A Devil is Waiting

‘And did you tell him about Michael Flynn?’

‘Of course I did. He and another man with him killed Ivan and threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t tell them. Anyway, your client’s name isn’t Flynn, it’s Jack Kelly. He got careless using my phone one night.’

‘How unfortunate. Have you any idea who these people are?’

‘One posed as an NYPD officer, had an Ulster accent, and was called Dillon. The other was English, named Holley.’

‘They seem to have been rather careless with their names.’

‘That’s because I was supposed to end up dead, which I nearly was. Look, they claimed to be members of the Provisional IRA. I thought your client, Flynn or Kelly or whatever his name is, should know about that.’

Cagney said, ‘I appreciate your warning, Patrick. What do you intend to do now?’

‘Get the hell out of New York.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Murphy replaced the phone, grabbed the suitcase, and went out. Within minutes, he was driving the undamaged car, a Ford sedan, out of the courtyard.

Shortly afterwards, Liam Cagney, a prosperous 60-year-old stockbroker by profession and Irish American to the core, was phoning Jack Kelly in Kilmartin, County Down, in Northern Ireland.

‘It’s Liam, Jack,’ he said when the receiver was picked up. ‘You’ve got a problem.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Somebody’s asked Murphy about the Amity. Do the names Dillon and Holley mean anything to you?’

‘By God, they do. They’re both Provisional IRA renegades now working for Charles Ferguson and British Intelligence. What did Murphy tell them?’

‘He told me they killed his man Ivan and almost got him. He also heard you using your real name in a phone call.’

Kelly swore. ‘I knew that was dangerous, but I had no choice. So he’s on the run? I don’t like that. You never know what he might do.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s taken care of. He won’t be going anywhere.’

‘That’s good to know. You’ve served our cause well, Liam, and thanks for the information about Dillon and Holley. If they turn up here, we’ll be ready for them. It’s time someone sorted those two out. Take care, old friend.’

He was seated behind his desk in his office at Talbot Place, the great country house in County Down, where he was estate manager. He sat there thinking about it, then opened a drawer, took out an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number.

There was a delay, and he was about to ring off when a voice said, ‘Owen Rashid.’

‘This is Kelly, Owen. Sorry to bother you.’

In London, Rashid’s flat was huge and luxurious, and as he got rid of his tie, he walked to the windows overlooking Park Lane. ‘Is there a problem? Tell me.’

Which Kelly did. When he was finished, he said, ‘Sorry about this.’

‘Not your fault.’ Rashid poured himself a brandy. ‘Dillon and Holley. They’re bad news, but nothing I can’t deal with. My sources will tell me if they try anything.’

‘I’m always amazed by what you know, Owen.’

‘Not me, Jack, Al Qaeda. In spite of bin Laden’s death, it’s still a worldwide organization. We have people at every level, from a waiter serving lunch to a talkative senator in New York, to a disgruntled police chief in Pakistan, to a disenchanted government minister in some Arab state who hates corruption – or a humble gardener right here in London’s Hyde Park, watching me take my early-morning run and seeing who I’m with. In this wonderful age of the mobile phone, all they have to do is call in.’

‘And I’m not sure I like that,’ Kelly said.

‘No sane person would. Is Mrs Talbot still with you?’

‘She flew to London yesterday in the Beach Baron.’

‘I’ll look her up. As to Dillon, Holley, and Murphy, don’t worry, we’ll sort it. But it’d be a good idea if you called Abu and reported in.’

‘Where is he?’ Kelly demanded.

‘Waziristan, for all I know. He’s a mouthpiece, Jack, passing us our orders and receiving information in return. He could be living in London, but I doubt it.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He knows too much. They wouldn’t want to take the chance of him falling into the wrong hands. He’ll be sitting there, nice and safe in a mud hut with no running water or flush toilet, but the encrypted phone is all he needs. I would definitely give him a call, if I were you.’

‘Okay, I will,’ and Kelly switched off.

Owen stood under the awning on the terrace, rain dripping down, late-night Park Lane traffic below and Hyde Park in the darkness. He loved London and always had. Half-Welsh, thanks to the doctor’s daughter his father had met at Cambridge University, who had died in childbirth; half-Arab from one of the smaller Oman states.

Rubat had little to commend it except its oil. It didn’t have the interminable billions of the other states, but the wealth generated by Rashid Oil was enough to keep the small population happy. Sultan Ibrahim Rashid was chairman, and his nephew, Owen Rashid, was CEO, running the company from the Mayfair office and living in considerable comfort, especially as he’d managed to avoid marriage during his forty-five years.

His one mistake had been to get involved with Al Qaeda. He was not a jihadist and wasn’t interested in the religious side of things, but he’d reasoned that it would give him more muscle in the workplace and more power in the business world for Rashid Oil. He had been welcomed with open arms, but then found he had made a devil’s bargain, for he had to obey orders like everyone else.

Right now his task was to cultivate Jean Talbot, the chairman of Talbot International. Her son had been under Al Qaeda’s thumb – pure blackmail – until he died, and he had started by attending her son’s funeral. She had apparently known nothing about the connection, but Jack Kelly had, an old IRA hand who was itching to see some action again.

To meet Jean Talbot, he’d visited the Zion Gallery in Bond Street, where there was an exhibition of her art, and loitered until she’d turned up. A compliment on her famous portrait of her son had led to lunch at the Ivy.

The point of all this had only recently been made clear by his Al Qaeda masters. A single-track railway ran down from Saudi Arabia and ended up in Hazar next door to Rubat. It was called the Bacu. In modern times, it had been convenient to run pipes alongside the railway from the oil wells in southern Arabia, and over years of wheeler-dealing, the Bacu had ended up being owned by Talbot International.

Owen Rashid’s primary task was to persuade Jean Talbot to look favourably on the idea of extending the Bacu line through Rubat. The benefit to Yemen, a hotbed of Al Qaeda activity, was obvious: the possibility of instant access to the world’s biggest oil fields.

The truth was that he’d come to like Jean immensely, but that was just too bad. He had his orders, so he raised his glass and said, softly, ‘To you, Jean. Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait one day.’

At the same time in New York, Patrick Murphy was leaving his apartment and proceeding along the street to catch a cab. He hadn’t packed a suitcase. He’d decided he’d buy new clothes in Vegas, so he was just carrying the suitcase. He didn’t hear a thing, was just suddenly conscious of someone behind him and a needle point slicing into his clothes.

‘Just turn right into the next doorway.’ The voice was very calm.

Murphy did as he was told. ‘Please listen. If Cagney’s sent you, there’s no need for this. I’ve got money, lots of money. Just take it.’

The knife went right in under the ribs, finding the heart, killing him so quickly that he wasn’t even aware of the man picking up his suitcase and walking away, leaving him dead in the doorway.

WASHINGTON