by Jack Higgins
It had been only a step from selling illegal arms to providing training in their use. He’d enjoyed every moment of that in the mountains over the border in Afghanistan, and then it had been only logical to take the next step—from training the Taliban to leading them in battle. He’d immediately been seized by the old thrill, and he felt no guilt at all.
The surprise had been when Al Qaeda had discovered what he was up to, and not only approved, but insisted he continue. The strange thing was that there had been a thrill to that, too. It wasn’t as if he needed the money. It was all part of a wonderful, lunatic madness. Anyway, right now he needed rest and recreation. It would be nice to see his mother again. He hadn’t kept in touch much this time. It was better to use mobile and satellite phones sparingly these days, unless they were totally encrypted and encoded. Too many people failed to realize that every conversation you made was out there somewhere and capable of being retrieved.
He wondered if his mother had made one of her rare visits to the family estate, Talbot Place, in County Down. Her own mother, Mary Ellen, had died the previous year, but his grandfather, ‘Colonel Henry’ to the servants, was still alive at ninety-five.
Soldier, lawyer, politician, Member of Parliament at Stormont, and a Grand Master in the Orange Lodge, Colonel Henry was a resolute defender of the Protestant cause who had loathed Roman Catholics—Fenians, as he called them—all his life. Now in his dotage, he was surrounded by workers and house servants who were mainly Catholic, thanks to Mary Ellen, a Protestant herself, who had employed them for years. Justin Talbot’s mother despised the man.
Talbot yawned again and decided that if his mother had gone to Ulster, he would fly across himself, possibly in one of the firm’s planes. He could use a break. He closed his eyes and drifted off.
At that moment, his mother, Jean Talbot, was crossing a hillside high above Carlingford Lough, the Irish Sea way beyond. A seventy-one-year-old woman, slim and fit and young for her age, in both looks and energy, as the Irish saying went, was wearing an Australian drover’s coat, heavy boots, a cap of Donegal tweed and carrying a walking stick. The house dog, Nell, a black flat-coat retriever, was about her business, running hither and thither. Jean reached her destination, a stone bothy with a bench outside. She sat down, took out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.
The sun shone, the sky was blue and the morning wind had dropped to a dead calm. This was an amazing place with an incredible backdrop, the Mourne Mountains. Far down below was the village of Kilmartin, and Talbot Place, the splendid old Georgian house that had been the family home for two hundred and fifty years, the house in which she had been born.
She stubbed out her cigarette carefully, stood up, whistled to Nell and turned. It was good to be back and yet, as always, she already felt restless and ill at ease; as usual, her father was the problem. During the Second World War, with him away and her mother in charge, she had been educated at a local Catholic boarding school run by nuns who accepted day-girls and didn’t mind a Protestant or two. She had never known her father and was terrified of the arrogant, anti-Catholic bully who returned after the war and was outraged to find his daughter in the hands of nuns, and ‘bloody Fenians’ all over the estate.
Mary Ellen’s quiet firmness defeated him, as did the good humour of his tenants, who smiled and touched their caps to Colonel Henry, convinced, as Jean Talbot realized as she grew up, that he was a raving lunatic. The nuns succeeded with her so well that she was accepted by St Hugh’s College, Oxford, to study fine art.
To her father, busy with the law and politics at Stormont, it was all a waste of time, but she had enough talent to then be accepted by the Slade School of Fine Art, University College, London, after Oxford. Mary Ellen hugged her in delight, but her father said it was time she settled down and gave him an heir.
Her answer was to get pregnant by a sculptor named Justin Monk, a Roman Catholic separated from his wife who’d refused him a divorce on religious grounds. Shortly after the birth, he’d been badly injured in a motorcycle accident. Jean was able to visit him once and show him the baby and promised to name it after him. He died soon afterwards.
When Henry Talbot and Mary Ellen came to visit her in her London lodgings, he had looked at Justin in his cot and destroyed any hope his daughter might have had left for a future relationship with her father.
‘A bastard, is that the best you can do? At least he’s a Protestant; I suppose that’s something. I’ve got things to do. I’m meeting people at Westminster. I’ll leave you to your mother.’
After he had gone, Mary Ellen said, ‘is he a Protestant?’
‘Justin begged me to have him baptized in the faith. What could I do? He was dying. Do you hate me for it?’
‘My darling, I love you for it. It was the decent thing to do.’ She embraced the baby. ‘But I’d make it our secret, if I were you. If they had even a hint of it on the estate, it would be all over Kilmartin.’
‘All over County Down,’ Jean had said. ‘And what about my son?’
‘Don’t tell him, either. It’s a burden to tell a child and expect him to hold it secret. One day in the future, when you think it’s right, you can tell him. So what will you do now?’
‘I intend to continue my work. At the Slade they feel that I have a gift for portraiture, and I intend to concentrate on that.’
‘Excellent, but you’ll need a home. I’ll stay a bit in London and we’ll find you a house. In Mayfair, I think, and we’ll need a housekeeper and a nanny.’
‘But what will he say?’
‘He’s left everything to me. We can afford it, dear. I don’t think you’ve ever appreciated how wealthy you and Justin will be one of these days, whether you like it or not. Talbot money is old money—and you’d be surprised how much property we own in the West End of London. In fact, now that I think of it, there’s a superb Regency house on Marley Court off Curzon Street, very convenient for Park Lane and Hyde Park. Let’s take a look.’
Marley Court it was, and her beloved son had grown up there, and gone to school as a day-boy at St Paul’s—she couldn’t bear the thought of sending him away. His visits to Talbot Place were frequent, of course, particularly during the long summers, for his grandmother adored him and his grandfather grudgingly admitted he was a fine rider.
He was also popular with the estate workers and the locals, but their respect for Mary Ellen ensured that anyway. Through the long, hard, brutal days of the Troubles, Talbot Place had remained inviolate because of her. It was remarkable when you considered that most Catholics in the area were Nationalists, and the Provisional IRA was so powerful that the countryside from Warrenpoint as far as Crossmaglen in County Armagh was designated bandit country by the British Army.
Talbot Place could have been burnt to the ground, not a stick nor stone left standing, and certain extreme elements would have done exactly that, but local opinion stayed their hand. Half the village was employed on the estate, and Mary Ellen and the boy were inviolate—which also meant that Colonel Henry’s life was spared as well; though it wasn’t deserved, many people would say.
There had been a problem in August 1979, when her son was fifteen, when the British Army had suffered its worst defeat in the Troubles, that terrible ambush only a few miles away at Narrow Water, near Warrenpoint. That many of the local men were IRA did not surprise her. It meant that some of her workers would be, too. But she had been shocked to hear that a nineteen-year-old stable boy named Sean Kelly, son of Jack Kelly, publican of the Kilmartin Arms and a great friend of her son’s, had been killed in an exchange of fire with wounded soldiers at Narrow Water.
Justin had been at Talbot Place for the summer holidays and she had joined him for a couple of weeks before returning to London for the start of the autumn term at school. He had been terribly upset at the death of his friend. There was no question of them attending the funeral; even Mary Ellen admitted that. The deaths of all those Highlanders made it impossible, and yet Justin had gone of his
own accord, had stood at Sean Kelly’s graveside, had been hugged and thanked by all the Kellys, and admitted to the clan. The priest, Father Michael Cassidy, had also blessed him for it.
The confrontation at Talbot Place had been terrible, such was Colonel Henry’s rage. He’d slapped Justin across the face, called him a damn traitor, and Jean had pulled her father off and called him a bully and a bigot. Justin had shouted at him, called him a Prod bastard, and said he would join the IRA if he only could. Every servant in the house had heard it. Jean Talbot and her son left for London within the hour. There was a long break for a while. Eventually, Mary Ellen smoothed things over, but Jean visited rarely after that. Her gradual success with her painting, the fact that she’d been commissioned to do a portrait of the Queen Mother, meant nothing to her father.
With Justin, it was different. He was, after all, the heir, and when he chose Sandhurst Royal Military Academy instead of university, and embarked on an army career, the Colonel had been delighted.
Justin made one thing clear, though. After finishing at Sandhurst and joining the Grenadier Guards, he’d visited the Kilmartin Arms and given his oath to Jack Kelly that he would never fight against them in Ulster.
In any event, there was enough happening elsewhere to keep him occupied. Jean knew that he’d flown for the Army Air Corps, helicopters and light aircraft all over the world. She also knew that he’d served with the SAS, but only because—many years earlier when he’d been spending a week’s leave with her in Mayfair—a dispatch rider had delivered an envelope. A recall to duty at once, Justin had told her, and had gone off to pack leaving the letter on the desk in the study. She’d read it, of course, and discovered for the first time that he was serving with 22 SAS. She hadn’t mentioned it; there was no point as he hadn’t told her.
* * *
Not that it mattered now. All that was over. Afghanistan had seen to it, and he had survived, covered with glory, wounded and decorated and alive, which was something to be thankful for these days. The business trips to Pakistan and the North-West Frontier were only something to do. He needed action of some sort, it was his nature, and she’d long since come to terms with the fact that women were something he could never take seriously.
So here she was back at the Place again because of a call from Hannah Kelly, the housekeeper, to tell her Colonel Henry’d had another bad turn, and that was something you couldn’t ignore where a ninety-five-year-old man was concerned. She’d flown over at once, seen him with Dr Larry Ryan, and there was little comfort from him. One of these days, the bad turn would carry Colonel Henry off, and perhaps that would be in his own best interests, but not this time. So, she faced the prospect of a miserable day or so with a half-mad old man in his dotage, shouting one insult after another at the servants, in language out of the gutter, sitting in his wheelchair in that conservatory that was like a miniature jungle, a decanter of Cognac and a glass on the cane table beside him.
She looked at her watch and saw with a start that she’d been sitting there a long time. She rose, dreading the return to the house, and then like a miracle, her mobile sounded as she started down the track to the house, and Nell barked frantically. ‘It’s me,’ Justin told her. ‘I’ve just got off the plane at Heathrow, tried you in London and got your message. How is he?’
‘Still with us and even more dreadful than usual. How was your trip?’
‘Wonderful. There’s so much going on up there on the border; loads of companies vying with one another. The war inflates everything; it’s like a bad movie. You’re lucky to get a hotel bed. I’ve got to call in at the office, meet with Sir Hedley and inform him how things went.’
She was disappointed. ‘I was so hoping to see you.’
‘So you shall. I’ll drive out to Frensham. We’ve got four planes parked there. I think I’ll use the Beech Baron.’
‘I haven’t flown in that,’ she said.
‘A new acquisition. Twin engine, can carry six, and it takes off and lands on grass, so I’ll be able to land at Drumgoole Aero Club. No need to feel down, Mum. I’ll be with you later in the afternoon.’
‘All I can say is, thank God, darling.’
‘See you soon.’ He switched off, leaving her there on the track, suddenly unbelievably happy.
4
After dropping Dillon off at Holland Park, Miller had continued on to Dover Street and got some sleep. Since his wife’s murder the previous year, in a bomb attack aimed at Miller himself, he had lived alone, managing with just a daily housekeeper, a Jamaican widow named Lily Pond, who saw Miller as a tragic figure who needed mothering.
Miller was in his study, working on the stack of mail, when his Codex sounded and Ferguson said, ‘The Prime Minister’s decided he wants you with me.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘I don’t know, Harry. I suppose he wants your opinion as well as mine. You are known in the House as the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler. So, get your arse down here doublequick.’
‘Twenty minutes,’ Miller said, and called Arthur to get the car.
He found Ferguson sitting outside the PM’s study in conversation with Cabinet Secretary Henry Frankel, a good friend to Miller in bad times.
‘You’re looking fit, Harry.’ He shook hands. ‘So you’ve been visiting the great man himself in Washington?’
‘If you say so, Henry,’ Miller answered.
‘I know the General thinks I’m a terrible gossip, but it’s not true, love. Let’s face it, all the world’s secrets flow through here.’
‘Yes, well, save them for your memoirs,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Do we go in now?’
‘Of course, now that Harry’s arrived.’ Frankel crossed the corridor and opened the door.
‘I’ve examined all the material your Major Roper has put together,’ the PM said, ‘and I’m not surprised the President was so disturbed.’
‘We all are, Prime Minister,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I believe it to be one of the gravest matters I’ve put before you for some time.’
The Prime Minister was obviously concerned, and turned to Miller. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’d say it’s a small number of people we’re talking about, British Muslims in Afghanistan. But it’s a pattern all over the world, isn’t it, Islamic extremism? There is a Muslim saying: Beauty is like a flag in the city.’
The PM nodded. ‘The green flag of Islam flying over Downing Street?’
‘Flying over a damn sight more than that,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’d say we’ve got to do something about it.’
‘I agree.’ The PM nodded. ‘But individual young Muslim men buying a plane ticket to Pakistan is one thing, a system that facilitates this is quite another. Does such an organization exist? That’s what we need to find out. The man who calls himself Shamrock could be the key here. Find him and we may be able to discover the rest.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ Ferguson got up, as did Miller. ‘We’ll get on with it.’
The door opened and they left, passing Henry Frankel, who stood to one side and winked at Miller. Both their limousines were waiting outside.
Miller said, ‘Where do we start then?’
Ferguson glanced at his watch. It was noon exactly. ‘I could use a drink. Tell Fox to deliver you to the Garrick Club.’
‘The Garrick?’ Miller was surprised. ‘I thought you were a member of the Cavalry Club.’
‘Of course, but everybody likes the Garrick; all those actors and writers and so on. It makes a difference from matters military. I’ll see you in the bar.’
* * *
Justin Talbot went straight to his mother’s house at Marley Court to unpack and get a change of clothes. He had just come out of the shower when his mobile sounded. He answered and found himself speaking to the Preacher.
‘Good to hear from you,’ Talbot said. ‘I had an excellent trip.’
‘You had a disastrous trip, you stupid fool,’ Hassan told him.
Talbot said, ‘What the hell? I
don’t have to put up with you talking to me like that.’
‘Listen to the tape I received, Talbot. Then you’ll see why I’m angry.’
Talbot did, and with some horror. When it was finished, he called the Preacher back and Shah answered at once. ‘What have you got to say?’
‘It was in the heat of battle, so I shot my mouth off. Regrettable, and I apologize, but I don’t see how it hurts us.’
‘You think not? This General Charles Ferguson is a legend in the counter-terrorism field. He has been an absolute thorn in the flesh of Al Qaeda, and so are the people who work for him. Dillon, Holley, Miller; they’ll all start nosing around. If Holley hadn’t kept his business partner, Hamid Malik, informed of all his doings, and Malik hadn’t confided in Hakim, we’d never have known.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Talbot asked. ‘If this Holley guy tells his business partner about everything, then we should be able to find out about what happens next, shouldn’t we?’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? All Charles Ferguson and this Major Roper had to go on was a muddled tape, and then in you came with that absurdly dramatic code name, Shamrock, announcing to the world: What a spectacular. Warrenpoint all over again and it worked big time. Osama will be delighted.’
Talbot had made a mistake there, and he knew it. ‘So I got a bit overenthusiastic.’
‘And what was your touching dedication supposed to mean? You can rest in peace now, Sean. Night bless?’
Talbot said, ‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Everything has something to do with me. Answer me.’
‘Sean Kelly was my friend, a stable boy at Talbot Place. He was only nineteen, but he was a Provo like all his family. Some of those wounded Highlanders managed to fight back, and Sean took a bullet.’
‘How heart-warming. When you joined the Army, the Troubles must have given you a problem, didn’t it, knowing which side you were on?’