A Devil is Waiting. Jack Higgins

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 Gaddafi. 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 a flat 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 of mine. I told her to look him up.’

      ‘And they fell in love.’

      ‘She moved in with him, and had two years of bliss before she went home to Belfast one day, got involved in a street protest, was manhandled by soldiers, handed over to the police, and was found dead in a cell the following morning. Choked on her own vomit. There was a suggestion of abuse, but nothing was ever proved.’

      ‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’ Owen said.

      ‘We all know that, but there was nothing to be done. I was on the run at the time, took a chance and went to the funeral. St Mary’s, Bombay Street in Belfast, the church packed. Just before the service, the door banged and there was Henri over from London. The look on his face would have frightened the devil. He had a single red rose in his hand, walked straight up the aisle, ignoring the priest, placed the rose between her folded hands, leaned over, kissed her, and walked out.’

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘Went after him, took him for a drink. I asked him if he intended to return to France. He told me he would never leave London, because as long as he stayed, her presence would always be with him.’

      ‘True love.’ Owen reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘So you suppose that he was responsible for the death of that MP all those years ago as an act of revenge?’

      ‘It was more complicated than that. I told you that Henri had given us a thorough training on the construction of explosive devices.’

      ‘What about it?’

      ‘One of the car bombs he demonstrated was of Russian origin and was unusual in that it used mercury as part of the trigger mechanism. Three months after Mary’s death, the army colonel whose men had been involved in that riot was killed with the same sort of car bomb right here in London.’

      ‘Which could hardly be a coincidence,’ Owen said.

      ‘Not when you consider that two months later, the Royal Ulster Constabulary chief superintendent who’d been commanding the police station where Mary had died met a similar fate.’

      ‘I’d say that’s pretty convincing proof, but why would Legrande target the Member of Parliament? He didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Mary Barry, did he?’

      ‘No, but there was an election going on at the time, the government was taking a very anti-IRA line, and the MP was a spokesman. Who knows what was going on in Henri’s head? The important thing was that there were no more mercury tilt bombs after that.’

      ‘What happened when you put all this to Legrande?’ Owen asked.

      ‘But I never did,’ Kelly told him. ‘I was serving five life sentences for murder in the Maze Prison until the peace process pardoned me.’

      ‘So what is Legrande doing now?’

      ‘I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t certain whether people like me were still under police surveillance, so I decided to leave well enough alone where certain old friends were concerned.’

      Owen, who’d been examining the phone book on his desk, said, ‘Here we are. Henri Legrande. Rare books, fine art, antiques. It’s called Mary’s Bower.’

      Kelly said, ‘Well, we know where the shop’s name comes from. Where are you going with this?’

      ‘Abu is just a messenger boy passing on orders, but orders they are. You’ve boasted of your sleepers in London. Now you’re supposed to activate them to sort out Ferguson and his people.’

      Kelly said, ‘It isn’t as easy as that. When the Troubles were in full swing, we had a network of them, but …’

      ‘Are you telling me it would be impossible?’

      Kelly had an edge of desperation in his voice. ‘It would be difficult.’

      ‘Then you’re a dead man walking, because you’ve been lying to Abu and Al Qaeda. I don’t intend for you to pull me down with you. Stay on the phone for five minutes. I’ll be back.’

      He went out to the kitchen and dialled a number on the wall phone. A man’s voice answered. Owen listened, then said, ‘Sorry, wrong number.’ He spoke into his mobile: ‘Are you still there, Jack?’

      ‘Yes, what the hell are we going to do?’

      ‘Revisit your glory days. You used to be the pride of the IRA – now you’re going to take on Ferguson yourself. I’ll provide you with money if you need to hire three or four foot soldiers. All you need is a plan.’

      ‘And where would that come from?’

      ‘Henri Legrande, of course. He survived the Legion, the Casbah, the Battle of Algiers. If he can’t sort your problem, nobody can.’

      ‘But I don’t know if he’s still around,’ Kelly said. ‘We haven’t spoken in years.’

      ‘I just phoned him three minutes ago. When he answered, I said sorry, wrong number. What I suggest is you phone him, tell him you’ll be in London later today and thought you’d look him up.’

      ‘But what do I say to him?’

      ‘Stick with the truth. After all, your IRA past is no surprise to him. Stress that all you’re seeking is his expertise on the best way to handle Ferguson, and that you’re not expecting him to carry a gun for you or anything like that. Don’t offer him money – the kind of man he is would be offended, and I suspect he’s got more than he knows what to do with.’

      Kelly said, ‘Owen, you’re a genius.’

      ‘I’m