The Judas Gate (17 page)

It was the Preacher, and Talbot nodded to Kelly, a finger to his mouth, and put his mobile on speaker. ‘I presume the funeral passed without incident?’ the Preacher said.

‘Perfectly, but this is Ireland and people expect a wake,’ Talbot told him. ‘Half the villagers are still here enjoying themselves.’

‘I’m glad someone is happy,’ the Preacher said.

‘What’s happened?’ Talbot asked.

‘Ferguson and Miller were enticed into a trip to the border area by an illegal gun runner named Dak Khan, on the promise of meeting Shamrock.’

‘Where an ambush was waiting, I presume? Did something go wrong?’

‘My information is sketchy. Apparently Khan and his people were all disposed of.’

‘Could we have it in plain language? Khan and his people have ended up dead and Ferguson and Miller were responsible?’

‘So it would appear.’

‘Well, good for Ferguson: there’s life in the old dog yet. He is, after all, a Grenadier. All I can say is your asset needs changing. He’s obviously hopeless.’

‘He’s dead, too,’ Hassan Shah said. ‘A car bomb.’

‘Not Ferguson, that one.’ Justin Talbot shook his head. ‘Not his style. I’m sure your man had plenty of enemies. Well, at least that means you don’t have to get rid of him yourself now.’

‘Al Qaeda will punish his killers as they deserve, and the same will happen to Ferguson and his people. I wouldn’t be so cavalier, Talbot. The fact that they’re persisting in the search for Shamrock means that they are your problem, too.’

‘Well, I’ve had other things on my mind. For the moment, you’ll have to manage without me.’

He switched off and Kelly said, ‘You’re not going to share the Mickeen Oge Flynn problem with him then?’

‘Am I, hell. Now, let’s have the drink.’ He went to the bar and poured whiskey.

Kelly took the glass offered. ‘I remember in the old days when I was on the Army Council, Charles Ferguson was top of the list of people you didn’t get involved with if you could avoid it.’

‘Now you know why.’ Justin emptied his glass. ‘It’s been a long day. Let’s see if we can ease everyone out.’ He pulled back the bolt and led the way into the Great Hall.

There was silence, and then Jean Talbot moved in through the curtains. Seeking her son earlier and finding the study door bolted, curiosity had sent her round to the terrace. She’d
halted at the study’s French windows, partially covered by a half-drawn curtain, aware of the murmur of voices. The window was never locked. She’d eased the handle and opened it just enough to hear everything that was being said, and none of it made her happy. And she had not the slightest idea what to do about it.

Dillon, Roper and Holley were about to set out to dinner, when Dillon’s mobile sounded.

‘Switch it off, for Christ’s sake,’ Roper said.

But it was too late, for Dillon, already answering, heard the unmistakable Ulster tones of a young woman saying, ‘Would that be Mr Sean Dillon, of Stable Mews, Mayfair, London?’

He slipped back into the accent of his childhood. ‘It is indeed, my love.’

‘I’m calling from Belfast, Mr Dillon. I’m Sergeant Eileen Flanagan, Police Service of Northern Ireland.’

‘And what can I be doing for you?’

‘An old gentleman called Mickeen Oge Flynn has been admitted to Seaton Hospital, and a search in his wallet has discovered a next-of-kin card.’

Dillon was all attention. ‘Mickeen is my uncle. I’m his only relative. Has he had a heart attack or something?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that. I’m not supposed to go into clinical details. If you phone the hospital, they’ll be able to answer your questions.’

‘For the love of God, girl, can’t you tell me more? Is it serious?’

‘All right, but don’t get me into trouble. He was working under a motor car and it fell on him. He was discovered by his mechanic, one Patrick O’Rourke. The air ambulance service brought him to the Seaton Hospital in Belfast. I understand it doesn’t look good, but, really, you’ll have to talk to the hospital about that. I have Patrick O’Rourke’s mobile phone number, would you like it?’

‘Yes, I would.’ Dillon went to Roper’s desk and found a pen and she dictated the number to him.

‘Will you be coming?’ she said.

‘Definitely. God bless you.’

The others waited expectantly and he told them the worst. He said to Roper, ‘If you could get Seaton Hospital online and find me the right person to speak to, I’d appreciate it.’

‘I’ll get right on to it,’ Roper said. ‘You do intend to go over there?’

‘As fast as I can, so we’ll need to check out flights from Heathrow.’

‘No, you won’t,’ Holley said. ‘I’ll fly you myself.’

‘Are you sure?’ Dillon said.

‘Of course, and I’m coming with you. I was at Queen’s University in Belfast more years ago than I care to remember. It will be interesting to go back.’

Dillon said to Roper, ‘Make sure we’re allowed to land at Belfast City Airport by the docks.’

Holley cut in. ‘And book us a suite at the Europa.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘Let’s get going.’

* * *

Roper managed to get the flight classified as a Ministry of Defence priority, so everything worked perfectly, including the landing at Belfast. As a result, it was only ten-thirty when they reached the hospital and were directed to the neurological unit. At that time of night, it was fairly quiet, the corridors empty except for the occasional nurse.

The reception area was on the third floor. There were chairs, a vending machine for drinks, magazines, and an ageing woman with grey hair behind the desk. She smiled pleasantly as they approached.

‘We don’t often get visitors this late, so I suspect you’ll be the gentlemen from London for Mr Flynn. We were told you were on your way. Dillon and Holley, isn’t it? I’ve issued you with identity tags. Please put them on. It’s regulations.’

‘How is my uncle?’ Dillon asked.

‘I’m not allowed to give out that information. All I can say is that he’s had major surgery and that Mr Frank Jordan performed the operation himself. He’s a truly wonderful surgeon, so your uncle is in good hands.’

‘Can we see him?’ Dillon asked, meaning Mickeen.

‘The surgeon? Oh, yes, he’s come in especially.’

At that moment, the man himself came down the corridor. He seemed about sixty, with a well-used face and a shock of grey hair. He wore the standard white coat, a stethoscope sticking out of one pocket.

Dillon stood and held out his hand. ‘Sean Dillon and my friend, Daniel Holley. I’m Mickeen’s nephew.’

‘Let’s sit down and talk.’ Jordan turned to the receptionist.
‘Tea for three, Molly. Make it using your own kettle behind the desk there. I hate that bloody machine.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ she said.

‘So how bad is it?’ Dillon asked as they sat.

‘I’m a plain man, Mr Dillon, and I always prefer to tell the truth, or at least as I see it. It’s as bad as it could be. His left arm is broken – it was obviously raised as the vehicle collapsed – and there’s a flesh wound on the right, but those aren’t the problems. It’s the head injuries. He has skull fractures of the utmost severity.’

‘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.’