The Judas gate

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.'

'Thanks for the warning, Daniel. Give Roper the names of the dealers you suggest we meet in Peshawar, if you would.'

'I can do more than that. They all have laptops, I'll give you their email addresses. Just remember: these are ruthless men, all out to make a buck. They don't know what a scruple is. I'd go armed at all times.'

'Give me the names of this unsavoury lot,' Roper said.

'Dak Khan, Jose Fernandez and Jemal Hamid. I'll give you their emails later.'

Billy Salter said, 'So while you and Harry are over in Pakistan, what do we do?'

'Try to behave yourselves,' Ferguson told him. 'And watch Dillon for me. We won't be away long.'

Holley's Codex sounded. He answered it and found Josef Lermov. Holley waved frantically at Roper and mouthed 'speaker'. Roper turned it on and Lermov's voice boomed a little.

'I thought I'd let you know that there's been a terrible accident in Chechnya. Mullah Ibrahim Nadim met a bad end on a country road outside some small town with an unpronounceable name. A car bomb killed him, two bodyguards and his driver.'

Holley felt no remorse for the part he had played in the affair. 'Well, he wanted paradise, so at least he got that. Inshallah. It was his time.'

'You know,' Lermov said, 'during the Battle of Algiers, Muslim girls threw away their traditional clothes, cut their hair and wore make-up and pretty frocks to fool French paratroopers into believing they were Europeans. That way, they were able to visit coffee shops and leave bombs under the seats.'

'Yes, I know that. Very ingenious,' Holley said. 'What's the point?'

'The point, my dear Daniel, is that Chechnyan Muslim women appear to have adopted the same idea. An unfortunate Colonel in the GRU's Planning Cabinet apparently made the mistake of enjoying the charms of such a woman.'

'And how is he?'

'Dead. He shot her and then shot himself.' 'Well, there you are, that's the way it goes,' Holley told him.

'Prime Minister Putin has asked me to tell you he owes you one, Daniel.'

Holley laughed. 'Now that really does frighten me, Josef. Thank him for the kind thought, but I think I'll still lock my door at nights.'

Lermov hung up. Harry Salter said, a kind of admiration in his voice, 'What a cool bastard you are, my old son. I'll have to keep my eye on you.'

'Well, that will keep me safe, if nothing else,' Holley told him. 'What happens now?'

'Luncheon,' Ferguson said. 'Is that all right with everybody?'

'Not me,' Roper said, 'you've given me the rush job of all time. I've got a million things to do. You lot just get on with it.'

'So where shall we eat?'

Ferguson asked. 'What about the Al Bustan in Shepherd Market?' Holley said. 'Great Lebanese food.' 'Let's go,' Ferguson said. Selim Lancy had been keeping an eye on his namesake at his shop, which was easy enough to do in the congested and narrow streets of the market. There were also numerous cafes with tables outside, and he was sitting at one, observing the shop, when the party from Holland Park arrived at the Al Bustan, which was just on the corner. It was a surfeit of riches, for the Preacher had followed up his photo of Holley with further ones covering Ferguson's most important people. And now here they were, just dropped into his lap.

The waiters pushed tables close so they could sit together under an awning outside the restaurant, and wine was ordered. It was all very good-humoured.

Lancy sat down at a small table on the edge of things, but not too close. He didn't need to be close, for the hearing enhancer he slipped into his right e eavesdrop. He ordered wine himself and began reading his newspaper.

It was Ferguson who gave it away by asking Holley, 'How long since you were last in Peshawar, Daniel?'

'Five months ago,' Holley said. 'Flying visit. I was only there three days. Long enough to complete business, then get out. You wouldn't want to linger, and you shouldn't, General.'

A moment later, Ferguson had to answer his Codex. He listened for a few moments, then said, 'Excellent.'

He said to the others, 'That was Roper. The Pakistan Embassy has agreed to our visit. A Military Police Colonel named Ahmed Atep will be our contact, Major. Parry and Lacey have been alerted and are already on their way to Farley to get the Gulfstream ready.'

'And what about the dealers I suggested you meet?' Holley asked.

'Roper's emailed them and said it was your personal request that they co-operate.'

'Has he had replies?'

'Yes, from this Dak Khan and Jose Fernandez, who both indicated that they would help in any way possible.' Ferguson shrugged. 'They probably think there might be money in it.'

'And Jemal Hamid?'

'Apparently killed in a roadside ambush of a convoy close to the border some weeks ago.'

'On the Pakistan side?'

'It would appear so.'

Holley shrugged. 'That's the way it goes. It's a thoroughly dangerous adventure, General. When do you go?'

Ferguson glanced at his watch. 'As soon as we're done with lunch. So let's order, gentlemen.' Lancy asked for his bill, paid the waiter and walked away, not only satisfied, but excited. His Mercedes was parked in a nearby mews and he went and sat behind the wheel and reported in to the Preacher. Professor Hassan Shah was in the garden of his house, sitting at a table on the terrace, marking a student's thesis.

'Excellent,' he said when Lancy was finished. 'You've done brilliantly. Is there anything to report on Malik?'

'I've had a word with a few of the Brotherhood with shops in the area.' He was speaking of the Army of God, on the face of it a Muslim charity. 'He seems harmless enough.'

'Then you can forget him from now on. I want you to drive out to this airfield and confirm their departure.'

'You've got it, boss. Ferguson said they'd be leaving in three hours, so I'll wait till nearer the time. I don't want to stand out or anything.'

'Just get it right.' After lunch, Holley stopped for a moment at the Dorchester to collect a couple of things before going on with Ferguson and Miller to the airfield. Just as he was going back out through the door, Malik phoned him from Algiers. 'How are you? I was speaking to Cousin Selim and he's worried about you.'

'No need,' Holley said. 'I'm taking it easy for the time being. It's Ferguson and Major Miller who are putting themselves in harm's way. They're going on a flying visit to Peshawar to nose around.'

'But why?'

'Just to get a feel for the situation. I gave them names of people who might be able to help. Dak Khan, Jose Fernandez and Jemal Hamid.'

'And have they agreed to help?'

'It seems that Jemal Hamid was killed in a convoy ambush the other week, but the other two have. Ferguson and Miller will be looked after by a Colonel Ahmed Atep – does he mean anything to you?'

'No, he's not familiar to me, though it's years since I was there. Wasn't he there when you visited five months ago?'

'No, he must be new.'

'So what happens now?' Malik asked.

'I haven't the slightest idea. I just had a meeting with all of Ferguson's people. I was able to put a face to everybody, something I couldn't do before. Roper, Ferguson, Miller, Dillon, and the two gangsters, the Salters.'

'Gangsters?' Malik said.

'Well, that's what they used to be. Young Billy is MI5 now and his uncle has millions in developments by the Thames. It pays better than robbing banks.'

'Everything is a joke to you, Daniel.'

'It's the only thing that got me through five years in the Lubyanka Prison, my friend. Take care, Malik, I'll be in touch.' He hung up.

Malik sighed, deeply troubled by the direction in which the whole affair was going. There was a step on the terrace and he turned to find Colonel Ali Hakim there.

'Forgive the intrusion; your gatekeeper let me into the garden. I was passing and wondered how you are.'

'Not good at all,' Malik said. 'I worry so much about Daniel. I just can't help it.'

Hakim managed a look of concern. 'My dear old friend, what's he been up to now?' Farley Field belonged to the Ministry of Defence and was restricted, but the public car park next to it was not, and was popular with plane-spotters due to the increase in military traffic. Lancy had out his binoculars along with the rest of them and found the Gulfstream, waiting to go, the steps down, two RAF officers beside it.

He could recognize Ferguson, Dillon and Daniel Holley standing together by a Daimler limousine, and then a Mercedes appeared. The man who got out was Miller. It was five-thirty. He waited. Finally, the Gulfstream started across the runway and rose into the air.

He got back into the Mercedes and called the Preacher. 'They've just left.'

'Excellent,' Shah said. 'Let's hope they enjoy themselves.'

'You're going to do the business on them, aren't you, Boss?'

'I would think Peshawar dangerous enough without my help,' Shah told him.

Lancy said, 'What do I do now?'

'Go back to making a living, Selim. I'm sure the ladies adore your manly good looks. You'll find, by the way, that your bank account has been inflated by five thousand pounds. I know your mother's cancer treatment means she can't work. Give her my blessing, but remember you belong to Osama.'

To which there could be no answer, and Selim Lancy switched off, shaking his head. What kind of geezer was he, the Preacher? One minute he was the lord of life and death, and the next he was the soul of kindness and charity. Lancy had punished people for him, wounding to keep Muslim wrongdoers in line, and he'd shot dead two Muslim men from Kosovo involved in a prostitution ring importing young girls. Death was all they deserved, the Preacher had said, and Lancy had obliged, dumping the bodies in the Thames.

It didn't bother him. After all, it was small beer after Afghanistan. On the other hand, the business with his mother was a debt that should be repaid. He sat there behind the wheel of the Mercedes, thinking about the situation. Ferguson and Miller were out of the way, which left Dillon, Holley and the Salters. He smiled. Thanks to the information the Preacher had supplied, he knew all about the Salters, and their history intrigued him. East End gangsters who'd made good, millionaires up there with the toffs. He admired that and felt no animosity. They were on the wrong side, that was all.

There was a restaurant called Harry's Place and a pub, the Dark Man, in Wapping. It was where Salter had started out, his favourite place, and he had a boat there called the Linda Jones tied up at the end of the jetty outside. That's where any aggravation would hurt him most. Lancy smiled and took out his mobile. Like many young and unemployed Muslim men, Kalid Hasim made a bare living on the fringes of the drug trade as a delivery boy. It was a great risk for a small return, but Hasim considered it only temporary. For him, boxing was the way out, and he was punching the bag in his gym in Camden when his mobile sounded; he'd put it with his towel on a bench.

'It's me, number one man,' Lancy said.

They had never met. Lancy was a voice on the phone since the first call, when he'd suggested that Hasim and a couple of his friends might like to smash up a shop selling anti-Muslim literature, promising five hundred pounds in the post. Hasim had taken a chance and had been delighted with the outcome. He'd repeated the exercise on many occasions.

'So what have you got?'

'Just listen.' He explained the situation. 'Just aggravation is what I'm after. Smash up a few motors in the car park… and there's a boat tied up at the jetty. Sinking that would be good.'

'When do you want it done?'

'Tonight, but I've got to warn you. The Salters are real hard men, so don't hang about. In and out before they know what's going on. There's a grand in it for you.'

'Consider it done.'

'Good lad,' Lancy told him. 'But remember that right hand. You're leaving yourself wide open when you punch.'

'Fuck off,' Hasim told him.

'Not nice, a decent young Muslim talking like that,' and then he surprised Hasim by speaking in Arabic for the first time. 'Allah is great and Osama is his prophet.'

He switched off and drove away. Meanwhile, the Preacher was contacting his most important Al Qaeda asset in Peshawar. He got an instant response.

'The day of wrath must come,' Shah said, establishing his credentials.

'Then only the believers will survive. It is good to hear you, Preacher. How can I help?' his asset answered.

'Not me, but the cause of Al Qaeda. You are to have two visitors. They have just left London by Gulfstream. They are important because they are on British government business, but they are a problem for us.'

'Who are they?'

'A General Charles Ferguson and Major Harry Miller. They are there on a fact-finding mission. There is alarm in London over reports of young British Muslims fighting for the Taliban.'

'Which is true.'

'Yes, but there is more to their trip. There is evidence of a mercenary commander operating with the Taliban who uses the code name Shamrock. Have you heard anything of such a man?'

'Not a whisper. Are you sure about this? Perhaps it's only rumour?'

'No. Shamrock is one of Al Qaeda's most important assets. His identity must be protected at all costs. As far as you are concerned, he doesn't exist. My information is that Ferguson and Miller have been promised the assistance of two men in Peshawar. Their names are Dak Khan and Jose Fernandez.'

'I know these men well. Illegal arms dealers, amongst other things. I can put my hand on them at any time. As regards the visitors from London, do I frighten them or kill them?'

'Both Ferguson and Miller have done great harm to Al Qaeda in the past. I think it is time that their debts were paid.'

'No problem. Leave it with me.'

'Osama's blessing on you.'

Shah hung up, and the man at his desk at Military Police Headquarters in Peshawar, Colonel Ahmed Atep, lit a cigarette and sat back, smiling. So, life could get interesting. The prospect pleased him very much.