The Judas Gate

‘I use it in my lectures at Sandhurst as an example of a classic guerrilla ambush brilliantly executed,’ Miller told him.

Ferguson said, ‘It was probably the worst incident in terms of casualties in the whole of the Troubles. Eighteen men dead and more than twenty wounded.’

‘So where are you going with this?’ the President asked.

Miller took a map from his briefcase and unfolded it. ‘Afghanistan, Helmand province. See the road running up to the mountains in the north, the small village of Mirbat and the deep lake beside it? The village is in ruins, the people have moved on. A convoy loaded with technicians and electronic equipment needed to get through to the dam at the head of the valley to repair the hydroelectric system that the Taliban had damaged. Two six-wheel Mastiff armoured patrol vehicles led the way. Besides the drivers, there were twelve Rangers. When they got to Mirbat they found it deserted, got out to explore, and a massive roadside bomb killed six of them instantly and wounded others.’

The President said, ‘What next?’

‘The remaining Rangers came under sniper fire from across the lake. A Chinook helicopter with an instant response medical team happened to be close by, Brits as a matter of fact. They reached Mirbat in fifteen minutes and landed. As the medics jumped out, a second roadside bomb was activated and the helicopter fireballed.’ Miller shrugged. ‘The firing stopped, the Taliban cleared off. In all, there were twenty personnel involved. The entire Chinook team were slaughtered, and ten Rangers. Two Rangers survived, along with the driver.’

‘Sixteen dead,’ the President said grimly.

Ferguson said, ‘Shocking, isn’t it? Even more so to listen to.’

‘Listen to? You mean, this is one of the things your Major Roper picked up? With the British voices?’

‘Yes. Voices calling to each other in the fog of battle, the death of men, the triumph of the victor,’ Ferguson told him. ‘The Taliban force could have been as many as thirty. The experts estimate about fifteen were British.’ He removed a cassette from his pocket.

The President took it and said, ‘Clancy, would you put this on? We might as well hear the worst.’

The material had been enhanced and edited. Some of the voices were speaking Pushtu and there was an occasional call in Arabic, but English prevailed and the different regional accents were clear. For a while, there was a lot of crosstalk, and then someone cut in with real authority.

‘Shamrock here. Cut all this stupid chatter and assume your positions. Mastiffs are on the way. The soldiers in them are American Rangers. They’re good, so wait for the bomb to explode before firing. Anyone who jumps the gun gets a bullet through the kneecap from me afterwards.’

There was a certain amount of wild laughter, and then an American voice cut in. ‘Calling convoy. Ranger One. Coming into Mirbat now. Looks pretty quiet to me, but we’ll see.’

Shortly afterwards, the first explosion was followed by gunfire, voices calling excitedly, screams, the sound of AK47s firing. Then a sudden silence.

Miller said, ‘Major Roper’s cut straight to the Chinook arriving.’

The pause ended; there was the noise of the Chinook coming in and then the second explosion, deafening in its intensity, followed by further gunfire and then the voice again, loud and clear.

‘Shamrock here. Cease firing. You’ve done well, you bastards. What a spectacular. Warrenpoint all over again and it worked big time. Osama will be delighted. Now let’s get out of here before the heavy brigade arrives. You can rest in peace now, Sean. Night bless.’

There was suddenly only the machine whirring. Clancy said, ‘Is that it?’

‘It sure as hell was enough,’ the President said, his face sombre. ‘Why haven’t I heard of this before, Blake?’

‘It only happened nine days ago, Mr President. You were in Mexico for two days, then that courtesy call in Panama, and then the Libyan business.’

‘That’s what I’m elected for. This is bad.’

‘Yes, but Major General Ferguson thought you should hear this personally. This has been the first opportunity.’

‘You’re right, of course.’ The President took a deep breath. ‘We’re grateful to you, General. Now this leader of the pack, this Shamrock. What do you know about him?’

Ferguson said, ‘Our voice experts say he’s educated, likely the product of a top public school.’

‘And a trained soldier?’

‘I’d say so,’ Ferguson said.

‘Which means the British Army,’ Dillon said, ‘and he has Irish roots of some sort.’

‘How can you be certain?’ the President asked.

‘The code name he’s chosen, Shamrock. What could be more Irish than that? Then there was his joy over the success of the Mirbat ambush, and his comparing it to the Warrenpoint spectacular of so many years ago. Also, his threat to shoot anyone who misbehaved through the kneecap—that’s a ritual punishment in the IRA since time immemorial. Finally, this rest-in-peace prayer to someone called Sean.’

‘Surely that’s a common enough name in Ireland?’

‘It certainly is,’ Dillon smiled. ‘A good Irish name which in Northern Ireland would label you as a Catholic instantly.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr Dillon. Most enlightening.’ The President stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I’m very grateful, and you’ve given me a lot to think about. General, I know the White House has owed you and your people a debt on many previous occasions. Keep Blake informed of your progress and let me know if there is anything I can do.’

‘We’re grateful for you finding a moment to see us,’ Ferguson told him. ‘We live in trying times, but we’ll pull through, I’m sure of it.’

‘God willing.’ The President shook hands with the three of them, Dillon last, and said, ‘You really believe you can hunt this man, this Shamrock, down, don’t you, Mr Dillon?’

‘Absolutely, Mr President.’

The President smiled. ‘You are a remarkable man, my friend. Don’t let me down.’

‘My oath on it, sir.’ He held the President’s hand a moment longer, then turned and followed the others as Blake ushered them out.

Late the next morning, Ferguson’s Gulfstream, his regular RAF pilots, Lacey and Parry, at the controls, rose to thirty thousand feet, climbing high over the Atlantic. After a while, Parry looked into the cabin.

‘There’s some problematic weather in the mid-Atlantic. A question of how heavy the winds are.’

‘I’d have said perfectly acceptable if they’re flying up your backside,’ Dillon told him.

‘Right as usual, Dillon, which means our flight time will be cut to about six hours if we’re lucky. Anyone like anything to eat or drink?’

‘Thank you, no, Flight Lieutenant,’ Ferguson told him, and Parry withdrew.

Miller said, ‘You certainly impressed the President, Sean.’

‘I only told the man what I thought he’d want to hear.’

‘Rash promises as usual,’ Ferguson put in. ‘Shamrock could be anybody.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ Dillon told him. ‘Everyone is a somebody, and I intend to find him, one way or another. In fact, I’m so certain, I’ll have a drink on it.’

‘Not me,’ Ferguson told him, and unfolded the quilt beside his seat. ‘I’m going to take a nap. I’ll have to see the Prime Minister tomorrow. If you want to make yourself useful, Harry, call in to Roper and tell him what happened.’

He switched off his light and pulled up the quilt.

At the Holland Park safe house in London, Major Giles Roper sat in a track suit in his wheelchair, his shoulder-length hair tied with a ribbon, pulling it back from his bomb-ravaged face, as he listened to Harry Miller describe the visit to the White House. Roper lit a cigarette and poured a whisky as he listened.