The Judas gate sd-18

by Jack Higgins

  'I'm not sure. The rumours of British-born Muslims fighting for the Taliban are now confirmed. What the government can do about it is another matter.'

  'Not very much, I imagine. The government is wary about stirring things up with the Muslim population.'

  'So we'll all go to hell in a handcart together,' Harry Miller told him. 'But first, what do we do about Shamrock?'

  'That's a different matter,' Dillon put in from the plane, 'and quite simple. We find him quickly, shoot him, and pass him over to the disposal men.'

  'Ah, if only life were that easy,' Roper said.

  'We know a lot about him already. The clues are there,' Dillon said. 'He obviously has military experience.'

  'So what are you going to do? Go to the army list and pore over thousands of names going back ten, twenty or even thirty years? What would you be looking for?'

  'You're right, but I won't be doing that. I've a strong feeling that going back to the scene of the crime might be the way.'

  'To Mirbat?' Roper was aghast. 'Don't be a bloody fool, Sean. If the Taliban got you, they'd feed you to the dogs.'

  'I'm sure they would, but I was thinking of Warrenpoint. I have a feeling that there might be some answer for me there. I was born in County Down myself, you know, at Collyban, no more than a dozen miles from the area.'

  Ferguson's voice was muffled by the quilt as he said, 'You are not going anywhere near County Down, and that's an order, so shut up and stop disturbing me.'

  'I hear and obey, oh great one.' Dillon switched off the telephone. 'Sorry, Harry.'

  Ferguson said, 'Call Roper back and tell him to contact Daniel Holley in Algiers or wherever he is. Get him to share all our information with Holley. I'd value his opinion on the matter.'

  Dillon was astounded. 'You mean the Daniel Holley who tried to put us all out of business permanently? Who nearly succeeded in blowing you up in your limousine and arranged for hit men to have a try at Harry and Blake Johnson, whose shoulder still aches on a rainy day from the bullet he took?'

  'Yes, well, he didn't succeed…'

  'He came bloody close.'

  'He also saved your good friend Monica Starling from certain death. Don't forget that, Sean. And as far as both the Americans and ourselves are concerned, he's clean now. He's too useful not to be. Especially since he's become full partner with Hamid Malik in that shipping company. They're respected throughout the Mediterranean, you know.'

  'They're also arms dealers,' Dillon said.

  'Not any more,' Ferguson told him. 'Well, only occasionally. In any case, Holley's been given Algerian nationality and a diplomatic passport by their Foreign Minister. He can come and go anywhere these days. It's the way the world turns, Dillon.'

  'Next thing you know, he'll be staying at the Dorchester, having tea and scones.'

  'I had a drink with him there two months ago,' Ferguson said wearily. 'In his suite. With Roper. I don't tell you everything, Dillon.'

  He retreated under the quilt and Dillon, feeling strangely helpless, turned to Miller. 'Did you know anything about this?'

  'Not a thing,' the Major said. 'But, really, Sean, I don't care. As you know, Protestant terrorists raped and murdered his young cousin, so he executed all four of them and took refuge from the law by joining the IRA. I don't hold it against him-any more than I hold your past against you.'

  'Okay,' Dillon said. 'You don't have to make a production out of it. I was just getting adjusted to the idea. Go to sleep.'

  He picked up the telephone and made the call to Roper, who had just brought up the County Down border on one of his screens. When Dillon called, Roper took it on speaker.

  'Sean, me boy, I expected to hear from you. Your "hear and obey" to Ferguson didn't fool me for a minute, so I was just about to look at things again to see if I'd missed anything.'

  'Forget about me. The situation has changed dramatically.'

  'Okay, tell me the worst.' Dillon did, and when he was finished, Roper laughed. 'My God, Sean, you almost sound indignant.'

  'You've got to admit that Holley could have finished us all off.'

  'Well, he didn't, and he saved Monica from a certain and unpleasant death. The love of your life, Sean-at least that's the impression we all get.'

  Dillon said, 'Damn you for being right. I guess I just felt left out of things.'

  'That's understandable. Where Holley is concerned, though, Ferguson wanted to handle everything with care. With that diplomatic passport from the Algerian Foreign Minister, the whole wide world's opened up for him again. Ferguson wants to take advantage of that.'

  'It makes sense,' Dillon said, grudgingly.

  'And you'll never feel lonely again, as far as we are concerned. After all, he's IRA, just like you.'

  'You have a way with the words, Roper.'

  'It's a hell of a world we live in these days,' Roper said. 'Not so easy to see the difference between the good guys and bad any more.'

  'Oh, I think I can manage to do that well enough,' Dillon said. 'But I'll leave you to hunt Daniel Holley down.'

  It was quiet then, as Roper sat there in the computer room on his own, just the glow of the screens around him. He sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, suddenly feeling tired and weary and badly damaged-which he was, past everything there ever was. But that would never do. He poured himself another whisky, reached for his Codex mobile and went in search of Daniel Holley.

  P ARIS

  A LGIERS

  2

  Daniel Holley was running alongside the Seine, darkness beginning to take over, the heat of the day lingering ominously as if a storm was brewing. He'd purchased a furnished barge a few months earlier, convenient for business trips for both him and his partner, Hamid Malik. He wore a black track suit, looked younger than forty-nine, his hair still brown. Of medium height, fit and well, he had the permanent slight smile of a man who found life a little absurd most of the time. The Irish in him, as his mother used to say. The other half was from the city of his birth, Leeds, which meant pure Yorkshire. His mobile sounded and he took it out. It was a Codex of advanced design, only available to Ferguson's people, which his previous masters at Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, had stolen.

  'Hello, Roper,' he said, 'what a surprise. What can I do for you?' He paused, leaning on a convenient wall.

  'Tell me where you are, for a start.'

  'Paris, and running beside the Seine. It's been a lovely day, but rain threatens. But you didn't call for a weather report.'

  'No. To be brief, Ferguson, Dillon and Harry Miller have just been meeting with the President in Washington. They were discussing the Taliban's use of British-born Muslims in their army-and there seems to be an Irish dimension emerging.'

  'Is there, by God?' Holley's voice was serious, the Yorkshire accent more pronounced.

  'The General would like your opinion. After all, you were trained at one of those camps yourself in the middle of the Algerian desert. All those years ago, and paid for by Colonel Gaddafi.'

  'So was Sean Dillon.'

  'A good point. You've got extra credentials, though. You're joint owner of one of the biggest shipping firms out of Algiers, with Algerian nationality, and-thanks to that diplomatic passport from their Foreign Minister-you get waved through security at airports all over the world.'

  'It's even better when I fly privately,' Holley told him. 'I get diplomatic immunity.'

  'I'm so happy for you,' Roper teased. 'So Ferguson has asked me to send you the full details of the meeting at the Oval Office. I think you'll find it pretty grim. Will you look?'

  'Of course I will, you daft bastard; I wouldn't miss it. You've got my email address from when we met at the Dorchester. Do the others know about that yet, by the way?'

  'They've just been told on the Gulfstream at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Miller was completely pragmatic about it; Dillon was mortified, more than anything else. He doesn't like being kept in the dark.'

  'Well, that's just
too bloody bad. Send that material and I'll read it when I get back to the barge. I must go now. I've got a business transaction waiting.'

  'Straightforward, I hope?'

  'When I say Albanian, what would you think?'

  'God help you, my friend. Watch your back.'

  Holley put his Codex in his pocket, thoroughly stimulated by the entire conversation. Heady stuff. As it started to rain, he ran through the gathering darkness towards Notre Dame, floodlit, incomparably beautiful in the night, and came to Quai de Montebello, illuminated by lamps, where barges were moored together. He boarded his own by a roped gangplank and went below.

  The barge's previous owner had been a well-known fashion designer and it was extremely comfortable: panelled state room with comfortable sofas, shelves of books, a television, a long table in the centre. A small alcove at one end held the computer. The kitchen was opposite, small, but with everything he needed. The sleeping quarters and shower room were at the end of a passage in the bow of the barge.

  The computer-linked phone system was flashing, so he took a half-full bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured a glass, pressed a replay button and quickly found himself talking to Hamid Malik at the villa in Algiers.

  'I was worried,' Malik said. 'What's happening?'

  'Not much. The meeting with Ali Kupu is on. Eleven o'clock, about fifteen minutes from here.'

  'So late?' Malik sighed. 'I don't know, Daniel. Do we really have to deal with people like Ali Kupu still? These Albanians are pigs. Bastards of the first order. Completely untrustworthy. Most of them would sell their sisters on the streets.'

  'A great many do,' Holley said. 'Since we spoke, I had another message from him. He wanted to change our meeting to Havar. Can you believe that?'

  'But that's in Kosovo, close to the Bulgarian border. You couldn't even consider it!'

  'Of course not, especially when you remember what happened the last time I did business there.' Holley had been betrayed to the Russians and ended up with a life sentence at the Lubyanka Prison. It was only by luck that Vladimir Putin, searching for someone to make mischief against General Ferguson and his people in London, had heard about him and pulled him out of his cell.

  'But in the end, everything's turned out for the best, my friend,' Malik said. 'Business couldn't be better; your rather violent past is no longer held against you. You are not only a millionaire businessman, but a respected diplomat. Don't spoil it. This Ali Kupu is scum. The arms deal he wants is maybe two hundred thousand dollars. Petty cash. Who needs it?'

  'It's an easy one,' Holley told him. 'Trust me.' 'A gangster,' Malik said. 'He deals in drugs, violent prostitution. Pah!'

  'But this has nothing to do with any of that. He's told me the material is for Muslim village defence forces in Kosovo. They aren't being protected by the central government any longer- and that's a known fact. AK47s, RPGs plus ammunition-we can meet the order at the Marseilles warehouse, ship it out by air this week, and we're done.'

  'On condition he pays in advance.'

  'Absolutely. Cash on the nail or he doesn't get the goods. Don't worry.'

  'But I do. You're like a son to me. Finish it quickly and get out of there. You have the Falcon there, don't you? Thank God I agreed when you suggested we buy it for the firm.'

  'It's parked at Charles de Gaulle Airport waiting for me. I'll leave tonight, but I might call in at London before I return home.'

  'Any particular reason?'

  Holley hesitated, but decided not to mention the other business. 'Oh, I fancy a couple of days at the Dorchester after meeting with someone like the Albanian. Maybe I'll walk up to Shepherd Market, visit your cousin, Selim.'

  'I envy you. I'd enjoy that myself.'

  'I could send the Falcon.'

  'Nonsense. So expensive.'

  'We're making millions.'

  'Leave me to mind the store. Allah be with you.'

  The connection went silent. It was just past nine o'clock, still time to have a quick look at the computer to see if Roper had sent the material. He poured another glass of champagne, sat down and scanned the first page.

  It took him twenty minutes to go right through it all, very briefly and far too quickly, but it was enough. 'My God,' he said softly. 'What have we got here and what in the hell is to be done about it?'

  And then a strange thing happened. He was aware of an energy; a cold, hard excitement he hadn't known in years. He called Roper and got him at once.

  'Did you get the material?' Roper asked.

  'You can tell Ferguson I want to be part of whatever operation you're putting together. I'll be in London tomorrow,' he said, and hung up.

  At Holland Park, Roper sat there in silence. 'Good God,' he said softly. 'What a turn-up for the books.'

  He debated whether to put the news directly through to the Gulfstream, but decided against it. Such good news could keep. He brought Warrenpoint up on the screen and started to go through everything again.

  Holley had a quick shower, thinking of what lay ahead. Kupu was a dangerously violent man who had killed many times, but he was not stupid. Business was business, and he needed what Holley could provide. It wasn't logical that he would do anything but behave himself.

  But nothing in this life was certain, and Holley slipped on a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest next to his skin. It was guaranteed to stop a.44 round at point-blank range, and had done so on several occasions in his violent career.

  He dressed in a fresh track suit and sneakers. There was no point in wearing an ankle-holster. Kupu's goon, Abu, would certainly check on that. A Walther in his pocket, so easy to discover, would keep him happy. For his personal safety, he could rely on an old reliable, and he took it out of the wardrobe. A crumpled Burberry rain hat. Inside, a spring clip held a snub-nosed Colt.25 and its cartridges were hollow point. One of those in the right place was all it took. So, he found a light raincoat, slipped the Walther in a pocket, carefully arranged the hat on his head, found an umbrella and left.

  The unexpected and heavy rain had emptied the pavements, especially at the side of the Seine. Around him were quiet buildings, dark at that time of night, narrow streets leading down to the river, the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. Holley hurried on, without meeting a soul, and eventually reached his destination. In the gloom, there was something sinister about it, dark and threatening. There were two old street lamps on the jetty itself, another in the yard at the end, where there was a huge warehouse door. In the door was the usual small access entrance for workmen, and he opened it and stepped inside, the door banging.

  He saw several rows of old workbenches, some machinery, a couple of vans at the far end, and a wide exit door, open, lights above it so the heavy rain glistened like silver as it fell. To the left was an office, partly glassed in, so you could see inside. Ali Kupu was sitting behind a cluttered desk and appeared to be fondling a young woman who was standing obediently beside him.

  'Ah, it is you, Mr Holley. Enter, my friend.'

  His English was surprisingly good, but then, as a youth, Kupu had worked in Soho for two years until he'd finally been expelled as an illegal immigrant. He was an overweight, unshaven, coarse animal with a shaven head.

  'Come in, come in.'

  Holley moved forward, passed the first van, and was not in the least surprised when the rear door opened and Abu scrambled out behind him. He was enormous, with a face like stone, hair down to his shoulders. He wore a black suit.

  'You know what to do,' he said.

  Holley obliged, leaned on the van, and the Walther was discovered. 'My, but you are getting to be a big boy,' Holley said as he straightened, 'You should enter the Mr Universe competition this year. Muscles gleaming under all that oil. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

  'No, Mr Holley, what I'd really like is to tear off your head-and I will do exactly that, the first chance I get.'

  He moved into the office ahead of Holley and put the Walther on the table, then stood at the back o
f the room. Kupu was very drunk and yet reached for an open bottle of vodka and swallowed deeply from it.

  'You shouldn't anger Abu like that. He's a very violent man when he gets angry and does terrible things, doesn't he?' he said to the woman, who looked terrified. She wore a raincoat over a light black dress and clutched a handbag.

  'I'm sure he does.' Holley walked to a chair at one side of the door, sat down, took off his Burberry rain hat and put it on his lap.

  'This is Liri.' Kupu encircled her waist. 'One of my best girls. Empty your handbag and let's see how well you've done tonight.'

  'The rain,' she said as she fumbled. 'Business wasn't good.' She emptied the handbag of not very much.

  Kupu glanced at it, then took a Gladstone bag from under the desk, opened it and swept in Liri's earnings.

  'Excuses, Mr Holley, it's all I get.' He slapped her face, then said to Abu, 'Search her next door. See if she's hiding anything.'

  'No, please,' she begged Kupu, as Abu grabbed her arm, opened the far door and shoved her through.

  'Stupid bitch, they are all the same. I give them employment, look after their interests and how do they repay me?' He swallowed more vodka. 'But to business. You can supply what I need? I'm a serious man. I desire only to help my Muslim brothers who are being butchered every day in Kosovo.'

  'Very commendable.'

  'And I have good references.' He patted the side of his nose drunkenly. 'AQ, eh?'

  'Is that a fact?' Holley said.

  There were muffled cries from the next room, but Kupu ignored them. 'You don't believe me, do you?' He reached for the vodka bottle, swallowing again. 'My father's brother, my Uncle Mahmud, is an art dealer based in Tirana. He specializes in rare holy books and manuscripts. He travels all over Europe, knows people at the highest level. I act as his contact man in Paris. He tells me everything. For example, what if I told you that Prime Minister Putin intends to make a visit to Chechnya this weekend? All very hush-hush. The sort of thing you only hear about afterwards.'