The Judas gate

5

Earlier in the day, Justin Talbot's flight had taken him over North Wales and Anglesey, and now he was sweeping in towards the Mourne Mountains, a wonderful sight on a perfect day.

It had been an excellent flight, but he hadn't enjoyed it as much as usual. His dealings with the Preacher had been deeply disturbing. It wasn't just the shock of discovering that his mother'd had him baptized a Catholic as a baby. It was more that the Preacher knew about his exploits with the SAS, which were supposedly top secret. Where in the hell had all that come from? The power of these Al Qaeda people was frightening, and he cursed the day he'd ever got involved.

He wondered for a moment if he could buy his way out. On his grandfather's death, he would become fabulously rich, and he was cynical enough by nature to believe that most people in life had their price, particularly when you were talking in the millions. But on the other hand, Islamists like Al Qaeda, men who could kill and execute without a second's hesitation, had rigid moral and theological codes that Westerners found it difficult to understand. In the end, money meant little to them.

He doubted that was his escape.

He turned parallel to the Mourne Mountains as they swept down to the sea, and dropped on to the long grass runway of the Aero Club just outside the village of Drumgoole. There were three hangars, five small aircraft parked on the grass, a small terminal building with a cafe and a stub of a control tower above it. In front of the terminal was a maroon Shogun, his mother leaning against it, wearing sunglasses because of the glare, watching as an overalled mechanic waved him in to park in the right place. The club's chief pilot, Phil Regan, was standing with her, and they came towards him as he got out of the Beech Baron.

'Wonderful to see you, darling.' She flung her arms round him and hugged him fiercely. 'My God, but you're brown.'

'Good to see you, Justin.' Regan shook hands. 'If you wore the right clothes, people could mistake you for a Pathan.'

'It's fierce sun up there on the North-West Frontier,' Talbot said. 'I've never experienced anything like it. The plane did well, Phil. I hope I'm staying for a few days, but give it a full engine check, full everything, so that it's ready to go at a moment's notice.'

'We'll see to that, never fear.' Regan turned to consult the mechanic.

Jean said, 'Do you want to drive?'

'I've just clocked three hundred miles or more flying that plane, so I think I'll take a rain check.'

'Fine by me.'

They got in and she drove away, following the coast road. 'I was worried when I didn't hear from you on this trip. I always thought that's what mobiles were for.'

'Service can be difficult if you're in the wrong terrain. It's a hard, unforgiving landscape out there. It's defeated everybody who invaded that bloody country, even Alexander the Great.'

'But that's Afghanistan. I thought you never went over the Pakistan border.'

He'd made a mistake and struggled to make it right.

'Borders meant nothing to Alexander.'

'Of course, silly of me.' She concentrated on the road, but, glancing sideways at her face, he knew that she didn't believe him, just as she hadn't believed so much of his army life over the years. Secrets, always secrets between them, but also a love that was so deep it was never mentioned.

'How is he?' he asked, referring to his grandfather.

'Pretty bloody awful. Dr Ryan said he really did think he might go this time. That's why he phoned me to come. Dad insists sometimes on getting up with two sticks and lurching around and striking out at any servant within range. This time, he lost his balance and fell over, and that's what brought on the attack. We've got a local man with him now named Tod Murphy; he spent years at the Musgrave Park Hospital in Belfast. He's sixty, a hard man, and deaf as a post, so your grandfather's rantings pass right over him. He'll just sit reading in the conservatory, ignoring him, until Dad needs feeding or toileting or putting to bed. And, of course, there's Hannah Kelly,' mentioning the housekeeper. 'Couldn't manage without her, so I pay her a damn good salary, and thanks to her I don't have to be over here on a regular basis.' She shook her head. 'What's the solution? It drives me mad thinking about it.'

'He dies, I suppose,' Talbot said. 'He could stumble and fall at any time and break his bloody neck and do us all a favour.'

'You really hate him that much?' she asked.

He shrugged. 'I was his Protestant bastard for years, so what did that make you? How could you ever forgive him for that?'

'I know, love,' she said. 'Such behaviour goes beyond any hope of forgiveness.'

'Mind you, what would life have been like if I'd been a Catholic bastard? Imagine, Colonel Henry Talbot's grandson! What would the Orange Lodge have made of that?'

Because of the special bond that had always been between them, she could tell he wasn't quite ready to face the house, so she swerved to the side of the road by the sea wall, switched off and got out. She leaned on the wall, took out her cigarettes and lit one, and he joined her.

A narrow road dropped down to a hamlet called Lorn: seven small cottages if you counted them. Several fishing boats were drawn up on the narrow beach and there was a boat-house and jetty that belonged to the Talbot estate. A sport fisherman was tied up there, gleaming white with a blue stripe. It was called Mary Ellen.

Justin said, 'Have you taken the boat out since you've been back or been flying with Phil Regan? I thought you'd be airborne all the time after you got your licence.'

Instead of replying to his question she said, 'You know, don't you?'

'August the fifth, Nineteen sixty-odd, Father Alan Winkler, St Mary the Virgin Church, Dun Street, Mayfair. A good address.'

'He was a nice old man. Very understanding. He held my hand and prayed for me and you and your father, and said that, in the circumstances, it was God's will that you should be baptized.'

'The persuasion of the truly good,' Talbot said. 'How could you resist that?' He kissed her gently on the forehead. 'What a wonderful person you are. I expect that's why I can't take girls seriously, and never have. They're lucky if they can get a week out of me.'

'But you aren't going to tell me how you suddenly know? Oh, the secrets between us, darling.'

'I've an idea that Mary Ellen knew, am I right?'

'I had to tell her because I told her everything and she blessed me, for it was your father's dying wish. As far as telling you… she felt it should be left to the right moment.'

'I'm forty-five, Mum, if you remember. A long time waiting.'

'We all have our secrets, even from our loved ones.'

'And you think that applies to me?'

'More years ago than I care to remember, you were spending a week's leave at Marley Court when a dispatch rider delivered an order. You read it, told me you'd been recalled for some special operation, went upstairs to pack and left the order on the study table. I know I shouldn't have, but I read it and discovered my son was serving in Twenty-second SAS.'

'So you knew, all those years, and never told me?'

'I couldn't. It was a betrayal, you see, and I couldn't live with you knowing that. My punishment was that I've had to imagine supremely dangerous things happening to you every day. So, yes, my darling boy, I knew then, every time, just as I know now.' She stubbed out her cigarette. 'I've tried to give up these things, but I'm damned if I can. Let's move on. You must be famished.'

'I'd like to call in and see Jack Kelly before we go up to the house,' he said. 'If you don't mind, that is.'

She glanced at her watch. 'A little early for the pub. It's only four-thirty.'

'I'm sorry, Mum.' He laughed, looking like a young boy again for a fleeting moment. 'I suppose I am putting off seeing Colonel Henry for as long as possible. And I do have letters for Jack from his extended family, relatives we have working out there in Pakistan.'

'Of course, love. I'll drop you off and get on up to the house and see how Hannah Kelly is coping.'

They continued in silence for a while and finally he said, 'I've been thinking about our secrets. If it leaked out that I'd operated in the SAS during my army service, I think it would finish me here.'

'I agree, but they'll never know from me. Answer me one question as your mother, though. Did you actually take part in SAS operations in Ulster during the Troubles?'

He had so much to lie about, particularly his present activities. Perhaps he could more easily avoid that by admitting a sort of truth.

'Yes, I did, and on many occasions.'

She kept on driving calmly. 'In view of the personal difficulties in your background, our situation in Kilmartin, couldn't you have avoided it? I understood that the Ministry of Defence allowed choice.'

'It was still left to the individual to make a personal decision.' He was getting into real trouble here. 'It's difficult when the regiment's going to war, for an individual to opt out.'

'I could see that with the Grenadier Guards,' Jean said. 'But you volunteered to join the SAS, am I right?' 'Yes, that's true.'

'So you knew what you were getting into. Covert operations, subterfuge, killing by stealth, action by night. You must have known that your enemy would be the IRA.' She shook her head. 'Why did you do it?'

He broke then. 'Because I loved it: every glorious moment of it. Couldn't get enough. Some psychiatrists might say I was seeking death, but if I was, it was only to beat him at his own game. I lived more in a day…' He broke off, shaking his head. 'Nothing can describe it; it was so real, so damned exciting. It was impossible to take ordinary life seriously ever again.'

'But Afghanistan got you in the end.'

'I think not. Death looked down, took one look and said: Oh, it's you again. Not today, thank you.'

She managed a laugh. 'You fool. Anything else?'

'I don't think announcing to all and sundry that I'm a Catholic is a sound thought. The news that the heir to Talbot Place is a Fenian would have some people dancing a jig for joy – and many who wouldn't.'

'It's your decision, not mine,' Jean Talbot said. 'I'll go along with anything you want and we'll keep our fingers crossed, but remember, Justin, this is Ireland, where a secret is only a secret when one person knows it.'

'Then God help us.' They had passed down the main street, a few parked cars, not many people about, and there was the Kilmartin Arms and the Church of the Holy Name to one side of it, a low stone wall surrounding a well-filled cemetery, the church standing some distance back. There was an old-fashioned lych-gate, a roofed entrance to the churchyard.

'Let me out here,' Talbot said, and his mother braked to a halt. He got out, taking his flight bag with him, and examined the notice board. 'Church of the Holy Name, Father Michael Cassidy. My God, the old devil goes on forever. How old is he?'

'Seventy-eight. He could have had preferment years ago, but he loves this place. You've got the times for Mass and the Confessional.'

'Don't tempt me, but I will have a word with him, and in friendship only. The fact of my new religion stays out of it.'

'I'll get moving then.'

'I shan't be long.' He walked through the lych-gate as she drove off, and threaded his way through the gravestones to a horseshoe of cypress trees. There was a monument there, which bore the names on a bronze plaque of local men who had died while serving in the IRA. He didn't bother with that, but walked through to a well-kept grave with a black granite headstone. The inscription was in gold and read: Killed in Action, Volunteer Sean Kelly, Age 19. August 27, 1979. It said other things, too, about a just cause and the IRA love of country, but Justin Talbot ignored them. Only the name and the age of someone he had truly loved meant anything to him. He turned away, close to weeping, and found Jack Kelly standing some little distance away, lighting his briar pipe.

He carried his sixty-nine years well, dark hair streaked with silver now, a face that had weathered intelligence there, also a quiet good humour. He wore a tweed suit and an open-neck shirt and there were good shoulders to him, a man who could handle himself, which wasn't surprising in someone whose life had been devoted to the IRA.

'Good to see you back, boy,' Kelly said. 'Tim keeps in touch on his mobile. I heard from him you'd been disappearing over the border again to Afghanistan.'

Tim Molloy was his nephew, one of many men in the Kilmartin district who had eagerly accepted the recruitment to Talbot International at good salaries. Tim, for example, was contract manager to the vehicle maintenance side of the business based in Islamabad, servicing civilian convoys to Peshawar and beyond, to the Khyber Pass itself. It was an important and hazardous job.

The truth was that Molloy and the Kilmartin group used their privileged position to off-load arms close to the border to dealers who took them over. Honed by years of experience with the IRA, Molloy's group of ten men, all mainly in their middle years, formed a tightly knit crew that kept themselves to themselves. No one at Talbot International headquarters had the slightest idea of what was going on, except Justin Talbot.

'Tim's a good man, even on the worst of days,' Talbot said. 'But he hates me changing my clothes and slipping off over the border to have a look around and visit.'

They had moved to a bench close to Sean's grave and were sitting. Kelly's pipe had gone out and he lit it again. 'He thinks you're a lunatic going over for a stroll in a place like that – and disguised as a Pathan. He's convinced that, sooner or later, someone's going to take a pot shot at you.'

'God bless Tim, but then he doesn't know what we do,' Talbot said.

'And a burden it is sometimes.' Kelly looked sombre.

Jack Kelly was the nearest thing to a father Justin Talbot had known, that was the truth of it, and Justin was well aware that in many ways he had stood in for Sean, and not only in Jack's eyes, but in those of his wife, Hannah, also. The word from Molloy about Talbot's trips had worried the Kellys, and Jack had raised the matter almost a year before.

It had been at a bad time or a good time, depending how you looked at it, but it was not long after Al Qaeda and the Preacher had invaded Talbot's life. So, sitting in the study of Talbot Place with Kelly, just the two of them, with whisky taken, Talbot had unburdened himself.

Kelly had been shocked and angry. 'What the hell were you playing at? Surely you must have seen that once you put your foot on such a road, there could be no turning back?'

'I got tired of big business. I missed what I had in the army – excitement, action, passion; put it any way you like. It started simple, then it got out of hand.'

'And Shamrock? Whose bright idea was that?'

'Mine.' Talbot shrugged. 'Okay, a bit stupid, but I certainly wasn't going to say Major Talbot here, are you receiving me?'

'You bloody fool,' Kelly had said.

'That helps a lot. The thing is, how do I get out of it? You're the experts, you've had thirty-five years of fighting the British Army.'

'You don't,' Kelly said, a certain despair on his face. 'This is Al Qaeda we're talking about. You're too valuable to let go. Even if you could find this anonymous man, the Preacher, and managed to kill him, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. You belong to them. They'll never let you stop. Your mother knows nothing of this, I hope?'

'Certainly not.'

'Thank God. She'd never be able to cope.' 'So I just keep going?' 'I don't see what else you can do.' But all that had been almost a year before, and a lot had happened since then. Sitting there on the bench, Talbot brooded for a while, at a loss for words. It had certainly been a day for disclosure, but of things it would not be a good idea to reveal to anyone else. His service with the SAS and his new Catholic self were matters best left alone.

Kelly said, 'You've got something else on your mind, haven't you? You might as well spill it.'

Talbot said, 'Okay, I will. It will take a while to cover everything, but bear with me. You thought I was in a mess, but with the things I've done over there – now it's infinitely worse.'

It took a long time in the telling, almost an hour, because he told Kelly everything right up to Ferguson and Miller flying to Pakistan.

'So there it is,' Talbot said. 'I don't think I've missed anything. What do you think?'

'That you're probably a lunatic. You must be to dig yourself in so deep.'

'Do any of the names mean anything to you?'

'They certainly do. General Charles Ferguson was in and out of Ulster throughout the Troubles, a thorn in our side.'

'And these two IRA men? Are they genuine?'

'You can bet your life on it. Sean Dillon's a Down man who became a top enforcer and then ended up in a Serb prison some years ago. Ferguson saved him from a firing squad and the payment was that Dillon had to join him.'

'And Holley?'

'Half-English. His mother was a Coogan from Crossmaglen. He's highly regarded by that family. His cousin, Rosaleen, was raped and murdered by four Protestant scumbags. He shot the lot of them.' He shook his head. 'He and Dillon are serious business.'

'Yes, but they don't know who I am; I'm just a name.'

'Not to the Taliban who fight with you, and don't tell me you wear a turban and pull your robes about and wrap a scarf around your face. Some of those men will have seen you.'

'No Taliban I know would sell me out,' Talbot told him. 'If anyone did, they'd hunt him down and feed him to the dogs.' He shrugged. 'I don't know. It's a bugger.'

'One of your own making,' Kelly said.

'I suppose so. Maybe I have a death wish. Anyway, I suppose I'd better get up to the Place and see what's what. I mustn't forget your mail, though.'

He opened his flight bag and took out a stack of letters held together by a rubber band. Kelly took it and said, 'The ladies will welcome them. They can all call up Peshawar on their mobiles, but everyone loves a letter. The money is just pouring in for them. Some of them don't know what to do with it.'

'I'm sure they'll think of something. How's Hannah? My mother tells me that the old bastard is worse than he ever was.'

'We all do our best. I'm sorry for your mother, Justin.'

'Aren't we all…? But I'd better be off.'

'I'll give you a lift.'

'No, thanks. I could do with the walk. My legs are a bit stiff after the flight.' He smiled cheerfully, as if he didn't have a care in the world. 'I'll see you later,' and he picked up his flight bag and walked away. He had not gone very far, was climbing over a stile, when his mobile sounded. It was the Preacher. 'Have you arrived?'

'Yes, I'm just walking up to the house. What is it?'

'Just keeping you informed. I thought you'd like to know that Ferguson and Miller are now on their way to Peshawar. But don't worry. I have a very reliable asset in Peshawar. He can be trusted to handle the matter.'

'Anybody I know?'

'None of your business. All you need to know is: they may be going there, but I doubt they'll be coming back. Have a good holiday. You need the rest.'

He switched off and Talbot stood there, thinking for a moment, then continued walking briskly through the estate, past the prized herd of Jersey cows and a particularly fine herd of sheep. He approached the rear courtyard, came to the stables and looked in. It was well-kept, neat and tidy, the stalls swept. He didn't see a horse. Then there was a clatter of hooves outside and his mother appeared by the open door on a black gelding and dismounted. She was wearing jeans and a sweater.

'There you are,' she said. 'Is everything all right?'

'Oh, fine, I saw Jack and delivered the mail.'

She started on the saddle and Andy, the stable boy, came out of the kitchen and hurried across. 'I'll do that for you, missus, I was just having my tea.'

'Good man,' Talbot told him. 'Give him a rubdown.' He followed his mother across the yard. The kitchen was huge and suitably old-fashioned. Hannah Kelly, sorting vegetables by the sink, wiped her hands and came to kiss him.

'God save us, Justin, you look like an Arab.'

'I'd rather not,' he told her. 'It's only tan. With the Ulster rain five times a week, it will soon wear off.'

A young girl named Jane was peeling the potatoes and Emily, the cook, was busy at the stove. 'Hello to everybody,' he said cheerfully. 'Why does it always smell so good in here?' He put an arm around his mother's waist. 'Come on, let's get it over with.'

They went out into the panelled dining room and through to what was called the Great Hall, where an old-fashioned lift stood to one side of a huge staircase rising to a railed gallery above. There was a study, a library, a drawing room, and then, in the centre, a Victorian glass doorway misting over with the heat. Jean Talbot opened it and Justin followed her in.

It was a Victorian jungle, and quite delightful if you liked that sort of thing. Green vines and bushes and exotic flowers everywhere, medium-sized palm trees, the sound of water from a white-and-black tiled fountain; it ended in a circular area with a statue of Venus on a plinth.

Colonel Henry Talbot sat in his wheelchair, wearing a robe, a white towel around his neck. His grey hair was so sparse that, with the sweat, one could imagine he was bald. A brandy decanter was on the ironwork table beside him and a glass that was a quarter full.

Sitting at a cane table on the other side of the circle was Murphy, the nurse. His head was shaven and he resembled a Buddha in a way; the face very calm, very relaxed, as he sat there in a white coat and read a book.

The heat was incredible and Justin said, 'How can anybody stand this?'

Murphy stood up. 'Is there anything I can do, Madam?'

'How is he?' she raised her voice so that he could hear.

He came forward. 'A little calmer, I think.'

Colonel Henry turned his head and examined her. 'Who the fuck are you?' he demanded, and glanced at Justin. 'And who's this?'

'It's your grandson, Father,' she said.

The man resembled nothing so much as a ghoul with his hollow cheeks and rheumy eyes, as he glared at Justin, his right hand clutching a blackthorn walking stick. Then something sparked in the eyes.

'The bastard,' he cackled. 'The Protestant bastard.'

'Please, Father,' she started to say, and he tried to strike out at her with the blackthorn. She managed to jump out of the way, and Murphy blocked the blow with his right arm.

'That's it,' Justin said. 'I'm out of here. I'm going to have a shower and change into something comfortable. I sincerely hope that I'm not expected to eat with him, because I won't, I'll have it in the kitchen.' He turned and walked out. Nine-thirty on a weekday night wasn't the busiest time in most London pubs, and the Dark Man on Cable Wharf by the Thames at Wapping was no exception. Harry Salter still had a weakness for the place, for it was where he had started out all those years ago, when he'd realized that more money could be made in business than crime, and you didn't have to constantly run the chance of going down the steps at the Old Bailey for twenty years.

He'd invited everybody round for drinks and supper, Dora's hotpot if they were lucky, and that included Roper. Dillon would be bringing him in the back of the people carrier from Holland Park. Holley got a cab from the Dorchester and arrived just after they did, paid the driver off, then walked to the edge of the wharf and looked across the Thames as a riverboat passed by, ablaze with lights.

He was standing in a place of dark shadows beyond the lights from the pub, and was turning to go, when he saw three young men in track suits jog down from the direction of Wapping High Street. They moved apart, one of them turning into the car park, two of them running along the jetty to where Salter's boat, the Linda Jones, was tied up. A few moments later, the one from the car park emerged and went to join the others as they ran back to join him.

Holley regarded them for a moment and then dismissed them, and went into the Dark Man. The Salters sat in their usual corner booth, with Dillon and Harry's two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, lounging at the bar. Roper sat facing them in his state-of-the-art wheelchair in his favourite reefer coat, his long hair framing the bomb-scarred face.

'Here he is,' Harry said. 'The guy who planned to have us burned down.'

'Well, it didn't work, did it?' Holley said.

'I won't mention it again, old son. Bygones are bygones as far as I'm concerned. What will it be?'

'My Yorkshire half says beer and my Irish half says a Bushmills Whiskey.'

'Good man. I'll join you in that,' Dillon said.

Outside, Kalid Hasim was discussing the situation with his friends, Omar and Sajid. He said, 'The boat's locked up tight. No way of going below. That's where they have things called seacocks. If you open them, water rushes in and the boat will sink.'

'So what do we do?' Omar asked.

'We'll cut the ropes holding it close to the jetty. I've got a good knife. We'll shove it so that the current takes it out into the river. Then a quick run-through the car park, smashing every headlight and car window you can and just keep on running.' He took out a baseball bat that Holley had missed in the dark. The others did likewise.

'Sounds good to me,' Sajid said.

It was then that Hasim made a bad mistake. He said, 'First let's go inside. I want to see how many customers there are, so we know what we're up against.'

'What about the bats?' Omar asked.

'We'll just leave them over there in the corner where that flower trellis is. Nobody will see.'

Holley noticed them as they entered the pub, surveyed the room for a few minutes, then left again. He said, 'Something strange about those three.'

'What would that be?' Roper said.

'I noticed them when I arrived, jogging down from the main road.'

Harry frowned. 'What were they doing?'

'One ran through the car park, the other two went along the jetty to the boat. I couldn't see what they were up to there. The other one joined them for a chat, and I came in.'

'I don't like the sound of that,' Harry Salter said. 'Billy?' Billy was on his feet in an instant and called to Baxter and Hall, 'Let's get moving.' He ran out of the door. Hasim had already sliced through the stern line of the Linda Jones, and the stern itself was starting to swing out in the current. Omar had switched on the desk light under the awning, which automatically put on two lights on the prow, something Hasim had not expected.

'What the hell do you bleeders think you're doing?' Billy Salter called, and Baxter and Hall started to run. Billy produced his Walther and fired in the air.

The three young men turned in alarm, and Sajid cried, 'Let's get out of here!'

But there was nowhere to run. The jetty extended for perhaps fifty feet beyond the Linda Jones, then stopped abruptly.

'I'm nearly done here,' Hasim told his friends. 'Get on board, Sajid, and we'll shove off.'

But this line was a hawser and much thicker, and Billy fired again, the dull thud of the silenced Walther sounding. 'I'll put you on sticks.'

He took careful aim and Hasim paused, picked up his baseball bat and backed away. 'Come on then, let's be having you.'

It was a brave but futile gesture. Omar jumped into the water and started to swim into the darkness, and Sajid ran at Baxter and Hall, flailing out at them with the baseball bat, catching Baxter on the shoulder. Hall blocked the blow aimed at him and wrenched the baseball bat from Sajid's hand.

Behind them, Harry Salter was approaching, and Dillon and Holley stood in the doorway of the pub. Dillon said, 'I think this could get nasty.'

He half ran across to the jetty and approached the men. Baxter and Hall had Sajid between them and Baxter was holding the baseball bat in the other hand.

'Give it here,' Harry said. 'I could do with one of those. You okay, Joe?'

'It could be worse. The young bastard didn't break anything.'

'Well, we'll soon fix that. Hold out his left arm.' Sajid tried to struggle, but it was no good. Baxter held him from behind, Hall extended the arm and the baseball bat descended.

Sajid cried out in agony and Harry said, 'Now I think you'll find that's broken. Wapping High Street's where you want to be, St Luke's Hospital. They've got an excellent casualty department. Now get out of my sight.'

Dillon came up behind and Sajid stumbled past him, sobbing. Billy stood confronting Hasim, Walther extended. It made for a dramatic tableau, the deck lights from the Linda Jones, the darkness all around, some vessel passing in the distance, the river sounds.

Dillon said, 'Do you think the other one will make it to the other side?'

'I doubt it. I was the original river rat as a kid,' Harry said. 'I know the Thames backwards. Big tide tonight, four-knot current at least. Of course, he could also get run down by a boat out there.' He grinned. 'But I'm not concerned about him. Young punks getting up to a bit of aggravation is one thing, but my nose tells me there's more to this than meets the eye.'

He moved up beside Billy and confronted Hasim, who crouched defiantly, the baseball bat ready to swing, 'What's your game?'

'Go fuck yourself,' Hasim snarled.

'Don't waste my time. I'm Harry Salter; everybody knows that. I own half of Wapping and you, you maggot, come along here and have a go at a boat I've spent thousands restoring. That isn't your usual petty vandalism; it was a personal attack on me. So who put you up to it?'

'I've told you what you can do.'

'We're wasting time here,' Billy said. 'Let me put a shot in his right kneecap. That should jog his memory.'

Hasim suddenly looked uncertain, but lengthened his double-handed grip on the baseball bat. Dillon pulled out his own Walther and shot the bat out of Hasim's hand, who jumped back in alarm as it bounced on the cobbles of the jetty, rolling towards Harry, who picked it up, examined the splintered end and stood there, holding it.

'Take him,' he said.

Hasim made a sudden move as if to attempt to run past, Baxter tripped him, and he and Hall pulled him up between them. Billy and Dillon put their Walthers away and stood watching.

Harry said, 'Somebody put you up to this, and I want to know who.' Hasim spat at him, Harry took his handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face. 'Very nice that, isn't it? I've had enough. Just hold out his right arm.'

Hasim went crazy, struggling in the grip of the two men. They punched him several times to bring him under control and stretched out his arm.

'Not that,' he screamed, as the bat was raised. 'I'm a boxer.'

Salter was astonished for a moment, then smiled. 'Well, that's good news, because if you don't tell me what I want to hear, I'll break both your arms.'

Half sobbing, Hasim couldn't get it out quick enough; he told them everything about his dealings with Lancy.

When he was finished, Harry Salter said, 'And you expect me to believe that's the way this geezer operates: a voice on the phone and payment by mail?'

'I swear it's true,' Hasim said. 'I can't tell you anything else about him. On my mother's life.'

'What does he sound like?' Dillon put in.

'Cockney, no doubt about that, but I think he's Muslim. When he gave me this job, he spoke in Arabic for the first time. It was when he was saying goodbye.'

'And what did he say?' Dillon asked.

'He said Allah is great and Osama is his prophet.'

'Are you sure about that?' Dillon added. 'It should be Mohammed is his prophet.'

'He said Osama.'

Dillon and Billy exchanged glances. Harry tossed the baseball bat into the river. Hasim said, 'What happens now?'

Harry took out his wallet and extracted a fifty-pound note and gave it to him. 'Take that and run after your mate. He won't have got far. Give him a hand to the hospital. It's a good thing for you I'm in a friendly mood. If I see you round here again, I'll kill you.'

Hasim took to his heels, and ran into the darkness, and the others returned to the Dark Man and joined Roper and Holley in the corner booth. Selim Lancy, who had observed everything from his Mercedes parked nearby, got out, put his hearing enhancer in his right ear, and followed. He saw the others settling themselves back in the corner booth. Selim got a pint, went and sat in the next booth, which was unoccupied, and opened an Evening Standard he'd been carrying.

'So what happened out there?' Roper demanded.

It was Billy who answered, and it didn't take long. The end of the story was what mattered most. 'Allah is great and Osama is his prophet, that's what he said.'

'Could that mean Al Qaeda's behind it?' Harry asked.

'I'd say definitely. I think we all have to be on our guard from now on.'

'I'm frightened to death, and I'm also starving,' Harry Salter said, and called to Dora, 'What about our supper, love? Bring on the hotpots!' Lancy left shortly afterwards and called Hasim from the car. When he answered, he said, 'I was there, sitting in a car outside the Dark Man. I saw everything. Where are you now?'

'I just delivered Sajid to St Luke's Hospital. His arm's so badly broken they've admitted him.'

'And your other pal decided to go for a swim?' Lancy shook his head. 'Why didn't Salter break your arm?'

'How the hell would I know?'

'I think you blabbed, my old son. In fact, I was listening to what they were saying in the pub, and I know you did. They know it was Al Qaeda.'

'That isn't true!' Hasim was suddenly desperate. 'I didn't say a word to Salter!'

'You're a dead man, sunshine,' Lancy told him. 'I know you, but you don't know me. Think about it.'

He switched off his mobile and drove away. At Talbot Place, dinner had been late because Jean had insisted on Jack and Hannah Kelly joining them. 'We'll make an occasion of it,' she told Justin.

She did just that herself, wearing her hair up and finding an attractive dress in green silk by Versace that she hadn't worn for some time. With high-heeled shoes, she looked quietly attractive as she descended the stairs. Justin, who had just gone down himself, greeted her with a glass of Krug, holding one for himself.

'You know what they say.' He smiled. 'If you're tired of champagne, you're tired of life.' He raised his glass. 'To you, Mum, you look absolutely smashing.'

'You don't look too bad yourself.'

He wore a black single-breasted suit, white shirt and Guards tie, his dark hair cropped. He still had slight stubble on his chin.

She touched it. 'What's this? Did you run out of razor blades?'

'It's the fashion at the moment. I think it's meant to make you look as if you've done things and been places.'

'But you've done both, you idiot.' She shook her head. 'Honestly, men are the end sometimes. Has Jack arrived?'

'He's in the kitchen, where Hannah is running around like a dervish. Young Jane has produced her waitress outfit, black dress and white apron. She looks quite charming.'

'And your grandfather, have you seen him?'

'Must I?' He immediately regretted it. 'I'm so sorry. Callous of me when I think of how much you've put up with.'

Jack Kelly appeared from the dining room, looking slightly old-fashioned in a tweed country suit, soft-collared shirt and knitted tie. 'You look grand, girl,' he told Jean, and kissed her on the cheek.

'An evening for compliments.' She smiled. 'Get him a drink and I'll see how things are coming along in the kitchen.'

Talbot found Kelly a Bushmills Whiskey in the study bar. 'Here's to you, Jack. What you and Hannah have done to support my mother is beyond price.'

'How is he?'

'We'll take a look.'

'Quietly is my advice,' Kelly told him. 'One minute he's sitting there like a living dead man and then, and often for some unknown reason, he explodes into one of his worst moments, screaming obscenities, slashing out with the blackthorn stick. God save us, but he could kill somebody with one of his blows.'

'So I believe.'

In the conservatory, they walked softly along the path. Murphy saw them coming and nodded slightly. Colonel Henry seemed somnolent; his head had fallen to one side and it was shaking slightly.

'Is that enough for you?' Kelly asked.

'What do you think, Jack?' Talbot's face was bleak. 'Let's go and eat.' The meal was simple but sensational: an onion soup with cheese that wouldn't have disgraced the best of Paris restaurants, lamb chops that were simply superb, cabbage and bacon, Irish-style, and roast potatoes. Young Jane in her waitress outfit acted the part to perfection, serving wine as to the manner born, left hand behind her back.

'I can't remember when I last ate like that,' Justin said as Jane cleared the plates on to a serving trolley.

'Well, it's not over yet,' Hannah told him. 'We've got your special favourite since you were a boy.'

'Emily's apple pie,' Justin said.

At the same moment, there was a disturbance in the Great Hall, shouting, and then the door burst open. Colonel Henry stood there in his robe, leaning on his stick, looking quite different. He seemed alert, his head up, and his voice was sharp and strong. There was an energy to him.

'So there you are,' he shouted. 'What's all this behind my back?'

Behind him, Murphy moved in. 'Now then, Colonel.' He put a hand on the old man's shoulder. Henry turned and struck out at him with the blackthorn, slashing him across the right arm.

Murphy backed away and Jean moved forward. 'Father, this won't do.' She reached for him, and when she was close enough, he slapped her across the face. 'How dare you touch me, you bitch?' He moved back as Justin took an angry stride towards him.

'And who are you?'

'Your grandson.'

He whirled round with surprising energy, collided with Murphy, knocking him to one side, and crossed the Great Hall, waving his stick and cackling. Justin had moved forward, and Jean and the Kellys followed. The old man got to the stairs, reached for the rail, hauled himself up three steps and paused, turning.

His face was something out of a nightmare, absolutely malevolent as he glared at Justin. 'I know you. You're the Protestant bastard.'

For Justin Talbot, it was enough, and the pain and resentment of a lifetime at the hands of this man erupted in an anguished cry. 'No, Grandfather, I'm the Catholic bastard.'

The words seem to echo around the hall, and Hannah Kelly cried out, 'Oh, God in Heaven.'

Colonel Henry stared at Justin, stood there swaying, his left hand on the banister. 'What did you say?'

Justin spaced each word and said clearly, 'I'm the Catholic bastard.'

Colonel Henry seemed to howl, head back, raised the blackthorn high and struck for Justin's head, at the same time releasing his grip on the banister. Justin stepped to one side and his grandfather fell from the steps to the floor.

Young Emily screamed and everyone seemed to move at once. It was Murphy who reached him first; he dropped to his knees to put him in the recovery position, for there was bleeding from the nose. The eyes weren't closed, but staring rigidly, and it was no surprise when Murphy, feeling for a heartbeat, looked up and shook his head.

'He's gone.'

Jean Talbot, the Kellys and young Jane stood there in a kind of tableau, Jane crying. Justin said, 'That's it, then. We'd better call Dr Ryan. There will be things to do.'

Jean said in a strangely calm voice, 'I'll see to that now.' She took a mobile from her handbag and walked back into the dining room, and Hannah and Jane followed. Murphy had picked up Colonel Henry's shawl and now he covered him with it. He turned to look at Justin.

'He's better out of it, Major Talbot,' he said. 'He was like a man possessed. It wasn't his fault.'

'Really?' Justin said. 'Well, I suppose it's a point of view.' He turned to Kelly. 'Are you all right, Jack?'

'Is it true, Justin?' Kelly asked.

'It was my father's dying wish, so my mother had me baptized a Catholic and kept quiet about it. Only Mary Ellen knew. Certainly not me. I've only discovered it recently. Would you care for a drink?'

'I don't think so. I'll go and see to the ladies.'

'Well, I could.'

He went to the study bar, poured himself three fingers of whisky, went and sat in a club chair and looked up at the painting of his grandfather as a Grand Master in the Orange Lodge.

'Mad as a hatter,' he said. 'So what does that say about me?' And he swallowed the whisky straight down. Doctor Larry Ryan, summoned to view the body, had no hesitation in concluding that Colonel Henry Talbot had died of a heart attack. He had, after all, been the dead man's physician for some twelve years.

In the circumstances, he had consulted the local coroner, who had concluded that there was no need for an inquest, which could only cause distress to what was, after all, the most important family in that part of the county. With the coroner's permission, Ryan phoned a funeral firm in Newry to come and receive the body, which Tod Murphy, with his strength, had carried reverently into the study and placed on the large sofa. Hannah Kelly, Jean behind her, appeared with fresh sheets and covered him. Jack Kelly looked on, accompanied by Father Michael Cassidy who, informed by Kelly, had immediately driven up from the Presbytery.

He stood by the body, murmuring a prayer, and Justin Talbot appeared from the study, a glass of whisky in his hand. 'Ah, there you are, Father,' he said. 'Bad news or good news, depending on your point of view, spreads quickly.'

'I'm here to offer what solace I can,' the old man said.

'If that means to me personally as a newly discovered member of your flock, you're wasting your time. The whole wide world can know I'm a Catholic, there's no shame in it, and my mother meant well. As far as I'm concerned, nothing's changed. I haven't suddenly discovered God or anything.'

'Justin – please.' His mother was distressed.

'Well, let's face facts,' Justin told her. 'We can hardly bury him in the cemetery at Holy Name with the monument to the Sons of the IRA dominating the scene.'

Alcohol affected him in the strangest of ways, and always had. His version of drunkenness was quite different from other people's. He became ice-cold, hard; not reckless, but calculating, and instant violence was there just beneath the surface if he did not get his way.

'But what is your alternative?' Father Cassidy asked.

Justin turned to Dr Ryan. 'There's a crematorium at Castlerea, isn't there, Larry, with some sort of chapel?'

'Yes, that's true,' Ryan said.

'Can I presume they'll do a Protestant burial service as good as anywhere else?'

'Of course, but the crematorium service is meant to handle relatively few people, just family and close friends.' Ryan hesitated, but went on, 'There would be those who might not consider it appropriate in the case of such a prominent man.'

'You mean we should expect Ulster Unionist MPs from Stormont, and the Orange Lodge marching behind the hearse complete with a drum and pipe band?' Justin shook his head. 'I'm head of the Talbot family now and I want it over and done with. The crematorium it is.' He turned to his mother. 'Does any of this give you a problem?'

Jean Talbot seemed all hollow cheeks and infinite sadness. 'You must do as you see fit, Justin. I'm going upstairs for a while. I suddenly feel rather tired.'

He put an arm round her. 'Leave everything to me. I've phoned Gibson in Belfast, his old campaign manager. He'll notify the party, so Ulster Television will get their hands on it – and the BBC. It will be a circus for a while, but everything passes.'

The front door bell sounded. 'That should be the funeral people,' Jack Kelly said.

'The last people I want to see,' Jean said, and hurried across the Great Hall to head upstairs. No more than forty minutes or so later it was strangely calm. The funeral people had departed with the body, Dr Ryan had moved on, and Father Cassidy had also left. Justin Talbot was back in the study, pouring another whisky at the bar when Kelly appeared.

'Do you want that drink now?' Justin asked.

'Why not? Hannah's just finishing in the kitchen. She intends to stay. Your mother will need her. I'll walk back over the estate. It'll give me time to think; there's a full moon.' He accepted his whisky. 'Big changes, Justin.'

Talbot nodded, looking up at the painting of his grandfather over the fireplace. 'That will have to go, for starters. Maybe the Orange Lodge will find a place for it.'

'Who knows?' Kelly said.

'Let me see you off. It's been a hell of a day, Jack.' And he led him out. At Holland Park, Roper had dozed off in his wheelchair for a good two hours. He woke to find Sergeant Doyle looking concerned.

'Are you okay, Major?'

'Aches and pains, Tony.' He checked the time. 'No wonder: two o'clock in the morning. Mug of tea, please.'

He lit a forbidden cigarette and checked his screens for the overnight news, and there it was, the death of Colonel Henry Talbot. He hesitated, then called Ferguson on his Codex, who replied at once and sounded perfectly civil.

'Is it something important, Roper? We'll be landing in an hour and a half.'

'Two o'clock in the morning here, General, and a news report's beginning to filter through which I thought might interest you. Colonel Henry Talbot died a few hours ago at Talbot Place in County Down.'

'Did he, by Jove?'

'What do you think will happen now?'

'My dear old chum, General Sir Hadley Chase will bow out gracefully as Chairman of the company and Justin Talbot will become an extremely wealthy man. Eight hundred million, I hear. Thanks for letting me know. We'll talk later, I'm sure.'

'Before you say over and out, there's also been an incident you'll want to know about.'

'Then tell me about it.' Roper told him about what had happened at the Dark Man and, when he was finished, Ferguson said, 'Damn sinister, wouldn't you agree?'

'The hint of Al Qaeda certainly makes one think.'

'More than a hint,' Ferguson said. 'Allah is great and Osama is his Prophet. That would seem a clear indication to me.'

'I agree, General. Though to many Muslims, it would be counted as blasphemy.'

'You've got a point. All I can say is, it would be sensible for us to conclude that we are being targeted and act accordingly. We'll talk about it when I return, but I want all of you to take care.' Doyle brought the tea and Roper sat there, considering the matter. Eight hundred million. It didn't bear thinking about, so he dismissed it and went back to the news.