Jack Higgins - The Judas gate

'And brain damage?' Dillon said.

'Yes, lacerations to a certain degree. We've worked on him for four hours, and put in a titanium plate in one area.'

Molly had produced the tea, put the tray on a table beside them and poured. Dillon asked, 'What kind of chance does he have, a man of his age who's drunk a pint of whiskey every day of his life?'

'He could die five minutes from now, but head trauma is a strange business. Patients can hang in there for weeks.' Jordan was drinking his tea.

'Is that normal?' Holley asked.

'There's no such thing as normal in a case like this. I've had many patients over the years who continue to sleep.'

'You mean they don't revive at all?' Dillon asked.

'It's been known to last for months, and when the patient comes to, they've been in dream-time. Usually they've completely lost their memory.'

Dillon nodded. 'Can we see him?'

'Only through the door. Come with me.'

The private room was at the very end of the corridor. There was a square observation window in the door. Mickeen resembled a mummy, with all his bandages. He was festooned with bottles and tubes, electronic machines bleeping away. A man in a white coat sat in the corner reading a book.

'Who's he?' Dillon asked.

'The night nurse. With such a serious matter, Mr Flynn will continue to have one at his side in case of emergencies.'

Holley said, 'There's nothing for you here, Sean. Let's go and book in at the hotel.'

They paused before walking back to reception and Jordan said, 'I understand you're based in London, so seeing him on a regular basis would be difficult. There's not much you could do anyway, though, even if you came in every day.'

Dillon shook hands. 'You're right. But what if I moved him to London?'

Jordan paused. 'I think he'd be all right, but that would require a private air ambulance; it'd cost many thousands of pounds.'

Holley said, 'We've got that kind of money.'

Jordan frowned. 'Just who are you people?'

Dillon produced his MI5 warrant card. 'You look a decent sort of man, so I'm going to take a chance. We work for a special security outfit on behalf of the Prime Minister, and we have a private hospital called Rosedene in Holland Park, small but superbly equipped. It takes care of people damaged in our line of work. It's run by a Professor Charles Bellamy. He's put me together a few times.'

'But I know him,' Jordan said. 'We were colleagues at Guy's Hospital in London for years.'

'Give me your card and I'll have him contact you and make the arrangements. You are sure Mickeen can be moved?'

'Oh, yes, in an air ambulance, but, as I say, it will cost you.' He produced his card and said, 'My private mobile number. I'm used to being wakened at all hours, so your people can call me any time. All I need is the right authorization. Take care, gentlemen.' Jordan walked away.

'A good man, that one,' Dillon said.

'I agree. Now, if you don't mind me bringing up mundane matters, can I remind you we haven't had any dinner?'

'At this time of night, they'll call it supper,' Dillon said, as they arrived back in reception.

Holley thanked the receptionist for the tea. 'Will you be wanting a taxi?' she asked.

'We have one waiting. Come on, Sean,' and they walked down to the lift.

It was quiet again, not a soul about. Molly took a mobile from her handbag and dialled a number and said to the man who answered, 'Is that you, Mr Carson? It's Molly. We've just had two visitors from London to see Flynn, a Sean Dillon and a Daniel Holley.'

'Did they see Jordan?' Brian Carson asked.

'They've just left after a long chat. I heard everything.'

Which she hadn't, of course, for the conversation concerning the possibility of transferring Mickeen to London in the air ambulance had taken place outside his room at the other end of the corridor.

'So what did the doctor have to say?'

'That they'd operated for four hours and there's brain damage. It's the kind of situation where if he died five minutes from now, no one would be surprised. On the other hand, he's not just unconscious, he's in a coma, and he could stay like that for ages. Nobody knows how long, but Mr Jordan said that when such people do awake, they've often lost their memory.'

'Well, dying would be better, but the situation could be worse. My friends will have to accept how things are.'

'They came in a private jet. They must be big operators.'

'That's an understatement. If I told you they were both Provos in their day, would it surprise you? Hell on wheels, those two.'

'Holy Mother of God,' she said.

'You've done well, Molly, it will be noted. Goodnight to you.' Justin Talbot was sitting in a wing-backed chair on a dais in his mother's studio. He wore an open-necked black shirt and black velvet cord trousers, his arms folded, hair tousled. He'd been there an hour while his mother worked on a new portrait. She was standing at her easel, only a few feet away in her paint-stained smock, a palette in one hand, a brush in the other.

'For God's sake, how much longer? It's been an hour already.'

'It's difficult, love,' she said. 'I can't get exactly the expression I want.'

His mobile trembled in his breast pocket. He answered it and Kelly said, 'Are you alone?'

'Just a minute.' Justin got up. 'I've got to answer this.'

'Really, Justin.' She was annoyed.

The studio was above the east end of the stable. There was an exit door that opened on to a metal platform and stairs down to the cobbled yard. He closed the door behind him. Jean went to the sink in the corner and pretended to be cleaning brushes as she pushed the window open enough to hear him. Not that she learned much, except that he was angry.

Kelly, having told him everything Carson had to say, said, 'It could be worse.'

'Come on, Jack,' Justin said. 'The little bugger might decide to wake up at any time.'

'So what do you suggest?'

'Couldn't your people get someone to pull the plug on him? That would take care of the whole damn business.'

'Very risky. Let's just wait and see for the moment.'

'All right, but nothing'd better go wrong, you hear me?' He switched off in exasperation.

Jean was back at her portrait in an instant. 'Bad news, darling?'

'No, just a problem with the farm. Look, can't we call it a day? I'm tired.'

He was angry and mutinous. She laughed. 'That's the expression I'm after: it's absolutely perfect. Just another half-hour, darling.' Dillon called Roper and explained the situation to him.

'I can't believe what I'm hearing,' he said, when Dillon was finished. 'Ferguson will have a fit. He gave you explicit instructions not to go to Ireland at the moment, and that ambulance plane will cost a fortune.'

'It was a bloody emergency,' Dillon said.

Holley boomed in. 'And I've already said I'll pay for the damn thing.'

'So forget Ferguson,' Dillon said. 'Will you kindly take Frank Jordan's mobile number, call and make the arrangements? Next, contact Professor Charles Bellamy at Rosedene. Make everything a matter of extreme urgency, so that by the time Ferguson arrives, it's a done deal.'

'All right, I'll get on to it, but only because I can't wait to see Ferguson's reaction when he finds out. Presumably you're coming back in the morning?'

'We'll see. For the moment, all we're interested in is some supper. Take care, Roper.' The two-bedroom suite at the Europa Hotel had a dining room, and Dillon and Holley ordered room service – a lobster salad apiece, new potatoes, cabbage with bacon – and drank ice-cold non-vintage Krug champagne. It was touching midnight when the waiter reappeared and cleared.

'What time is Ferguson's Gulfstream getting in?' Holley asked.

'I don't know and I don't care,' Dillon said.