JACK HIGGINS

THE JUDAS GATE

Dedication

For Ian Williams

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

WASHINGTON, D.C.: THE OVAL OFFICE

1

PARIS: ALGIERS

2

LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND

3

4

NORTHERN IRELAND: LONDON

5

PAKISTAN: NORTH-WEST FRONTIER PESHAWAR

6

LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND

7

8

9

10

ALGERIA: THE KHUFRA MARSHES

11

12

LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND

13

14

REQUIEM

15

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Copyright

About the Publisher

WASHINGTON, D.C.

1

The Washington day in August had been almost subtropical, but by late evening an unexpected shower had cooled things.

The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a short walk from the White House, and outside the bar two men sat at a small table on the terrace, a canopy protecting them against the rain. The elder had an authoritative moustache and thick hair touched with silver, and wore a dark blue suit and Guards tie. He was General Charles Ferguson, Commander of the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad, which was an unfortunate necessity in the era of international terrorism.

His companion, Major Harry Miller, was forty-seven, just under six feet, with grey eyes, a shrapnel scar on one cheek, and a calm and confident manner. A Member of Parliament, he served the Prime Minister as a general troubleshooter and bore the rank of Under-Secretary of State. He had proved he could handle anything, from the politicians at the United Nations to the hell of Afghanistan.

Just now, he was saying to Ferguson, ‘Are you sure the President will be seeing us?’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Blake was quite certain. The President said he’d make sure to clear time for us.’

Sean Dillon stepped out on to the terrace, glass in hand, and joined them, his fair hair tousled and his shirt and velvet cord suit black as usual.

‘So there you are.’

Before Ferguson could reply, Blake Johnson appeared from the bar and found them. He wore a light trenchcoat draped over his shoulders to protect a tweed country suit. He was fifty-nine, his black hair flecked with grey. As a boy, he’d lied about his age, and when he’d stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, he’d been only eighteen. Now, a long-time veteran of the Secret Service, he was Personal Security Adviser to the new President, as he had been for several Presidents before him.

‘We thought we’d been stood up,’ Dillon told him, and shook hands.

‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s good of him to make time for us.’

‘Your report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, he’s wanted to meet you for some time now.’

‘With all the new blood running around, I think that’s very decent of the man,’ Dillon said. ‘I thought we’d have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.’

Ferguson said to Blake, ‘Take no notice of him. Let’s get going.’

For those who didn’t want to make a fuss, the best way into the White House was through the east entrance, which was where Clancy Smith, a large, fit black Secret Service man assigned to the President, waited patiently. He had met them all over the years.

‘Great to see you, General,’ he told Ferguson.

‘So you’re still speaking to us, Clancy?’ Dillon asked.

‘Dillon, shut up!’ Ferguson told him again.

‘I’m only trying to make sure there’s a welcome for Brits these days. I seem to remember there was a previous occasion when they burned the place down.’

Clancy roared with laughter. ‘Dillon, you never change.’

‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Ferguson said bitterly. ‘But let’s get moving. If you’d be kind enough to lead the way.’

Which Clancy did, escorting them through many corridors until he finally paused at a door. ‘Gentlemen, the Oval Office.’

He opened the door and led the way in. The President was in his shirtsleeves, working his way through a mound of paperwork.

The President and Blake were sitting on one side of the large coffee table, with Dillon, Ferguson and Miller on the other. There was coffee available on a sideboard and they had all helped themselves at the President’s invitation.

Ferguson sipped some of his coffee. ‘Trying times, Mr President.’

‘Afghanistan troubles me greatly. The casualties mount relentlessly, yet we can’t just abandon them,’ the President said.

‘I agree,’ Ferguson told him.

The President glanced at Blake. ‘What were those Vietnam statistics again?’

‘At its worst, four hundred dead a week and four times as many wounded,’ Blake told him.

‘Two thousand casualties a week.’ Miller shook his head. ‘It wasn’t sustainable.’

‘Which was why we got out,’ the President said. ‘But what the hell do we do now? We have a large international army, excellent military personnel, backed up by air support and missiles. It should be no contest, and yet…’

Harry Miller put in, ‘There’s precedent, Mr President. During the Eighteen-forties, at the height of its Empire, Britain sent an army of sixteen and a half thousand into Afghanistan to take Kabul. Only one man returned with his life, a regimental doctor. I’ve always believed the Afghans were sending a message by allowing him to live.’

‘My God,’ the President said softly. ‘I never heard that story.’

‘To Afghans, family comes first, and then the tribe,’ Miller told him. ‘But they will always fight together to defend Afghanistan itself against an invader.’

‘And that’s us,’ Dillon put in. ‘And they don’t like it. And now even young men of Afghan extraction who were born in Britain end up joining the fight.’

The President turned to Ferguson. ‘That’s what was in your report. Tell me more.’

Ferguson said, ‘Are you familiar with Major Giles Roper, a member of my staff in London?’

‘We haven’t met, but I know of him. Once a great bomb-disposal expert, until an explosion put him in a wheelchair.’

‘Yes. Well, he’s since become the king of cyberspace. There’s nothing he can’t make his computers do—and sometimes that means he can listen in to battlefield chat in Afghanistan. The people flying with the Taliban come from such a wide number of countries that English has sometimes become the language of communication.’

Miller said, ‘It’s interesting to hear the voices. Yorkshire accents, many from Birmingham, Welsh, Scots.’

‘That’s incredible,’ the President said.

‘But true. Young British-born Muslims are being recruited by doctrinaire preachers who not only encourage them to go, but also offer plane tickets and a training camp, all courtesy of Al Qaeda, who then introduce them to the Taliban,’ Miller added. ‘It’s an awfully big adventure when you’re eighteen or so.’

‘Just like joining the army,’ Dillon murmured.

Ferguson glanced at him, but the President carried on. ‘You know, there are many good people who advocate we withdraw and continue this as a long-range war.’

‘Air strikes, cruise missiles, drones,’ Blake said.

Ferguson replied, ‘With respect, too often that can result in an indiscriminate attack on civilian targets. Terrorism can only be countered by a resolute anti-terrorism campaign that pulls no punches.’

‘I take your point.’ The President nodded. ‘But let’s ask an expert.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘I’ve been informed of your past, Mr Dillon. You must have an opinion. Share it with us.’

‘General Ferguson is right. The successful revolutionary blends with the people. Which is why, with these British Muslim imports, American and British forces in Afghanistan can’t be certain who is the enemy.’

‘Which we counter by joining with Afghan Army units ourselves,’ Ferguson said. ‘But there’s another aspect that concerns me more.’

‘And that is?’ the President asked.

‘There’s an incredible new sophistication by the Taliban concerning improvised explosive devices. Not only in the bombmaking itself, but their usage. They are becoming far too good. The only conclusion must be that they are being coached by experts.’

The President frowned. ‘What are you implying? The Cubans or the Russians, something like that?’

‘Good God, no,’ Ferguson said. ‘Those days are long gone for the Cubans, and the Russians wouldn’t touch Afghanistan if it was the last place on earth. They couldn’t crack that nut with an army of a hundred thousand men.’

Dillon moved in. ‘Bombs aren’t just bombs, they are tactical weapons, used to achieve maximum results. You must make sure that an ambush is not just an ambush, but a total disaster for the enemy. And to achieve that, you need instruction from an expert.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Let me tell you a story,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s from thirty years ago, when I was a Major in the Grenadier Guards, on my third tour in Ulster, seconded to staff at headquarters in Belfast. I’m not wasting your time, believe me.’

‘Then proceed, General,’ the President told him, and Ferguson began.

‘August the twenty-seventh, Nineteen seventy-nine.’ Ferguson took a deep breath, as if pulling himself together. ‘I’ll never forget that date because it was one of the worst days in my life. I was in the Incident Room at the Grand Central in Belfast when we received some truly dreadful news.’

‘Which was?’ the President enquired.

‘The Queen’s cousin, Lord Louis Mountbatten, liked to enjoy his family holidays in Ireland, despite the obvious security risks. That year, a radio-controlled bomb blew his thirty-foot fishing boat apart, killing Mountbatten, his grandson, his daughter’s mother-in-law and a young boat boy.’

‘Dear God,’ the President said. ‘I remember reading about it.’

‘God had nothing to do with it, but the Provisional IRA did. The media went berserk. At the Incident Room, we were besieged, calls from all over the world. Then later that same day, just when I thought it was beginning to calm down, it got worse. Warrenpoint. Two trucks loaded with paratroopers were on their way to a market town called Newry when a huge roadside bomb hidden in a farm trailer was activated by a radio signal. Six paratroopers were killed and others wounded. The survivors took refuge in the ruins of a lodge at a place called Narrow Water. They radioed in for help and came under sniper fire. A Wessex helicopter carrying soldiers from the Queen’s Own Highlanders landed close by. As they disembarked, another large bomb exploded, killing twelve soldiers, including their commanding officer and wounding others.’

The President’s horror was plain. ‘That’s appalling.’

‘I use it in my lectures at Sandhurst as an example of a classic guerrilla ambush brilliantly executed,’ Miller told him.

Ferguson said, ‘It was probably the worst incident in terms of casualties in the whole of the Troubles. Eighteen men dead and more than twenty wounded.’

‘So where are you going with this?’ the President asked.

Miller took a map from his briefcase and unfolded it. ‘Afghanistan, Helmand province. See the road running up to the mountains in the north, the small village of Mirbat and the deep lake beside it? The village is in ruins, the people have moved on. A convoy loaded with technicians and electronic equipment needed to get through to the dam at the head of the valley to repair the hydroelectric system that the Taliban had damaged. Two six-wheel Mastiff armoured patrol vehicles led the way. Besides the drivers, there were twelve Rangers. When they got to Mirbat they found it deserted, got out to explore, and a massive roadside bomb killed six of them instantly and wounded others.’

The President said, ‘What next?’

‘The remaining Rangers came under sniper fire from across the lake. A Chinook helicopter with an instant response medical team happened to be close by, Brits as a matter of fact. They reached Mirbat in fifteen minutes and landed. As the medics jumped out, a second roadside bomb was activated and the helicopter fireballed.’ Miller shrugged. ‘The firing stopped, the Taliban cleared off. In all, there were twenty personnel involved. The entire Chinook team were slaughtered, and ten Rangers. Two Rangers survived, along with the driver.’

‘Sixteen dead,’ the President said grimly.

Ferguson said, ‘Shocking, isn’t it? Even more so to listen to.’

‘Listen to? You mean, this is one of the things your Major Roper picked up? With the British voices?’

‘Yes. Voices calling to each other in the fog of battle, the death of men, the triumph of the victor,’ Ferguson told him. ‘The Taliban force could have been as many as thirty. The experts estimate about fifteen were British.’ He removed a cassette from his pocket.

The President took it and said, ‘Clancy, would you put this on? We might as well hear the worst.’

The material had been enhanced and edited. Some of the voices were speaking Pushtu and there was an occasional call in Arabic, but English prevailed and the different regional accents were clear. For a while, there was a lot of crosstalk, and then someone cut in with real authority.

‘Shamrock here. Cut all this stupid chatter and assume your positions. Mastiffs are on the way. The soldiers in them are American Rangers. They’re good, so wait for the bomb to explode before firing. Anyone who jumps the gun gets a bullet through the kneecap from me afterwards.’

There was a certain amount of wild laughter, and then an American voice cut in. ‘Calling convoy. Ranger One. Coming into Mirbat now. Looks pretty quiet to me, but we’ll see.’

Shortly afterwards, the first explosion was followed by gunfire, voices calling excitedly, screams, the sound of AK47s firing. Then a sudden silence.

Miller said, ‘Major Roper’s cut straight to the Chinook arriving.’

The pause ended; there was the noise of the Chinook coming in and then the second explosion, deafening in its intensity, followed by further gunfire and then the voice again, loud and clear.

‘Shamrock here. Cease firing. You’ve done well, you bastards. What a spectacular. Warrenpoint all over again and it worked big time. Osama will be delighted. Now let’s get out of here before the heavy brigade arrives. You can rest in peace now, Sean. Night bless.’

There was suddenly only the machine whirring. Clancy said, ‘Is that it?’

‘It sure as hell was enough,’ the President said, his face sombre. ‘Why haven’t I heard of this before, Blake?’

‘It only happened nine days ago, Mr President. You were in Mexico for two days, then that courtesy call in Panama, and then the Libyan business.’

‘That’s what I’m elected for. This is bad.’

‘Yes, but Major General Ferguson thought you should hear this personally. This has been the first opportunity.’

‘You’re right, of course.’ The President took a deep breath. ‘We’re grateful to you, General. Now this leader of the pack, this Shamrock. What do you know about him?’

Ferguson said, ‘Our voice experts say he’s educated, likely the product of a top public school.’

‘And a trained soldier?’

‘I’d say so,’ Ferguson said.

‘Which means the British Army,’ Dillon said, ‘and he has Irish roots of some sort.’

‘How can you be certain?’ the President asked.

‘The code name he’s chosen, Shamrock. What could be more Irish than that? Then there was his joy over the success of the Mirbat ambush, and his comparing it to the Warrenpoint spectacular of so many years ago. Also, his threat to shoot anyone who misbehaved through the kneecap—that’s a ritual punishment in the IRA since time immemorial. Finally, this rest-in-peace prayer to someone called Sean.’

‘Surely that’s a common enough name in Ireland?’

‘It certainly is,’ Dillon smiled. ‘A good Irish name which in Northern Ireland would label you as a Catholic instantly.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr Dillon. Most enlightening.’ The President stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I’m very grateful, and you’ve given me a lot to think about. General, I know the White House has owed you and your people a debt on many previous occasions. Keep Blake informed of your progress and let me know if there is anything I can do.’

‘We’re grateful for you finding a moment to see us,’ Ferguson told him. ‘We live in trying times, but we’ll pull through, I’m sure of it.’

‘God willing.’ The President shook hands with the three of them, Dillon last, and said, ‘You really believe you can hunt this man, this Shamrock, down, don’t you, Mr Dillon?’

‘Absolutely, Mr President.’

The President smiled. ‘You are a remarkable man, my friend. Don’t let me down.’

‘My oath on it, sir.’ He held the President’s hand a moment longer, then turned and followed the others as Blake ushered them out.

Late the next morning, Ferguson’s Gulfstream, his regular RAF pilots, Lacey and Parry, at the controls, rose to thirty thousand feet, climbing high over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry looked into the cabin.

‘There’s some problematic weather in the mid-Atlantic. A question of how heavy the winds are.’

‘I’d have said perfectly acceptable if they’re flying up your backside,’ Dillon told him.

‘Right as usual, Dillon, which means our flight time will be cut to about six hours if we’re lucky. Anyone like anything to eat or drink?’

‘Thank you, no, Flight Lieutenant,’ Ferguson told him, and Parry withdrew.

Miller said, ‘You certainly impressed the President, Sean.’

‘I only told the man what I thought he’d want to hear.’

‘Rash promises as usual,’ Ferguson put in. ‘Shamrock could be anybody.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ Dillon told him. ‘Everyone is a somebody, and I intend to find him, one way or another. In fact, I’m so certain, I’ll have a drink on it.’

‘Not me,’ Ferguson told him, and unfolded the quilt beside his seat. ‘I’m going to take a nap. I’ll have to see the Prime Minister tomorrow. If you want to make yourself useful, Harry, call in to Roper and tell him what happened.’

He switched off his light and pulled up the quilt.

At the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in a track suit in his wheelchair, his shoulder-length hair tied with a ribbon, pulling it back from his bomb-ravaged face, as he listened to Harry Miller describe the visit to the White House. Roper lit a cigarette and poured a whisky as he listened.

‘Good old Sean. No one could ever accuse him of lacking confidence.’

‘Have you come up with anything else?’ Miller asked. ‘I can’t say that I have, and I’ve gone over the audio tapes again and again. What you all listened to is still what I’ve got.’ ‘So what happens now?’

‘I’m not sure. The rumours of British-born Muslims fighting for the Taliban are now confirmed. What the government can do about it is another matter.’

‘Not very much, I imagine. The government is wary about stirring things up with the Muslim population.’

‘So we’ll all go to hell in a handcart together,’ Harry Miller told him. ‘But first, what do we do about Shamrock?’

‘That’s a different matter,’ Dillon put in from the plane, ‘and quite simple. We find him quickly, shoot him, and pass him over to the disposal men.’

‘Ah, if only life were that easy,’ Roper said.

‘We know a lot about him already. The clues are there,’ Dillon said. ‘He obviously has military experience.’

‘So what are you going to do? Go to the army list and pore over thousands of names going back ten, twenty or even thirty years? What would you be looking for?’

‘You’re right, but I won’t be doing that. I’ve a strong feeling that going back to the scene of the crime might be the way.’

‘To Mirbat?’ Roper was aghast. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Sean. If the Taliban got you, they’d feed you to the dogs.’

‘I’m sure they would, but I was thinking of Warrenpoint. I have a feeling that there might be some answer for me there. I was born in County Down myself, you know, at Collyban, no more than a dozen miles from the area.’

Ferguson’s voice was muffled by the quilt as he said, ‘You are not going anywhere near County Down, and that’s an order, so shut up and stop disturbing me.’

‘I hear and obey, oh great one.’ Dillon switched off the telephone. ‘Sorry, Harry.’

Ferguson said, ‘Call Roper back and tell him to contact Daniel Holley in Algiers or wherever he is. Get him to share all our information with Holley. I’d value his opinion on the matter.’

Dillon was astounded. ‘You mean the Daniel Holley who tried to put us all out of business permanently? Who nearly succeeded in blowing you up in your limousine and arranged for hit men to have a try at Harry and Blake Johnson, whose shoulder still aches on a rainy day from the bullet he took?’

‘Yes, well, he didn’t succeed…’

‘He came bloody close.’

‘He also saved your good friend Monica Starling from certain death. Don’t forget that, Sean. And as far as both the Americans and ourselves are concerned, he’s clean now. He’s too useful not to be. Especially since he’s become full partner with Hamid Malik in that shipping company. They’re respected throughout the Mediterranean, you know.’

‘They’re also arms dealers,’ Dillon said.

‘Not any more,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Well, only occasionally. In any case, Holley’s been given Algerian nationality and a diplomatic passport by their Foreign Minister. He can come and go anywhere these days. It’s the way the world turns, Dillon.’

‘Next thing you know, he’ll be staying at the Dorchester, having tea and scones.’

‘I had a drink with him there two months ago,’ Ferguson said wearily. ‘In his suite. With Roper. I don’t tell you everything, Dillon.’

He retreated under the quilt and Dillon, feeling strangely helpless, turned to Miller. ‘Did you know anything about this?’

‘Not a thing,’ the Major said. ‘But, really, Sean, I don’t care. As you know, Protestant terrorists raped and murdered his young cousin, so he executed all four of them and took refuge from the law by joining the IRA. I don’t hold it against him—any more than I hold your past against you.’

‘Okay,’ Dillon said. ‘You don’t have to make a production out of it. I was just getting adjusted to the idea. Go to sleep.’

He picked up the telephone and made the call to Roper, who had just brought up the County Down border on one of his screens. When Dillon called, Roper took it on speaker.

‘Sean, me boy, I expected to hear from you. Your “hear and obey” to Ferguson didn’t fool me for a minute, so I was just about to look at things again to see if I’d missed anything.’

‘Forget about me. The situation has changed dramatically.’

‘Okay, tell me the worst.’ Dillon did, and when he was finished, Roper laughed. ‘My God, Sean, you almost sound indignant.’

‘You’ve got to admit that Holley could have finished us all off.’

‘Well, he didn’t, and he saved Monica from a certain and unpleasant death. The love of your life, Sean—at least that’s the impression we all get.’

Dillon said, ‘Damn you for being right. I guess I just felt left out of things.’

‘That’s understandable. Where Holley is concerned, though, Ferguson wanted to handle everything with care. With that diplomatic passport from the Algerian Foreign Minister, the whole wide world’s opened up for him again. Ferguson wants to take advantage of that.’

‘It makes sense,’ Dillon said, grudgingly.

‘And you’ll never feel lonely again, as far as we are concerned. After all, he’s IRA, just like you.’

‘You have a way with the words, Roper.’

‘It’s a hell of a world we live in these days,’ Roper said. ‘Not so easy to see the difference between the good guys and bad any more.’

‘Oh, I think I can manage to do that well enough,’ Dillon said. ‘But I’ll leave you to hunt Daniel Holley down.’

It was quiet then, as Roper sat there in the computer room on his own, just the glow of the screens around him. He sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, suddenly feeling tired and weary and badly damaged—which he was, past everything there ever was. But that would never do. He poured himself another whisky, reached for his Codex mobile and went in search of Daniel Holley.

PARIS

2

Daniel Holley was running alongside the Seine, darkness beginning to take over, the heat of the day lingering ominously as if a storm was brewing. He’d purchased a furnished barge a few months earlier, convenient for business trips for both him and his partner, Hamid Malik. He wore a black track suit, looked younger than forty-nine, his hair still brown. Of medium height, fit and well, he had the permanent slight smile of a man who found life a little absurd most of the time. The Irish in him, as his mother used to say. The other half was from the city of his birth, Leeds, which meant pure Yorkshire. His mobile sounded and he took it out. It was a Codex of advanced design, only available to Ferguson’s people, which his previous masters at Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, had stolen.

‘Hello, Roper,’ he said, ‘what a surprise. What can I do for you?’ He paused, leaning on a convenient wall.

‘Tell me where you are, for a start.’

‘Paris, and running beside the Seine. It’s been a lovely day, but rain threatens. But you didn’t call for a weather report.’

‘No. To be brief, Ferguson, Dillon and Harry Miller have just been meeting with the President in Washington. They were discussing the Taliban’s use of British-born Muslims in their army—and there seems to be an Irish dimension emerging.’

‘Is there, by God?’ Holley’s voice was serious, the Yorkshire accent more pronounced.

‘The General would like your opinion. After all, you were trained at one of those camps yourself in the middle of the Algerian desert. All those years ago, and paid for by Colonel Gaddafi.’

‘So was Sean Dillon.’

‘A good point. You’ve got extra credentials, though. You’re joint owner of one of the biggest shipping firms out of Algiers, with Algerian nationality, and—thanks to that diplomatic passport from their Foreign Minister—you get waved through security at airports all over the world.’

‘It’s even better when I fly privately,’ Holley told him. ‘I get diplomatic immunity.’

‘I’m so happy for you,’ Roper teased. ‘So Ferguson has asked me to send you the full details of the meeting at the Oval Office. I think you’ll find it pretty grim. Will you look?’

‘Of course I will, you daft bastard; I wouldn’t miss it. You’ve got my email address from when we met at the Dorchester. Do the others know about that yet, by the way?’

‘They’ve just been told on the Gulfstream at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Miller was completely pragmatic about it; Dillon was mortified, more than anything else. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark.’

‘Well, that’s just too bloody bad. Send that material and I’ll read it when I get back to the barge. I must go now. I’ve got a business transaction waiting.’

‘Straightforward, I hope?’

‘When I say Albanian, what would you think?’

‘God help you, my friend. Watch your back.’

Holley put his Codex in his pocket, thoroughly stimulated by the entire conversation. Heady stuff. As it started to rain, he ran through the gathering darkness towards Notre Dame, floodlit, incomparably beautiful in the night, and came to Quai de Montebello, illuminated by lamps, where barges were moored together. He boarded his own by a roped gangplank and went below.

The barge’s previous owner had been a well-known fashion designer and it was extremely comfortable: panelled state room with comfortable sofas, shelves of books, a television, a long table in the centre. A small alcove at one end held the computer. The kitchen was opposite, small, but with everything he needed. The sleeping quarters and shower room were at the end of a passage in the bow of the barge.

The computer-linked phone system was flashing, so he took a half-full bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured a glass, pressed a replay button and quickly found himself talking to Hamid Malik at the villa in Algiers.

‘I was worried,’ Malik said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Not much. The meeting with Ali Kupu is on. Eleven o’clock, about fifteen minutes from here.’

‘So late?’ Malik sighed. ‘I don’t know, Daniel. Do we really have to deal with people like Ali Kupu still? These Albanians are pigs. Bastards of the first order. Completely untrustworthy. Most of them would sell their sisters on the streets.’

‘A great many do,’ Holley said. ‘Since we spoke, I had another message from him. He wanted to change our meeting to Havar. Can you believe that?’

‘But that’s in Kosovo, close to the Bulgarian border. You couldn’t even consider it!’

‘Of course not, especially when you remember what happened the last time I did business there.’ Holley had been betrayed to the Russians and ended up with a life sentence at the Lubyanka Prison. It was only by luck that Vladimir Putin, searching for someone to make mischief against General Ferguson and his people in London, had heard about him and pulled him out of his cell.

‘But in the end, everything’s turned out for the best, my friend,’ Malik said. ‘Business couldn’t be better; your rather violent past is no longer held against you. You are not only a millionaire businessman, but a respected diplomat. Don’t spoil it. This Ali Kupu is scum. The arms deal he wants is maybe two hundred thousand dollars. Petty cash. Who needs it?’

‘It’s an easy one,’ Holley told him. ‘Trust me.’ ‘A gangster,’ Malik said. ‘He deals in drugs, violent prostitution. Pah!’

‘But this has nothing to do with any of that. He’s told me the material is for Muslim village defence forces in Kosovo. They aren’t being protected by the central government any longer– and that’s a known fact. AK47s, RPGs plus ammunition—we can meet the order at the Marseilles warehouse, ship it out by air this week, and we’re done.’

‘On condition he pays in advance.’

‘Absolutely. Cash on the nail or he doesn’t get the goods. Don’t worry.’

‘But I do. You’re like a son to me. Finish it quickly and get out of there. You have the Falcon there, don’t you? Thank God I agreed when you suggested we buy it for the firm.’

‘It’s parked at Charles de Gaulle Airport waiting for me. I’ll leave tonight, but I might call in at London before I return home.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Holley hesitated, but decided not to mention the other business. ‘Oh, I fancy a couple of days at the Dorchester after meeting with someone like the Albanian. Maybe I’ll walk up to Shepherd Market, visit your cousin, Selim.’

‘I envy you. I’d enjoy that myself.’

‘I could send the Falcon.’

‘Nonsense. So expensive.’

‘We’re making millions.’

‘Leave me to mind the store. Allah be with you.’

The connection went silent. It was just past nine o’clock, still time to have a quick look at the computer to see if Roper had sent the material. He poured another glass of champagne, sat down and scanned the first page.

It took him twenty minutes to go right through it all, very briefly and far too quickly, but it was enough. ‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘What have we got here and what in the hell is to be done about it?’

And then a strange thing happened. He was aware of an energy; a cold, hard excitement he hadn’t known in years. He called Roper and got him at once.

‘Did you get the material?’ Roper asked.

‘You can tell Ferguson I want to be part of whatever operation you’re putting together. I’ll be in London tomorrow,’ he said, and hung up.

At Holland Park, Roper sat there in silence. ‘Good God,’ he said softly. ‘What a turn-up for the books.’

He debated whether to put the news directly through to the Gulfstream, but decided against it. Such good news could keep. He brought Warrenpoint up on the screen and started to go through everything again.

Holley had a quick shower, thinking of what lay ahead. Kupu was a dangerously violent man who had killed many times, but he was not stupid. Business was business, and he needed what Holley could provide. It wasn’t logical that he would do anything but behave himself.

But nothing in this life was certain, and Holley slipped on a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest next to his skin. It was guaranteed to stop a .44 round at point-blank range, and had done so on several occasions in his violent career.

He dressed in a fresh track suit and sneakers. There was no point in wearing an ankle-holster. Kupu’s goon, Abu, would certainly check on that. A Walther in his pocket, so easy to discover, would keep him happy. For his personal safety, he could rely on an old reliable, and he took it out of the wardrobe. A crumpled Burberry rain hat. Inside, a spring clip held a snub-nosed Colt .25 and its cartridges were hollow point. One of those in the right place was all it took. So, he found a light raincoat, slipped the Walther in a pocket, carefully arranged the hat on his head, found an umbrella and left.

The unexpected and heavy rain had emptied the pavements, especially at the side of the Seine. Around him were quiet buildings, dark at that time of night, narrow streets leading down to the river, the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. Holley hurried on, without meeting a soul, and eventually reached his destination. In the gloom, there was something sinister about it, dark and threatening. There were two old street lamps on the jetty itself, another in the yard at the end, where there was a huge warehouse door. In the door was the usual small access entrance for workmen, and he opened it and stepped inside, the door banging.

He saw several rows of old workbenches, some machinery, a couple of vans at the far end, and a wide exit door, open, lights above it so the heavy rain glistened like silver as it fell. To the left was an office, partly glassed in, so you could see inside. Ali Kupu was sitting behind a cluttered desk and appeared to be fondling a young woman who was standing obediently beside him.

‘Ah, it is you, Mr Holley. Enter, my friend.’

His English was surprisingly good, but then, as a youth, Kupu had worked in Soho for two years until he’d finally been expelled as an illegal immigrant. He was an overweight, unshaven, coarse animal with a shaven head.

‘Come in, come in.’

Holley moved forward, passed the first van, and was not in the least surprised when the rear door opened and Abu scrambled out behind him. He was enormous, with a face like stone, hair down to his shoulders. He wore a black suit.

‘You know what to do,’ he said.

Holley obliged, leaned on the van, and the Walther was discovered. ‘My, but you are getting to be a big boy,’ Holley said as he straightened, ‘You should enter the Mr Universe competition this year. Muscles gleaming under all that oil. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘No, Mr Holley, what I’d really like is to tear off your head—and I will do exactly that, the first chance I get.’

He moved into the office ahead of Holley and put the Walther on the table, then stood at the back of the room. Kupu was very drunk and yet reached for an open bottle of vodka and swallowed deeply from it.

‘You shouldn’t anger Abu like that. He’s a very violent man when he gets angry and does terrible things, doesn’t he?’ he said to the woman, who looked terrified. She wore a raincoat over a light black dress and clutched a handbag.

‘I’m sure he does.’ Holley walked to a chair at one side of the door, sat down, took off his Burberry rain hat and put it on his lap.

‘This is Liri.’ Kupu encircled her waist. ‘One of my best girls. Empty your handbag and let’s see how well you’ve done tonight.’

‘The rain,’ she said as she fumbled. ‘Business wasn’t good.’ She emptied the handbag of not very much.

Kupu glanced at it, then took a Gladstone bag from under the desk, opened it and swept in Liri’s earnings.

‘Excuses, Mr Holley, it’s all I get.’ He slapped her face, then said to Abu, ‘Search her next door. See if she’s hiding anything.’

‘No, please,’ she begged Kupu, as Abu grabbed her arm, opened the far door and shoved her through.

‘Stupid bitch, they are all the same. I give them employment, look after their interests and how do they repay me?’ He swallowed more vodka. ‘But to business. You can supply what I need? I’m a serious man. I desire only to help my Muslim brothers who are being butchered every day in Kosovo.’

‘Very commendable.’

‘And I have good references.’ He patted the side of his nose drunkenly. ‘AQ, eh?’

‘Is that a fact?’ Holley said.

There were muffled cries from the next room, but Kupu ignored them. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He reached for the vodka bottle, swallowing again. ‘My father’s brother, my Uncle Mahmud, is an art dealer based in Tirana. He specializes in rare holy books and manuscripts. He travels all over Europe, knows people at the highest level. I act as his contact man in Paris. He tells me everything. For example, what if I told you that Prime Minister Putin intends to make a visit to Chechnya this weekend? All very hush-hush. The sort of thing you only hear about afterwards.’

Holley said, ‘And why would he be doing that?’

‘A meeting requested by a very high-level Muslim holy man. A famous Mullah, now in his nineties, Ibrahim somebody.’ He leaned forward. ‘But here’s the thing, my friend. This holy man, this Ibrahim? He intends to become a martyr this weekend. He will be carrying religious scrolls, which of course security men would not dare to search. A profound insult. And inside the scrolls—Semtex. You wouldn’t need much to do the job at close quarters. The Prime Minister would be blown to hell.’

‘With everyone around him.’

‘What a moment,’ Kupu roared, and the door to the other room opened and Liri staggered out, trying to cover her torn dress with the raincoat and still clutching her handbag. She stood there, crying bitterly.

‘Look at you,’ Kupu said. ‘Disgusting. Who in the hell would want you? Go on, get out.’

‘But I’ve no money for a cab,’ she wailed.

‘Then you can walk in the rain. Better than a shower. Wash the stink off you.’

At which point Holley, having had enough, said, ‘No need for that, Liri. I’m leaving myself. I’ll be going by cab and I’ll drop you off.’

Suddenly Kupu didn’t seem as drunk as he had been. ‘What is this about you leaving?’

‘I don’t like the way you do business.’

‘Really? Then obviously you need to pay a visit to the next room, where Abu will indicate what is expected of you. I don’t think it will take long for you to get the point.’

As Holley stood up, he produced the Colt .25, extended his arm and shot Ali Kupu twice in the heart, knocking him back over the chair. Liri gave a strangled cry, then leaned over to look. Abu seemed stunned and uncertain what to do.

Liri recovered a little and turned to Holley. ‘He’s dead.’

‘That’s what I meant him to be. Can you drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take one of the vans and get out of here, and you can also take the Gladstone bag with you as far as I’m concerned. Will you be okay?’

‘Fine. I’ve got a passport. I’ll be out of Paris first thing in the morning. God bless you. I’ll never forget you.’

‘I’d rather you did.’

He picked up the Walther, put the Colt in his pocket and pulled on his rain hat. Liri was already disappearing into the night at the wheel of a van. Abu said, ‘What happens now?’

‘You pick up the body, carry him out to the jetty like a good boy, and we dump him into the Seine.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘For starters, I’ll have to shoot you in the right kneecap.’ He produced the Colt from his pocket. ‘Hollow point cartridges, Abu. You’ll never be able to stand up on the podium again.’

‘You bastard,’ Abu told him, went round the desk, picked up Ali Kupu as if he were a rag doll and walked towards the other end of the warehouse. Holley followed.

It was raining harder than ever and Abu paused, looking down through the lights to the Seine, Notre Dame floating in the dark way up to the right.

‘Now what?’

‘Straight to the end of the jetty and drop him in. Go on, get on with it.’

The big man walked through the lights, holding the body in both hands, paused at the end for a long moment, then dropped the corpse in. It surfaced for a moment, then drifted away into the darkness.

Abu turned and faced Holley. ‘She won’t get away with it, that bitch, or you. The Albanian Mafia will hunt you both down.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. Since you are the only witness, it leaves me with little choice.’

There was sudden alarm on Abu’s face and he put a hand out. ‘No, let’s discuss this.’

But Holley’s hand was already swinging up. The silenced Colt coughed once, the bullet hitting Abu between the eyes, and he lurched back over the end of the jetty into the water. Holley returned to the warehouse, opened the small door by which he’d entered and retrieved the umbrella he’d left there. He started to walk back to the barge, thinking about it. The Albanian Mafia was the bane of Paris. The deaths of Abu and Ali Kupu wouldn’t disturb the Paris police in the slightest. He would have to take a chance that Liri would forget all about him, but then she would value her own anonymity. Always with him, a woman in trouble was one thing he could never turn away from. In a way, he’d been a fool, but there it was.

But what Kupu had said about AQ—Al Qaeda. Was it just the idle boast of a drunkard or was there genuinely something to it? Whatever—if there really was a plot to assassinate Vladimir Putin, it would create chaos, and that was bad for everybody. It left him with only one choice, and he quickened his pace and hurried back to the barge.

Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been appointed London’s Head of Station by Putin himself and was the man who’d taken Daniel Holley out of the Lubyanka Prison and told him to deal with Ferguson and his people once and for all, a business which had not really worked out as intended.

He answered the phone in London, astonished at who was calling him.

‘Good God, Daniel. I can’t believe it.’

‘Where are you, Josef?’

‘London. Putin made me Head of Station here.’

‘So he forgave you for your failure?’

‘Your failure, too, Daniel, but yes, I am forgiven, and I think you are also. I’ve followed your success with a certain pride. The Algerians regard you highly. Malik is truly proud of you, as if you were his son.’

So he’s been talking to Malik, and Malik hasn’t told me. Holley stored the information away. ‘That’s nice.’ ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Certain information has come my way concerning a possible attempt on Vladimir Putin’s life.’ ‘Are you serious?’

‘I can only put the facts before you and you must judge for yourself.’

When he was finished, there was total silence, as if Lermov was taking it all in, so Holley said, ‘Okay, the ravings of a drunken lunatic, I know—’

Lermov cut in, his voice hoarse, ‘The Prime Minister visits Chechnya tomorrow afternoon, and a meeting like the one you describe has been arranged between him and a Mullah named Ibrahim Nadim. The security on it has been massive.’

‘Not massive enough, it seems,’ Holley said.

‘I’ll call the Prime Minister immediately. But, Daniel, I’m curious. You’re leaping to his defence. Why?’

‘Actually, I admire many things about him, even if we don’t always see eye to eye. He’s taken the Russian Federation by the scruff of the neck and made it feel proud again—he’s a genuine patriot. But mostly… I simply don’t think it’s a good idea to assassinate him.’

‘Neither do I. Thank you, Daniel. I’m going now.’

* * *

Sitting there, nursing a drink, Holley had a sudden urge to call Roper, and he did so, finding him wide awake.

‘How did your business appointment turn out?’ Roper asked.

‘What the hell, why shouldn’t I tell you?’ Holley said. ‘The ramifications, in a way, touch the world. I may just have saved Vladimir Putin from assassination.’

Roper took it surprisingly calmly. ‘Tell me more.’

Which Daniel did.

The first thing Roper said was: ‘What am I going to do with you? You’re getting worse than Dillon. You’ve been shooting people again.’

‘If ever two people deserved it, those two did, but isn’t it incredible that the apparent boastings of a drunken fool turned out to be true?’

‘Because somebody talked, somebody at the very heart of Russian intelligence, told the wrong person. Everyone in the business over there will be working flat out to find out who. Of course, there is the mention Kupu made about his uncle in Tirana.’

‘They’ll hunt him down like a dog,’ Holley said.

‘I wouldn’t like to think what they’re going to do to him to make him talk.’

‘But the source of the leak is the thing. It’s got to be at the highest level,’ Holley persisted. ‘And yet someone willing to deal with Al Qaeda.’

‘And someone interested in getting rid of Putin,’ Roper said. ‘A palace revolution.’

‘God help whoever it is, with Putin on their case. Now, to other matters, the Afghan business. There’s talk of training camps in Northern Pakistan, but traditionally most of the good ones are in Libya and Algeria. Both Dillon and I were trained in the same place, though at different times: Shabwa, deep in the Algerian desert. Check up on it for me.’

‘I’ll get right on it,’ Roper told him.

‘I’ll be there mid-morning.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

Which only left Hamid Malik, who would undoubtedly be sitting in his villa with its magical views of the great harbour of Algiers, biting his nails about the outcome of the Kupu business. Better to get it over with.

‘Praise be to Allah to hear your voice,’ Malik told him. ‘I’ve been genuinely worried about this business, Daniel; it didn’t sit right with me.’

‘You were right about Kupu. A bastard of the first order. He even had connections with Al Qaeda.’

‘No, surely this cannot be?’ There was a wariness in his voice now, a touch of fear, but then that was a common reaction of many Arabs when a mention of Al Qaeda was made.

‘Don’t worry, Ali Kupu is now feeding what fish there are in the Seine, accompanied by his revolting muscle man, one Abu.’

‘Allah preserve me,’ Malik was truly shocked. ‘You did this?’

‘Who else? They were going to do worse to me.’

‘Tell me what happened. I need to know in case of repercussions.’

‘There won’t be any. Two members of the Albanian Mafia turn up in the Seine—it happens all the time. The Paris police will say “good riddance” and move on.’

‘But… Al Qaeda. What has that got to do with anything?’

‘A great deal, as it happens.’

He told Malik everything and, when he was finished, the Algerian said, ‘You never do things by halves, Daniel. Where will it all end?’

‘This time with Lermov and his people rooting out those assassins. Did you know he’s GRU Station Head in London now? He told me Putin has forgiven him. Me, too!’

‘Fine words, but after this you’ll deserve a medal.’

‘I’ll settle for never having to eat at the Lubyanka again. Are you happy now?’

Malik shrugged. ‘I should be, I suppose, but even the slightest hint of anything to do with Al Qaeda freezes the heart.’

‘Yes, the very name frightens the hell out of people,’ Holley agreed. ‘Do you think they might be recruiting for Afghanistan?’

Malik said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. The Taliban are perfectly capable of recruiting for themselves.’

‘I’m talking about something different. There are many British-born Muslims fighting out there.’

Malik laughed. ‘Daniel, one hears stories, but this is nonsense, pure myth.’

‘I’m afraid not, old friend. I’ve seen the evidence, heard recordings of radio communications in the heat of battle, working-class accents from many of the great cities in the UK.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I’ve heard it, Malik. In fact, Ferguson, Dillon and Miller have just had a meeting with the President in Washington to work out what to do about it.’

Malik was stunned. ‘All right, supposing it is true, what can anyone do to prevent it? If young British Muslims decide to take a holiday in Pakistan to visit the old folk, then end up in a training camp in Waziristan, who can stop them? It’s impossible.’

‘Well, Ferguson and his people are at least going to make an effort, and I’ve offered to help.’

Malik was truly shocked. ‘But why you, Daniel? This is not your business. You could be asking for big trouble.’

‘I have a grasp of the Muslim world that few Christians do. I speak Arabic and, as a young volunteer in the IRA, I was trained in terrorism at Shabwa. I wonder if Shabwa is still in business. And Omar Hamza, the camp commander? What a bastard he was.’

‘He would be seventy or more if he is still alive. Shabwa closed down some years ago, though. The IRA no longer used it and, as things changed for the German groups and ETA and the like, there was little need for the facility,’ Malik said. ‘The thought of young British Muslims using it, though… Why on earth would they want to come to Algeria for their training?’

‘You could have said that about the young Irishmen too,’ Holley told him. ‘Anyway, I’m out of here, off to London.’

‘Are you going to see Ferguson?’

‘Yes, I want to hear what he intends to do. I feel very strongly about this matter. If there is anything I can do, I will.’

Malik gave in. ‘So be it. The blessing of Allah go with you. Do take care, Daniel.’

‘Don’t I always?’

It was very quiet sitting there in the darkness, the long white curtains ballooning like sails at the window, and Malik went out to find a full moon and the terrace flooded with light. The vista in the night of the harbour below was astonishingly beautiful. He loved this city, always had, just as he loved Daniel Holley, but trouble and Daniel seemed to belong together naturally, and Malik was filled with a grim foreboding.

‘What now?’ he asked softly, leaning on the balustrade. ‘What next?’

LONDON

3

The Gulfstream landed at Farley Field late that night. Ferguson’s Daimler was waiting, as well as the Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office for Miller.

‘We’ll get together later,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve got to get cracking and prepare that report for the Prime Minister.’

His Daimler moved away and Miller said, ‘We’ll take you to Holland Park, Sean.’ His driver, Arthur Fox, was behind the wheel.

‘Care to join me for a late dinner there?’

‘No, I need to get to Dover Street and sort this sack of mail that Arthur has brought me. Ferguson’s not the only one with problems. I’ve got the Cabinet Office on my back.’ Mentioning his sister, he added, ‘I had a text from Monica while you were asleep. She’s enjoying being Visiting Professor at Harvard so much, she’s agreed to an extension.’

‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘Maybe she’s going off you, you mad Irish bogtrotter.’

‘And pigs might fly,’ Dillon told him. ‘Tell her congratulations and I’ll be in touch. Now we’ve got an hour before we get to London, so start on your mail and let me sleep.’

Two hours later, the Malik Shipping plane landed at London City Airport and taxied to the private facility—Daniel Holley had decided to leave Paris earlier than he had planned. His diplomatic passport sped him through and, forty-five minutes later, he was at the Dorchester, where he found Concetto Marietta, the guest liaison manager, waiting to escort him to one of the Park Suites.

He slept for a few hours and then he called Roper. ‘When can we meet? I’d love to see what your famous Holland Park safe house looks like from the inside.’

‘Ferguson’s seeing the Prime Minister this morning, and Miller probably feels he should show his face in the House, but I’m here. So’s Dillon, who’s upstairs asleep. Come along whenever you want; we’ll have lunch.’

‘I might just do that. I want to stop off and see a friend first, but then I’ll come over.’

‘I’ll see you when I see you.’

* * *

Holley walked up to Shepherd Market, past the restaurants and the shops, then paused at a door with the name ‘Selim Malik’ painted in gold above it, admired the Egyptian hand-painted temple effigies displayed on either side of the frame, then pressed a button.

The door opened and Selim was there, exactly the same as the last time Daniel had seen him: small and happy, with dark curling hair turning silver, olive face, fringe beard and good humour in his eyes. He wore a ruffled shirt, velvet jacket and trousers, as always.

He was crying as he embraced Daniel. ‘It’s so good to see you. My cousin Hamid phoned me to say I might expect you, but still I am overcome. This is a champagne moment!’

Selim Malik produced a bottle of Krug and poured each of them a glass, saying, ‘It’s so wonderful the way everything has turned out. You’ve outfoxed them all, even the great Putin. Hamid has told me of how you sorted those Albanian bastards out, and the Al Qaeda plot on Putin.’ He gripped Holley’s arm. ‘He will be your friend for life now.’

‘I didn’t do it for gain,’ Daniel told him. ‘I did it because what they were planning was wrong.’

‘You are a saint.’ Selim got up. ‘But you must take great care. People who say bin Laden is dead are stupid. What he is, what he stands for, will never die. This doesn’t mean I admire him. I fear him, but what I have said is true.’

‘I’m afraid you have a point,’ Daniel agreed.

Selim went into the other room and returned with a Gladstone bag. ‘I’ve been keeping this in my strong room. It’s exactly what you had last time.’

There was an ankle-holster, a silenced Colt .25 and a couple of boxes of hollow-point cartridges, a silenced Walther, ammunition, a razor-sharp flick knife and a bulletproof vest.

‘This is wonderful,’ Daniel said. ‘But hang on to the knife and the vest. I brought my own.’

‘You must be prepared for any eventuality,’ Selim said. ‘If word of your involvement ever got out, Al Qaeda would put you on its international hit list. The blessings of Allah would be on any man who disposed of you.’

‘Well, let’s hope they don’t hear. I’ve something else to ask you. What do you know about British-born Muslims fighting for the Taliban in Afghanistan?’

Selim frowned. ‘Where have you heard this? Some newspaper story, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. Selim, you’re my friend. Last time we met, we had to face bad men and great danger and you were brilliant, so believe me when I say I know for a fact that many young British Muslims are fighting in Afghanistan. The evidence has been presented to me. Let me tell you about it.’

When Holley was done, Selim was distressed. ‘What can I say? I must believe what you tell me is true. But a mystery man known only as Shamrock leading Taliban recruits in a successful battle with Allied troops? It still sounds incredible.’

‘Have you heard anything that would confirm it? Even a hint?’

‘I don’t know. I have been to North Pakistan and the border areas as an art dealer, and of course there are many Brits in that area, contractors dealing with the Pakistan Army, others offering their services as security experts, many of them obviously ex-soldiers. I am sure there is a lot of illegal arms-dealing with the Taliban, too. But these are just guys out to make a buck. This other business, this Shamrock…’ He sighed wearily. ‘It’s so nonsensical that it must be true. I shall ask around.’

Holley got up and picked up the Gladstone bag. ‘I’d appreciate it. I’m at the Dorchester. I’ll see myself out.’

Selim sat there thinking about it, then reached for his mobile and started to ring round, choosing a few old friends only, people he’d known in the art world for years; people he felt he could trust.

Military rule was the accepted way in Algiers, certainly to men such as Hamid Malik. Law and order was an essential requirement to the development of good business, and this benefited the poor as well as the rich. But even for a wealthy man, it was sensible to cultivate people in the right places. The man he was enjoying coffee with was certainly that: Colonel Ali Hakim, a no-nonsense military policeman. He and Malik had been close friends over years of political upset and violence, the kind that had made military rule so necessary in Algiers in the first place.

What Malik didn’t realize, however, was that Hakim had orders from the Foreign Ministry to cultivate him, with the aim of keeping an eye on Daniel Holley’s activities. Holley’s access to the international scene was undoubtedly of advantage to the government, but his past argued the need for a certain control as well. Which was where Hakim came in.

Malik poured the Colonel another coffee and Hakim said, ‘And how is Daniel? I was told he went to Paris on your company plane.’ He smiled gently. ‘Forgive me, but air traffic control passes such information to my office on a regular basis.’

‘Of course,’ Malik said. ‘And I understand.’ He was tense and his hand shook as he poured another coffee.

Hakim said, ‘You seem out of sorts. Is something worrying you?’

Malik said, ‘How long have we been friends?’

‘I would say thirty years. What’s brought this on?’

‘Through years of unrest, bloodshed, revolution, fundamentalist terror, one government after another—and yet here we are, still just as much friends as when we were dodging bullets together back at the university. If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anyone. Would you agree?’ Malik asked.

Hakim said, ‘Of course.’ He put down his cup. ‘What is this, old friend?’

So Malik told him everything. The Albanians and the business with Putin, Afghanistan and Shamrock.

When he was finished, he said, ‘What do you think?’

He had made the worst mistake of his life, but Colonel Ali Hakim, delighted at such a treasure trove of information, managed to look alarmed and worried at the same time.

‘This is grave news indeed. We must proceed very carefully. Daniel will be seeing your cousin, Selim, in London?’

‘That’s right. He said he would value his opinion.’

‘And this General Charles Ferguson? I know of him, of course. He is a major player in the world of anti-terrorism and covert operations. So Daniel intends to offer his services in this affair?’

‘So he says, but what do you think about British Muslims operating with the Taliban?’

‘My friend, thirty years in my line of work means that nothing surprises me any longer. The Muslim population of Britain is substantial these days. That a few misguided young men would be tempted to join in the battle for the prospect of glory would not surprise me. But only a few, I think.’ He reached for his cap and swagger stick and got up. ‘I must go now. Try not to worry. I’ll keep a close eye on things, I promise you. If anything of interest turns up, I’ll report it to you. It would be useful if you could do the same.’

He went down the outside steps and walked away through the garden. Malik watched him go, suddenly feeling very much better.

Like many Arabs, Ali Hakim had grown tired of the uncertainty of Arab politics, the power usurped by one general after another, and the autocracy of the men with their oil billions to back them up. And then Osama bin Laden had appeared like an avenging angel, instantly embraced by Muslims all over the world, Colonel Ali Hakim among them. In spite of NATO and Britain and America, Hakim still believed in what to him was the nobility of bin Laden’s message. He had served Al Qaeda ever since.

He sat in his police Land Rover on a bluff looking out to sea, an encrypted mobile in his left hand. It had a tape device as well, and he switched on to record and dictated everything Malik had said. He felt no guilt. This was too important. He ended by punching his personal recognition button and hitting ‘Send’.

Hakim dealt with a man known as the Preacher, the individual responsible for all London-based operations, who had been placed in charge by Osama bin Laden himself. Thanks to modern technology, the Preacher remained anonymous and untraceable, though he knew the identity of everyone with whom he dealt.

But this did not apply to Ali Hakim. Uncomfortable with entrusting a mystery man with his life, Hakim had sought expert help from Wali Sofit, a computer expert of genius who, unfortunately for him, was serving fifteen years’ imprisonment for transferring many thousands of dollars to various bank accounts in Algiers. Presented with Hakim’s special problem and even more special mobile phone, plus the promise of future leniency, Sofit had gone to work. Hakim had told him he believed the Preacher to be a major criminal of some sort. Sofit had been somewhat surprised to come up with the name of a Professor Hassan Shah, based in London, but was delighted to be transferred to a soft job in the prison administration offices as a reward for his skill.

Ali Hakim waited in the Land Rover until a reply came back.

Your information of crucial importance. It will be dealt with as a matter of the highest priority.

Hakim switched off. So that was that. He felt sorry for his old friend Malik, and he’d always liked Holley, but the cause he served was more important than individuals. He switched on his engine and drove down into the city towards the police headquarters.

The man known as the Preacher, Hassan Shah, continued to sit on the bench outside the London School of Economics, where he had taken Hakim’s call. A pleasant-looking man of medium height, he was wearing a khaki summer suit, a faded denim shirt and tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses with steel rims. His black hair was too long.

Forty years of age, an academic and a working barrister when he wished it, with no wife or girlfriend (which made some people talk), he lived alone in the pleasant Edwardian villa where he’d been born in Bell Street, West Hampstead. His parents had departed for Pakistan years ago, his father having retired as a surgeon.

He was thinking of them now because of Hakim’s recording, thinking of Pakistan and the visit he had made on a holiday when he was sixteen, when he’d been taken to a youth camp and Osama bin Laden himself had appeared. The speech he had made had shaped Shah’s life.

Shah was a practising Muslim, but in a quiet way, nothing flamboyant. His rapid rise both as an academic and a barrister had, to a certain extent, been because he was a Muslim. The Foreign Office had sent him to Bosnia to investigate war crimes and then, pleased with his work, had sent him again and again, to Iraq many times and Kosovo. He’d been noticed, no question of that, and his success in court on a few difficult cases had led to the position he held now: Professor in International Law at the London School of Economics.

But he’d been noticed elsewhere also, the approaches cleverly disguised: simple requests for legal opinions relating to Islamic matters. Eventually, he discovered that, in effect, he’d been working for Al Qaeda without knowing it—and then he’d realized he didn’t mind; in fact that he welcomed the idea. Really, an opportunity to serve the cause was what he’d been looking for all his life. His own experience of the law, the courts, the legal system, the behaviours of the kind of people involved—they’d all taught him a great deal about human nature. He knew what made people tick, how to handle them, and most important of all, what made people afraid.

To run the London operation for Al Qaeda required brains and organizing ability. When it came to necessary violence, he only had to make a call to bring in whoever was best for the job. An inner circle of twenty stood ready to act.

The beauty of it was that not one of them knew Hassan—they connected by encrypted mobiles only. Shah remained just a voice on the phone: the Preacher.

Yes, it all worked extremely well.

‘Let’s see what we can do about this,’ he murmured softly, and he made a call.

* * *

Selim Lancy was the result of a mixed marriage. His father, a sailor, had insisted he be baptized Samuel, then gone back to sea, never to return. So his mother had made it Selim, the Muslim equivalent, and raised him in the faith. He never tried to pretend he wasn’t Muslim, and was particularly handy with his fists when he joined the army, 3 Para, where he endured three hard years in Iraq and Afghanistan, rising to the rank of Corporal. His service ended with one bullet through his left side and another in the right thigh.

He passed through the rehabilitation centre, where doctors put him together very nicely, but the army decided that enough was enough and he was discharged.

He returned home, and moved in with his mother, who was still fit and well at first, then started to attend the mosque again. He was surprised at the respect everyone gave him, and then realized why—when overtures were made suggesting that, as a good Muslim, he could serve Al Qaeda well. The idea appealed to him, just for the hell of it; for the truth was, he was anything but a good Muslim.

He made a living as a hired driver now. Sitting behind the wheel of a silver Mercedes, handsome enough in a dark blue suit and regimental tie, he was eating a chicken sandwich when his special mobile sounded.

‘Where are you?’ Shah asked.

‘Oh, it’s you, boss. I’m at the back of Harrods, waiting for a customer. I’m sitting behind the wheel of my new car—a second-hand Mercedes. My compensation money from the army finally came through.’

‘Well, that’s nice for you,’ Shah told him.

‘I haven’t heard from you for a while. Is this a business call?’

‘You could say that. I want you to check on a man called Selim Malik. He’s an art dealer with a place in Shepherd Market.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘He could be showing an unhealthy interest in rumours of British Muslims serving with the Taliban in Afghanistan.’

‘They’re not bleeding rumours, they’re facts, boss. I should know. I probably killed a few of them over there.’

‘That isn’t the point. I want to know if he’s actively investigating these stories. Check with other Muslims in the market; see what you can find out. No rough stuff. He’s precious cargo.’

‘Why’s that, boss?’

‘He knows things and he’s got a friend named Daniel Holley, who’s a killer of the first order. He may look Malik up. If he does, you must let me know at once. I’ve found a security photo of Holley. You’ll find it on line now.’

Lancy thumbed away at his mobile and Holley appeared. ‘He doesn’t look much to me, boss.’

‘Don’t go by looks, idiot. Holley’s a nihilist. That’s someone who believes nothing has any value and so he kills without a second of regret. That includes you.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind. When do you want this?’

‘A couple of days. Do what you can.’

Shah hung up. Now, he thought, what to do about Shamrock. He’d been shocked to hear the name from Hakim. He checked his watch. The stupid bastard was still up there at thirty thousand feet for at least another couple of hours. Better to wait and try to contact him at the Talbot office. He got up from the bench and walked quickly across the campus towards the university buildings.

At that same moment, Shamrock was sitting in the first-class compartment of a British Airways jumbo-jet flight from Cairo. His name was Justin Talbot. He was forty-five and looked younger, favoured dark cropped hair and a slight stubble to the chin, the fashion of the moment. He wore jeans, a light open-necked khaki shirt and a dark blue linen jacket. His face was heavily tanned, as if he’d been out in the sun a lot, which he had, and had an aristocratic look to it.

Members of the cabin crew had earlier noted that his English had a public school edge to it, and he spoke with a cynical good humour that they’d found as intriguing as the fact that he was described on the passenger list as Major Talbot.

One of the girls approached and said, ‘It always gets boring with so few passengers. Not much to do.’

‘Nobody’s got any money at the moment. You’re lucky to have any passengers.’

She smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right. We’ll be landing in an hour or so. You’ll be glad to stretch your legs, I bet. It’s a long trip, Cairo to London.’

‘Actually, I started in Peshawar yesterday. Stopped off in Cairo on business, then joined you.’

‘Pakistan! I hear it’s bad on the North-West Frontier these days. Are you in the army, Major?’

‘Not any more. Twenty-odd years was enough. Grenadier Guards. I did a certain amount in Northern Ireland, both Gulf wars, Bosnia and Kosovo, then two tours in Afghanistan. I was lucky to get out of that in one piece. When I was shot in the right shoulder,’ he smiled, ‘I decided that was it and took my papers.’

He didn’t mention the Military Cross he’d earned in Afghanistan, and the years with the SAS and the Army Air Corps. The young woman nodded seriously. ‘You’ve done your bit, if you ask me. What do you do now?’

‘I work for the family firm, Talbot International. We sell trucks to the Pakistan Army, Jeeps, second-hand armoured cars and helicopters.’ He smiled. ‘Have I disappointed you?’

She shook her head. ‘The other side of war.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you miss it? The dark side, I mean?’

‘Let’s say there’s nothing quite like it. There’s no drug that could possibly match the force, the energy, of the killing time in which you’re immersing yourself. War itself is the ultimate drug.’

She looked a bit shocked. ‘Well… business must be booming, with the war spilling over from Afghanistan. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Large vodka would be good, with iced tonic water and a twist of lemon.’

She was back in three minutes and handed it to him. ‘Enjoy.’

He drank half of the drink straightaway and sat there, suddenly yawning. Since Lahore yesterday morning, he’d only had four hours’ sleep. He finished the drink, put the glass down, tilted his seat back. A hell of a trip, and Afghanistan had been particularly rough, but bloody marvellous. The buzz of action never failed to thrill him. It was what he’d missed when he left the army.

You could make millions out of the sale of second-hand military equipment in Northern Pakistan—but there was a lot more money to be made from dealing in illegal arms. Even respectable firms were at it, and nobody was more respectable than Talbot International. Its Chairman, General Sir Hedley Chase, presented the face of integrity itself at the small but elegant office in Curzon Street. The real business took place in Islamabad, where dozens of firms jostled one another for advantage.

It had been only a step from selling illegal arms to providing training in their use. He’d enjoyed every moment of that in the mountains over the border in Afghanistan, and then it had been only logical to take the next step—from training the Taliban to leading them in battle. He’d immediately been seized by the old thrill, and he felt no guilt at all.

The surprise had been when Al Qaeda had discovered what he was up to, and not only approved, but insisted he continue. The strange thing was that there had been a thrill to that, too. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. It was all part of a wonderful, lunatic madness. Anyway, right now he needed rest and recreation. It would be nice to see his mother again. He hadn’t kept in touch much this time. It was better to use mobile and satellite phones sparingly these days, unless they were totally encrypted and encoded. Too many people failed to realize that every conversation you made was out there somewhere and capable of being retrieved.

He wondered if his mother had made one of her rare visits to the family estate, Talbot Place, in County Down. Her own mother, Mary Ellen, had died the previous year, but his grandfather, ‘Colonel Henry’ to the servants, was still alive at ninety-five.

Soldier, lawyer, politician, Member of Parliament at Stormont, and a Grand Master in the Orange Lodge, Colonel Henry was a resolute defender of the Protestant cause who had loathed Roman Catholics—Fenians, as he called them—all his life. Now in his dotage, he was surrounded by workers and house servants who were mainly Catholic, thanks to Mary Ellen, a Protestant herself, who had employed them for years. Justin Talbot’s mother despised the man.

Talbot yawned again and decided that if his mother had gone to Ulster, he would fly across himself, possibly in one of the firm’s planes. He could use a break. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

At that moment, his mother, Jean Talbot, was crossing a hillside high above Carlingford Lough, the Irish Sea way beyond. A seventy-one-year-old woman, slim and fit and young for her age, in both looks and energy, as the Irish saying went, was wearing an Australian drover’s coat, heavy boots, a cap of Donegal tweed and carrying a walking stick. The house dog, Nell, a black flat-coat retriever, was about her business, running hither and thither. Jean reached her destination, a stone bothy with a bench outside. She sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.

The sun shone, the sky was blue and the morning wind had dropped to a dead calm. This was an amazing place with an incredible backdrop, the Mourne Mountains. Far down below was the village of Kilmartin, and Talbot Place, the splendid old Georgian house that had been the family home for two hundred and fifty years, the house in which she had been born.

She stubbed out her cigarette carefully, stood up, whistled to Nell and turned. It was good to be back and yet, as always, she already felt restless and ill at ease; as usual, her father was the problem. During the Second World War, with him away and her mother in charge, she had been educated at a local Catholic boarding school run by nuns who accepted day-girls and didn’t mind a Protestant or two. She had never known her father and was terrified of the arrogant, anti-Catholic bully who returned after the war and was outraged to find his daughter in the hands of nuns, and ‘bloody Fenians’ all over the estate.

Mary Ellen’s quiet firmness defeated him, as did the good humour of his tenants, who smiled and touched their caps to Colonel Henry, convinced, as Jean Talbot realized as she grew up, that he was a raving lunatic. The nuns succeeded with her so well that she was accepted by St Hugh’s College, Oxford, to study fine art.

To her father, busy with the law and politics at Stormont, it was all a waste of time, but she had enough talent to then be accepted by the Slade School of Fine Art, University College, London, after Oxford. Mary Ellen hugged her in delight, but her father said it was time she settled down and gave him an heir.

Her answer was to get pregnant by a sculptor named Justin Monk, a Roman Catholic separated from his wife who’d refused him a divorce on religious grounds. Shortly after the birth, he’d been badly injured in a motorcycle accident. Jean was able to visit him once and show him the baby and promised to name it after him. He died soon afterwards.

When Henry Talbot and Mary Ellen came to visit her in her London lodgings, he had looked at Justin in his cot and destroyed any hope his daughter might have had left for a future relationship with her father.

‘A bastard, is that the best you can do? At least he’s a Protestant; I suppose that’s something. I’ve got things to do. I’m meeting people at Westminster. I’ll leave you to your mother.’

After he had gone, Mary Ellen said, ‘is he a Protestant?’

‘Justin begged me to have him baptized in the faith. What could I do? He was dying. Do you hate me for it?’

‘My darling, I love you for it. It was the decent thing to do.’ She embraced the baby. ‘But I’d make it our secret, if I were you. If they had even a hint of it on the estate, it would be all over Kilmartin.’

‘All over County Down,’ Jean had said. ‘And what about my son?’

‘Don’t tell him, either. It’s a burden to tell a child and expect him to hold it secret. One day in the future, when you think it’s right, you can tell him. So what will you do now?’

‘I intend to continue my work. At the Slade they feel that I have a gift for portraiture, and I intend to concentrate on that.’

‘Excellent, but you’ll need a home. I’ll stay a bit in London and we’ll find you a house. In Mayfair, I think, and we’ll need a housekeeper and a nanny.’

‘But what will he say?’

‘He’s left everything to me. We can afford it, dear. I don’t think you’ve ever appreciated how wealthy you and Justin will be one of these days, whether you like it or not. Talbot money is old money—and you’d be surprised how much property we own in the West End of London. In fact, now that I think of it, there’s a superb Regency house on Marley Court off Curzon Street, very convenient for Park Lane and Hyde Park. Let’s take a look.’

Marley Court it was, and her beloved son had grown up there, and gone to school as a day-boy at St Paul’s—she couldn’t bear the thought of sending him away. His visits to Talbot Place were frequent, of course, particularly during the long summers, for his grandmother adored him and his grandfather grudgingly admitted he was a fine rider.

He was also popular with the estate workers and the locals, but their respect for Mary Ellen ensured that anyway. Through the long, hard, brutal days of the Troubles, Talbot Place had remained inviolate because of her. It was remarkable when you considered that most Catholics in the area were Nationalists, and the Provisional IRA was so powerful that the countryside from Warrenpoint as far as Crossmaglen in County Armagh was designated bandit country by the British Army.

Talbot Place could have been burnt to the ground, not a stick nor stone left standing, and certain extreme elements would have done exactly that, but local opinion stayed their hand. Half the village was employed on the estate, and Mary Ellen and the boy were inviolate—which also meant that Colonel Henry’s life was spared as well; though it wasn’t deserved, many people would say.

There had been a problem in August 1979, when her son was fifteen, when the British Army had suffered its worst defeat in the Troubles, that terrible ambush only a few miles away at Narrow Water, near Warrenpoint. That many of the local men were IRA did not surprise her. It meant that some of her workers would be, too. But she had been shocked to hear that a nineteen-year-old stable boy named Sean Kelly, son of Jack Kelly, publican of the Kilmartin Arms and a great friend of her son’s, had been killed in an exchange of fire with wounded soldiers at Narrow Water.

Justin had been at Talbot Place for the summer holidays and she had joined him for a couple of weeks before returning to London for the start of the autumn term at school. He had been terribly upset at the death of his friend. There was no question of them attending the funeral; even Mary Ellen admitted that. The deaths of all those Highlanders made it impossible, and yet Justin had gone of his own accord, had stood at Sean Kelly’s graveside, had been hugged and thanked by all the Kellys, and admitted to the clan. The priest, Father Michael Cassidy, had also blessed him for it.

The confrontation at Talbot Place had been terrible, such was Colonel Henry’s rage. He’d slapped Justin across the face, called him a damn traitor, and Jean had pulled her father off and called him a bully and a bigot. Justin had shouted at him, called him a Prod bastard, and said he would join the IRA if he only could. Every servant in the house had heard it. Jean Talbot and her son left for London within the hour. There was a long break for a while. Eventually, Mary Ellen smoothed things over, but Jean visited rarely after that. Her gradual success with her painting, the fact that she’d been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen Mother, meant nothing to her father.

With Justin, it was different. He was, after all, the heir, and when he chose Sandhurst Royal Military Academy instead of university, and embarked on an army career, the Colonel had been delighted.

Justin made one thing clear, though. After finishing at Sandhurst and joining the Grenadier Guards, he’d visited the Kilmartin Arms and given his oath to Jack Kelly that he would never fight against them in Ulster.

In any event, there was enough happening elsewhere to keep him occupied. Jean knew that he’d flown for the Army Air Corps, helicopters and light aircraft all over the world. She also knew that he’d served with the SAS, but only because—many years earlier when he’d been spending a week’s leave with her in Mayfair—a dispatch rider had delivered an envelope. A recall to duty at once, Justin had told her, and had gone off to pack leaving the letter on the desk in the study. She’d read it, of course, and discovered for the first time that he was serving with 22 SAS. She hadn’t mentioned it; there was no point as he hadn’t told her.

* * *

Not that it mattered now. All that was over. Afghanistan had seen to it, and he had survived, covered with glory, wounded and decorated and alive, which was something to be thankful for these days. The business trips to Pakistan and the North-West Frontier were only something to do. He needed action of some sort, it was his nature, and she’d long since come to terms with the fact that women were something he could never take seriously.

So here she was back at the Place again because of a call from Hannah Kelly, the housekeeper, to tell her Colonel Henry’d had another bad turn, and that was something you couldn’t ignore where a ninety-five-year-old man was concerned. She’d flown over at once, seen him with Dr Larry Ryan, and there was little comfort from him. One of these days, the bad turn would carry Colonel Henry off, and perhaps that would be in his own best interests, but not this time. So, she faced the prospect of a miserable day or so with a half-mad old man in his dotage, shouting one insult after another at the servants, in language out of the gutter, sitting in his wheelchair in that conservatory that was like a miniature jungle, a decanter of Cognac and a glass on the cane table beside him.

She looked at her watch and saw with a start that she’d been sitting there a long time. She rose, dreading the return to the house, and then like a miracle, her mobile sounded as she started down the track to the house, and Nell barked frantically. ‘It’s me,’ Justin told her. ‘I’ve just got off the plane at Heathrow, tried you in London and got your message. How is he?’

‘Still with us and even more dreadful than usual. How was your trip?’

‘Wonderful. There’s so much going on up there on the border; loads of companies vying with one another. The war inflates everything; it’s like a bad movie. You’re lucky to get a hotel bed. I’ve got to call in at the office, meet with Sir Hedley and inform him how things went.’

She was disappointed. ‘I was so hoping to see you.’

‘So you shall. I’ll drive out to Frensham. We’ve got four planes parked there. I think I’ll use the Beech Baron.’

‘I haven’t flown in that,’ she said.

‘A new acquisition. Twin engine, can carry six, and it takes off and lands on grass, so I’ll be able to land at Drumgoole Aero Club. No need to feel down, Mum. I’ll be with you later in the afternoon.’

‘All I can say is, thank God, darling.’

‘See you soon.’ He switched off, leaving her there on the track, suddenly unbelievably happy.

4

After dropping Dillon off at Holland Park, Miller had continued on to Dover Street and got some sleep. Since his wife’s murder the previous year, in a bomb attack aimed at Miller himself, he had lived alone, managing with just a daily housekeeper, a Jamaican widow named Lily Pond, who saw Miller as a tragic figure who needed mothering.

Miller was in his study, working on the stack of mail, when his Codex sounded and Ferguson said, ‘The Prime Minister’s decided he wants you with me.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘I don’t know, Harry. I suppose he wants your opinion as well as mine. You are known in the House as the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler. So, get your arse down here doublequick.’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Miller said, and called Arthur to get the car.

He found Ferguson sitting outside the PM’s study in conversation with Cabinet Secretary Henry Frankel, a good friend to Miller in bad times.

‘You’re looking fit, Harry.’ He shook hands. ‘So you’ve been visiting the great man himself in Washington?’

‘If you say so, Henry,’ Miller answered.

‘I know the General thinks I’m a terrible gossip, but it’s not true, love. Let’s face it, all the world’s secrets flow through here.’

‘Yes, well, save them for your memoirs,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Do we go in now?’

‘Of course, now that Harry’s arrived.’ Frankel crossed the corridor and opened the door.

‘I’ve examined all the material your Major Roper has put together,’ the PM said, ‘and I’m not surprised the President was so disturbed.’

‘We all are, Prime Minister,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I believe it to be one of the gravest matters I’ve put before you for some time.’

The Prime Minister was obviously concerned, and turned to Miller. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’d say it’s a small number of people we’re talking about, British Muslims in Afghanistan. But it’s a pattern all over the world, isn’t it, Islamic extremism? There is a Muslim saying: Beauty is like a flag in the city.’

The PM nodded. ‘The green flag of Islam flying over Downing Street?’

‘Flying over a damn sight more than that,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’d say we’ve got to do something about it.’

‘I agree.’ The PM nodded. ‘But individual young Muslim men buying a plane ticket to Pakistan is one thing, a system that facilitates this is quite another. Does such an organization exist? That’s what we need to find out. The man who calls himself Shamrock could be the key here. Find him and we may be able to discover the rest.’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ Ferguson got up, as did Miller. ‘We’ll get on with it.’

The door opened and they left, passing Henry Frankel, who stood to one side and winked at Miller. Both their limousines were waiting outside.

Miller said, ‘Where do we start then?’

Ferguson glanced at his watch. It was noon exactly. ‘I could use a drink. Tell Fox to deliver you to the Garrick Club.’

‘The Garrick?’ Miller was surprised. ‘I thought you were a member of the Cavalry Club.’

‘Of course, but everybody likes the Garrick; all those actors and writers and so on. It makes a difference from matters military. I’ll see you in the bar.’

* * *

Justin Talbot went straight to his mother’s house at Marley Court to unpack and get a change of clothes. He had just come out of the shower when his mobile sounded. He answered and found himself speaking to the Preacher.

‘Good to hear from you,’ Talbot said. ‘I had an excellent trip.’

‘You had a disastrous trip, you stupid fool,’ Hassan told him.

Talbot said, ‘What the hell? I don’t have to put up with you talking to me like that.’

‘Listen to the tape I received, Talbot. Then you’ll see why I’m angry.’

Talbot did, and with some horror. When it was finished, he called the Preacher back and Shah answered at once. ‘What have you got to say?’

‘It was in the heat of battle, so I shot my mouth off. Regrettable, and I apologize, but I don’t see how it hurts us.’

‘You think not? This General Charles Ferguson is a legend in the counter-terrorism field. He has been an absolute thorn in the flesh of Al Qaeda, and so are the people who work for him. Dillon, Holley, Miller; they’ll all start nosing around. If Holley hadn’t kept his business partner, Hamid Malik, informed of all his doings, and Malik hadn’t confided in Hakim, we’d never have known.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Talbot asked. ‘If this Holley guy tells his business partner about everything, then we should be able to find out about what happens next, shouldn’t we?’

‘You just don’t get it, do you? All Charles Ferguson and this Major Roper had to go on was a muddled tape, and then in you came with that absurdly dramatic code name, Shamrock, announcing to the world: What a spectacular. Warrenpoint all over again and it worked big time. Osama will be delighted.’

Talbot had made a mistake there, and he knew it. ‘So I got a bit overenthusiastic.’

‘And what was your touching dedication supposed to mean? You can rest in peace now, Sean. Night bless?’

Talbot said, ‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘Everything has something to do with me. Answer me.’

‘Sean Kelly was my friend, a stable boy at Talbot Place. He was only nineteen, but he was a Provo like all his family. Some of those wounded Highlanders managed to fight back, and Sean took a bullet.’

‘How heart-warming. When you joined the Army, the Troubles must have given you a problem, didn’t it, knowing which side you were on?’

‘I was never in Ulster with the Grenadier Guards.’

‘But you certainly were with Twenty-Two SAS. More than twenty covert operations, wasn’t it? One in County Tyrone where your unit ambushed and killed eight members of the PIRA. I wonder how your friends in Kilmartin would react if they knew?’

‘You bastard,’ Justin Talbot said.

‘Action and passion, that’s what you like, a bloody good scrap; and you don’t care who the opponent is. Of course, you’ve never been certain which side you were on, Fenian or Prod. If only your mother had told you that you were Catholic years ago, you might have turned out different.’

Justin Talbot struggled to control his rage. ‘That is nonsense. What the hell are you saying?’ ‘Your father was a Catholic.’

‘Of course he was. Everyone knew that. But I’m a Protestant. My grandfather is a Presbyterian Unionist who loathes Catholics beyond anything else on this earth. He enjoyed telling me throughout my childhood that I was a bastard, but at least a Protestant one.’

‘And he was wrong. You were baptized into the Roman Catholic faith on the fifth of August, Nineteen sixty-four, two weeks after your birth, by Father Alan Winkler of St Mary the Virgin Church, Dun Street, Mayfair.’

Talbot tried deep breathing to steady himself. ‘What are you saying? Is this true? Did anybody know?’

‘I believe your grandmother did. She was a remarkable woman to put up with your grandfather all those years, and your mother takes after her. You’re hardly a fool. You must have been aware that I’m a careful man. I do my research, Justin.’

‘All right,’ Talbot said wearily. ‘Where is all this leading?’

‘Everything stays as it is. Since the Peace Process, many old IRA hands have sought employment in London.’

‘What about them?’

‘I’m sure your IRA connections in Kilmartin would be able to contact such people if necessary.’

‘What for?’

‘Ferguson and his people are formidable foes. It pays to be just as formidable an opposition.’

‘What the hell are you talking about: open warfare in the London streets?’

‘No, I’m saying we must be prepared. The opposition knows your code name is Shamrock. They surmise you might be Irish. Your leadership of the ambush seems to indicate you are a soldier of experience, and because of the name Warrenpoint, it reinforces their opinion that you could be a military man. We must stay vigilant, that’s what I’m saying. If we receive the slightest hint, from Hakim or anyone else, that they’re getting close to your identity, then we’ll have to deal with them.’ Shah took a breath. ‘All right. That’s enough for now. What are your plans?’

‘My mother is at Talbot Place. I’m going to fly myself over to join her this afternoon. The old man is poorly again.’

‘I’m amazed he hasn’t managed to fall downstairs by now. Perhaps he needs a nudge?’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.’

He dressed quickly in clothes suitable for flying, jeans and an old jacket. He had plenty of clothes at Talbot Place, and so took only a flight bag with a few things in it. Before leaving, though, he phoned Sir Hedley Chase at his house in Kensington to tell him he intended to call. Chase’s job as Chairman of Talbot International might be a well-paid sinecure, but the old boy was sharp and took things seriously.

‘I’m just going out for lunch,’ the General said. ‘At the Garrick Club. Got a taxi waiting. Why don’t you join me?’

Justin Talbot hesitated, for he wanted to be on his way, but there was that military thing that bound soldiers together and had done so since time immemorial. A general was a general, and you didn’t say no. A couple of hours wouldn’t make any difference.

‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Sir Hedley,’ he said, and was driving out of the garage in his mother’s Mini Cooper five minutes later.

At the club, Sir Hedley Chase was greeted warmly by the porters on duty, and he told them who his guest was going to be. Then, helped by his stick, he negotiated the stairs, and went into the bar. It wasn’t particularly busy. Two men were sitting comfortably at a corner table drinking brandy and ginger ale, and Sir Hedley realized with pleasure that he knew one of them.

‘What a perfectly splendid idea, Charles, a Horse’s Neck. I’ll have one, too. How long has it been. A year? Two?’ he asked.

‘Three,’ Ferguson told him, and said to his guest, ‘General Sir Hedley Chase, Grenadier Guards. A Captain when I was a Subaltern. Very ‘ard on me, he was.’

‘Made a man of you,’ Sir Hedley told him.

‘And this,’ said Ferguson, ‘is Major Harry Miller, Intelligence Corps, Member of Parliament and Under-Secretary of State.’

‘For what?’ Sir Hedley enquired.

‘For the Prime Minister, sir.’ Miller shook hands.

‘Oh, one of those, are you? I’ll have to be careful. The Queen, gentlemen.’ He toasted them. ‘What are you up to, Charles? Still a security wallah?’

‘I’m at the PM’s bidding. What about you?’

‘Bit of a sinecure, really. I’m Chairman of Talbot International. We’re in the Middle East and Pakistan, supply the army there with trucks, helicopters, armoured cars, that sort of thing.’

‘The Gulf War and Afghanistan must have boosted business,’ Miller said.

‘Certainly has. We’ve made millions.’

‘And weaponry?’ Ferguson asked.

‘We decided as a matter of policy not to bother. There’s lots of old-fashioned communist rubbish available, masses of AK47s, RPGs, Stingers. On the North-West Frontier, weapons like that are flogged in the bazaars like sweeties. It’s dirty business. Lots of people do it, even some respectable firms, but we don’t. Talbot International is family-owned, the ex-Chairman an old comrade of mine. Colonel Henry Talbot. Old Ulster family, Protestant to the bone. Henry was an MP at Stormont and they made him a Grand Master in the Orange Lodge. I always said he was to the right of Ian Paisley.’

‘And now?’

‘Retired. The grandson’s the Managing Director — he’s the one who really runs things. Major Justin Talbot — Grenadier Guards, you’ll be pleased to know — got shot up on his last tour in Afghanistan and felt it was time to go. He goes where I can’t. I managed to make it to Islamabad last year for discussions with the Pakistan government, but that was it. I’m too old for that kind of thing. It’s bloody rough these days. All sorts of illegal arms traffic passing over the Afghan border.’

‘Arms for the Taliban?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Who else?’ Sir Hedley frowned. ‘Have you got a particular interest in this?’

Miller answered. ‘The Prime Minister is concerned about reports that British Muslims are serving with Taliban forces.’

Sir Hedley nodded. ‘I’ve seen the odd newspaper reports to that effect, but I can’t believe it’s in any great numbers. I know one thing. It would be treason.’ He turned to Miller. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I would, but in the brave new world we live in, it’d be a nightmare for the government to prosecute.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Would you like another drink, sir?’

‘I think I would,’ Sir Hedley said, and added, ‘Here’s Justin, just coming in the door.’

Justin Talbot had left his flight bag with the porter and had put on a tie. He stood there, smiling, a slightly incongruous figure with the tie and the old flying jacket.

‘Come in, Justin, and join us. I’ve just run into an old comrade, Major General Charles Ferguson and his friend, Major Harry Miller.’

Justin Talbot was thunderstruck. Of all the people to meet — the two men he’d been most warned about. The voice in his brain said: Don’t panic. Smile. Your background is impeccable. You’re Managing Director of a firm worth hundreds of millions of pounds; you’re a war hero.

So he produced that easy charm and said to Ferguson, ‘Quite an honour, General. You’re a legend in the regiment.’

It had the desired effect, for Ferguson was only human, but Miller was not taken with him and wondered why. The deliberate stroking of Ferguson, perhaps, or the wonder-boy appearance. Certainly the air of cynical good humour was used for effect, and most people probably fell for it, especially women.

‘You’ll have a drink with us?’ Sir Hedley asked.

‘No can do. I’m back from Lahore and found out my mother has gone over to County Down to see to her father, who’s apparently not too well. I’m flying myself over, so no alcohol for me.’

‘Indeed, but well-met, anyway. Our friend, Major Miller here, is apparently an Under-Secretary of State, although we’re not allowed to know what ministry.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ Talbot said.

‘We’ve been having an interesting debate about the suggested presence of British Muslims fighting for the Taliban,’ said Sir Hedley.

‘I see,’ Talbot said.

Ferguson said, ‘There’s a concern in government circles. Have you any opinion on the matter?’

Which was exactly the question Talbot had been hoping for. ‘I certainly have. It’s not a “suggested” presence: it’s very real. I have excellent connections with the Pakistan Army and they tell me many of the voices on the radio are definitely English.’

‘Have you heard them yourself?’ Miller asked.

‘Yes, on a few occasions when I was up near Peshawar and very close to the Afghan border. Sometimes you can pick up the sounds of battle on the other side.’

‘In Afghanistan itself? Can I ask what you were doing there?’ Miller went on.

‘We sell trucks used for army transportation and driven by civilian personnel. Part of our sales package guarantees maintenance.’

‘A big operation,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Yes, it is. If the government is concerned about anything up there, I suppose they could always send somebody to take a look.’

Sir Hedley broke in. ‘We’d be happy to assist in any way. Maybe you and Miller could go and have a look-see, Charles?’

‘It’s certainly a thought,’ Ferguson said. ‘Would you be there?’ he asked Talbot.

‘Not if I can help it. It’s the pits, and I’ve had enough of Afghanistan to last me a long time. But I have excellent staff, and I’d be happy to put them at your disposal. Just let me know.’

‘I will indeed. Come on, Harry, we’d better move.’ Ferguson got up. ‘Take care of yourself, Hedley, old son. Let’s not leave it so long. Nice to meet you, Major.’ He shook Talbot’s hand. ‘My regards to your grandfather. I had some dealings with him when I was in Belfast at the height of the Troubles. Frankly, he was a bit of a bastard.’

Talbot held on to his hand for a moment. ‘You’re wrong, General. He was the bastard.’

Ferguson and Miller went downstairs and called in their limousines. ‘What did you think?’ asked Ferguson.

‘Of Talbot? I can’t say I warmed to him.’

‘Perfectly understandable, Harry. He’s too good-looking, he’s heir to a family fortune of eight-hundred million pounds, he’s a war hero. Shall I carry on?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Miller said. ‘What now?’

‘Time for a council of war. I’ll see you at Holland Park.’ Ferguson got in his Daimler and was driven away.

An hour later, they met in the computer room, Ferguson presiding, with Miller, Holley, Roper, and their occasional colleagues Harry and Billy Salter.

Ferguson said, ‘I’m pleased to say that Daniel Holley has agreed to join us and offer his special services to the matter in hand.’

Harry Salter glared at Holley, then said, ‘This is completely out of order. This geezer arranged for someone to try and burn down my pub.’

‘Which is still standing,’ Ferguson told him. ‘We’re all in one piece, including Lady Monica Starling, whose life he saved. It’s like war, Harry — yesterday’s enemies are today’s allies. All sins are forgiven. Daniel has even passed on to our old friend Colonel Josef Lermov information about a possible Al Qaeda assassination attempt on Vladimir Putin.’

‘Christ,’ Harry Salter said, ‘whose side are you on, Holley? You certainly spread yourself around.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘Okay then, what’s it all about?’

Roper said, ‘I’ve got quite a show for you. Listen and learn.’

* * *

When it was over, Harry Salter said, ‘What a bastard, that Shamrock guy. Calls himself British. He should have his balls chopped off.’

‘Rather drastic, but you have a point,’ Ferguson said. ‘Anyone else?’

Billy Salter said, ‘The business about these young Muslims turning up in battle with the Taliban. Yes, it’s diabolical, but I’ve got a feeling there probably is no organization as such behind this. They’ve all got relatives in Pakistan, they were born here, they’ve got a passport, they can travel there any time they want. So maybe some Mullah at the local mosque who’s a Jihadist has given them an address. That’s probably the extent of it.’

‘I agree with him,’ Dillon put in. ‘I think the important thing here is for us to find out who Shamrock is.’

‘You’re right, Sean,’ Miller told him. ‘But we can’t exactly go hunting for him in the depths of Helmand province. He isn’t out there leading a life of daily hardship. He’s staging a “spectacular”, as he calls it, and then getting out of there. Who knows where he is?’

‘I still say Ireland’s the place to go,’ Dillon said. ‘Visit the scene of the original crime.’

Ferguson opened his briefcase, took out a book and put it on the table next to Roper, who picked it up and examined it. ‘From Waterstone’s. A history of the IRA, with a detailed account of the Warrenpoint ambush of Nineteen seventy-nine. Anybody can read about it, Sean — it doesn’t have to be somebody who was there.’

‘And as I’ve already mentioned,’ Miller said, ‘I’ve used the Warrenpoint disaster in my lectures at Sandhurst for ten years. Hundreds and hundreds of officer cadets have heard that lecture.’

‘Let’s move on,’ Ferguson said. ‘By chance, Major Miller and I bumped into an old comrade of mine today, General Sir Hedley Chase, Chairman of Talbot International. He was with his Managing Director, Major Justin Talbot, who was just back from Pakistan. I presume you know the firm,

Daniel?’

‘Of course I do. It’s one of the biggest in the business. Family-owned — the Chairman for years, Colonel Henry Talbot, was involved in Ulster politics.’

‘And that’s a polite way of putting it,’ Dillon said. ‘The kind of old-fashioned Protestant politician who’d have welcomed another potato famine just to reduce the Catholic population to manageable proportions.’

‘You appear to feel strongly on the matter, Sean,’ Ferguson said.

‘And why wouldn’t I, living only a few miles up the road at Collyban for some years in my youth? It was with my uncle on my mother’s side, Mickeen Oge Flynn — good man; still has a garage there. And I can assure you, Colonel Henry Talbot was one of the most hated men in County Down. The grand house he had where he lorded it over the Catholic “scum of Kilmartin”, as he described them. The only thing that kept someone from shooting him was his wife, Mary Ellen. Mickeen Oge used to say, if ever a saint walked this earth, it was her, even if she was a Protestant.’

‘He certainly sounds a real old bastard,’ Harry Salter said.

‘Warrenpoint must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow,’ Ferguson said. ‘Only a few miles away.’

Dillon said coldly, ‘Enough of the ould sod, and back to our problem. We know there are British Muslims in the Taliban ranks: we have recordings of them. I’m with Billy in thinking that most of them simply make their own way to Pakistan and join up there. I shouldn’t imagine there is any organization as such. Information about where to join is probably available at any local mosque.’

‘So what is your point?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘That the job comes down to one thing: find Shamrock. The President asked me if I thought we could, and I said yes. He said, don’t let me down and, with all due respect to you, General, I don’t intend to.’

Ferguson turned to Holley. ‘For twenty-five years, behind the respectable front of Malik Shipping, you’ve sold arms to anyone who could pay. You must be one of the most experienced dealers in the business. Who would we get in touch with? In our discussion with Talbot and Sir Hedley, we kept it general, made no mention of Shamrock. They both felt that if the government was concerned about the situation, they should send someone to take a look. Talbot said he had an excellent staff who would be willing to help.’

‘They wouldn’t be much help for what you’re looking for,’ Holley said. ‘They’re far too respectable. I could provide two or three names, the kind of people who have their hands in everything. But you really have to do it face-to-face: it’s the only way. Peshawar International may not be the biggest airport in the world, but it’ll handle an RAF Gulfstream, I should think.’

Harry Miller said to him, ‘What a splendid idea.’

Ferguson turned to Miller, ‘By heavens, I could go with you. I’ve excellent contacts with Pakistan Intelligence.’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Holley, ‘but be careful what you say. Pakistan Intelligence is riddled with corruption and Taliban sympathizers. As for Shamrock, I’d keep that for the lowlifes whose names I’ll give you.’