The Judas Gate

by Jack Higgins

  ‘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 of 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.’

  Holley said, ‘And why would he be doing that?’

  ‘A meeting requested by a very high-level Muslim holy man. A famous Mullah, now in his nineties, Ibrahim somebody.’ He leaned forward. ‘But here’s the thing, my friend. This holy man, this Ibrahim? He intends to become a martyr this weekend. He will be carrying religious scrolls, which of course security men would not dare to search. A profound insult. And inside the scrolls—Semtex. You wouldn’t need much to do the job at close quarters. The Prime Minister would be blown to hell.’

  ‘With everyone around him.’

  ‘What a moment,’ Kupu roared, and the door to the other room opened and Liri staggered out, trying to cover her torn dress with the raincoat and still clutching her handbag. She stood there, crying bitterly.

  ‘Look at you,’ Kupu said. ‘Disgusting. Who in the hell would want you? Go on, get out.’

  ‘But I’ve no money for a cab,’ she wailed.

  ‘Then you can walk in the rain. Better than a shower. Wash the stink off you.’

  At which point Holley, having had enough, said, ‘No need for that, Liri. I’m leaving myself. I’ll be going by cab and I’ll drop you off.’

  Suddenly Kupu didn’t seem as drunk as he had been. ‘What is this about you leaving?’

  ‘I don’t like the way you do business.’

  ‘Really? Then obviously you need to pay a visit to the next room, where Abu will indicate what is expected of you. I don’t think it will take long for you to get the point.’

  As Holley stood up, he produced the Colt .25, extended his arm and shot Ali Kupu twice in the heart, knocking him back over the chair. Liri gave a strangled cry, then leaned over to look. Abu seemed stunned and uncertain what to do.

  Liri recovered a little and turned to Holley. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘That’s what I meant him to be. Can you drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take one of the vans and get out of here, and you can also take the Gladstone bag with you as far as I’m concerned. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a passport. I’ll be out of Paris first thing in the morning. God bless you. I’ll never forget you.’

  ‘I’d rather you did.’

  He picked up the Walther, put the Colt in his pocket and pulled on his rain hat. Liri was already disappearing into the night at the wheel of a van. Abu said, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You pick up the body, carry him out to the jetty like a good boy, and we dump him into the Seine.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘For starters, I’ll have to shoot you in the right kneecap.’ He produced the Colt from his pocket. ‘Hollow point cartridges, Abu. You’ll never be able to stand up on the podium again.’

  ‘You bastard,’ Abu told him, went round the desk, picked up Ali Kupu as if he were a rag doll and walked towards the other end of the warehouse. Holley followed.

  It was raining harder than ever and Abu paused, looking down through the lights to the Seine, Notre Dame floating in the dark way up to the right.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Straight to the end of the jetty and drop him in. Go on, get on with it.’

  The big man walked through the lights, holding the body in both hands, paused at the end for a long moment, then dropped the corpse in. It surfaced for a moment, then drifted away into the darkness.

  Abu turned and faced Holley. ‘She won’t get away with it, that bitch, or you. The Albanian Mafia will hunt you both down.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me. Since you are the only witness, it leaves me with little choice.’

  There was sudden alarm on Abu’s face and he put a hand out. ‘No, let’s discuss this.’

  But Holley’s hand was already swinging up. The silenced Colt coughed once, the bullet hitting Abu between the eyes, and he lurched back over the end of the jetty into the water. Holley returned to the warehouse, opened the small door by which he’d entered and retrieved the umbrella he’d left there. He started to walk back to the barge, thinking about it. The Albanian Mafia was the bane of Paris. The deaths of Abu and Ali Kupu wouldn’t disturb the Paris police in the slightest. He would have to take a chance that Liri would forget all about him, but then she would value her own anonymity. Always with him, a woman in trouble was one thing he could never turn away from. In a way, he’d been a fool, but there it was.

  But what Kupu had said about AQ—Al Qaeda. Was it just the idle boast of a drunkard or was there genuinely something to it? Whatever—if there really was a plot to assassinate Vladimir Putin, it would create chaos, and that was bad for everybody. It left him with only one choice, and he quickened his pace and hurried back to the barge.

  Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been appointed London’s Head of Station by Putin himself and was the man who’d taken Daniel Holley out of the Lubyanka Prison and told him to deal with Ferguson and his people once and for all, a business which had not really worked out as intended.

  He answered the phone in London, astonished at who was calling him.

  ‘Good God, Daniel. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Where are you, Josef?’

  ‘London. Putin made me Head of Station here.’

  ‘So he forgave you for your failure?’

  ‘Your failure, too, Daniel, but yes, I am forgiven, and I think you are also. I’ve followed your success with a certain pride. The Algerians regard you highly. Malik is truly proud of you, as if you were his son.’

  So he’s been talking to Malik, and Malik hasn’t told me. Holley stored the information away. ‘That’s nice.’ ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Certain information has come my way concerning
a possible attempt on Vladimir Putin’s life.’ ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘I can only put the facts before you and you must judge for yourself.’

  When he was finished, there was total silence, as if Lermov was taking it all in, so Holley said, ‘Okay, the ravings of a drunken lunatic, I know—’

  Lermov cut in, his voice hoarse, ‘The Prime Minister visits Chechnya tomorrow afternoon, and a meeting like the one you describe has been arranged between him and a Mullah named Ibrahim Nadim. The security on it has been massive.’

  ‘Not massive enough, it seems,’ Holley said.

  ‘I’ll call the Prime Minister immediately. But, Daniel, I’m curious. You’re leaping to his defence. Why?’

  ‘Actually, I admire many things about him, even if we don’t always see eye to eye. He’s taken the Russian Federation by the scruff of the neck and made it feel proud again—he’s a genuine patriot. But mostly… I simply don’t think it’s a good idea to assassinate him.’

  ‘Neither do I. Thank you, Daniel. I’m going now.’

  * * *

  Sitting there, nursing a drink, Holley had a sudden urge to call Roper, and he did so, finding him wide awake.

  ‘How did your business appointment turn out?’ Roper asked.

  ‘What the hell, why shouldn’t I tell you?’ Holley said. ‘The ramifications, in a way, touch the world. I may just have saved Vladimir Putin from assassination.’

  Roper took it surprisingly calmly. ‘Tell me more.’

  Which Daniel did.

  The first thing Roper said was: ‘What am I going to do with you? You’re getting worse than Dillon. You’ve been shooting people again.’

  ‘If ever two people deserved it, those two did, but isn’t it incredible that the apparent boastings of a drunken fool turned out to be true?’

  ‘Because somebody talked, somebody at the very heart of Russian intelligence, told the wrong person. Everyone in the business over there will be working flat out to find out who. Of course, there is the mention Kupu made about his uncle in Tirana.’

  ‘They’ll hunt him down like a dog,’ Holley said.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to think what they’re going to do to him to make him talk.’

  ‘But the source of the leak is the thing. It’s got to be at the highest level,’ Holley persisted. ‘And yet someone willing to deal with Al Qaeda.’

  ‘And someone interested in getting rid of Putin,’ Roper said. ‘A palace revolution.’

  ‘God help whoever it is, with Putin on their case. Now, to other matters, the Afghan business. There’s talk of training camps in Northern Pakistan, but traditionally most of the good ones are in Libya and Algeria. Both Dillon and I were trained in the same place, though at different times: Shabwa, deep in the Algerian desert. Check up on it for me.’

  ‘I’ll get right on it,’ Roper told him.

  ‘I’ll be there mid-morning.’

  ‘Looking forward to it.’

  Which only left Hamid Malik, who would undoubtedly be sitting in his villa with its magical views of the great harbour of Algiers, biting his nails about the outcome of the Kupu business. Better to get it over with.

  ‘Praise be to Allah to hear your voice,’ Malik told him. ‘I’ve been genuinely worried about this business, Daniel; it didn’t sit right with me.’

  ‘You were right about Kupu. A bastard of the first order. He even had connections with Al Qaeda.’

  ‘No, surely this cannot be?’ There was a wariness in his voice now, a touch of fear, but then that was a common reaction of many Arabs when a mention of Al Qaeda was made.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ali Kupu is now feeding what fish there are in the Seine, accompanied by his revolting muscle man, one Abu.’

  ‘Allah preserve me,’ Malik was truly shocked. ‘You did this?’

  ‘Who else? They were going to do worse to me.’

  ‘Tell me what happened. I need to know in case of repercussions.’

  ‘There won’t be any. Two members of the Albanian Mafia turn up in the Seine—it happens all the time. The Paris police will say “good riddance” and move on.’

  ‘But… Al Qaeda. What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘A great deal, as it happens.’

  He told Malik everything and, when he was finished, the Algerian said, ‘You never do things by halves, Daniel. Where will it all end?’

  ‘This time with Lermov and his people rooting out those assassins. Did you know he’s GRU Station Head in London now? He told me Putin has forgiven him. Me, too!’

  ‘Fine words, but after this you’ll deserve a medal.’

  ‘I’ll settle for never having to eat at the Lubyanka again. Are you happy now?’

  Malik shrugged. ‘I should be, I suppose, but even the slightest hint of anything to do with Al Qaeda freezes the heart.’

  ‘Yes, the very name frightens the hell out of people,’ Holley agreed. ‘Do you think they might be recruiting for Afghanistan?’

  Malik said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. The Taliban are perfectly capable of recruiting for themselves.’

  ‘I’m talking about something different. There are many British-born Muslims fighting out there.’

  Malik laughed. ‘Daniel, one hears stories, but this is nonsense, pure myth.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, old friend. I’ve seen the evidence, heard recordings of radio communications in the heat of battle, working-class accents from many of the great cities in the UK.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I’ve heard it, Malik. In fact, Ferguson, Dillon and Miller have just had a meeting with the President in Washington to work out what to do about it.’

  Malik was stunned. ‘All right, supposing it is true, what can anyone do to prevent it? If young British Muslims decide to take a holiday in Pakistan to visit the old folk, then end up in a training camp in Waziristan, who can stop them? It’s impossible.’

  ‘Well, Ferguson and his people are at least going to make an effort, and I’ve offered to help.’

  Malik was truly shocked. ‘But why you, Daniel? This is not your business. You could be asking for big trouble.’

  ‘I have a grasp of the Muslim world that few Christians do. I speak Arabic and, as a young volunteer in the IRA, I was trained in terrorism at Shabwa. I wonder if Shabwa is still in business. And Omar Hamza, the camp commander? What a bastard he was.’

  ‘He would be seventy or more if he is still alive. Shabwa closed down some years ago, though. The IRA no longer used it and, as things changed for the German groups and ETA and the like, there was little need for the facility,’ Malik said. ‘The thought of young British Muslims using it, though… Why on earth would they want to come to Algeria for their training?’

  ‘You could have said that about the young Irishmen too,’ Holley told him. ‘Anyway, I’m out of here, off to London.’

  ‘Are you going to see Ferguson?’

  ‘Yes, I want to hear what he intends to do. I feel very strongly about this matter. If there is anything I can do, I will.’

  Malik gave in. ‘So be it. The blessing of Allah go with you. Do take care, Daniel.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  It was very quiet sitting there in the darkness, the long white curtains ballooning like sails at the window, and Malik went out to find a full moon and the terrace flooded with light. The vista in the night of the harbour below was astonishingly beautiful. He loved this city, always had, just as he loved Daniel Holley, but trouble and Daniel seemed to belong together naturally, and Malik was filled with a grim foreboding.

  ‘What now?’ he asked softly, leaning on the balustrade. ‘What next?’

  LONDON

  NORTHERN IRELAND

  3

  The Gulfstream landed at Farley Field late that night. Ferguson’s Daimler was waiting, as well as the Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office for Miller.

  ‘We’ll get together later,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve got to get cracking and prepar
e that report for the Prime Minister.’

  His Daimler moved away and Miller said, ‘We’ll take you to Holland Park, Sean.’ His driver, Arthur Fox, was behind the wheel.

  ‘Care to join me for a late dinner there?’

  ‘No, I need to get to Dover Street and sort this sack of mail that Arthur has brought me. Ferguson’s not the only one with problems. I’ve got the Cabinet Office on my back.’ Mentioning his sister, he added, ‘I had a text from Monica while you were asleep. She’s enjoying being Visiting Professor at Harvard so much, she’s agreed to an extension.’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Maybe she’s going off you, you mad Irish bogtrotter.’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ Dillon told him. ‘Tell her congratulations and I’ll be in touch. Now we’ve got an hour before we get to London, so start on your mail and let me sleep.’

  Two hours later, the Malik Shipping plane landed at London City Airport and taxied to the private facility—Daniel Holley had decided to leave Paris earlier than he had planned. His diplomatic passport sped him through and, forty-five minutes later, he was at the Dorchester, where he found Concetto Marietta, the guest liaison manager, waiting to escort him to one of the Park Suites.

  He slept for a few hours and then he called Roper. ‘When can we meet? I’d love to see what your famous Holland Park safe house looks like from the inside.’

  ‘Ferguson’s seeing the Prime Minister this morning, and Miller probably feels he should show his face in the House, but I’m here. So’s Dillon, who’s upstairs asleep. Come along whenever you want; we’ll have lunch.’

  ‘I might just do that. I want to stop off and see a friend first, but then I’ll come over.’

  ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’

  * * *

  Holley walked up to Shepherd Market, past the restaurants and the shops, then paused at a door with the name ‘Selim Malik’ painted in gold above it, admired the Egyptian hand-painted temple effigies displayed on either side of the frame, then pressed a button.