by Jack Higgins
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.
PAKISTAN
NORTH-WEST FRONTIER PESHAWAR
6
It was eight-thirty in the morning as the Gulfstream descended towards Pakistan. As Holley had said, Peshawar International wasn’t the biggest of airports, but it did belong to the modern world. The mountains of Afghanistan and the North-West Frontier made an impressive backdrop and, unusually, a railway crossing stood at the end of the main runway.
‘What about that?’ Miller said to Ferguson as they peered out.
‘Days of the Raj, I suppose.’ Ferguson suddenly felt nostalgic.
Ferguson and Miller got out of the Gulfstream, and Lacey and Parry joined them, passing out the luggage. A few yards away, two army officers were engaged in conversation and turned to greet them. One was a Captain wearing a khaki summer uniform, a line of medal ribbons above his left pocket, carrying a swagger stick. He was a handsome man, possibly Pathan, although he was wearing a cap, not a turban, and the belt at his waist carried a holstered Browning pistol.
‘General Ferguson, Major Miller.’ He saluted. ‘A pleasure to meet you. My name is Abu Salim, Military Police. I’m here to welcome you and take you to see my commanding officer, Colonel Ahmed Atep.’
‘Very civil of you, Captain.’ Ferguson shook hands.
Salim turned to Lacey and Parry. ‘My colleague, Lieutenant Hamid, will see to your needs, gentlemen. There is a guesthouse close by which takes care of visiting pilots.’
Lacey turned to Ferguson. ‘We’ll get a full engine check and refuel, sir. We’ll be ready to move on whenever you like.’
‘Very good.’ Ferguson turned to Salim. ‘Ready when you are, Captain. Customs, immigration, security.
Salim picked up his bag. ‘Good God, no.’ He smiled. ‘Diplomatic privilege. If you could manage your bag, Major Miller.’
He walked across the tarmac to a gate between hangars. The two soldiers waiting patiently were Military Police Sergeants in crisp khaki uniforms, both bearded and wearing scarlet turbans.
‘I must say they look perfectly splendid,’ Ferguson said. ‘They certainly look imposing.’
‘Our own version of a British Army redcap,’ Salim said. ‘It’s supposed to intimidate the tribesmen. Colonel Atep insisted on trying it out. Sergeants Said and Nasser.’
The two men saluted, picked up the bags, walked out of the gate into the parking area and approached an armoured vehicle. There were three banks of seats. A canvas roof rolled back to cover the rear two, which was necessary because of the general-purpose machine gun mounted on the front beside the driver. It was painted in a wavy khaki pattern, a sort of desert camouflage.
‘What is this?’ Ferguson asked.
‘A Sultan armoured reconnaissance car.’ It was Miller who answered. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘The Russians left more than a few lying around when they left Afghanistan. We got hold of what we could. The armour is stronger than it looks. It gives some sort of protection against improvised explosive devices. A damn sight more than a Jeep or a Land Rover gets.’
The luggage was stacked at the back, Ferguson and Miller took the rear seat, the Captain the second, half turning towards them so they could talk. Said sat at the gun and Nasser took the wheel and drove away.
‘Nothing like I imagined, Peshawar,’ Ferguson observed. ‘Far bigger.’
‘It used to be about five hundred and fifty thousand people,’ Salim said, ‘but it’s more now. Lots of refugees from the tribal areas.’
The congestion in the streets was incredible. Every kind of vehicle – from ageing taxis to motor rickshaws, mopeds and light motorcyles, sometimes with two passengers on the pillion seat, hanging on to each other and the driver – thronged the road. Hundreds of people on bicycles weaved between market stalls, mounting pavements where there was one. The military and police presence was very visible.
Salim said, ‘There’s a war out there, and not just over the border in Afghanistan, but in the tribal areas. This is a military city now. It has to be. We can’t say the barbarians are at the gates, but real trouble waits out there. If you and the Americans lose to the Taliban, God help my country.’
‘I think you have a point,’ Ferguson said.
The Captain nodded. ‘Military Police Headquarters coming up, General.’ The Sultan swung in between sentries guarding a wide double gate, drove towards an imposing three-storeyed building with a red-tiled roof and a pillared front door that looked as if it might have been a relic of Empire. Ferguson and Miller got out and stood looking at it.
‘I know,’ Salim said. ‘It used to be quite impressive. This way, gentlemen.’
Colonel Ahmed Atep was sitting behind his desk examining some papers and managing to look busy, when Selim ushered them into the office. He jumped to his feet, came round the table and shook hands.
‘General Ferguson, Major Miller. What an honour. Be seated, please. Perhaps you would care for some tea?’
‘A kind thought, but after such a long flight, the prospect of a shower and a good hotel have quite a pull,’ Ferguson said. ‘Especially breakfast.’
‘Of course, but sit down for a moment. I shan’t keep you long. First, I’ve allocated Captain Abu Salim to take care of you during your visit. One of my finest young officers. A Sandhurst man.’
Salim managed a modest look and Ferguson said, ‘So we have something in common.’ He carried on, ‘This is only a flying visit, Colonel. A day, two at the most, then we’ll carry on to Islamabad.’
Which wasn’t true, but Atep appeared to accept it. ‘You wish to visit the Afghan border area, I believe?’
‘Certainly. In London, we hear all sorts of stories about arms-smuggling, obviously to the benefit of the Taliban.’
‘Grossly exaggerated,’ Atep said. ‘We have had considerable success in stemming that flow.’
‘And people?’ Miller queried. ‘Passing over illegally to offer their services to the Taliban? We have evidence that British Muslims are engaged in the fighting over there.’
‘Newspaper stories, rumour. If such individuals exist, they will be very few.’
Ferguson decided to take a chance. ‘Does the name “Shamrock” mean anything to you?’
Atep managed to keep a straight face. ‘No – should it?’ He turned to Salim. ‘What about you?’
Salim shook his head and answered, ‘No, I’ve never heard the name before.’
‘It seems we can’t help,’ Atep said. ‘But I understand you wish to speak with two men called Dak Khan and José Fernandez?’
‘That’s right,’ Ferguson told him, without elaborating.
Colonel Atep picked up a flimsy. ‘Fernandez has been called to Lahore. His mother is a Muslim and is ill. Cancer, I understand.’
Ferguson said, ‘And Dak Khan?’
‘Captain Salim will see to that for you, just as he will also see you to your hotel. He is yours to command, General. Look on him as your military aide for the duration of your visit.’
‘Most kind, Colonel,’ Ferguson told him, and turned. Then Salim ushered them out.
They got into the Sultan, and Salim said to Sergeant Nasser, ‘The Palace.’ As they drove out of the gate, he said, ‘An old, old hotel from the days of the Raj. For years it was called the Indian Palace, but as local people always called it just the Palace, it was easy to make it official. The manager is simply known as Ali Hamid to everyone. It is on the edge of town, by the river.’
‘It sounds like just the thing,’ Ferguson said. ‘How long have you been in the army, Captain?’
‘I did one year at university, applied for the army at nineteen, and was accepted at Sandhurst. I am twenty-seven.’ He half turned to Miller. ‘We have met before, Major. Your lectures on counter-terrorism were hugely appreciated by all of us.’
‘That is good to know.’ Miller shook his hand.
‘The matter I raised with Colonel Atep, the question of British Muslims serving with the Taliban? Colonel Atep dismissed it as newspaper stories,’ Ferguson said, ‘and of little account. I know it’s unfair to expect you to contradict your commanding officer.’
‘In this case, it’s easy,’ Salim said. ‘No disrespect to the Colonel, but we hear the reports often.’
‘And the name Shamrock?’ Miller asked. ‘You said it meant nothing to you.’
‘And it doesn’t, apart from the fact that it’s
the Irish national emblem.’
But at that moment, they arrived at the entrance to a wonderful old Colonial-style building surrounded by a high wall. They turned in through the arched entrance and drove along through an enchanting garden to a wide terrace where a double door stood open. The man standing there waiting to greet them was large and imposing. His iron-grey hair was tied in a ponytail and his beard reached his chest. He wore a black ankle-length cotton kaftan.
They went up the steps and he salaamed, his hand touching his forehead. ‘Gentlemen, I am Ali Hamid. Welcome. My house is yours.’
An hour later, after being shown to their rooms, unpacking, showering and changing, Ferguson and Miller went downstairs, and were directed to a back terrace with a fine view over the river, where they found no difficulty in ordering a full English breakfast.
Abu Salim came in as they were eating. ‘Are you going to have something?’ Ferguson asked.
‘I already have, while you were upstairs. I’ve been talking to the Orderly Sergeant in my office to make sure he can cope while I’m dealing with you gentlemen.’ The waiter approached and he ordered tea. ‘We were side-tracked after you asked me about Shamrock.’
‘So I was.’ Ferguson looked at Miller. ‘What do you think?’
‘He’s a Sandhurst man.’
‘Of course he is.’ Ferguson reached for the marmalade. ‘Tell him, Harry.’
Salim took it all in, listening intently, and when Miller was finished, said, ‘A fantastic business. But what do you expect to find, here in Peshawar?’
‘Not very much, but I prefer to see for myself what a situation looks like instead of just thinking about it. It’s eleven miles from here to the Khyber Pass. Over that border, the war is real and earnest, and Shamrock exists.’
‘And where does Dak Khan come in?’
‘A colleague of mine in London tells me he’s a thoroughly unsavoury arms dealer who operates in this area.’
‘Oh, I know him well, and he is more than unsavoury. He would sell his sister’s favours in a house of pleasure if there was money in it.’
