A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [89]
Gregory Slay said in astonishment, “Are you certain about this?”
“That’s what Hakim told me.”
“Does it bother you that we’ve just killed an Al Qaeda follower?”
“Why should it? I’ll probably take my family, travel far out into the Empty Quarter, and join up with my fellow tribesmen. They won’t find me.”
“No need for that,” Slay said. “We’ll empty his pockets, take his watch and wallet, drive him into the outskirts of town, ditch the jeep, and leave his body beside it in an alley. Such robberies occur all the time. You take him in one jeep, I’ll follow in the other to bring you back. If a story is needed, he left here to go home. He’s living on his own these days anyway.”
“That is true. An excellent plan,” Feisal said.
“Then let’s get on with it.”
Everything worked perfectly, they did what was necessary on the way into town, and were back in forty minutes. The drive through the increasingly bad weather had been difficult and truly frightening, the sandstorm raging at full blast.
They returned through the Judas gate into the comparative calm of the hangars, but the storm still raged outside.
“I’ll make some coffee in the kitchen,” Feisal said. “And there is a goat stew that may be heated up if you are hungry.”
“Excellent. You see to it, while I phone friends to reassure them of my safety.”
“In such a storm as this, I think not,” Feisal said. “It makes the signal for the mobile phones impossible for a while. You have not experienced such a great storm as this during your time here, but it happens.”
Slay was already calling Roper, praying for a connection but without success. He tried several times, then went into the kitchen. The stew was heating on a bottle gas stove and smelled good as Feisal stirred.
“No luck, sahib?”
“I’m afraid not. How long will this last, would you say?”
“As Allah wills.” Feisal shrugged. “I remember several years ago a storm of such anger that there was no connection for five hours. You could keep trying, though.”
“I hope we can do better than that,” Slay said. “But what about some of that goat’s stew while we’re waiting?”
Jack Kelly had made it back to Shepherd Market in the Citroën, had let himself into the shop in despair at the situation into which he had gotten himself. His years in prison should have taught him a lesson.
He’d had it all, the chance of a new life, a good job as the estate manager at Talbot Place, his pub in the village. Why had he listened to the siren voices of dissidents who wanted Ulster to return to armed struggle? It had been total madness.
Suddenly the quiet of the place was too much for him. What he needed was people and more whiskey, so he went out through the shop and started along the street to an Irish bar he knew.
As he was about to enter, he glanced back and saw a red Mini pull up in front of the shop. To his horror, Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley got out and moved to the entrance. Kelly panicked on the instant, and dashed into another narrow alley that brought him into Curzon Street.
He paused at a boarded-up house with a builder’s sign and was violently sick, then moved out into Curzon Street, wiping his face with a handkerchief. The drizzle he’d been walking in suddenly increased into a downpour. He stood there in total despair, then realized there was only one place he could go, so he crossed the road and made for Jean Talbot’s house in Marley Court.
She opened the door, hair tied back. “Good God, Jack, you are in a mess,” she said.
“I’m in trouble.” He was half sobbing. “Deep trouble. Can I come in?”
“Of course you can.” He staggered past so close that he bumped into her and made for the sitting room. She frowned then, some inner caution making her leave the front door slightly ajar, and went after him.
He was helping himself to a whiskey from the sideboard. She said, “I’d say you’d had strong drink in abundance, from the state of you. What’s this all about?”
“Well, your good friend Owen Rashid could make a better story of it than I can. Not that he’s available to tell you anything, as he’s out