A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [72]
The Raptor was different from the other two in that there was no machine gun and only the one pilot. Omar was a young and energetic man in his twenties, in a brown flying jacket and jeans. He was obviously overawed by Ali Selim, who told him to land by the tower and switch off.
Ibrahim stayed impassive, a sinister figure in dark robes, an AK-47 beside him, a bulging bag at his feet. Ali Selim took a book from his briefcase and read, and Omar, on the flight deck, stirred uneasily.
Finally, Ali Selim looked up and said, “If you want to smoke, do it outside. Go now, I can’t abide your twitching.”
“Yes, master.” Omar scrambled down, slid back the door, dropped to the runway, then ran through the rain to stand in the doorway of the control tower, where he lit a cigarette.
There was the sound of an engine approaching, and the gold Hawker dropped in below gray clouds, descending through the heavy rain, rolling to the end of the runway, turning and taxiing toward them, and stopping some little distance away. Omar hurried back to the Raptor, the airstair door opened on the Hawker, and a uniformed pilot came down, opening a large umbrella.
A handsome, bronzed-faced Arab, he smiled and inclined his head. “It is an honor to see you again,” he said to Ali Selim.
“Good to see you, Abdul, but get me inside, this rain bothers me.” He ignored Omar but nodded to Ibrahim, went off with Abdul to the Hawker, and followed him up the steps.
Omar said, “Where do I go now?”
“Inside, and I’ll tell you,” Ibrahim said.
Omar pulled himself into the Raptor, turned, and Ibrahim, already holding a Beretta in his right hand, shot him in the head, knocking him back into the hold. He opened the bag, took out a magnesium night flare, pulled the toggle, and tossed it inside. As the flames took hold, he turned and hurried to the Hawker, went up the steps where Abdul waited, and ducked inside. He sat down on the opposite side of the cabin from his master and waited.
Ali Selim looked up from his book. “Captain Feisal has had a word. We can forget winter in northern Afghanistan. In Rubat it’s hot, with enough sun to satisfy even you.”
Ibrahim made no reply, simply nodded, clicked his seat belt into place, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
In London, Owen Rashid, unable to sleep, was sitting by the terrace window in his dressing gown, a glass of red wine by his hand, as he worked his way through a report on the current finances of Rashid Oil.
When he answered the phone, Ali Selim said, “This is Abu. Were you asleep?”
“A touch of insomnia. What can I do for you?”
“I’m just letting you know the game is afoot again—isn’t that the English phrase? Ferguson and his people are on their way back to London. This Sara Gideon has become very important, not only to me but to Ali Selim and to Al Qaeda.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Warn the Frenchman and Kelly that I’m particularly interested in Gideon. I want them on her case.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Not at the moment. One of my assets has left you a package in the glove compartment of your Mercedes. It contains several ampoules of Seconal.”
“What on earth would I need that stuff for?”
“All in good time, Owen. Put Legrande and Kelly to work, and I’ll be back in touch very soon.”
So he was gone, leaving Owen Rashid more frustrated than he had ever felt before.
When the Raptor landed at Peshawar in front of the Hussein Air hangar, Hamid was waiting beside a military ambulance for Miller, who was stretchered and put in the back and taken away, accompanied by Ferguson and Hamza.
At the hospital, the two of them sat in the waiting room, drinking tea and discussing what had happened. “One thing is certain, if you’ll allow me to make a point,” Hamza said. “Ali Selim must have an agenda.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ferguson said, but before he could carry on, a gray-haired and rather distinguished-looking man in green scrubs came in.
“Well, my boy, how are you?”
“Very well, sir.