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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 (#ulink_300cf686-0948-5b9e-b167-5810f7b7b873)
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?’
