A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [84]
Hakim had envied Gregory Slay from the start, although he had managed to conceal his feelings. There was more than one reason why. He had been taught to fly by Ben Carver, but hadn’t been able to raise the money to buy it when Ben retired. Slay referred to Hakim as his partner, but he knew it was more to salve the man’s pride than anything else, and Hakim’s flying was only adequate, whereas Slay gave a master class in how to fly a helicopter every time he took off. Hakim, however, was totally dedicated to Al Qaeda, what Osama himself had described as the perfect jihadist, a man who gave no indication of being one.
He knew nothing of Fatima personally. To him, she was just a voice on the phone who occasionally passed on orders to him in Al Qaeda’s name. Even more important, he had to keep her informed well in advance of flights to anywhere, such as Djibouti, Muscat, Bahrain, or Dubai, so that he could act as postman when required.
Fatima’s first call, asking for details of Greg Slay’s recent whereabouts, had excited his curiosity, but she had not explained the reason for her interest. Her second, just before he landed at Gila, certainly did.
Gregory Slay was a direct threat to Al Qaeda. He had been given the task of disposing of him, she told him, and by a famous man, Mullah Ali Selim—surely he had seen him recently on Al Jazeera? Hakim had. Fatima had disobeyed the master’s order not to reveal his name because she hadn’t been able to stand his questioning his own worthiness. Such nonsense. She wanted to shout out his greatness to the whole world, but had to be content with just telling Hakim.
“I want to hear from you the instant Slay is disposed of,” she said. There was crackling on the line. “What’s wrong with the reception?”
“The wind will get worse before it gets better,” he told her. “If a full sandstorm drives in from the Empty Quarter, it will probably kill any signals for mobile phones for some time. I will handle this matter as fast as possible, but may not be able to report a successful outcome for a while.”
“Then you must fly down to Rubat and make your report to us here on the Monsoon.”
“As you wish.”
He gripped the steering column tightly and laughed, head thrown back. So Al Qaeda wanted Greg Slay disposed of? How perfect an answer to all his problems. Change was coming; it was inevitable that Al Qaeda would fill the vacuum of power that would bring to Hazar. With Slay disposed of and the goodwill of Al Qaeda behind Hakim, there was nothing to stop him from taking over the company and its aircraft.
Gila loomed up in the distance, and he increased speed. He couldn’t wait to land, discharge his cargo, and get back in the air and strike out for Hazar before Slay arrived.
It was pouring with rain in London as Henri waited in the Citroën. Owen Rashid had called him, saying he expected to be there in half an hour, but still hadn’t arrived, probably because of some holdup with the weather. Kelly had taken an
old umbrella from the rear of the Citroën and gone off to the shop, ostensibly for more coffee, but in reality for whiskey, having emptied the half bottle. He got two coffees and more whiskey, stopping in a doorway to drink some, then carried on, to find Owen’s Mercedes parked just beside the entrance to Highfield Court. He and Henri were loading the collapsible wheelchair and a couple of bags into the luggage compartment.
Owen turned to face Kelly, disgust on his face. “For God’s sake, what are you playing at? You’re drunk.” He knocked the two paper coffee cups on the cardboard tray from Kelly’s hand and grabbed the umbrella. “Go and wait in the Citroën.”
He pushed Kelly violently away. Henri said, “What’s your plan?”
“We’ll break in from the back if we have to, but let’s try the frontal approach. Did you bring the white coat and the stethoscope I suggested?”
“I’m wearing it under my raincoat, and the stethoscope’s in my pocket.” He took his raincoat off and put it in the luggage compartment.