Читать книгу A Devil is Waiting - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 14

Later that day, Jack Kelly was on the corner of Park Lane and Curzon Street, walking down towards Shepherd Market, carrying a modest overnight bag. He had never visited this area before, and it fascinated him, the narrow streets, the wide variety of restaurants and shops.

He found Mary’s Bower, two narrow windows, each featuring a painting, flanking a Georgian door with a brass knocker, a lovely hand-painted sign above with the name above a drooping mulberry over an empty sofa. He felt sad about that, realizing what the imagery meant, and stepped back into a doorway as it started to rain.

The truth was that he hadn’t phoned Legrande, perhaps because of a fear of rejection, and yet he had come, which had to mean something. At that moment, the red velvet curtain behind the painting in the window to the left was pulled back and the Frenchman appeared.

Despite the years, it was undeniably the Henri Legrande who had meant so much in the life of Jack Kelly all those years ago. A little heavier, grey-haired, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles and a green apron. He made an adjustment to the painting on its easel, glanced up, and saw Kelly. He stood there, very still, then disappeared behind the curtain. A moment later, the door opened.

Kelly crossed over, and Legrande said, ‘Jack, is it really you?’

‘As ever was, Henri.’

Legrande removed his spectacles, stuffed them into his apron pocket, hugged him, and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘After all these years. Come in at once.’

In the Victorian sitting room in the flat above the shop, Kelly was amazed at the number of photos, not only of Mary but of Mary and Henri. Legrande found him examining them when he came in with champagne.

‘So she’s still with you,’ Kelly said.

‘Always has been.’

‘No room for another woman in your life.’

Henri thumbed off the champagne cork and paused. ‘Now and then. After all, a man needs a woman, but nothing serious.’ He raised his glass. ‘To me and to you and all those other young bastards at Camp Fuad, most of whom are probably dead by now.’

‘I can certainly think of a few Provos who are,’ Kelly told him.

Henri poured him another and they sat down. ‘You were in the news when this peace process went through,’ Henri said. ‘There were lists of the prisoners pardoned. So you were serving five life sentences in the Maze Prison? A formidable record.’

‘I never shot anyone who wasn’t shooting at me first,’ Kelly said. ‘We were fighting a war.’

‘So what do you do now, how do you make a living?’ Henri reached for a second bottle and opened it. ‘Get on with it – I want to know it all.’

So Kelly did, talking through the drink and, while Henri Legrande sat there impassively, smoking one Gauloise after another, taking in everything, including the Talbot saga, which somehow merged seamlessly into the Al Qaeda connection.

There was a long silence when Kelly finished talking, and then Henri Legrande sighed and shook his head. ‘You would appear to be in deep shite here, my friend – isn’t that what you say in Ulster? The situation seems plain. Either you sort out this General Ferguson and his people or Al Qaeda’s merry men will hold you to account, and whatever they decide is bound to be unpleasant.’

‘So what the hell do I do?’ Kelly asked.

‘You go and have a long hot shower and sober up.’ Henri checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to close the shop and make some calls, so you sort yourself out and we’ll go and have a great dinner somewhere and decide on our next move later tonight. I’m going to help you to get you out of this stupid mess you’ve got yourself into. Who better than your old teacher?’

‘For God’s sake, Henri, I turn up out of the blue after all these years.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’