The Judas Gate Read Free

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?’
    ‘I’m not sure. The rumours of British-born Muslims fighting for the Taliban are now confirmed. What the government can do about it is another matter.’
    ‘Not very much, I imagine. The government is wary about stirring things up with the Muslim population.’
    ‘So we’ll all go to hell in a handcart together,’ Harry Miller told him. ‘But first, what do we do about Shamrock?’
    ‘That’s a different matter,’ Dillon put in from the plane, ‘and quite simple. We find him quickly, shoot him, and pass him over to the disposal men.’
    ‘Ah, if only life were that easy,’ Roper said.
    ‘We know a lot about him already. The clues are there,’ Dillon said. ‘He obviously has military experience.’
    ‘So what are you going to do? Go to the army list and pore over thousands of names going back ten, twenty or even thirty years? What would you be looking for?’
    ‘You’re right, but I won’t be doing that. I’ve a strong feeling that going back to the scene of the crime might be the way.’
    ‘To Mirbat?’ Roper was aghast. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Sean. If the Taliban got you, they’d feed you to the dogs.’
    ‘I’m sure they would, but I was thinking of Warrenpoint. I have a feeling that there might be some answer for me there. I was born in County Down myself, you know, at Collyban, no more than a dozen miles from the area.’
    Ferguson’s voice was muffled by the quilt as he said, ‘You are not going anywhere near County Down, and that’s an order, so shut up and stop disturbing me.’
    ‘I hear and obey, oh great one.’ Dillon switched off the telephone. ‘Sorry, Harry.’
    Ferguson