The Judas gate

11

Holley drove and Dillon called in to Roper, who cut in on him instantly and said, 'I thought you'd be coming straight here. The General's been asking for you.'

'Do we get blasted out of the water for being naughty boys?'

'I don't think so. He's dark and sombre. I can't remember seeing him in such a black-dog mood. There's a kind of despair there because we aren't making progress, and the attempt on Billy's life last night greatly worried him.'

'So it should,' Dillon said. 'We've just been talking to Bellamy at Rosedene. He released Billy, but he's not happy about his health. I gave him my word that we wouldn't get Billy involved in anything active for a while, and I mean to keep it. Bellamy's put him together again more than once. He can't keep doing it.'

'How was Mickeen?'

'Comatose is the word they're using, and that sums it up. But listen, Roper. Something seriously important's just turned up from Malik in Algiers. I'm handing you over to Daniel, who'll fill you in.' When Holley was finished, Dillon cut in. 'What do you think? It could give Ferguson a shot in the arm.'

'It's an interesting prospect, to put it mildly,' Roper said. 'But we shouldn't discuss it without the General present. I'd get here as fast as possible if I were you. I imagine he'll bring that council of war forward.' Ferguson, catching up on paperwork at his desk in Cavendish Place, was galvanized by Roper's call.

'What incredible news. I'm just finishing the Peshawar report for the Prime Minister, then I'll come straight round. Have everybody there. This might be some sort of breakthrough for us.'

Harry Miller was already on the premises, enjoying a workout in the gym, which left the Salters. Roper hesitated, then thought, well, there was no harm in having Billy in on the discussion, as long as they didn't send him out into harm's way. He contacted Billy and found him at the Dark Man, told him Ferguson had called a meeting and wanted everyone there.

Billy sounded subdued. 'What's he up to now?'

'That's for him to say, but it's important. Are you okay?'

'Of course I am.' Billy was irritated. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Only asking,' Roper said. 'We'll see you then,' and he got to work researching Omar Hamza and the Khufra marshes. It was an hour later when Ferguson arrived at Holland Park to find everyone waiting for him in the computer room. He was full of energy, and it showed.

'I don't know how much you all know about why we're here, so let's start from scratch. Daniel, just go through the conversation Malik had with you.'

Which Daniel did, ending with an observation about Hakim. 'I've known Ali Hakim for years; he's probably Malik's best friend. A Military Police Colonel, highly regarded in government circles, a specialist in anti-terrorism. I don't need to tell you that Algeria has problems with fundamentalists just like other countries in the Middle East, and the government don't like Al Qaeda.'

It was Harry Salter who made the obvious point. 'But what would Shamrock be doing there in the Khufra?'

'We don't know. Hakim's informant simply mentioned a mystery Westerner staying with Omar Hamza who called him Shamrock.'

'I've had a thought on that point,' Roper said. 'There has been more than one bombing in Algeria during the last three months, by a jihadist group thought to be linked to Al Qaeda. They've tended to go for police barracks. The most recent one caused eighteen deaths and forty-seven wounded. Perhaps Shamrock has a link with all that.'

'That's just supposition again and it doesn't help in the slightest,' Ferguson said to Roper. 'Let's go to the source. You have Hakim's personal mobile number. Get him now and put him on speaker. Everybody else, keep quiet.' 'Colonel Ali Hakim?' Roper said in Arabic. 'I have Major General Charles Ferguson for you.'

'A great pleasure,' Hakim said in English.

'I won't beat about the bush, Colonel,' Ferguson told him. 'We've heard about the conversation you had with Hamid Malik regarding Omar Hamza, and mentioning the name of Shamrock.'

'Ah, yes, but I'm afraid I can't help you there. That name has only just come to my attention as someone Hamza is involved with. Apparently, he could be British. He certainly isn't Arab. I don't even know how far his involvement with Hamza goes. He is an unknown entity to me.'

'Well, not to me,' Ferguson said. 'Tell me, how would you go about your expedition into the Khufra?'

'There is a small fishing village on the coast, called Dafur, with a population of only seventy or eighty. It has two good jetties that Rommel's people constructed in the war. There's even a crumbling landing strip for aircraft, which the coastguard can use in emergencies. I have two large police launches and fifteen thugs in uniform who just love those who say no to them so they can knock them down.'

'I should imagine that's what you'd need in a place like that, but let me be completely frank with you. Shamrock is a very bad man and I want to lay my hands on him more than anything else in the world. You'd be doing me a great favour if you allowed me and my people to join in.'

Hakim did 'shock' very convincingly. 'But, General, this would be completely out of order.'

'Would it make a difference if Daniel Holley were involved? He's an Algerian citizen.'

'That's true,' Hakim said, 'Daniel is highly regarded, but my arrangements are firm.'

'You mention a landing strip. We could fly direct from the UK and land there.'

Holley waved at Ferguson and gave him a thumbs-up and mouthed 'Falcon'. Hakim said, 'It would be most irregular.'

'Not in a Falcon owned by Malik Shipping and piloted by Daniel Holley.'

Hakim now did a good performance of accepting defeat. 'I suppose in such circumstances, it would be all right.'

'Excellent,' Ferguson said. 'I'll call you back.'

Roper cut the call. 'Who's going, then?'

Ferguson said to Holley, 'How many does the Falcon take?'

'Two pilots in the cockpit, six passengers.'

'We could all go,' Ferguson said.

'No, we couldn't,' Dillon told him. 'We can cut out Billy, for starters.'

Billy was indignant. 'Who says so?'

'Charles Bellamy,' Dillon told him. 'He made me promise to make sure you stay out of things for a while. The vest saved your life, Billy, but two forty-five-calibre rounds at short range to the heart takes time to get over, and he warned you.'

Harry Salter turned to Billy. 'You didn't tell me.'

'So what, it's no big deal,' Billy told him.

Harry looked at Ferguson. 'That's it, he's out of it.'

'Yes, I understand the situation-' Ferguson began, but Dillon cut in on him. 'And you're out of it, too. You've been a great soldier, Charles, but to use military terminology, Peshawar was a bridge too far. Any idea of you penetrating a pesthole like the Khufra marshes is ridiculous. Think Vietnam. The average age of those Yanks in the Mekong Delta was nineteen.'

Ferguson's face was pale. 'God damn you, Dillon. Yes, I'm an arrogant bastard, but I'll have you know I'm still as good a man on the ground and in the air as anyone else here.' He appeared to be trying to get a grip on his emotions. 'But that said, you're right. My role is here and yours is in Algeria. Roper, call Hakim back and finalize the arrangements.' Hassan Shah was in West Hampstead, working at his computer, when Hakim contacted him.

'It worked. Dillon, Holley and Miller are leaving in four hours' time to fly here. They're as good as dead.'

'Just those three?' Shah frowned. 'I'd hoped for Ferguson. What about young Salter?'

'Who knows? The death of these three alone will be an enormous coup. It will cripple Ferguson. When will Shamrock leave?'

'I'll call him now to tell him the whole thing is a go, and get back to you.' His call found Justin Talbot in the study, having a drink and reading The Times. 'It's on,' Shah said. 'Dillon, Holley and Miller are leaving in four hours. They've arranged with Hakim to land on the old German runway at Dafur to join him for a dawn invasion of the marshes. It seems Ferguson is not going.'

'I didn't think he would,' Justin said. 'And what about Omar Hamza?'

'He expects you, and Hakim will inform him when he knows you're on your way. When will that be?'

'Sooner than you think. I got moving on my preparations yesterday. I arranged for one of my pilots, Chuck Alan, to fly the Citation X over yesterday evening. It's owned by a Swiss company and untraceable. It's at Belfast City now and Chuck is standing by, waiting for my call. I'm already packed, too, so I'll get straight off. I'll be in Belfast in an hour.'

'But what about your mother?'

'She's gone into Newry to get her hair done. I'll leave her a note pleading urgent business. She's used to it.

'Good. Now take this down. Hakim gave me Hamza's mobile number.'

Justin did. 'I'll get moving then.'

'May the blessing of Allah go with you.'

'Nonsense,' Talbot said. 'He gave up on me long ago.'

He switched off, went to the writing desk, jotted a note to Jean and left it in a prominent place. Then he dashed upstairs, found his flying jacket and the bag he'd packed, went down to the front door, and was in the Mercedes and driving away just ten minutes before the maroon Shogun turned into the drive.

He got his mobile out one-handed and called Chuck Alan. 'Hi, old buddy,' he said. 'I'm on my way, so get moving.'

Alan said, 'Will do, boss.'

A little while later, Justin's mother called. She didn't argue, simply said, 'Couldn't you have said goodbye?'

'Sorry about that. Something urgent came up, a company matter. It's a last-minute thing.'

'No, it wasn't. I took a call from Frensham when you were out yesterday afternoon. They were checking to see if everything had gone well with the Citation at Belfast. You knew in advance you were going to make this trip.'

'Come on, love, it's no big deal.'

'Secrets and lies, Justin, so many of them. I don't know where I am any more. You're as careless as a young boy; your conversations on that wretched mobile echo round the house, or half of them do, and that's enough to frighten me, because so much of it seems to concern itself with death. I even know where you're going now – Algeria. I hear the name Al Qaeda mentioned many times, as well as Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley, the men I met in Collyban. I know what they are and I'm so, so frightened.'

'Maybe you've been listening when you shouldn't,' Justin told her. 'That's always very unwise, because when you only get part of a story, you don't get the truth.'

'Oh, go to hell, Justin,' she shouted at him, and threw her mobile across the room. Hassan Shah called Hakim. 'I've spoken to Shamrock. He'll be airborne before they are.'

Hakim said, 'You gave him Hamza's number?'

'Of course.'

'Good, I'll have them alert me as soon as he lands. Hamza will be on a small island called Diva in the centre of the marshes: that's where the trading post is. It's about ten miles from Fasa. People use small boats to get around in there, mostly with outboard motors. I'm sure Hamza will pick Shamrock up himself.'

'Amazing,' Hassan Shah said. 'You and your men have no intention of invading the Khufra to flush out the thieves and vagabond. The only purpose of the entire operation is to kill Dillon, Holley and Miller.'

'But of course. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? My units on patrol in the Khufra learned a long time ago that it was better to leave well enough alone up here. It's like keeping animals in a zoo. The people who are penned up in the marshes are the scum of the earth, so we leave them to get on with it as long as they don't venture outside. Omar Hamza rules with a rod of iron, on my behalf.'

'I assume you take your share of the drug trade and so on?'

'A man must live, Preacher.'

'Take care you never reveal such matters to Osama. He would not approve.'

'It's a hard and disgusting world from a policeman's point of view. I do my best to protect good people and the weak, but I am past apologies.' Hakim sounded weary. 'We will talk again when I confirm the arrivals.' At Holland Park, Dillon, Holley and Miller went through the wardrobe room and settled on green fatigues with no camouflage markings and crumpled green jungle hats. One outfit to wear, another as a spare, in the bottom of a dark green holdall, with T-shirts, a toilet bag and military items. Their usual weapons, the Walther and the Colt.25 in the ankle holster, were backed up by an AK47 each, and some fragmentation grenades.

Dillon went out carrying his holdall. He put it down while he spoke to Roper, who said, 'Very dashing. I'm not used to seeing you in uniform.'

Miller joined them and said, 'That's because the Provos never wore one.'

'Now that wasn't fair,' Roper mocked.

'Remember what President Kennedy once said,' Dillon shrugged. 'Anyone who expects fairness in this life is seriously misinformed.'

'I love that,' Holley said, as he joined them. 'Seriously misinformed. It has a ring to it. Rolls off the tongue.'

Sergeant Doyle came in. 'I'm ready, gentlemen.'

'No fond farewells from the boss?' Dillon said. 'Ah, well, we who are about to die salute you.'

'Oh, get out, Dillon,' Roper said. 'I'll start to cry.' 'That'll be the day,' Dillon said, and led the way out. They reached Farley Field in forty minutes and discovered Ferguson and the Salters standing beside the Daimler, talking.

'There you are,' Ferguson said. 'We thought you'd got lost.'

'No, that's what happens when we try to find Algeria, General.' Dillon shook hands all round. 'Keep the faith. We'll see you soon.'

'It would seriously inconvenience me if you didn't,' Ferguson told him.

Holley and Miller got in, and Dillon paused. 'Keep an eye on Mickeen Oge for me, Billy.'

'You can count on it,' Billy called, as the door closed and Dillon moved up to take his seat beside Holley.

Ferguson and the Salters moved back to the Daimler and stood watching as the engines fired and it started to move away.

'What do you think?' Harry Salter asked.

'I don't know: a funny one, this.' Ferguson looked up as the Falcon lifted. 'All up to Dillon, I suppose.'

'Well, there's nothing new in that,' Harry said. The Citation had taken off two hours before the Falcon. Chuck Alan, a former US Navy pilot with a DFC who had served in Iraq and Afghanistan, was familiar with Justin Talbot's vagaries, but with the fabulous salary he was paid, never complained. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, he put the Citation on automatic pilot and went over their route.

'Should be easy,' he said. 'We'll pass over the Irish Republic, Bay of Biscay, Spanish mainland, and across the sea to Algeria and this Khufra place. Presumably there's a decent landing facility? You said we'd speak about that.'

Justin produced a photo text he'd obtained from the computer. 'Just there on the edge of the Khufra marshes is a desolate old airfield the Germans built in the Second World War. The buildings are ruins, but the runway can still take traffic.'

'You didn't mention that,' Chuck said. 'Is this an illegal drop?'

'No, it's part of a covert operation run by Algerian Military Police, which I'm assisting in. I should return in twenty-four hours. You'll be safe by the plane. I'm carrying a spare AK47 in my bag just for you.'

'That's a bit outdated,' Alan said.

'Not at all. It's the perfect weapon for swamp country. Vietnam proved that. You can bury one for years, dig it up, load it and it will fire instantly.'

'I don't know about this,' Alan said. 'Maybe I won't be able to land.'

'If you can't, I will, but after Iraq and Afghanistan, I'm willing to bet you a bonus of fifty thousand dollars that you can put this baby down at Fasa.'

Chuck Alan brightened considerably. 'You're on!'

'Good,' Talbot told him. 'Just turn off the automatic pilot and let's see some real flying. I'll go and get some coffee.'

Which he did and also called the Preacher. 'Thirty-five thousand feet up, cloudless blue sky and we're on our way.'

'You should be a couple of hours ahead of our friends when you land.'

'Not that it will make any difference to the final outcome,' Justin said, and switched off.

He had his coffee and a whiskey in it, thinking of what lay ahead, but his thoughts also turned to his mother. He brooded for a while, considering whether to call her, but decided on Jack Kelly instead. He found him in the estate office.

'I've gone away in rather a hurry for a few days,' he said. 'I'd like you to keep an eye on my mother.'

'I've seen her already, and she's distraught. Hannah found her weeping in her bedroom.'

'We didn't exactly part on the best of terms.'

'What on earth are you up to?'

'The problem is, it appears that she's taken to listening in to my phone conversations, and since she can only hear half of them, she seems to have come to the wrong conclusions about what's going on.'

'From what she's said to me, I'd say she's got an excellent idea – and it's scaring her to death. This Algerian trip, what the hell is it all about?'

'Al Qaeda business. A way of sorting out the Ferguson problem. I came up with a good idea and the Preacher approved.'

'What is it?'

Justin told him and, when he was finished, said, 'Quite clever, though I say it myself. What do you think?'

'That you're a raving bloody lunatic, Justin Talbot. You're Colonel Henry's grandson, all right.'

'Don't you dare say that to me.' Justin flared up at once.

'You do realize that the men you are going up against are extraordinary by any standards? Dillon and Holley, two of the most feared enforcers the Provisional IRA ever produced, and Major Harry Miller, who did our movement more harm during the Troubles than any other individual. Frankly, it's Hakim and his fifteen crooked coppers I'd be worried about in that swamp.'

'The difference is, I'll be there waiting for them.'

'Well, I'd take care, Justin, great care, that's all I can say. Watch your back. You'll need to.'

After he had gone, Justin opened the holdall which contained his Tuareg clothing. It would work, the whole thing, he told himself: had to. He checked and loaded the weapons, putting an AK47 to one side for Chuck and the other in a military rucksack, together with a few assorted grenades and extra ammunition, three field-service wound packs and some penicillin. He returned to the cockpit and eased into the second seat.

'Everything okay?' Chuck asked.

'Go have a coffee or whatever. I'll take over.'

He sat there, flying the plane; normally he enjoyed it, but not this time, and he knew why. It was what Kelly had said. A raving bloody lunatic. You're Colonel Henry's grandson all right. It was what he'd been afraid of for most of his life. It would take more than consigning his grandfather's portrait to the bonfire to make it go away. The call came in while Miller and Dillon were in the cabin eating sandwiches. Miller took it and switched it on to speaker.

Roper said, 'Check your laptop, Harry. I've just sent yu a couple of better photos I managed to run down of Ali Hakim and Hamza. I know Daniel's familiar with them, but they should be of use to you, too.'

'Thanks for that,' Miller told him. 'How is everybody?'

'Billy's gone to Rosedene to see Bellamy, and Harry insisted on going with him. He's taken the situation very seriously. I believe he thinks Billy might die on him.'

'And Ferguson?' Dillon asked.

'Just after seeing you off, he got a call from your pal, good old Henry Frankel, the Cabinet Secretary. The PM wants one of those one-page reports that he can use during Question Time. The worst problems facing the Secret Intelligence Services at the moment, blah blah blah. Naturally, Ferguson asked me to come up with a quick answer, but I doubt it's the kind of thing the PM wants to raise in the House of Commons.'

'Let me guess,' Dillon said. 'Number one, Muslim fundamentalism. Two, the rise of the Russian Federation. And three, the fact that, since the Peace Process in Ulster, what was the PIRA has become a criminal organization that's bigger than the Italian Mafia.'

'Got it all, Dillon. Hardly worth my writing it down. The Russians have sixty-two thousand in the GRU. Compared to that, British Military Intelligence is a joke. With the Muslims, Al Qaeda is only one of an exponentially growing number of extreme jihadist organizations.'

'And the Provos?' Miller said. 'They blew up the centre of Manchester and made a fortune out of rebuilding it, at least that's what many people think. It's a funny old life.'

'Well, I don't think you'll find it funny when you plunge into that wilderness at dawn tomorrow,' Roper said. 'Take care.'

He switched off, and Dillon said, 'I'll go and spell Holley.'

He went into the cockpit and Holley came out, got coffee from the kitchenette and joined Miller. 'There's something I meant to mention to you and Sean.'

'What's that?' Miller asked.

'I learned Arabic when I was in that training camp – became pretty fluent. Hamza told me it was a good idea to keep quiet about it.'

'Why did he say that?'

'Because people give themselves away when they think you don't understand. Once I was given a job to handle a consignment of guns to County Down and deliver fifty thousand pounds in a suitcase. The fools in the boat's crew discussed which way they would murder me, in Arabic of course.'

'What happened?'

'I shot a couple of them dead – to encourage the others, you might say. It did the trick. You speak a little Arabic, I understand?'

'Military short course. Very basic.'

'And I know Dillon speaks it very well. Ali Hakim knows about my ability, but he doesn't know about you two.'

'You'd rather Dillon and I keep quiet?'

'I think it would be a good idea.'

'So that we can hear them discussing how to murder us?'

'Absolutely,' Holley said. 'One thing I learned during my five years in the Lubyanka was how frequent it was that totally absurd and impossible things turned out to be true.'

'I take your point. Dillon and I don't speak Arabic.'

'Exactly,' Holley said in perfect Arabic. 'So if you would pass me the sandwiches, I would be very grateful.'

'Sorry, old man,' Miller replied in English, 'I don't understand a word you're saying.' In the heart of the marshes was the small island of Diva. Hamza's house and trading post were substantial, and built on firm land, but with extensions all around, wooden shacks supported by pilings driven into ground below the water. There were seven or eight of those, with boats ranging from canoes to inflatables with outboard motors tied up to them. One old sport fisherman was painted dark green, and Hamza, who wore a sailor's peaked cap, jeans and a reefer coat, was sitting in the stern having a beer when his mobile buzzed.

'Omar Hamza, this is Shamrock. Half an hour to go.'

Talbot spoke in English, and Hamza replied in the same. 'You've come a long way. Let's hope you find it's worth it.'

Hamza climbed a short ladder to the jetty above and ducked into a large dark room with rough tables, chairs and a long wooden bar. Bottles of every description were crammed on the shelves, and an open archway revealed a shop crammed with goods.

A drunk was sleeping in the corner, mouth open, while three Arabs in soiled white smocks and battered straw hats played cards at one of the tables. A young woman in black, her head covered, but her handsome olive face revealed, came in from the store and spoke to him in excellent English.

'Was that him, this Shamrock you are expecting, Father?'

'So it would appear, Fatima. I'll go get him.' He sounded grim and shook his head.

'You're not happy?'

'I've involved myself in this matter because of my position here and also because of you. This is a favour for Colonel Hakim, so I can't say no. I want things to remain as they are, nice and stable. If the police ever decided to come down heavy on us, and we were forced to move on, it would be a tragedy at my age. Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have understood this.'

'And you think I don't? Hakim is all right, and he likes me. Ever since his wife died, I have known this.'

'You are too young for him.'

'One is never too young for an older man with money and social standing. But we are wasting time. I will go with you and take the wheel of Stingray while you handle the pole.' The salt marshes were like a green miracle sprouting out of the desert, saltwater channels flushing through great pale reeds up to fifteen feet high. Chuck Alan had taxied the Citation right up to the edge and stood there looking at it. He picked up a stone and hurled it into the marsh, and immediately birds of every description flew up, creating pandemonium with their noise as they called to each other.

Behind him, Justin Talbot emerged from the cabin. He wore the dark blue turban and face veil of a Tuareg, and a three-quarter-length dark blue robe open to reveal a khaki shirt and trousers. He had a belt round his waist carrying a holstered Browning, an AK47 slung over his left shoulder, and held the military rucksack in his right hand. He made a hugely dramatic figure.

Chuck Alan said, 'Jesus, boss, are you going to war or something?'

It was extraordinary how Justin seemed to fit into that landscape, everything shimmering in the intense heat.

'I think I hear an engine,' he said, and was right.

There was a movement in the reeds, and the boat emerged, Hamza in the prow clutching a long pole. Stingray came to a halt, the front easing up on the sand. Justin looked up at the woman at the wheel high above. She said something in Arabic.

'Sorry, no can do,' Justin said. 'English only, I'm afraid. Comes with all those years of Empire, you see.'

He was the English public school man to the life, and Hamza roared with laughter. 'You sound just like a man I met in the French Foreign Legion many years ago. He'd been cashiered from an English Guards regiment.'

'What rotten luck.' Justin turned to Chuck. 'Off you go, old son.'

'I'll be waiting, boss.'

Alan went back to the plane and climbed into the cabin, pulling the airstair door up behind him. Justin turned and said, 'Omar Hamza?'

'That's me, and this is my daughter, Fatima.'

'Charming,' Justin said, 'nice to meet you.'

She looked uncertain, as if not knowing what to make of him, and he climbed on board and moved to the stern, where he put down his rucksack and the rifle. He looked up at her at the top of the short ladder as she switched on the engine.

'Can I join you?'

'If you want.'

As the engine started into life, Hamza climbed over the prow rail and shoved off. They reversed, pushing into the curtain of reeds, and then turned and ploughed forward, emerging into a waterway which was only as broad as the boat itself.

'An amazing place. How long have you lived here?' Justin asked.

'I was a child when we came, twenty years ago. My father had problems in the desert so we moved here. He has the trading post, so we have a good living, but it's hard. My mother died last year. There are many people here for whom it is the final stopping place.'

'It's certainly striking, and some of the flowers are incredible,' he said.

'It also has snakes of many types in the water, and the bite of some bring instant death. Not to mention the malaria and other diseases.'

'But you still stay. Why?'

She shrugged. 'Because there is nowhere else to go.' The boat emerged into the lagoon, revealing Diva Island and the trading post and the shacks on pilings; they coasted in, and a small boy caught the rope Hamza tossed and tied it up. Fatima said, 'I'll take you in and show you where you will sleep.'

He followed her up the ladder and into the trading post, and Hamza, still on the boat, was speaking to Hakim. 'Well, I've got him. He was waiting by the plane dressed as a Tuareg, turban, face veil, the lot. Took me back to my days in the legion in the deep Sahara. Just looking at them frightened people to death. What news of the others?'

'I had a call from Holley saying they should be landing in an hour.'

'So they'll spend the night with you at Dafur and the police incursion in the launches will start at dawn. Wouldn't it be simpler to cut their throats while they're sleeping?'

'No. In the world's eyes, they must have died at the hands of the bandits who infest the Khufra, especially Holley who, on paper at least, is an Algerian of some importance.'

'Malik will be desolate to lose him. I understand he looks on him as a son.'

'Well, he'll have to get over it.'

'I liked Daniel. A born killer, and one of my finest pupils.'

'Everyone's time comes sooner or later, so stop moaning. Tell Fatima not to get close to this Shamrock. They take liberties, these Westerners. No morals.'

'As you say.'

Hamza went into the trading post. There was no sign of his daughter or Justin and then she emerged from the rear sitting room, went behind the bar and found a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

'So he wants a drink?' Hamza said. 'He'll have to remove the veil. Tuaregs aren't supposed to drink. It's an offence against Allah.'

'Then you've been offending him all your life. He's unpinned his veil at one side. He is quite handsome, actually,' Fatima told him, and grinned. 'As you can see, I've got you a glass, too. Come.'

She led the way into a back room that was quite spacious and carpeted, with large stuffed cushions scattered around and a low Arab-style dining table. There was a bed in one corner and another archway showed a further bedroom.

Justin sprawled on a huge cushion, smoking a cigarette, the veil hanging down one side. He looked astonishingly dramatic and was excited beyond belief, the brief trip through the marshes had seen to that. Omar Hamza and the whole atmosphere of the place was everything he had hoped for. Fatima was just a bonus.

She half filled a glass for him and for her father, and, when Justin smiled, there was an edge of wickedness that excited her. 'To your bright eyes, my dear.' He toasted her, then half turned and said in excellent French to Hamza: 'And to you, mon brave, and good hunting.'