Jack Higgins - The Judas gate

Lacey turned to Ferguson. 'We'll get a full engine check and refuel, sir. We'll be ready to move on whenever you like.'

'Very good.' Ferguson turned to Salim. 'Ready when you are, Captain. Customs, immigration, security.

Salim picked up his bag. 'Good God, no.' He smiled. 'Diplomatic privilege. If you could manage your bag, Major Miller.'

He walked across the tarmac to a gate between hangars. The two soldiers waiting patiently were Military Police Sergeants in crisp khaki uniforms, both bearded and wearing scarlet turbans.

'I must say they look perfectly splendid,' Ferguson said. 'They certainly look imposing.'

'Our own version of a British Army redcap,' Salim said. 'It's supposed to intimidate the tribesmen. Colonel Atep insisted on trying it out. Sergeants Said and Nasser.'

The two men saluted, picked up the bags, walked out of the gate into the parking area and approached an armoured vehicle. There were three banks of seats. A canvas roof rolled back to cover the rear two, which was necessary because of the general-purpose machine gun mounted on the front beside the driver. It was painted in a wavy khaki pattern, a sort of desert camouflage.

'What is this?' Ferguson asked.

'A Sultan armoured reconnaissance car.' It was Miller who answered. 'Where did you get it?'

'The Russians left more than a few lying around when they left Afghanistan. We got hold of what we could. The armour is stronger than it looks. It gives some sort of protection against improvised explosive devices. A damn sight more than a Jeep or a Land Rover gets.'

The luggage was stacked at the back, Ferguson and Miller took the rear seat, the Captain the second, half turning towards them so they could talk. Said sat at the gun and Nasser took the wheel and drove away.

'Nothing like I imagined, Peshawar,' Ferguson observed. 'Far bigger.'

'It used to be about five hundred and fifty thousand people,' Salim said, 'but it's more now. Lots of refugees from the tribal areas.'

The congestion in the streets was incredible. Every kind of vehicle – from ageing taxis to motor rickshaws, mopeds and light motorcyles, sometimes with two passengers on the pillion seat, hanging on to each other and the driver – thronged the road. Hundreds of people on bicycles weaved between market stalls, mounting pavements where there was one. The military and police presence was very visible.

Salim said, 'There's a war out there, and not just over the border in Afghanistan, but in the tribal areas. This is a military city now. It has to be. We can't say the barbarians are at the gates, but real trouble waits out there. If you and the Americans lose to the Taliban, God help my country.'

'I think you have a point,' Ferguson said.

The Captain nodded. 'Military Police Headquarters coming up, General.' The Sultan swung in between sentries guarding a wide double gate, drove towards an imposing three-storeyed building with a red-tiled roof and a pillared front door that looked as if it might have been a relic of Empire. Ferguson and Miller got out and stood looking at it.

'I know,' Salim said. 'It used to be quite impressive. This way, gentlemen.' Colonel Ahmed Atep was sitting behind his desk examining some papers and managing to look busy, when Selim ushered them into the office. He jumped to his feet, came round the table and shook hands.

'General Ferguson, Major Miller. What an honour. Be seated, please. Perhaps you would care for some tea?'

'A kind thought, but after such a long flight, the prospect of a shower and a good hotel have quite a pull,' Ferguson said. 'Especially breakfast.'

'Of course, but sit down for a moment. I shan't keep you long. First, I've allocated Captain Abu Salim to take care of you during your visit. One of my finest young officers. A Sandhurst man.'

Salim managed a modest look and Ferguson said, 'So we have something in common.' He carried on, 'This is only a flying visit, Colonel. A day, two at the most, then we'll carry on to Islamabad.'

Which wasn't true, but Atep appeared to accept it. 'You wish to visit the Afghan border area, I believe?'

'Certainly. In London, we hear all sorts of stories about arms-smuggling, obviously to the benefit of the Taliban.'

'Grossly exaggerated,' Atep said. 'We have had considerable success in stemming that flow.'

'And people?' Miller queried. 'Passing over illegally to offer their services to the Taliban? We have evidence that British Muslims are engaged in the fighting over there.'

'Newspaper stories, rumour. If such individuals exist, they will be very few.'

Ferguson decided to take a chance. 'Does the name "Shamrock" mean anything to you?'

Atep managed to keep a straight face. 'No – should it?' He turned to Salim. 'What about you?'

Salim shook his head and answered, 'No, I've never heard the name before.'

'It seems we can't help,' Atep said. 'But I understand you wish to speak with two men called Dak Khan and Jose Fernandez?'

'That's right,' Ferguson told him, without elaborating.

Colonel Atep picked up a flimsy. 'Fernandez has been called to Lahore. His mother is a Muslim and is ill. Cancer, I understand.'

Ferguson said, 'And Dak Khan?'

'Captain Salim will see to that for you, just as he will also see you to your hotel. He is yours to command, General. Look on him as your military aide for the duration of your visit.'

'Most kind, Colonel,' Ferguson told him, and turned. Then Salim ushered them out. They got into the Sultan, and Salim said to Sergeant Nasser, 'The Palace.' As they drove out of the gate, he said, 'An old, old hotel from the days of the Raj. For years it was called the Indian Palace, but as local people always called it just the Palace, it was easy to make it official. The manager is simply known as Ali Hamid to everyone. It is on the edge of town, by the river.'

'It sounds like just the thing,' Ferguson said. 'How long have you been in the army, Captain?'

'I did one year at university, applied for the army at nineteen, and was accepted at Sandhurst. I am twenty-seven.' He half turned to Miller. 'We have met before, Major. Your lectures on counter-terrorism were hugely appreciated by all of us.'

'That is good to know.' Miller shook his hand.

'The matter I raised with Colonel Atep, the question of British Muslims serving with the Taliban? Colonel Atep dismissed it as newspaper stories,' Ferguson said, 'and of little account. I know it's unfair to expect you to contradict your commanding officer.'

'In this case, it's easy,' Salim said. 'No disrespect to the Colonel, but we hear the reports often.'

'And the name Shamrock?' Miller asked. 'You said it meant nothing to you.'

'And it doesn't, apart from the fact that it's the Irish national emblem.'

But at that moment, they arrived at the entrance to a wonderful old Colonial-style building surrounded by a high wall. They turned in through the arched entrance and drove along through an enchanting garden to a wide terrace where a double door stood open. The man standing there waiting to greet them was large and imposing. His iron-grey hair was tied in a ponytail and his beard reached his chest. He wore a black ankle-length cotton kaftan.

They went up the steps and he salaamed, his hand touching his forehead. 'Gentlemen, I am Ali Hamid. Welcome. My house is yours.' An hour later, after being shown to their rooms, unpacking, showering and changing, Ferguson and Miller went downstairs, and were directed to a back terrace with a fine view over the river, where they found no difficulty in ordering a full English breakfast.

Abu Salim came in as they were eating. 'Are you going to have something?' Ferguson asked.

'I already have, while you were upstairs. I've been talking to the Orderly Sergeant in my office to make sure he can cope while I'm dealing with you gentlemen.' The waiter approached and he ordered tea. 'We were side-tracked after you asked me about Shamrock.'