The Judas Gate - Jack Higgins

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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

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