The Judas Gate

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‘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.’