Jack Higgins - The Judas gate

'Badly wounded and dying, according to this Fatima girl.'

'She's a strange one, but that's what she said.' Miller was repeating himself now. 'Dillon shot him in the side and the bullet went straight through.'

'And he's making a flight to we don't know where, which could take hours. He's committing suicide.'

'Well, that's the story and it's obviously not finished yet.'

'It's incredible. You've certainly had an extraordinary outing this time. God knows what Ferguson will make of it.'

'He'll be over the moon about one thing. We now know who the Preacher is. Imagine, a Professor of International Law at the London School of Economics, and he's moonlighting for Al Qaeda in London.'

'If you wrote it up, nobody would believe it,' Roper said.

'I would: my father knew Kim Philby at Cambridge,' Miller told him. 'Anything been happening while we've been away?'

'There hasn't been time, Harry. You've hardly been away. Take it easy. I'll see you soon.'

By the time the Citation X was winging its way across Spain to the Bay of Biscay, Chuck Alan was beginning to worry. When Justin Talbot had returned to the plane at Fasa, he had seemed very hyper and full of nervous energy. He'd insisted on taking the controls on take-off and only handed over during the second hour when Chuck had suggested the autopilot.

'Excellent idea,' Justin said. 'I don't think I had a wink of sleep while I was away. I'll get my head down.'

Two hours later, when Alan checked him, he was still asleep, his forehead damp, so Alan returned to the cockpit, consider ably concerned.

At the same time, the Preacher, having heard nothing from Hakim and no response when he tried to call him, contacted Hamza.

'What's happened to Hakim? I don't seem to be able to contact him.'

'Well, you wouldn't,' Hamza said. 'He's dead. In fact, his people are all dead. Dillon and his friends don't take prisoners.'

'Merciful Allah! And Shamrock?'

'Where did you find that guy, the Arabian Nights? He was really something in his Tuareg robes. God knows what he was here for. He only managed to shoot one person, and that was Hakim by mistake. Dillon shot him in return.'

'Are you saying he's dead?'

'No, badly wounded, but fit enough to have flown back out of this cesspool. My daughter did her best for him with his medical kit.'

'So he's going to be all right?'

'Not according to her. She thinks he's a goner and she's usually right about things like that. Where did you get my mobile number from?'

'Hakim.'

'Well, don't call again. I'm not afraid of Al Qaeda, and neither is anyone else that I know around here. After this cock-up, your new motto should be: Stay out of the Khufra.'

He cut off and Shah sat there thinking about it, and then called Talbot, who came awake with a start, the phone ringing in his breast pocket.

'Hamza's told me everything. What a debacle, and not helped by you indulging in your usual theatricals. So you've managed to get yourself shot?'

'Yes, and I don't exactly feel at my best. When I hit Belfast, I should book in at the Seaton – when it comes to gunshot wounds, Belfast hospitals are the best in the world; the Troubles gave them forty years' practice – but I don't know. They'll report me. What's the point in that?'

And Shah, angry and immensely irritated, said, 'You bloody fool, you're dying. Hamza's daughter said so.'

'Did she? Well, there you are then. She was a nice girl. You know your trouble, Preacher? You don't listen. I told you Dillon and his friends were hell on wheels, but you wouldn't have it. Your stupidity has ruined everything.'

'My stupidity?' Shah said. 'Damn you to hell, Talbot. I'll destroy you.'

'If I'm dying, it won't make any difference, so why don't you go fuck yourself?' Justin told him and cut off.

In his study at Bell Street, sitting behind the desk, Hassan Shah quite suddenly felt utterly helpless for the first time in years. Everything was slipping away from him. The consequences of the fiasco in the Khufra would undoubtedly affect his position in Al Qaeda when word reached Osama bin Laden. Once, he'd had the power to ruin Justin Talbot by just reaching for a telephone and making an anonymous call to any major newspaper, but that was no threat to a dying man. He frowned suddenly as a thought struck him: As long as he did die, of course. Roper informed Ferguson of everything while the Falcon was still on its way, and Ferguson was astounded. 'This is one of the most sensational coups in the history of my department.'

'Do you envisage repercussions, General?'

'No. Algeria is not well-disposed towards Al Qaeda, and Hakim was notorious for his deeply secret covert operations where no questions were ever asked. I think this will simply be regarded as one that went badly wrong and in one of the worst places in the country. The whisper of an Al Qaeda connection will kill it stone dead. It never happened, Major.'

'Tell that to Shamrock, flying off into the blue with Dillon's bullet in him.'

'And dying, if that young woman is right,' Ferguson added thoughtfully.

'Which leaves us with Professor Hassan Shah,' Roper told him. 'What's to be done there? Do we arrest him?'

'Not at the moment. We know how badly things have gone wrong – and so will he by now. Al Qaeda's tentacles spread far. Call in Billy right now. Tell him he's to stick to Shah like glue.'

'Should I put out a red code travel restriction so he can't leave the country?'

'No. I'll rely on Billy, and also Shah's confidence in his social and governmental position.' Ferguson shook his head. 'You know what really gets to me? He's the kind of eminent lawyer you would have expected to get a life peerage.'

'I see your point, General. I suppose he'll have to make do with a thirty-year sentence for high treason instead.'

'Exactly,' Ferguson said. 'But give Billy his orders now.'

The Citation X landed at Belfast City just after noon, Chuck Alan sitting alone in the cockpit. He parked as instructed, went in the cabin and opened the door. He found Justin dozing. He shook his shoulder lightly and Justin's eyes opened. He seemed puzzled for a moment, as if unaware of where he was, and the sweat on his forehead was more obvious.

He smiled suddenly, 'Hi, old buddy, are we there?'

'Belfast City,' Alan said. 'You don't look too good.'

Justin sat up, reached for a napkin and wiped his face. 'I'm good, Chuck, just fine.' He reached in the rucksack, found the medical kit and the morphine pack. He extracted a phial and jabbed it in his left arm.

'What in the hell are you doing?' Chuck Alan demanded. 'What's going on, boss?'

'Morphine's going in, Chuck, it kills the pain, which is good if you've been shot, which I was back in that stinking marsh.' Justin was obviously light-headed now.

'Look, I don't know what I've been involved with or what happened back there this morning. I don't think I've heard machine gun fire like it since Iraq, but I think you should probably be in the hospital.'

A man in ground-crew overalls peered in. 'We've brought your Mercedes from the VIP car park Major Talbot. They presumed you needed it.'

'Well, that's damned nice of them.' Justin picked up his rucksack with his right hand and said to Alan, 'You should be at Frensham.'

Justin went down the steps carefully, like a drunk, and walked to the Mercedes, where the ground-crew man held the driver's door open for him. He put the rucksack on the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, switched on the engine and lowered the window.

'Bon voyage, old buddy, happy landings.' He drove away, was waved through security without a search, smiling and calling hello to various officials who knew him well. A few minutes later and he was part of the busy city traffic of Belfast. Chuck had to hang on for another hour for his departure slot, and waited in the private lounge, drinking black coffee and going over it all in his mind. He finally did the right thing and called the house number he'd been given for Talbot Place. A man's voice answered.