The Judas Gate

‘A good point. You’ve got extra credentials, though. You’re joint owner of one of the biggest shipping firms out of Algiers, with Algerian nationality, and—thanks to that diplomatic passport from their Foreign Minister—you get waved through security at airports all over the world.’

‘It’s even better when I fly privately,’ Holley told him. ‘I get diplomatic immunity.’

‘I’m so happy for you,’ Roper teased. ‘So Ferguson has asked me to send you the full details of the meeting at the Oval Office. I think you’ll find it pretty grim. Will you look?’

‘Of course I will, you daft bastard; I wouldn’t miss it. You’ve got my email address from when we met at the Dorchester. Do the others know about that yet, by the way?’

‘They’ve just been told on the Gulfstream at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Miller was completely pragmatic about it; Dillon was mortified, more than anything else. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark.’

‘Well, that’s just too bloody bad. Send that material and I’ll read it when I get back to the barge. I must go now. I’ve got a business transaction waiting.’

‘Straightforward, I hope?’

‘When I say Albanian, what would you think?’

‘God help you, my friend. Watch your back.’

Holley put his Codex in his pocket, thoroughly stimulated by the entire conversation. Heady stuff. As it started to rain, he ran through the gathering darkness towards Notre Dame, floodlit, incomparably beautiful in the night, and came to Quai de Montebello, illuminated by lamps, where barges were moored together. He boarded his own by a roped gangplank and went below.

The barge’s previous owner had been a well-known fashion designer and it was extremely comfortable: panelled state room with comfortable sofas, shelves of books, a television, a long table in the centre. A small alcove at one end held the computer. The kitchen was opposite, small, but with everything he needed. The sleeping quarters and shower room were at the end of a passage in the bow of the barge.

The computer-linked phone system was flashing, so he took a half-full bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured a glass, pressed a replay button and quickly found himself talking to Hamid Malik at the villa in Algiers.

‘I was worried,’ Malik said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Not much. The meeting with Ali Kupu is on. Eleven o’clock, about fifteen minutes from here.’

‘So late?’ Malik sighed. ‘I don’t know, Daniel. Do we really have to deal with people like Ali Kupu still? These Albanians are pigs. Bastards of the first order. Completely untrustworthy. Most of them would sell their sisters on the streets.’

‘A great many do,’ Holley said. ‘Since we spoke, I had another message from him. He wanted to change our meeting to Havar. Can you believe that?’

‘But that’s in Kosovo, close to the Bulgarian border. You couldn’t even consider it!’

‘Of course not, especially when you remember what happened the last time I did business there.’ Holley had been betrayed to the Russians and ended up with a life sentence at the Lubyanka Prison. It was only by luck that Vladimir Putin, searching for someone to make mischief against General Ferguson and his people in London, had heard about him and pulled him out of his cell.

‘But in the end, everything’s turned out for the best, my friend,’ Malik said. ‘Business couldn’t be better; your rather violent past is no longer held against you. You are not only a millionaire businessman, but a respected diplomat. Don’t spoil it. This Ali Kupu is scum. The arms deal he wants is maybe two hundred thousand dollars. Petty cash. Who needs it?’

‘It’s an easy one,’ Holley told him. ‘Trust me.’ ‘A gangster,’ Malik said. ‘He deals in drugs, violent prostitution. Pah!’

‘But this has nothing to do with any of that. He’s told me the material is for Muslim village defence forces in Kosovo. They aren’t being protected by the central government any longer– and that’s a known fact. AK47s, RPGs plus ammunition—we can meet the order at the Marseilles warehouse, ship it out by air this week, and we’re done.’

‘On condition he pays in advance.’

‘Absolutely. Cash on the nail or he doesn’t get the goods. Don’t worry.’

‘But I do. You’re like a son to me. Finish it quickly and get out of there. You have the Falcon there, don’t you? Thank God I agreed when you suggested we buy it for the firm.’

‘It’s parked at Charles de Gaulle Airport waiting for me. I’ll leave tonight, but I might call in at London before I return home.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Holley hesitated, but decided not to mention the other business. ‘Oh, I fancy a couple of days at the Dorchester after meeting with someone like the Albanian. Maybe I’ll walk up to Shepherd Market, visit your cousin, Selim.’

‘I envy you. I’d enjoy that myself.’

‘I could send the Falcon.’

‘Nonsense. So expensive.’

‘We’re making millions.’

‘Leave me to mind the store. Allah be with you.’

The connection went silent. It was just past nine o’clock, still time to have a quick look at the computer to see if Roper had sent the material. He poured another glass of champagne, sat down and scanned the first page.

It took him twenty minutes to go right through it all, very briefly and far too quickly, but it was enough. ‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘What have we got here and what in the hell is to be done about it?’

And then a strange thing happened. He was aware of an energy; a cold, hard excitement he hadn’t known in years. He called Roper and got him at once.

‘Did you get the material?’ Roper asked.

‘You can tell Ferguson I want to be part of whatever operation you’re putting together. I’ll be in London tomorrow,’ he said, and hung up.

At Holland Park, Roper sat there in silence. ‘Good God,’ he said softly. ‘What a turn-up for the books.’

He debated whether to put the news directly through to the Gulfstream, but decided against it. Such good news could keep. He brought Warrenpoint up on the screen and started to go through everything again.

Holley had a quick shower, thinking of what lay ahead. Kupu was a dangerously violent man who had killed many times, but he was not stupid. Business was business, and he needed what Holley could provide. It wasn’t logical that he would do anything but behave himself.

But nothing in this life was certain, and Holley slipped on a nylon-and-titanium bulletproof vest next to his skin. It was guaranteed to stop a .44 round at point-blank range, and had done so on several occasions in his violent career.

He dressed in a fresh track suit and sneakers. There was no point in wearing an ankle-holster. Kupu’s goon, Abu, would certainly check on that. A Walther in his pocket, so easy to discover, would keep him happy. For his personal safety, he could rely on an old reliable, and he took it out of the wardrobe. A crumpled Burberry rain hat. Inside, a spring clip held a snub-nosed Colt .25 and its cartridges were hollow point. One of those in the right place was all it took. So, he found a light raincoat, slipped the Walther in a pocket, carefully arranged the hat on his head, found an umbrella and left.

The unexpected and heavy rain had emptied the pavements, especially at the side of the Seine. Around him were quiet buildings, dark at that time of night, narrow streets leading down to the river, the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. Holley hurried on, without meeting a soul, and eventually reached his destination. In the gloom, there was something sinister about it, dark and threatening. There were two old street lamps on the jetty itself, another in the yard at the end, where there was a huge warehouse door. In the door was the usual small access entrance for workmen, and he opened it and stepped inside, the door banging.

He saw several rows of old workbenches, some machinery, a couple of vans at the far end, and a wide exit door, open, lights above it so the heavy rain glistened like silver as it fell. To the left was an office, partly glassed in, so you could see inside. Ali Kupu was sitting behind a cluttered desk and appeared to be fondling a young woman who was standing obediently beside him.

‘Ah, it is you, Mr Holley. Enter, my friend.’

His English was surprisingly good, but then, as a youth, Kupu had worked in Soho for two years until he’d finally been expelled as an illegal immigrant. He was an overweight, unshaven, coarse animal with a shaven head.

‘Come in, come in.’

Holley moved forward, passed the first van, and was not in the least surprised when the rear door opened and Abu scrambled out behind him. He was enormous, with a face like stone, hair down to his shoulders. He wore a black suit.

‘You know what to do,’ he said.

Holley obliged, leaned on the van, and the Walther was discovered. ‘My, but you are getting to be a big boy,’ Holley said as he straightened, ‘You should enter the Mr Universe competition this year. Muscles gleaming under all that oil. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’