by Jack Higgins
The Salters arrived with Baxter and Hall, and Holley said, “I braked on the turn and nothing happened. I can’t understand it.”
Baxter was already on his knees, peering under the car. “Brake fluid dripping all over the bloody place, Harry.” He reached inside and pushed on the pedal. “Nothing doing.”
“You were bloody lucky, my old son,” Harry said. “If it hadn’t been for that bollard, you’d have been down on the bottom and fighting to get out. It’s ten feet deep down there.”
Billy said, “Sure you’re okay, Sara?”
“I’m good,” she said. “No problem. What happens now?”
Harry said to Baxter, “You handle this, Joe, get the garage on it. Meanwhile, give Daniel the keys to one of the Mercedes.” He turned to Holley. “We’ve got three here, so you might as well take one. You’ll need it to get to Holland Park in the morning.”
“That’s brilliant,” Holley said.
A number of people had emerged from the pub, paused to see what was going on, and then had moved on to their parked cars. Henri and Kelly joined in the general exodus.
“My God, we nearly had them,” Kelly said.
“Yes, we did, but never mind,” Henri told him. “There will be other times.”
As they passed the Tower of London on the way back, Holley said, “Are you sure that you’re all right, Sara?”
“Of course I am. It could have turned nasty, it didn’t. I wouldn’t say no to a drink.” She looked at her watch. “It’s only ten o’clock. Can we drop in at the Dorchester Bar?”
“Of course we can.”
“What an evening,” she said. “It was fun. I liked the Salters.”
“And Dora’s hot pot.”
“Was bloody marvelous. She should patent it.”
He pulled in at the front of the Dorchester, handed his keys over, and they went in. It was busy, but there was nothing surprising in that. The problem was, the bar was packed, and so was the concourse, with the late-supper trade.
“It would appear to be just one of those nights,” he said. “I can only apologize.”
“What for? I’m sure you have an absolutely wonderful suite waiting upstairs. Can we take a look?”
The maids had dimmed the lights and left the French windows in the sitting room open to the night air, because that was the way Holley liked it. The white gossamer curtains stirred constantly, like living things, giving the whole room an eerie feeling.
“This is extraordinary,” Sara told him.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Champagne, please.”
The curtains were like cobwebs to be brushed aside as she went through, but the view from the terrace high up above Mayfair and Hyde Park, the splendor of the city at night, lights stretching into the distance, was incredible.
Holley came out with a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket with two glasses. He filled them and offered her one. She ran the ice-cold glass against her forehead.
“That’s lovely,” she said.
“What do we drink to?”
“Oh, to love in spite of war, and to this incredibly wonderful place we’re in now, which is not the real world and never could be. Out there, one way or the other, it’s all Afghanistan, where the beast rules.”
“I think I see where you’re coming from,” Holley told her. “But what exactly are you saying?”
“You pointed out that you never had much time for relationships in your line of work, because although you were here today, you were very possibly gone tomorrow, and you meant permanently.”
“Which is true.”
“What would you say if I said I’d like you to take me to bed?”
“I’d say no.”
“But why?” She looked genuinely bewildered. “I know how you feel about me. It’s been obvious from the moment we met. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a woman. We know about these things.”
He took her empty glass from her hand and refilled it. “Would you just listen to me? In the old days, I ran guns out of Algiers to the Mafia, so I was familiar with the part of Sicilian folklore that speaks of the thunderbolt that strikes a man when he meets the special woman, the only woman.”
She stopped drinking, just stared at him. “What are you trying to say?”
“That I always thought it was nonsense until I saw the most desirable and endearing woman I’d ever set eyes on limping around that dance floor at the Pierre.”
“So why won’t you take me to bed?”
“Well, God help anyone who tries to do you harm, but regarding anything else . . . Sara, I fear I’m carrying too much baggage. And as you may have noticed, I’m too old for you.”
Her expression was unreadable, though there was a touch of triumph there. “Oh, you poor old boy.” She emptied her glass and dropped it into the champagne bucket. “You can take me home now.”
She was smiling as they went down in the lift, smiled at the doorman when he got the Mercedes for them, was still smiling when they turned into Highfield Court, and Holley, leaving his engine running, went round and opened the door for her.
“What a gentleman,” she said.
“It’s an older-guy thing,” he told her. “I’ll leave you till tomorrow. You’ll want to spend some quality time with your granddad. I’ll pick you up for Thursday around noon.”
As he moved away, she said, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He turned, and she stepped in close, reached up and kissed him on the mouth, held the moment, then smiled. “Not bad. Not bad at all for a poor old boy.” She turned and went in.
Sadie was hovering in the hall. “Did you have a good evening?”
“It was very interesting.”
“I saw you kissing him. You haven’t been doing anything silly, have you?”
“Well, I offered, but he turned me down.” Sara laughed. “Would you like to know why? Because he loves me too much.” She shook her head and spoke as if to herself. “I’m really going to have to do something about you, Daniel.”
“You don’t think it would be more sensible to let him go?” Sadie asked.
“What a waste of a good man that would be. They’re in short supply, or hadn’t you noticed?”
Sadie was annoyed. “Why has everything got to be such a joke to you?”
“Because sometimes life is a joke, like Afghanistan was a joke. If I hadn’t been able to see that, two tours in that hellhole would have driven me insane.” The wildness, the pain that erupted on Sara’s face was frightening.
Sadie was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“Aren’t we all. When’s Granddad due?”
“Sometime after midnight. They’ll send him home with a chauffeur, they always do. I’m going to wait up for him. What about you?”
“I’d better go to bed. New York was a long time ago, and Tucson is just a distant memory.”
“You must be exhausted. A holiday is what you need.”
“No chance. After all, I’ve only just started with this new outfit. I’ve got to find my way. I’ve got tomorrow off anyway.” Sara was yawning now. “Night bless, Sadie, I’m going to get my head down.”
Holley was enjoying a glass of the Dom Perignon as a nightcap when Roper called him on his Codex. “Harry’s been in touch. I understand you took Sara down to the Dark Man tonight and there was an incident.”
“An accident of sorts. I was driving the Alfa, and when we were leaving I suddenly lost all braking power. We could have gone in the river, but fortunately a bollard got in the way.”
“Sara’s all right, is she?”
“We both are. Harry’s sorting it. Loaned me a Merc.”
“Well, he’s had the night crew down from that garage he owns, and it wasn’t any accident. A main tube feeding the hydraulic system was deliberately severed. As it’s steel mesh–covered, it would have needed a special cutter to do it, used by someone who knew his business.”
“That doesn’t fit the profile of some ordinary v
andal,” Holley said.
“Daniel, Harry Salter is still revered in certain circles, because he was once one of the most powerful guvnors in the London underworld. Vandals and hoodlums and the like would never try to pull something at his own pub. It would be like committing suicide.”
“You’re saying we were targeted?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Sara and I were there for about an hour and a half. It wasn’t particularly busy, well-behaved people having a night out, enjoying themselves. Did any of Harry’s folk have anything to report?”
“Come to think of it, Dora did mention something unusual.”
“Such as?”
“Some French guy asked for a Pernod.”
“And did she give him one?”
“Apparently, she had a bottle on the bar shelf that had been standing there forever and never opened, and he did it for her. She said he was very charming, gray-haired, with those steel-rimmed round spectacles, and he wore a black trench coat.”
“And she’d never seen him before?”
“Never. Do you think it’s important?”
“It’s certainly unusual, especially considering the coincidence that Sara and I were visiting.”
“True,” Roper said. “And the third unusual fact, Watson, as Sherlock would have said, concerns the Alfa Romeo that almost went into the Thames.”
“So it could be we were followed with evil intent by an unknown Frenchman seeking an opportunity to do us harm. No hint of Islam there?”
“Dora said he spoke English like Maurice Chevalier and looked like Jean Gabin in one of those old gangster movies—you know, the ones where he’s just out of jail to do one last job, looks permanently tired, and you know it’s all going to end badly.”
“Well, that’s something,” Holley said. “A starting point. We’ve known for some time now that the French Secret Service operates undercover in London. Get on to your friends at DGSE headquarters in Paris and see if they can help.”
“They’ll deny being here.”
“Then phone one of the guys who isn’t supposed to be here, such as Claude Duval, and see what he has to say. I’ll go to bed now. I’m bushed.”
It was quiet in the computer room at Holland Park, the multiplicity of screens from around the world somehow enclosing Roper as he sat there thinking about the conversation he’d just had.
Sergeant Doyle came in with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich. “There you go, Major. I’ll be having a lie-down in the duty room. I won’t say take it easy, because you never do.”
“I love you, too, Tony.”
He lit a cigarette and made a phone call. A voice echoed round the room in French. “Duval here. Who in the hell is that? It’s one o’clock in the morning.”
Roper answered in English. “Roper. Just turn your back on whichever delectable lady is sharing your bed, Claude, and listen to me.”
“So what is it now, Giles?” Duval said in English.
“I’m sure it’s no news to you that we’ve taken on new blood at Holland Park.”
“You mean, of course, the magnificent Captain Sara Gideon?” Duval was much more alert now. “Is there a problem?”
Roper recounted the episode at the Dark Man in detail. “What do you think?”
“That Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you, and I agree: The Pernod-drinking Frenchman is too much of a coincidence. The good Dora’s description is remarkable. She should have been a film critic. I used to love those black-and-white gangster movies with people like Jean Gabin. I’ll bear what she said in mind.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Needless to say, he was not one of ours.”
“Perish the thought,” Roper told him, and switched off.
Holley didn’t raise his head until ten-thirty, the travel catching up with him. The telephone brought him back to life.
It was Sara. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log. What about you?”
“Drifted in and out. I do that a lot. I often leave my radio on.”
“What have you got planned?”
“That should be what has Rabbi Nathan Gideon got planned. He’s doing one of his big fund-raising tours, all for charity. Four days, maybe five. Leeds, Manchester, Edinburgh, they can’t get enough of him. He left half an hour ago. What are you up to?”
“I sometimes go for a run.”
“Which is beyond me these days.”
“Well, I may be an older guy, but I’m still up for a stroll in the park.”
“That sounds good to me. I’ll be waiting.”
He showered and dressed, and just before he left, two things happened. The concierge phoned to say the Alfa had just been delivered, and they’d exchanged it for the Mercedes. Next came Roper to inform him of his conversation with Claude Duval.
“So you see,” he said when he had finished, “He believes our Pernod-drinking Frenchman to be too much of a coincidence. Duval’s a good man to have on our side.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“I’m just leaving to go and meet up with him in Hyde Park. Tony’s taking me in the van.”
“What’s that all about? I’m picking up Sara in a few minutes to go for a walk in the park.”
“Claude and I have a mutual interest in someone who’s agitating at Speakers’ Corner this morning, Ali Selim.”
“What’s he rabble-rousing about now?”
“The President’s visit on Friday. What he’s already calling the Great Satan’s descent on London.”
“That could lead to a riot, Giles. Not exactly the right scene for a man in a wheelchair.”
“Oh, the police will be out in force, but if you are going anywhere near, make sure you’ve both got your warrant cards with you.”
When Holley drove the Alfa into Highfield Court, Sara came out to meet him wearing a khaki linen suit, a brown leather bag over one shoulder. He was wearing Ray-Bans, his flying jacket, and blue cords.
“You’re still looking very sharp,” she told him. “We don’t need the car, it’s only a short walk to Park Lane, and the subway will take us straight into Hyde Park.”
“And right next to Speakers’ Corner,” he said. “I was going to talk to you about that. Have you got your warrant card?”
“Oh yes, it was a present from Roper in a package he had delivered to the house along with this.” She opened her bag and took out a snub-nosed .22 Colt. “With the new silencer.”
“Plus hollow points?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, you must carry them at all times. There’s been a development. Put your fine Intelligence Corps mind on this.”
He told her what had been discovered about the Alfa, the Frenchman at the Dark Man, Claude Duval, everything.
As they turned into Park Lane, she said, “Whoever it is, it must be you they’re targeting, Daniel. I’ve only just joined.”
“That’s a fair point,” Holley said.
“Let’s talk as we walk.” She slipped her hand into his arm.
Henri Legrande and Kelly had followed the Alfa from the Dorchester and were sitting in the Citroën in South Audley Street waiting for the Alfa to emerge.
When Holley and Sara appeared, Henri said, “I’m going to follow on foot. I can walk around with impunity, but not you. Holley would recognize you instantly. Wait for me in Grosvenor Square somewhere by the American Embassy. I’ll find you.”
Kelly said, “You’re right,” scrambled behind the wheel of the Citroën as the Frenchman got out, and drove away.
When Holley and Sara went up the steps from the subway and entered Hyde Park, they could hear the noise from Speakers’ Corner at once. They paused to listen.
“Who is this Ali Selim?” Sara asked.
“British-born, three months ago he came back home from several years in Pakistan and started to agitate as the mullah at the Pond Street Mosque in Hackney. You were in Arizona for that period, so you wouldn’t have heard of him. Would you like
to go see what’s happening?”
“Actually, I’d like to meet Giles Roper for real. So far I’ve only seen him on screen.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find him.”
He took her hand and they followed the path, the noise getting louder, until they reached Speakers’ Corner. The crowd was already large. Individual speakers worked from their stands to offer a wide range of topics, some from people who took their politics seriously, but there were also cranks of every persuasion. There were a number of police vehicles parked on the fringe, the officers a mixed bag of men and women in normal uniform, riot police in full gear in the background.
