Jack Higgins - The Judas gate

'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 and 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?'

'How is he?' she raised her voice so that he could hear.

He came forward. 'A little calmer, I think.'

Colonel Henry turned his head and examined her. 'Who the fuck are you?' he demanded, and glanced at Justin. 'And who's this?'

'It's your grandson, Father,' she said.

The man resembled nothing so much as a ghoul with his hollow cheeks and rheumy eyes, as he glared at Justin, his right hand clutching a blackthorn walking stick. Then something sparked in the eyes.

'The bastard,' he cackled. 'The Protestant bastard.'

'Please, Father,' she started to say, and he tried to strike out at her with the blackthorn. She managed to jump out of the way, and Murphy blocked the blow with his right arm.

'That's it,' Justin said. 'I'm out of here. I'm going to have a shower and change into something comfortable. I sincerely hope that I'm not expected to eat with him, because I won't, I'll have it in the kitchen.' He turned and walked out. Nine-thirty on a weekday night wasn't the busiest time in most London pubs, and the Dark Man on Cable Wharf by the Thames at Wapping was no exception. Harry Salter still had a weakness for the place, for it was where he had started out all those years ago, when he'd realized that more money could be made in business than crime, and you didn't have to constantly run the chance of going down the steps at the Old Bailey for twenty years.

He'd invited everybody round for drinks and supper, Dora's hotpot if they were lucky, and that included Roper. Dillon would be bringing him in the back of the people carrier from Holland Park. Holley got a cab from the Dorchester and arrived just after they did, paid the driver off, then walked to the edge of the wharf and looked across the Thames as a riverboat passed by, ablaze with lights.

He was standing in a place of dark shadows beyond the lights from the pub, and was turning to go, when he saw three young men in track suits jog down from the direction of Wapping High Street. They moved apart, one of them turning into the car park, two of them running along the jetty to where Salter's boat, the Linda Jones, was tied up. A few moments later, the one from the car park emerged and went to join the others as they ran back to join him.

Holley regarded them for a moment and then dismissed them, and went into the Dark Man. The Salters sat in their usual corner booth, with Dillon and Harry's two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, lounging at the bar. Roper sat facing them in his state-of-the-art wheelchair in his favourite reefer coat, his long hair framing the bomb-scarred face.

'Here he is,' Harry said. 'The guy who planned to have us burned down.'

'Well, it didn't work, did it?' Holley said.

'I won't mention it again, old son. Bygones are bygones as far as I'm concerned. What will it be?'