The Judas Gate

by Jack Higgins

  Harry shook his head. ‘He’s got guts, that kid, to do what he did. Have a word with Chuck Green, Billy. He’s opened another health club, in Wandsworth. That makes seven. We’ve got money in that. Get him to take Hasim on, keep an eye on him.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Billy said. ‘But I’m going to take a run up to Holland Park and report in to Roper. I’ll see you later.

  In West Hampstead, Professor Hassan Shah sat at the desk in his ornate Edwardian villa, thinking about everything as calmly as he could. Lancy’s telephone call had set every alarm bell going. Lancy didn’t do panic, it wasn’t in his nature; he was a hard-knocks paratrooper who’d done his time in Afghanistan and paid the price with his wounds. More than that, he’d killed on Shah’s behalf without the slightest compunction. He was a man who could handle anything, and yet he hadn’t been in touch since his call from Tangier Wharf. So Shah did the obvious and called him on his mobile. After all, he couldn’t be traced if someone else answered.

  It rang for a long time and he simply sat there listening. He was about to give up when a woman answered. ‘Grange Street Morgue.’

  Hassan Shah said calmly, ‘I’m so sorry, I must have called the wrong number.’

  ‘Probably not, sir. This is the personal effects room, where we store the belongings of those brought in dead, to be claimed later, of course. Could you give me the name of the individual you were trying to call?’

  Shah took a huge breath to steady himself. ‘Selim Lancy.’

  She answered at once. ‘Oh, yes, he was brought in quite recently. Knocked down by a bus in Wapping High Street.’

  ‘And killed,’ Shah said. It was a stupid remark, but involuntary.

  ‘Of course, sir, he’s here waiting for a post mortem. You’re a relative?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I employed him on occasion.’

  ‘Could I have your name? It may be of use if there are identification problems.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I suddenly feel very upset. I’ll have to call you back.’

  He switched off and sat there. The consequence of the business he was in was death, sometimes of a few, sometimes of many. You had to harden your heart: he had learned that a long time ago. Strange, then, that he felt genuine sadness in Lancy’s case. Considering what had gone before, it was obviously not an accident. The Salters had to be behind it – them and Ferguson.

  Ferguson had been a problem for too long, but he seemed to live a charmed life; it was rumoured he had even walked away from a car bomb. Perhaps, after all, the best solution was the old-fashioned way as used by the IRA for years. A silenced pistol loaded with hollow point cartridges, the bullet in the back of the head one lonely night in the rain and dark. Or in the back in a crowd, the target falling to the ground, the assassin calmly walking away.

  All it required was a man with nerves of steel, and probably one who liked his work: a man like Lancy. Justin Talbot certainly liked his work, and was mad enough to take any chance. In fact, he was beginning to worry Shah, who for some time now had decided it was a good thing that Talbot did not know his identity. Perhaps the temptation of putting a bullet in the back of Shah’s own head on a dark rainy night might have proved too great.

  But all this would have to wait, for suddenly the most important thing in his life was an old Muslim woman in the cancer ward at St Luke’s Hospital who did not know that her best beloved son had gone to paradise, leaving her alone. Professor Hassan Shah had no idea how to break the news to her, but it had to be done. It was a matter of honour, but at this time of night she would be asleep. He would leave it till the morning.

  There was another matter that needed taking care of, also a matter of honour. He made a call on his special mobile and spoke to the man who answered it.

  ‘Hamid, this is the Preacher. I have traffic for you, starting now. A photo and address will be in your laptop in five minutes. Deliver punishment at once with extreme prejudice. Osama’s blessing on you.’

  There was a short pause and then the reply. ‘Allah is great and Osama is his Prophet.’

  It was just past midnight. Billy Salter had been with Roper for the past hour, getting filled in on the reason for Dillon’s sudden trip to Ulster, and now he was driving down from Wapping High Street to the Dark Man. There were lamps here and there, three on the jetty that had the Linda Jones tied up to it, a few scattered around the car park. Not that there were many vehicles around at that time of night, with the pub closed since eleven, Dora’s implacable house rules. There were lights on at the back of the building in the private quarters, but otherwise it was quiet and remote, with only the river noises to be heard.

  He parked the red Alfa Romeo Spider, got out and stretched, for he was exhausted, hardly surprising after the events of the evening. He stood by one of the lamps at the beginning of the jetty and inhaled that wonderful river smell that was the Thames; it was where he’d grown up and it always made him feel better.

  When he turned, a man was standing there, medium height with longish hair, wearing a leather bomber jacket. ‘Mr Salter.’ The voice was very soft.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Billy demanded.

  ‘The Wrath of Osama.’

  His hand swung up, there was the dull thud of a silenced weapon, and two rounds hit Billy around the heart. The force of the blow was enormous, sending him staggering on to his back. He breathed deeply as he had been trained to do, trying to stay conscious.

  The man came forward to finish him, and Billy’s right hand found the silenced Colt .25 with hollow point cartridges in his ankle holster. As the man leaned over, Billy shot him between the eyes.

  Billy sat up, coughing and feeling sick, then unbuttoned his coat, ripped open his shirt, and felt for the two rounds sticking in the nylon-and-titanium vest he was wearing. Finally, he got up and went to the body and examined it. The face was covered in blood and the back of the skull was fragmented. He got down on his knees and searched it, but all he found were empty pockets. There wasn’t even a mobile.

  He went and sat on a bench by the pub entrance and called Roper, who answered at once. ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘I’ve got a disposal. Make it fast. I’m outside the entrance to the Dark Man. The geezer was waiting for me. Said he was the Wrath of Osama, then shot me twice in the heart, or thought he did. He said my name. I think it was a revenge thing. I bet the bloody Preacher sent him.’

  ‘I’m calling it in now. You go inside.’

  ‘God damn it, no,’ Billy said. ‘I’m sick of it.’

  He switched off his mobile, went down to the jetty to the Linda Jones, and sat on the stern seat, waiting.

  After a while, a dark van appeared, pulled in front of the pub, and two men in black overalls got out, produced a body bag, eased the corpse into it and closed the door. They would see to it that the inconvenient corpse turned to six pounds of grey ash within two hours.

  Billy walked down towards them and the door of the pub opened. Billy said to one of the men, ‘Many thanks, Mr Teague.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Teague asked.

  ‘Well, the bastard did shoot me twice but, thanks to the Wilkinson Sword Company, I’m still here.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Teague said. ‘We’ll be on our way.’

  Billy turned and found Harry looking grim and Dora in a dressing gown behind him. Harry Salter said, ‘Well, at least we know where we are with this Preacher fellow. He means business and we’ve got to be ready for him.’

  ‘Harry, I couldn’t bloody care less,’ Billy said. ‘Just lock all the doors so nobody can break in, and let me go to bed. I’ve had it.’

  10

  The following morning, Harry Miller appeared in the computer room, hair wet from the shower and wearing a track suit. It was just before noon and he was yawning.

  ‘I thought you’d have slept longer,’ Roper said. ‘You don’t exactly look your best.’

  ‘I’ll pull round. Any word from Ferguson?’

  ‘Not yet,
but when he does surface, wait for the fireworks.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Let me begin at the beginning. Night before last, Sean and Daniel took themselves off to Belfast.’

  Miller was astonished. ‘But what the hell for?’

  So Roper told him everything. Miller sat there, mesmerized, and when the story was finished, said, ‘So Mickeen Oge has just been delivered to Rosedene, and Dillon and Holley are on their way back to Belfast, after creating mayhem at Collyban which even managed to involve Jean Talbot?’

  ‘Exactly. I talked to Sean just this morning. What will the brand-new Chairman of Talbot International have to say about his beloved mother and our gallant friends getting involved in a brawl in the worst kind of Republican pub?’ Roper smiled. ‘It’s quite bizarre, isn’t it?’

  Miller was grinning; just couldn’t help it. ‘I don’t think that’s the way Ferguson will describe it. That’s quite a bit of event while we were gone.’

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Roper said, and told him what had happened to Billy.

  Miller listened intently. ‘So there it is,’ Roper said as he finished. ‘The existence of the Preacher is confirmed, and we now know with absolute certainty that Al Qaeda is out to get the lot of us.’

  ‘The hit man: no further news of him?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Not a thing. It was a totally clean job. No identification, no mobile phone, the silenced Walther he was using was treated with some resin so there are no fingerprints.’

  ‘The kind of man willing to sacrifice himself, like a suicide bomber?’ Miller said.

  ‘Yes. When Billy asked him who he was, he said he was the Wrath of Osama and then shot him.’ Roper grunted. ‘I feel so damn passive. We have these two mystery figures, the Preacher and Shamrock, and we’re no closer to finding out who they are. We can only respond when they make a move against us. I want to make a move against them.’

  ‘And we will,’ Miller said and stood up. ‘Meanwhile, I know one thing. We’re all going to have to be bloody careful from now on,’ and he went out.

  A few minutes later, Roper’s phone sounded and Ferguson’s voice boomed out from Cavendish Place. ‘Ah, there you are, Roper. I’m just enjoying my first decent cup of tea in two days. Why don’t you bring me up to speed on what’s happening.’

  ‘Everything, General?’ Roper asked.

  ‘Of course, everything, man. Get on with it!’

  So Roper did.

  Ferguson was amazingly calm when Roper finished. He said, ‘Anything to do with Dillon these days is usually so beyond belief that it can only be true. It’s the only bloody explanation. I shall call in at Rosedene on my way in, and I’ll discuss Mickeen Oge’s situation with Professor Bellamy. Naturally, we’ll do everything we can.’

  ‘And the air ambulance?’

  ‘I must be practical there. Budgets are tight these days for all of us. If Daniel Holley feels like taking care of it, that’s fine. God knows he can afford it. As for that other adventure in Collyban, it was damn reckless of Dillon. He knows perfectly well there are plenty of people there who’d be delighted to put a bullet in his back. I’ll speak to him, of course, but I don’t think it will do much good.’

  ‘Is that it, General?’

  ‘No, we’ll have a council of war later on today when everyone is available. This attempt on Billy’s life worries me greatly. It’s very difficult to deal with brutal, simple attacks like that, particularly when the assassin doesn’t care whether he lives or dies. From now on, everyone wears his vest, everyone goes armed, and everyone must assume he could be drawn upon at any moment.’ Ferguson managed a laugh. ‘It’s not really very funny, this war on terrorism, is it?’

  Over the years, the Preacher had evolved certain rules concerning assassination. His asset, as he called him, had to be clean. No mobile phone, nothing that could identify him or the weapon he used. Nevertheless, after the death sentence had been carried out, the asset was supposed to phone in within three hours to tell him it was done. The man he had given the Salter job to had been successful on six previous occasions. The fact that he had not been in touch now could only mean one thing.

  Shah had a faculty meeting later in the afternoon, but with two hours to kill, he felt for the first time that things were going wrong. He was used to being in charge, to everything running like clockwork, and now something was out of joint, and he didn’t know what to do about it. On impulse, he called Justin Talbot.

  Shah knew nothing about the Mickeen Oge Flynn affair or any of the subsequent events, because Talbot had chosen to leave him in ignorance of it all. The way Justin looked at it, the comatose Mickeen Oge at Rosedene had nothing to do with the Preacher.

  It was raining and Talbot had been for a gallop in the downpour. He was in the stable giving the stallion a rubdown when the Preacher called. Justin stopped working and said, ‘How are things?’

  In her studio upstairs, his mother had kept the door permanently ajar since she had first started eavesdropping, and now stopped working to listen.

  ‘Not too good,’ Shah said. ‘You remember Billy Salter?’

  ‘Of course.’ Justin lit a cigarette and sat on a bench.

  ‘He’s become what the Mafia would call a stone in my shoe. He’s been responsible for causing the death of a young man I valued highly.’

  ‘What a shame. Perhaps it’s time to make an example of him.’

  ‘I tried to do exactly that. I gave the job to one of my best assets last night.’

  ‘You mean you gave a hired killer instructions to shoot Billy Salter?’

  ‘Exactly. A good man, a true follower of Osama.’

  Justin had an insane desire to laugh. ‘Don’t tell me: let me guess. He didn’t shoot Billy Salter, Billy Salter shot him.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘Have you any idea what you’re dealing with with these two, Billy and his father? In spite of his millions from legitimate developments, Harry Salter is still a gangster, and so is Billy. Sean Dillon and Daniel Holley, both Provos, for Christ’s sake. Harry Miller – a living legend of Army Intelligence. Ferguson – well, his record speaks for itself.’ ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘Read The Art of War by Sun Tzu. It’s two thousand years old, but still true today. Make your enemy come looking for you, choose your own field of battle and make it unfamiliar and difficult terrain. Take Vietnam. Soldiers from the most sophisticated army in the world found themselves up to their bellies in jungle swamps chasing scrawny little peasants called Viet Cong. Remember who won?’

  ‘Point taken,’ Shah said. ‘But what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Get Ferguson and his people into the jungle, so to speak. Give them something to hunt for, something they want badly, and they’ll come to you.’

  ‘Something like what?’ Shah asked.

  ‘I’d think that would be obvious. Shamrock is the man they want to get their hands on more than anyone else. Give them me.’

  Shah was shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘I understand Daniel Holley was put through an IRA-sponsored training camp deep in the Algerian desert at a place called Shabwa. His chief instructor was a man named Omar Hamza, once a Sergeant in the French Foreign Legion. I’ve checked him out, using contacts from my SAS days. The camp closed down for lack of business years ago, and Hamza moved on to run a trading post in the Khufra Marshes.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘On the Algerian coast near Cap Djinet, what you might call badlands. Marsh Arabs in villages on small islands, fishermen, Berber tribesmen. It’s a haven for smugglers of every description and a home to thieves and cutthroats of every kind,’ Justin said quite cheerfully.

  ‘And where is this leading?’ Shah asked.

  ‘It’s very simple. Your Colonel Ali Hakim has a friendly word with his friend Malik and tells him he’s heard rumours which he thinks might interest Holley. His mentor from Shabwa, Omar Hamza, is up to his old tricks, this time in the marshes – and his inform
ants speak of a mystery man Hamza calls Shamrock. Like certain other Arab states, the Algerian Government is not Al Qaeda’s best friend. Hakim could say he has been given secret instructions to take a police unit into the marshes to hunt Omar down in a covert operation. Malik is certain to report this to Daniel Holley, and I can almost guarantee you that the idea of a hunting party will appeal to Ferguson very much. What’s the betting that he’ll offer Holley expert assistance from Dillon and some of the others on this venture into the marsh?’

  ‘From which they’ll never emerge,’ Shah said.

  ‘I thought the general idea was to kill the bastards, right? Talbot said. ‘Okay, we’ve no idea how many people Ferguson would send, but I’d think three or four at least. It’s essential not to delay on this. You must speak to Hakim as soon as possible so that he can get the ball rolling.’

  ‘And you think this could work?’ Shah said.

  ‘I don’t see why not. Especially since I intend to go and supervise the job myself.’

  Shah was shocked. ‘But that’s crazy. How could you disguise yourself?’

  ‘To Marsh Arabs and Berbers, I’d be just another white face. I was in the Algerian desert four years ago with a Talbot International oil exploration team. I was very impressed with the Tuaregs – noble and aristocratic bastards who wear dark blue robes and turbans and veils. Ordinary Arabs shy away from them. I took some of the robes home as a souvenir. I knew I’d find a use for them one day.’

  ‘So how would you get there?’

  ‘There’s an old World War Two air-force base called Fasa on the eastern end of the marshes. It’s in ruins, but the runway is still viable. Talbot International has a Citation X at Frensham with full tanks, which can manage the flight to Algiers and the return to England. I might fly it myself, but I’ll take another pilot along, too, to stand guard while I’m in the marshes. With luck, it won’t take more than thirty-six hours.’