A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [7]
“Where can I contact you?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Murphy replaced the phone, grabbed the valise, and went out. Within minutes, he was driving the undamaged car, a Ford sedan, out of the courtyard.
Shortly afterward, Liam Cagney, a prosperous sixty-year-old stockbroker by profession and Irish American to the core, was phoning Jack Kelly in Kilmartin, County Down, in Northern Ireland.
“It’s Liam, Jack,” he said when the receiver was picked up. “You’ve got a problem.”
“And what would that be?”
“Somebody’s asked Murphy about the Amity. Do the names Dillon and Holley mean anything to you?”
“By God, they do. They’re both Provisional IRA renegades now working for Charles Ferguson and British Intelligence. What did Murphy tell them?”
“He told me they killed his man Ivan and almost got him. He also heard you using your real name in a phone call.”
Kelly swore. “I knew that was dangerous, but I had no choice. So he’s on the run? I don’t like that. You never know what he might do.”
“Don’t worry, it’s taken care of. He won’t be going anywhere.”
“That’s good to know. You’ve served our cause well, Liam, and thanks for the information about Dillon and Holley. If they turn up here, we’ll be ready for them. It’s time someone sorted those two out. Take care, old friend.”
He was seated behind his desk in his office at Talbot Place, the great country house in County Down, where he was estate manager. He sat there thinking about it, then opened a drawer, took out an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number.
There was a delay, and he was about to ring off when a voice said, “Owen Rashid.”
“This is Kelly, Owen. Sorry to bother you.”
In London, Rashid’s apartment was huge and luxurious, and as he got rid of his tie, he walked to the windows overlooking Park Lane. “Is there a problem? Tell me.”
Which Kelly did. When he was finished, he said, “Sorry about this.”
“Not your fault.” Rashid poured himself a brandy. “Dillon and Holley. They’re bad news, but nothing I can’t deal with. My sources will tell me if they try anything.”
“I’m always amazed by what you know, Owen.”
“Not me, Jack, Al Qaeda. In spite of bin Laden’s death, it’s still a worldwide organization. We have people at every level, from a waiter serving lunch to a talkative senator in New York, to a disgruntled police chief in Pakistan, to a disenchanted government minister in some Arab state who hates corruption—or a humble gardener right here in London’s Hyde Park, watching me take my early-morning run and seeing who I’m with. In this wonderful age of the mobile phone, all they have to do is call in.”
“And I’m not sure I like that,” Kelly said.
“No sane person would. Is Mrs. Talbot still with you?”
“She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.”
“I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.”
“Where is he?” Kelly demanded.
“Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.”
“Okay, I will,” and Kelly switched off.
Owen stood under the awning on the terrace, rain dripping down, late-night Park Lane traffic below and Hyde Park in the darkness. He loved London and always had. Half Welsh, thanks to the doctor’s daughter his father had met at Cambridge University, who had died in childbirth; half Arab from one of the smaller Oman states.
Rubat had little to commend it except its oil. It didn’t have the interminable billions of the other states, but the wealth generated by Rashid Oil was enough to keep the small population happy. Sultan Ibrahim Rashid was chairman, and his nephew, Owen Rashid, was CEO, running the company from the Mayfair