peered out to the rain falling outside and wet snowflakes drifting in it. “Just look at that weather and think how lucky you are to be returning to the place where you were born. Good ould Florida—oranges, blondes on the beach, and tourists to fleece. You’ve got it made. Remember that, so be a good boy and don’t cock it up.”
The clothing Hamid returned with was what you’d expect in winter: boots, long shirts, baggy trousers, a three-quarter-length sheepskin coat, and a choice of headcloths in various colors and with loose ends to wrap around the neck and face against the bitter mountain cold. Every so often there was the sound of a plane landing or taking off, and suddenly, Ferguson’s Codex sounded.
He answered, listened for a moment, then said, “Excellent, Squadron Leader, let’s hope everything goes to plan.”
“Was that Lacey?” Greg Slay leaned out of the Raptor.
“Yes, on their way, but with any luck, they might be able to turn back without landing at Islamabad, so let’s get this show on the road.”
Hamid unlocked Wali Hussein’s handcuffs, and Ferguson said, “Everybody stay well back, please, and keep absolutely quiet. He’s going to make this call using my Codex on speaker. Sara, you stand close.” He handed the Codex to Wali Hussein. “Get on with it.”
I’ve been expecting to hear from you. Tell me what Ferguson and company are up to.”
The voice was dry and precise, the English perfect. Wali Hussein said, “Good news, master, they’ve gone.”
There was a pause, and then Ali Selim said, “Gone where?”
“Back to London. The Gulfstream has just left.”
“You’re absolutely sure about this?”
“Of course. You may confirm it at the airport. There were many phone calls, which led to a great deal of talk amongst Ferguson’s people. It seems the British Prime Minister has changed his mind about the whole thing and ordered they return.”
“How amazing,” Ali Selim said. “What else do you recall?”
“Many things, master, but I’m not sure what is important and what is not. Perhaps I could come and see you. I’d like to try the Raptor out. The pilot they brought with them has given the engine an overhaul. I was going to give it a test flight anyway.”
“An