by Jack Higgins
The Judas gate
( Sean Dillon - 18 )
Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins
The Judas gate
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE OVAL OFFICE
1
The Washington day in August had been almost subtropical, but by late evening an unexpected shower had cooled things.
The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a short walk from the White House, and outside the bar two men sat at a small table on the terrace, a canopy protecting them against the rain. The elder had an authoritative moustache and thick hair touched with silver, and wore a dark blue suit and Guards tie. He was General Charles Ferguson, Commander of the British Prime Minister's private hit squad, which was an unfortunate necessity in the era of international terrorism.
His companion, Major Harry Miller, was forty-seven, just under six feet, with grey eyes, a shrapnel scar on one cheek, and a calm and confident manner. A Member of Parliament, he served the Prime Minister as a general troubleshooter and bore the rank of Under-Secretary of State. He had proved he could handle anything, from the politicians at the United Nations to the hell of Afghanistan.
Just now, he was saying to Ferguson, 'Are you sure the President will be seeing us?'
Ferguson nodded. 'Blake was quite certain. The President said he'd make sure to clear time for us.'
Sean Dillon stepped out on to the terrace, glass in hand, and joined them, his fair hair tousled and his shirt and velvet cord suit black as usual.
'So there you are.'
Before Ferguson could reply, Blake Johnson appeared from the bar and found them. He wore a light trenchcoat draped over his shoulders to protect a tweed country suit. He was fifty-nine, his black hair flecked with grey. As a boy, he'd lied about his age, and when he'd stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, he'd been only eighteen. Now, a long-time veteran of the Secret Service, he was Personal Security Adviser to the new President, as he had been for several Presidents before him.
'We thought we'd been stood up,' Dillon told him, and shook hands.
'Nonsense,' Ferguson said. 'It's good of him to make time for us.'
'Your report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, he's wanted to meet you for some time now.'
'With all the new blood running around, I think that's very decent of the man,' Dillon said. 'I thought we'd have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.'
Ferguson said to Blake, 'Take no notice of him. Let's get going.' For those who didn't want to make a fuss, the best way into the White House was through the east entrance, which was where Clancy Smith, a large, fit black Secret Service man assigned to the President, waited patiently. He had met them all over the years.
'Great to see you, General,' he told Ferguson.
'So you're still speaking to us, Clancy?' Dillon asked.
'Dillon, shut up!' Ferguson told him again.
'I'm only trying to make sure there's a welcome for Brits these days. I seem to remember there was a previous occasion when they burned the place down.'
Clancy roared with laughter. 'Dillon, you never change.'
'He doesn't, does he?' Ferguson said bitterly. 'But let's get moving. If you'd be kind enough to lead the way.'
Which Clancy did, escorting them through many corridors until he finally paused at a door. 'Gentlemen, the Oval Office.'
He opened the door and led the way in. The President was in his shirtsleeves, working his way through a mound of paperwork.
The President and Blake were sitting on one side of the large coffee table, with Dillon, Ferguson and Miller on the other. There was coffee available on a sideboard and they had all helped themselves at the President's invitation.
Ferguson sipped some of his coffee. 'Trying times, Mr President.'
'Afghanistan troubles me greatly. The casualties mount relentlessly, yet we can't just abandon them,' the President said.
'I agree,' Ferguson told him.
The President glanced at Blake. 'What were those Vietnam statistics again?'
'At its worst, four hundred dead a week and four times as many wounded,' Blake told him.
'Two thousand casualties a week.' Miller shook his head. 'It wasn't sustainable.'
'Which was why we got out,' the President said. 'But what the hell do we do now? We have a large international army, excellent military personnel, backed up by air support and missiles. It should be no contest, and yet…'
Harry Miller put in, 'There's precedent, Mr President. During the Eighteen-forties, at the height of its Empire, Britain sent an army of sixteen and a half thousand into Afghanistan to take Kabul. Only one man returned with his life, a regimental doctor. I've always believed the Afghans were sending a message by allowing him to live.'
'My God,' the President said softly. 'I never heard that story.'
'To Afghans, family comes first, and then the tribe,' Miller told him. 'But they will always fight together to defend Afghanistan itself against an invader.'
'And that's us,' Dillon put in. 'And they don't like it. And now even young men of Afghan extraction who were born in Britain end up joining the fight.'
The President turned to Ferguson. 'That's what was in your report. Tell me more.'
Ferguson said, 'Are you familiar with Major Giles Roper, a member of my staff in London?'
'We haven't met, but I know of him. Once a great bomb-disposal expert, until an explosion put him in a wheelchair.'
'Yes. Well, he's since become the king of cyberspace. There's nothing he can't make his computers do-and sometimes that means he can listen in to battlefield chat in Afghanistan. The people flying with the Taliban come from such a wide number of countries that English has sometimes become the language of communication.'
Miller said, 'It's interesting to hear the voices. Yorkshire accents, many from Birmingham, Welsh, Scots.'
'That's incredible,' the President said.
'But true. Young British-born Muslims are being recruited by doctrinaire preachers who not only encourage them to go, but also offer plane tickets and a training camp, all courtesy of Al Qaeda, who then introduce them to the Taliban,' Miller added. 'It's an awfully big adventure when you're eighteen or so.'
'Just like joining the army,' Dillon murmured.
Ferguson glanced at him, but the President carried on. 'You know, there are many good people who advocate we withdraw and continue this as a long-range war.'
'Air strikes, cruise missiles, drones,' Blake said.
Ferguson replied, 'With respect, too often that can result in an indiscriminate attack on civilian targets. Terrorism can only be countered by a resolute anti-terrorism campaign that pulls no punches.'
'I take your point.' The President nodded. 'But let's ask an expert.' He turned to Dillon. 'I've been informed of your past, Mr Dillon. You must have an opinion. Share it with us.'
'General Ferguson is right. The successful revolutionary blends with the people. Which is why, with these British Muslim imports, American and British forces in Afghanistan can't be certain who is the enemy.'
'Which we counter by joining with Afghan Army units ourselves,' Ferguson said. 'But there's another aspect that concerns me more.'
'And that is?' the President asked.
'There's an incredible new sophistication by the Taliban concerning improvised explosive devices. Not only in the bombmaking itself, but their usage. They are becoming far too good. The only conclusion must be that they are being coached by experts.'
The President frowned. 'What are you implying? The Cubans or the Russians, something like that?'
'Good God, no,' Ferguson said. 'Those days are long gone for the Cubans, and the Russians wouldn't touch Afghanistan if it was the last
place on earth. They couldn't crack that nut with an army of a hundred thousand men.'
Dillon moved in. 'Bombs aren't just bombs, they are tactical weapons, used to achieve maximum results. You must make sure that an ambush is not just an ambush, but a total disaster for the enemy. And to achieve that, you need instruction from an expert.'
'What are you saying?'
'Let me tell you a story,' Ferguson said. 'It's from thirty years ago, when I was a Major in the Grenadier Guards, on my third tour in Ulster, seconded to staff at headquarters in Belfast. I'm not wasting your time, believe me.'
'Then proceed, General,' the President told him, and Ferguson began.
'August the twenty-seventh, Nineteen seventy-nine.' Ferguson took a deep breath, as if pulling himself together. 'I'll never forget that date because it was one of the worst days in my life. I was in the Incident Room at the Grand Central in Belfast when we received some truly dreadful news.'
'Which was?' the President enquired.
'The Queen's cousin, Lord Louis Mountbatten, liked to enjoy his family holidays in Ireland, despite the obvious security risks. That year, a radio-controlled bomb blew his thirty-foot fishing boat apart, killing Mountbatten, his grandson, his daughter's mother-in-law and a young boat boy.'
'Dear God,' the President said. 'I remember reading about it.'
'God had nothing to do with it, but the Provisional IRA did. The media went berserk. At the Incident Room, we were besieged, calls from all over the world. Then later that same day, just when I thought it was beginning to calm down, it got worse. Warrenpoint. Two trucks loaded with paratroopers were on their way to a market town called Newry when a huge roadside bomb hidden in a farm trailer was activated by a radio signal. Six paratroopers were killed and others wounded. The survivors took refuge in the ruins of a lodge at a place called Narrow Water. They radioed in for help and came under sniper fire. A Wessex helicopter carrying soldiers from the Queen's Own Highlanders landed close by. As they disembarked, another large bomb exploded, killing twelve soldiers, including their commanding officer and wounding others.'
The President's horror was plain. 'That's appalling.'
'I use it in my lectures at Sandhurst as an example of a classic guerrilla ambush brilliantly executed,' Miller told him.
Ferguson said, 'It was probably the worst incident in terms of casualties in the whole of the Troubles. Eighteen men dead and more than twenty wounded.'
'So where are you going with this?' the President asked.
Miller took a map from his briefcase and unfolded it. 'Afghanistan, Helmand province. See the road running up to the mountains in the north, the small village of Mirbat and the deep lake beside it? The village is in ruins, the people have moved on. A convoy loaded with technicians and electronic equipment needed to get through to the dam at the head of the valley to repair the hydroelectric system that the Taliban had damaged. Two six-wheel Mastiff armoured patrol vehicles led the way. Besides the drivers, there were twelve Rangers. When they got to Mirbat they found it deserted, got out to explore, and a massive roadside bomb killed six of them instantly and wounded others.'
The President said, 'What next?'
'The remaining Rangers came under sniper fire from across the lake. A Chinook helicopter with an instant response medical team happened to be close by, Brits as a matter of fact. They reached Mirbat in fifteen minutes and landed. As the medics jumped out, a second roadside bomb was activated and the helicopter fireballed.' Miller shrugged. 'The firing stopped, the Taliban cleared off. In all, there were twenty personnel involved. The entire Chinook team were slaughtered, and ten Rangers. Two Rangers survived, along with the driver.'
'Sixteen dead,' the President said grimly.
Ferguson said, 'Shocking, isn't it? Even more so to listen to.'
'Listen to? You mean, this is one of the things your Major Roper picked up? With the British voices?'
'Yes. Voices calling to each other in the fog of battle, the death of men, the triumph of the victor,' Ferguson told him. 'The Taliban force could have been as many as thirty. The experts estimate about fifteen were British.' He removed a cassette from his pocket.
The President took it and said, 'Clancy, would you put this on? We might as well hear the worst.'
The material had been enhanced and edited. Some of the voices were speaking Pushtu and there was an occasional call in Arabic, but English prevailed and the different regional accents were clear. For a while, there was a lot of crosstalk, and then someone cut in with real authority.
'Shamrock here. Cut all this stupid chatter and assume your positions. Mastiffs are on the way. The soldiers in them are American Rangers. They're good, so wait for the bomb to explode before firing. Anyone who jumps the gun gets a bullet through the kneecap from me afterwards.'
There was a certain amount of wild laughter, and then an American voice cut in. 'Calling convoy. Ranger One. Coming into Mirbat now. Looks pretty quiet to me, but we'll see.'
Shortly afterwards, the first explosion was followed by gunfire, voices calling excitedly, screams, the sound of AK47s firing. Then a sudden silence.
Miller said, 'Major Roper's cut straight to the Chinook arriving.'
The pause ended; there was the noise of the Chinook coming in and then the second explosion, deafening in its intensity, followed by further gunfire and then the voice again, loud and clear.
'Shamrock here. Cease firing. You've done well, you bastards. What a spectacular. Warrenpoint all over again and it worked big time. Osama will be delighted. Now let's get out of here before the heavy brigade arrives. You can rest in peace now, Sean. Night bless.'
There was suddenly only the machine whirring. Clancy said, 'Is that it?'
'It sure as hell was enough,' the President said, his face sombre. 'Why haven't I heard of this before, Blake?'
'It only happened nine days ago, Mr President. You were in Mexico for two days, then that courtesy call in Panama, and then the Libyan business.'
'That's what I'm elected for. This is bad.'
'Yes, but Major General Ferguson thought you should hear this personally. This has been the first opportunity.'
'You're right, of course.' The President took a deep breath. 'We're grateful to you, General. Now this leader of the pack, this Shamrock. What do you know about him?'
Ferguson said, 'Our voice experts say he's educated, likely the product of a top public school.'
'And a trained soldier?'
'I'd say so,' Ferguson said.
'Which means the British Army,' Dillon said, 'and he has Irish roots of some sort.'
'How can you be certain?' the President asked.
'The code name he's chosen, Shamrock. What could be more Irish than that? Then there was his joy over the success of the Mirbat ambush, and his comparing it to the Warrenpoint spectacular of so many years ago. Also, his threat to shoot anyone who misbehaved through the kneecap-that's a ritual punishment in the IRA since time immemorial. Finally, this rest-in-peace prayer to someone called Sean.'
'Surely that's a common enough name in Ireland?'
'It certainly is,' Dillon smiled. 'A good Irish name which in Northern Ireland would label you as a Catholic instantly.'
'I'll have to take your word for it, Mr Dillon. Most enlightening.' The President stood up. 'Gentlemen, I'm very grateful, and you've given me a lot to think about. General, I know the White House has owed you and your people a debt on many previous occasions. Keep Blake informed of your progress and let me know if there is anything I can do.'
'We're grateful for you finding a moment to see us,' Ferguson told him. 'We live in trying times, but we'll pull through, I'm sure of it.'
'God willing.' The President shook hands with the three of them, Dillon last, and said, 'You really believe you can hunt this man, this Shamrock, down, don't you, Mr Dillon?'
'Absolutely, Mr President.'
The President smiled. 'You are a remarkable man, my friend. Don't let me down.'
'My oath
on it, sir.' He held the President's hand a moment longer, then turned and followed the others as Blake ushered them out.
Late the next morning, Ferguson's Gulfstream, his regular RAF pilots, Lacey and Parry, at the controls, rose to thirty thousand feet, climbing high over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry looked into the cabin.
'There's some problematic weather in the mid-Atlantic. A question of how heavy the winds are.'
'I'd have said perfectly acceptable if they're flying up your backside,' Dillon told him.
'Right as usual, Dillon, which means our flight time will be cut to about six hours if we're lucky. Anyone like anything to eat or drink?'
'Thank you, no, Flight Lieutenant,' Ferguson told him, and Parry withdrew.
Miller said, 'You certainly impressed the President, Sean.'
'I only told the man what I thought he'd want to hear.'
'Rash promises as usual,' Ferguson put in. 'Shamrock could be anybody.'
'There's no such thing,' Dillon told him. 'Everyone is a somebody, and I intend to find him, one way or another. In fact, I'm so certain, I'll have a drink on it.'
'Not me,' Ferguson told him, and unfolded the quilt beside his seat. 'I'm going to take a nap. I'll have to see the Prime Minister tomorrow. If you want to make yourself useful, Harry, call in to Roper and tell him what happened.'
He switched off his light and pulled up the quilt.
At the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in a track suit in his wheelchair, his shoulder-length hair tied with a ribbon, pulling it back from his bomb-ravaged face, as he listened to Harry Miller describe the visit to the White House. Roper lit a cigarette and poured a whisky as he listened.
'Good old Sean. No one could ever accuse him of lacking confidence.'
'Have you come up with anything else?' Miller asked. 'I can't say that I have, and I've gone over the audio tapes again and again. What you all listened to is still what I've got.' 'So what happens now?'