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Authors: Jack Higgins
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Owen Rashid’s side. What’s our next move?”
“I’ll order Kelly to activate some of his sleepers here in London. He’s boasted of them enough, so let’s see if we can give Ferguson and his people a few problems.”
Owen said, “Let’s be practical. Ferguson and Miller spent years fighting a war in Ireland. Dillon and Holley were on the other side and have now crossed over. Their friend Harry Salter may be a wealthy developer now, but he was a notorious gangster in his day, and his nephew has taken after him. And the Gideon girl’s record speaks for itself. What do you think you’ll be able to accomplish?”
“I’ve been doing some research. Are you familiar with theIrish National Liberation Army? Their members were recruited from the professional classes. Years ago, they killed an MP with a car bomb as he drove out of Parliament. No one was ever caught.”
“All right, but that was a long time ago,” Owen said. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying some things never go out of style. I’m going to speak to Kelly. I want this Charles Ferguson business taken care of once and for all.”
O wen Rashid, with plenty to think about, went into the bathroom and stood under a hot shower, cursing the day he’d got involved with Al Qaeda, but he was, and would have to make the best of it.
As he finished dressing and moved into his office area, the phone sounded. It was Kelly, and he wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t like being ordered around by that creep Abu. He sounds like an undertaker.”
“I suppose that’s what he is in a way,” Owen told him. “You could always resurrect one of your sleeper cells and give instructions to bump him off.”
“If only it were that simple,” Kelly said. “Just like I have visions of getting Charles Ferguson and his entire outfit all together in a van, so it would only take one bomb planted underneath to get rid of them all.”
“And pigs might fly,” Owen said. “Anyway, Abu thinks we need something special. He’s discovered that INLA once killed a Member of Parliament with a car bomb.”
“But that was years ago.”
“Well, he’s impressed—not only that they got away with it but that the cell consisted of middle-class professionals.”
“Yeah, that was a newspaper story that got out of hand.” Kelly laughed harshly. “Each time it reprinted, a bit more was added, until in the end, it was better than the midnight movie.”
Owen Rashid found himself genuinely interested. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve always suspected a friend of mine was involved. He wasn’t Irish, and his only connection with the IRA was a girl named Mary Barry, whom he loved beyond rubies.”
“Tell me about him.”
“In 1976, like a lot of IRA volunteers, I was sent to a training camp in the middle of the Algerian desert, courtesy of Colonel Qaddafi. We were trained in all kinds of weaponry and shown how to make what they now call improvised explosive devices, car bombs and such.”
“So what’s this got to do with anything?” Owen Rashid demanded.
“Our instructor was named Henri Legrande. He spent three years in the Foreign Legion in the Algerian War. Joined at eighteen, got wounded and decorated, and discharged on his twenty-first birthday. Then he was recruited by Algerians and got well paid to give people like me the benefit of his experience for six months.”
“What happened to him when you left the camp?”
“We were his last group. He had an English aunt in London who’d left him well provided for, and her estate included an antiques shop with an apartment above it in Shepherd Market.”
“That’s not far from here,” Owen said. “Lots of shops like that there.”
“He decided to go to London University to study literature and fine arts, of all things. It was still a popular destination with Irish students like Mary Barry, the daughter of a friend
“I’ll order Kelly to activate some of his sleepers here in London. He’s boasted of them enough, so let’s see if we can give Ferguson and his people a few problems.”
Owen said, “Let’s be practical. Ferguson and Miller spent years fighting a war in Ireland. Dillon and Holley were on the other side and have now crossed over. Their friend Harry Salter may be a wealthy developer now, but he was a notorious gangster in his day, and his nephew has taken after him. And the Gideon girl’s record speaks for itself. What do you think you’ll be able to accomplish?”
“I’ve been doing some research. Are you familiar with theIrish National Liberation Army? Their members were recruited from the professional classes. Years ago, they killed an MP with a car bomb as he drove out of Parliament. No one was ever caught.”
“All right, but that was a long time ago,” Owen said. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying some things never go out of style. I’m going to speak to Kelly. I want this Charles Ferguson business taken care of once and for all.”
O wen Rashid, with plenty to think about, went into the bathroom and stood under a hot shower, cursing the day he’d got involved with Al Qaeda, but he was, and would have to make the best of it.
As he finished dressing and moved into his office area, the phone sounded. It was Kelly, and he wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t like being ordered around by that creep Abu. He sounds like an undertaker.”
“I suppose that’s what he is in a way,” Owen told him. “You could always resurrect one of your sleeper cells and give instructions to bump him off.”
“If only it were that simple,” Kelly said. “Just like I have visions of getting Charles Ferguson and his entire outfit all together in a van, so it would only take one bomb planted underneath to get rid of them all.”
“And pigs might fly,” Owen said. “Anyway, Abu thinks we need something special. He’s discovered that INLA once killed a Member of Parliament with a car bomb.”
“But that was years ago.”
“Well, he’s impressed—not only that they got away with it but that the cell consisted of middle-class professionals.”
“Yeah, that was a newspaper story that got out of hand.” Kelly laughed harshly. “Each time it reprinted, a bit more was added, until in the end, it was better than the midnight movie.”
Owen Rashid found himself genuinely interested. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve always suspected a friend of mine was involved. He wasn’t Irish, and his only connection with the IRA was a girl named Mary Barry, whom he loved beyond rubies.”
“Tell me about him.”
“In 1976, like a lot of IRA volunteers, I was sent to a training camp in the middle of the Algerian desert, courtesy of Colonel Qaddafi. We were trained in all kinds of weaponry and shown how to make what they now call improvised explosive devices, car bombs and such.”
“So what’s this got to do with anything?” Owen Rashid demanded.
“Our instructor was named Henri Legrande. He spent three years in the Foreign Legion in the Algerian War. Joined at eighteen, got wounded and decorated, and discharged on his twenty-first birthday. Then he was recruited by Algerians and got well paid to give people like me the benefit of his experience for six months.”
“What happened to him when you left the camp?”
“We were his last group. He had an English aunt in London who’d left him well provided for, and her estate included an antiques shop with an apartment above it in Shepherd Market.”
“That’s not far from here,” Owen said. “Lots of shops like that there.”
“He decided to go to London University to study literature and fine arts, of all things. It was still a popular destination with Irish students like Mary Barry, the daughter of a friend
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