A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [96]
He said, “A time will come when you beg me for mercy.”
“I’m frightened to death,” Sara said, as the small procession of vehicles drew up on the jetty. Khazid and six of his men led the way to a police launch followed by Ibrahim, Fatima and Sara, Owen Rashid and Henri Legrande behind. They boarded, only the police remaining on deck in their uniforms, the others under cover. Henri’s chest had been hurting for some time, probably as the result of flying at a great height for so long. He coughed, reaching for a handkerchief, coughed again. When he examined it, he found fresh blood. So it was finally beginning.
He looked at Sara Gideon in the corner and then to Ibrahim, evil personified, and thought of her in the hands of such a man, thought of Mary, the love of his life, and knew what she would have wanted him to do now that he was close to the end. He carried a Beretta in a shoulder holster. He also carried a folded flick-knife in his left trouser pocket.
When the launch reached the landing platform for them to go up the steps, and there was a momentary crush, he murmured, “Excusez-moi, Capitaine,” and slipped the knife into her hand. Her fingers closed over it, she gave him not even the briefest of glances, and went after Fatima, who had followed Ibrahim out.
Several sailors had appeared, and Ahmed was talking to them. Ibrahim carried on, leading the way through to where Ali Selim waited, sitting behind the table in his usual place.
“As you ordered, master.”
Ali Selim examined Sara gravely. “You are a remarkable woman, Captain.”
“Why am I here?” Sara asked calmly.
“I’m sure you can answer that for yourself, Sara Gideon. You are the largest stockholder in the Gideon Bank, where your grandfather keeps the chairman’s seat warm for you while you serve Queen and Country. How much would the bank pay to get you back in one piece? A hundred million sterling, to start with?”
“Oh, a lot more than that. After all, it’s mostly my money, isn’t it?”
“You know, you are absolutely right.” He smiled. “But what a poor host I am. Sit down, all of you, at the dining table. I gave orders to the chef to provide something, in spite of the lateness of the hour.”
He nodded to Ibrahim, who went and opened the double door at the far end, and four waiters pushed in trolleys and started transferring a range of rice dishes, salads, and baked fish, working fast to lay it all out.
On the other side of the world in Britain, three hours behind Rubat, Charles Ferguson, after a first-class dinner at Chequers with the great and the good, was enjoying a cigar on the garden terrace with Henry Frankel, when the French foreign minister came out, elegant in his black velvet dinner jacket.
“There you are. The Prime Minister sends his apologies. He’ll join us when he can. He’s speaking to someone at the UN in New York. I’ve just been talking to my chief secretary in Paris. I’m glad to hear Claude Duval’s been able to help you with the Frenchman you were after, Charles.”
“Claude Duval?” Ferguson asked.
“Colonel Duval, DGSE. They’ve managed a match on some mysterious Frenchman you had a photo of. It seems he is an ex–Foreign Legionnaire, one Henri Legrande, who used to train the IRA, and others of a like persuasion, in a camp in the Algerian desert.”
Henry Frankel murmured, “You didn’t tell me, Charles.”
“More like, someone didn’t tell me.” The Prime Minister looked out, called them in for drinks, and Ferguson whispered to Frankel, “Make my excuses, I’ve got a phone call to make.”
He said to Roper, “So it would appear that the anonymous Frenchman was very real indeed and up to no good?”
“Absolutely, mea culpa,” Roper said. “You had other things on your mind, cabinet stuff, keeping the politicians happy. That’s what it’s all about these days. Mind you, it might get you a knighthood.”
“That’s damn unfair, Giles. What about this Henri Legrande? Who is he?”
“Has an antiques shop in Shepherd Market. Had Jack Kelly staying with him for a few