by Jack Higgins
‘He dies, I suppose,’ Talbot said. ‘He could stumble and fall at any time and break his bloody neck and do us all a favour.’
‘You really hate him that much?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘I was his Protestant bastard for years, so what did that make you? How could you ever forgive him for that?’
‘I know, love,’ she said. ‘Such behaviour goes beyond any hope of forgiveness.’
‘Mind you, what would life have been like if I’d been a Catholic bastard? Imagine, Colonel Henry Talbot’s grandson! What would the Orange Lodge have made of that?’
Because of the special bond that had always been between them, she could tell he wasn’t quite ready to face the house, so she swerved to the side of the road by the sea wall, switched off and got out. She leaned on the wall, took out her cigarettes and lit one, and he joined her.
A narrow road dropped down to a hamlet called Lorn: seven small cottages if you counted them. Several fishing boats were drawn up on the narrow beach and there was a boat-house and jetty that belonged to the Talbot estate. A sport fisherman was tied up there, gleaming white with a blue stripe. It was called Mary Ellen.
Justin said, ‘Have you taken the boat out since you’ve been back or been flying with Phil Regan? I thought you’d be airborne all the time after you got your licence.’
Instead of replying to his question she said, ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘August the fifth, Nineteen sixty-odd, Father Alan Winkler, St Mary the Virgin Church, Dun Street, Mayfair. A good address.’
‘He was a nice old man. Very understanding. He held my hand and prayed for me and you and your father, and said that, in the circumstances, it was God’s will that you should be baptized.’
‘The persuasion of the truly good,’ Talbot said. ‘How could you resist that?’ He kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘What a wonderful person you are. I expect that’s why I can’t take girls seriously, and never have. They’re lucky if they can get a week out of me.’
‘But you aren’t going to tell me how you suddenly know? Oh, the secrets between us, darling.’
‘I’ve an idea that Mary Ellen knew, am I right?’
‘I had to tell her because I told her everything and she blessed me, for it was your father’s dying wish. As far as telling you … she felt it should be left to the right moment.’
‘I’m forty-five, Mum, if you remember. A long time waiting.’
‘We all have our secrets, even from our loved ones.’
‘And you think that applies to me?’
‘More years ago than I care to remember, you were spending a week’s leave at Marley Court when a dispatch rider delivered an order. You read it, told me you’d been recalled for some special operation, went upstairs to pack and left the order on the study table. I know I shouldn’t have, but I read it and discovered my son was serving in Twenty-second SAS.’
‘So you knew, all those years, and never told me?’
‘I couldn’t. It was a betrayal, you see, and I couldn’t live with you knowing that. My punishment was that I’ve had to imagine supremely dangerous things happening to you every day. So, yes, my darling boy, I knew then, every time, just as I know now.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I’ve tried to give up these things, but I’m damned if I can. Let’s move on. You must be famished.’
‘I’d like to call in and see Jack Kelly before we go up to the house,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘A little early for the pub. It’s only four-thirty.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ He laughed, looking like a young boy again for a fleeting moment. ‘I suppose I am putting off seeing Colonel Henry for as long as possible. And I do have letters for Jack from his extended family, relatives we have working out there in Pakistan.’
‘Of course, love. I’ll drop you off and get on up to the house and see how Hannah Kelly is coping.’
They continued in silence for a while and finally he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about our secrets. If it leaked out that I’d operated in the SAS during my army service, I think it would finish me here.’
‘I agree, but they’ll never know from me. Answer me one question as your mother, though. Did you actually take part in SAS operations in Ulster during the Troubles?’
He had so much to lie about, particularly his present activities. Perhaps he could more easily avoid that by admitting a sort of truth.
‘Yes, I did, and on many occasions.’
She kept on driving calmly. ‘In view of the personal difficulties in your background, our situation in Kilmartin, couldn’t you have avoided it? I understood that the Ministry of Defence allowed choice.’
‘It was still left to the individual to make a personal decision.’ He was getting into real trouble here. ‘It’s difficult when the regiment’s going to war, for an individual to opt out.’
‘I could see that with the Grenadier Guards,’ Jean said. ‘But you volunteered to join the SAS, am I right?’ ‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘So you knew what you were getting into. Covert operations, subterfuge, killing by stealth, action by night. You must have known that your enemy would be the IRA.’ She shook her head. ‘Why did you do it?’
He broke then. ‘Because I loved it: every glorious moment of it. Couldn’t get enough. Some psychiatrists might say I was seeking death, but if I was, it was only to beat him at his own game. I lived more in a day …’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Nothing can describe it; it was so real, so damned exciting. It was impossible to take ordinary life seriously ever again.’
‘But Afghanistan got you in the end.’
‘I think not. Death looked down, took one look and said: Oh, it’s you again. Not today, thank you.’
She managed a laugh. ‘You fool. Anything else?’
‘I don’t think announcing to all and sundry that I’m a Catholic is a sound thought. The news that the heir to Talbot Place is a Fenian would have some people dancing a jig for joy — and many who wouldn’t.’
‘It’s your decision, not mine,’ Jean Talbot said. ‘I’ll go along with anything you want and we’ll keep our fingers crossed, but remember, Justin, this is Ireland, where a secret is only a secret when one person knows it.’
‘Then God help us.’ They had passed down the main street, a few parked cars, not many people about, and there was the Kilmartin Arms and the Church of the Holy Name to one side of it, a low stone wall surrounding a well-filled cemetery, the church standing some distance back. There was an old-fashioned lych-gate, a roofed entrance to the churchyard.
‘Let me out here,’ Talbot said, and his mother braked to a halt. He got out, taking his flight bag with him, and examined the notice board. ‘Church of the Holy Name, Father Michael Cassidy. My God, the old devil goes on forever. How old is he?’
‘Seventy-eight. He could have had preferment years ago, but he loves this place. You’ve got the times for Mass and the Confessional.’
‘Don’t tempt me, but I will have a word with him, and in friendship only. The fact of my new religion stays out of it.’
‘I’ll get moving then.’
‘I shan’t be long.’
He walked through the lych-gate as she drove off, and threaded his way through the gravestones to a horseshoe of cypress trees. There was a monument there, which bore the names on a bronze plaque of local men who had died while serving in the IRA. He didn’t bother with that, but walked through to a well-kept grave with a black granite headstone. The inscription was in gold and read: Killed in Action, Volunteer Sean Kelly, Age 19. August 27, 1979. It said other things, too, about a just cause and the IRA love of country, but Justin Talbot ignored them. Only the name and the age of someone he had truly loved meant anything to him. He turned away, close to weeping, and found Jack Kelly standing some little distance away, lighting his briar pipe.
He carried his sixty-nine years well, dark hair streaked with silver now, a face that had weathered intelligen
ce there, also a quiet good humour. He wore a tweed suit and an open-neck shirt and there were good shoulders to him, a man who could handle himself, which wasn’t surprising in someone whose life had been devoted to the IRA.
‘Good to see you back, boy,’ Kelly said. ‘Tim keeps in touch on his mobile. I heard from him you’d been disappearing over the border again to Afghanistan.’
Tim Molloy was his nephew, one of many men in the Kilmartin district who had eagerly accepted the recruitment to Talbot International at good salaries. Tim, for example, was contract manager to the vehicle maintenance side of the business based in Islamabad, servicing civilian convoys to Peshawar and beyond, to the Khyber Pass itself. It was an important and hazardous job.
The truth was that Molloy and the Kilmartin group used their privileged position to off-load arms close to the border to dealers who took them over. Honed by years of experience with the IRA, Molloy’s group of ten men, all mainly in their middle years, formed a tightly knit crew that kept themselves to themselves. No one at Talbot International headquarters had the slightest idea of what was going on, except Justin Talbot.
‘Tim’s a good man, even on the worst of days,’ Talbot said. ‘But he hates me changing my clothes and slipping off over the border to have a look around and visit.’
They had moved to a bench close to Sean’s grave and were sitting. Kelly’s pipe had gone out and he lit it again. ‘He thinks you’re a lunatic going over for a stroll in a place like that — and disguised as a Pathan. He’s convinced that, sooner or later, someone’s going to take a pot shot at you.’
‘God bless Tim, but then he doesn’t know what we do,’ Talbot said.
‘And a burden it is sometimes.’ Kelly looked sombre.
Jack Kelly was the nearest thing to a father Justin Talbot had known, that was the truth of it, and Justin was well aware that in many ways he had stood in for Sean, and not only in Jack’s eyes, but in those of his wife, Hannah, also. The word from Molloy about Talbot’s trips had worried the Kellys, and Jack had raised the matter almost a year before.
It had been at a bad time or a good time, depending how you looked at it, but it was not long after Al Qaeda and the Preacher had invaded Talbot’s life. So, sitting in the study of Talbot Place with Kelly, just the two of them, with whisky taken, Talbot had unburdened himself.
Kelly had been shocked and angry. ‘What the hell were you playing at? Surely you must have seen that once you put your foot on such a road, there could be no turning back?’
‘I got tired of big business. I missed what I had in the army — excitement, action, passion; put it any way you like. It started simple, then it got out of hand.’
‘And Shamrock? Whose bright idea was that?’
‘Mine.’ Talbot shrugged. ‘Okay, a bit stupid, but I certainly wasn’t going to say Major Talbot here, are you receiving me?’
‘You bloody fool,’ Kelly had said.
‘That helps a lot. The thing is, how do I get out of it? You’re the experts, you’ve had thirty-five years of fighting the British Army.’
‘You don’t,’ Kelly said, a certain despair on his face. ‘This is Al Qaeda we’re talking about. You’re too valuable to let go. Even if you could find this anonymous man, the Preacher, and managed to kill him, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. You belong to them. They’ll never let you stop. Your mother knows nothing of this, I hope?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Thank God. She’d never be able to cope.’
‘So I just keep going?’
‘I don’t see what else you can do.’
But all that had been almost a year before, and a lot had happened since then. Sitting there on the bench, Talbot brooded for a while, at a loss for words. It had certainly been a day for disclosure, but of things it would not be a good idea to reveal to anyone else. His service with the SAS and his new Catholic self were matters best left alone.
Kelly said, ‘You’ve got something else on your mind, haven’t you? You might as well spill it.’
Talbot said, ‘Okay, I will. It will take a while to cover everything, but bear with me. You thought I was in a mess, but with the things I’ve done over there — now it’s infinitely worse.’
It took a long time in the telling, almost an hour, because he told Kelly everything right up to Ferguson and Miller flying to Pakistan.
‘So there it is,’ Talbot said. ‘I don’t think I’ve missed anything. What do you think?’
‘That you’re probably a lunatic. You must be to dig yourself in so deep.’
‘Do any of the names mean anything to you?’
‘They certainly do. General Charles Ferguson was in and out of Ulster throughout the Troubles, a thorn in our side.’
‘And these two IRA men? Are they genuine?’
‘You can bet your life on it. Sean Dillon’s a Down man who became a top enforcer and then ended up in a Serb prison some years ago. Ferguson saved him from a firing squad and the payment was that Dillon had to join him.’
‘And Holley?’
‘Half-English. His mother was a Coogan from Crossmaglen. He’s highly regarded by that family. His cousin, Rosaleen, was raped and murdered by four Protestant scumbags. He shot the lot of them.’ He shook his head. ‘He and Dillon are serious business.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know who I am; I’m just a name.’
‘Not to the Taliban who fight with you, and don’t tell me you wear a turban and pull your robes about and wrap a scarf around your face. Some of those men will have seen you.’
‘No Taliban I know would sell me out,’ Talbot told him. ‘If anyone did, they’d hunt him down and feed him to the dogs.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s a bugger.’
‘One of your own making,’ Kelly said.
‘I suppose so. Maybe I have a death wish. Anyway, I suppose I’d better get up to the Place and see what’s what. I mustn’t forget your mail, though.’
He opened his flight bag and took out a stack of letters held together by a rubber band. Kelly took it and said, ‘The ladies will welcome them. They can all call up Peshawar on their mobiles, but everyone loves a letter. The money is just pouring in for them. Some of them don’t know what to do with it.’
‘I’m sure they’ll think of something. How’s Hannah? My mother tells me that the old bastard is worse than he ever was.’
‘We all do our best. I’m sorry for your mother, Justin.’
‘Aren’t we all …? But I’d better be off.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘No, thanks. I could do with the walk. My legs are a bit stiff after the flight.’ He smiled cheerfully, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘I’ll see you later,’ and he picked up his flight bag and walked away.
He had not gone very far, was climbing over a stile, when his mobile sounded. It was the Preacher. ‘Have you arrived?’
‘Yes, I’m just walking up to the house. What is it?’
‘Just keeping you informed. I thought you’d like to know that Ferguson and Miller are now on their way to Peshawar. But don’t worry. I have a very reliable asset in Peshawar. He can be trusted to handle the matter.’
‘Anybody I know?’
‘None of your business. All you need to know is: they may be going there, but I doubt they’ll be coming back. Have a good holiday. You need the rest.’
He switched off and Talbot stood there, thinking for a moment, then continued walking briskly through the estate, past the prized herd of Jersey cows and a particularly fine herd of sheep. He approached the rear courtyard, came to the stables and looked in. It was well-kept, neat and tidy, the stalls swept. He didn’t see a horse. Then there was a clatter of hooves outside and his mother appeared by the open door on a black gelding and dismounted. She was wearing jeans and a sweater.
‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, fine, I saw Jack and delivered the mail.’
She started on the saddle an
d Andy, the stable boy, came out of the kitchen and hurried across. ‘I’ll do that for you, missus, I was just having my tea.’
‘Good man,’ Talbot told him. ‘Give him a rubdown.’ He followed his mother across the yard.
The kitchen was huge and suitably old-fashioned. Hannah Kelly, sorting vegetables by the sink, wiped her hands and came to kiss him.
‘God save us, Justin, you look like an Arab.’
‘I’d rather not,’ he told her. ‘It’s only tan. With the Ulster rain five times a week, it will soon wear off.’
A young girl named Jane was peeling the potatoes and Emily, the cook, was busy at the stove. ‘Hello to everybody,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Why does it always smell so good in here?’ He put an arm around his mother’s waist. ‘Come on, let’s get it over with.’
They went out into the panelled dining room and through to what was called the Great Hall, where an old-fashioned lift stood to one side of a huge staircase rising to a railed gallery above. There was a study, a library, a drawing room, and then, in the centre, a Victorian glass doorway misting over with the heat. Jean Talbot opened it and Justin followed her in.
It was a Victorian jungle, and quite delightful if you liked that sort of thing. Green vines and bushes and exotic flowers everywhere, medium-sized palm trees, the sound of water from a white-and-black tiled fountain; it ended in a circular area with a statue of Venus on a plinth.
Colonel Henry Talbot sat in his wheelchair, wearing a robe, a white towel around his neck. His grey hair was so sparse that, with the sweat, one could imagine he was bald. A brandy decanter was on the ironwork table beside him and a glass that was a quarter full.
Sitting at a cane table on the other side of the circle was Murphy, the nurse. His head was shaven and he resembled a Buddha in a way; the face very calm, very relaxed, as he sat there in a white coat and read a book.
The heat was incredible and Justin said, ‘How can anybody stand this?’
Murphy stood up. ‘Is there anything I can do, Madam?’