The Judas Gate

2

Daniel Holley was running alongside the Seine, darkness beginning to take over, the heat of the day lingering ominously as if a storm was brewing. He’d purchased a furnished barge a few months earlier, convenient for business trips for both him and his partner, Hamid Malik. He wore a black track suit, looked younger than forty-nine, his hair still brown. Of medium height, fit and well, he had the permanent slight smile of a man who found life a little absurd most of the time. The Irish in him, as his mother used to say. The other half was from the city of his birth, Leeds, which meant pure Yorkshire. His mobile sounded and he took it out. It was a Codex of advanced design, only available to Ferguson’s people, which his previous masters at Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU, had stolen.

‘Hello, Roper,’ he said, ‘what a surprise. What can I do for you?’ He paused, leaning on a convenient wall.

‘Tell me where you are, for a start.’

‘Paris, and running beside the Seine. It’s been a lovely day, but rain threatens. But you didn’t call for a weather report.’

‘No. To be brief, Ferguson, Dillon and Harry Miller have just been meeting with the President in Washington. They were discussing the Taliban’s use of British-born Muslims in their army—and there seems to be an Irish dimension emerging.’

‘Is there, by God?’ Holley’s voice was serious, the Yorkshire accent more pronounced.

‘The General would like your opinion. After all, you were trained at one of those camps yourself in the middle of the Algerian desert. All those years ago, and paid for by Colonel Gaddafi.’

‘So was Sean Dillon.’

‘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?’

‘No, Mr Holley, what I’d really like is to tear off your head—and I will do exactly that, the first chance I get.’

He moved into the office ahead of Holley and put the Walther on the table, then stood at the back of the room. Kupu was very drunk and yet reached for an open bottle of vodka and swallowed deeply from it.

‘You shouldn’t anger Abu like that. He’s a very violent man when he gets angry and does terrible things, doesn’t he?’ he said to the woman, who looked terrified. She wore a raincoat over a light black dress and clutched a handbag.

‘I’m sure he does.’ Holley walked to a chair at one side of the door, sat down, took off his Burberry rain hat and put it on his lap.

‘This is Liri.’ Kupu encircled her waist. ‘One of my best girls. Empty your handbag and let’s see how well you’ve done tonight.’

‘The rain,’ she said as she fumbled. ‘Business wasn’t good.’ She emptied the handbag of not very much.

Kupu glanced at it, then took a Gladstone bag from under the desk, opened it and swept in Liri’s earnings.

‘Excuses, Mr Holley, it’s all I get.’ He slapped her face, then said to Abu, ‘Search her next door. See if she’s hiding anything.’

‘No, please,’ she begged Kupu, as Abu grabbed her arm, opened the far door and shoved her through.

‘Stupid bitch, they are all the same. I give them employment, look after their interests and how do they repay me?’ He swallowed more vodka. ‘But to business. You can supply what I need? I’m a serious man. I desire only to help my Muslim brothers who are being butchered every day in Kosovo.’

‘Very commendable.’

‘And I have good references.’ He patted the side of his nose drunkenly. ‘AQ, eh?’

‘Is that a fact?’ Holley said.

There were muffled cries from the next room, but Kupu ignored them. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ He reached for the vodka bottle, swallowing again. ‘My father’s brother, my Uncle Mahmud, is an art dealer based in Tirana. He specializes in rare holy books and manuscripts. He travels all over Europe, knows people at the highest level. I act as his contact man in Paris. He tells me everything. For example, what if I told you that Prime Minister Putin intends to make a visit to Chechnya this weekend? All very hush-hush. The sort of thing you only hear about afterwards.’

Holley said, ‘And why would he be doing that?’

‘A meeting requested by a very high-level Muslim holy man. A famous Mullah, now in his nineties, Ibrahim somebody.’ He leaned forward. ‘But here’s the thing, my friend. This holy man, this Ibrahim? He intends to become a martyr this weekend. He will be carrying religious scrolls, which of course security men would not dare to search. A profound insult. And inside the scrolls—Semtex. You wouldn’t need much to do the job at close quarters. The Prime Minister would be blown to hell.’

‘With everyone around him.’

‘What a moment,’ Kupu roared, and the door to the other room opened and Liri staggered out, trying to cover her torn dress with the raincoat and still clutching her handbag. She stood there, crying bitterly.

‘Look at you,’ Kupu said. ‘Disgusting. Who in the hell would want you? Go on, get out.’

‘But I’ve no money for a cab,’ she wailed.

‘Then you can walk in the rain. Better than a shower. Wash the stink off you.’

At which point Holley, having had enough, said, ‘No need for that, Liri. I’m leaving myself. I’ll be going by cab and I’ll drop you off.’

Suddenly Kupu didn’t seem as drunk as he had been. ‘What is this about you leaving?’

‘I don’t like the way you do business.’

‘Really? Then obviously you need to pay a visit to the next room, where Abu will indicate what is expected of you. I don’t think it will take long for you to get the point.’

As Holley stood up, he produced the Colt .25, extended his arm and shot Ali Kupu twice in the heart, knocking him back over the chair. Liri gave a strangled cry, then leaned over to look. Abu seemed stunned and uncertain what to do.

Liri recovered a little and turned to Holley. ‘He’s dead.’

‘That’s what I meant him to be. Can you drive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take one of the vans and get out of here, and you can also take the Gladstone bag with you as far as I’m concerned. Will you be okay?’

‘Fine. I’ve got a passport. I’ll be out of Paris first thing in the morning. God bless you. I’ll never forget you.’

‘I’d rather you did.’

He picked up the Walther, put the Colt in his pocket and pulled on his rain hat. Liri was already disappearing into the night at the wheel of a van. Abu said, ‘What happens now?’

‘You pick up the body, carry him out to the jetty like a good boy, and we dump him into the Seine.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘For starters, I’ll have to shoot you in the right kneecap.’ He produced the Colt from his pocket. ‘Hollow point cartridges, Abu. You’ll never be able to stand up on the podium again.’

‘You bastard,’ Abu told him, went round the desk, picked up Ali Kupu as if he were a rag doll and walked towards the other end of the warehouse. Holley followed.

It was raining harder than ever and Abu paused, looking down through the lights to the Seine, Notre Dame floating in the dark way up to the right.

‘Now what?’

‘Straight to the end of the jetty and drop him in. Go on, get on with it.’

The big man walked through the lights, holding the body in both hands, paused at the end for a long moment, then dropped the corpse in. It surfaced for a moment, then drifted away into the darkness.

Abu turned and faced Holley. ‘She won’t get away with it, that bitch, or you. The Albanian Mafia will hunt you both down.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. Since you are the only witness, it leaves me with little choice.’

There was sudden alarm on Abu’s face and he put a hand out. ‘No, let’s discuss this.’

But Holley’s hand was already swinging up. The silenced Colt coughed once, the bullet hitting Abu between the eyes, and he lurched back over the end of the jetty into the water. Holley returned to the warehouse, opened the small door by which he’d entered and retrieved the umbrella he’d left there. He started to walk back to the barge, thinking about it. The Albanian Mafia was the bane of Paris. The deaths of Abu and Ali Kupu wouldn’t disturb the Paris police in the slightest. He would have to take a chance that Liri would forget all about him, but then she would value her own anonymity. Always with him, a woman in trouble was one thing he could never turn away from. In a way, he’d been a fool, but there it was.

But what Kupu had said about AQ—Al Qaeda. Was it just the idle boast of a drunkard or was there genuinely something to it? Whatever—if there really was a plot to assassinate Vladimir Putin, it would create chaos, and that was bad for everybody. It left him with only one choice, and he quickened his pace and hurried back to the barge.

Colonel Josef Lermov of the GRU had been appointed London’s Head of Station by Putin himself and was the man who’d taken Daniel Holley out of the Lubyanka Prison and told him to deal with Ferguson and his people once and for all, a business which had not really worked out as intended.

He answered the phone in London, astonished at who was calling him.

‘Good God, Daniel. I can’t believe it.’

‘Where are you, Josef?’

‘London. Putin made me Head of Station here.’

‘So he forgave you for your failure?’

‘Your failure, too, Daniel, but yes, I am forgiven, and I think you are also. I’ve followed your success with a certain pride. The Algerians regard you highly. Malik is truly proud of you, as if you were his son.’

So he’s been talking to Malik, and Malik hasn’t told me. Holley stored the information away. ‘That’s nice.’ ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Certain information has come my way concerning a possible attempt on Vladimir Putin’s life.’ ‘Are you serious?’

‘I can only put the facts before you and you must judge for yourself.’

When he was finished, there was total silence, as if Lermov was taking it all in, so Holley said, ‘Okay, the ravings of a drunken lunatic, I know—’

Lermov cut in, his voice hoarse, ‘The Prime Minister visits Chechnya tomorrow afternoon, and a meeting like the one you describe has been arranged between him and a Mullah named Ibrahim Nadim. The security on it has been massive.’

‘Not massive enough, it seems,’ Holley said.

‘I’ll call the Prime Minister immediately. But, Daniel, I’m curious. You’re leaping to his defence. Why?’

‘Actually, I admire many things about him, even if we don’t always see eye to eye. He’s taken the Russian Federation by the scruff of the neck and made it feel proud again—he’s a genuine patriot. But mostly… I simply don’t think it’s a good idea to assassinate him.’

‘Neither do I. Thank you, Daniel. I’m going now.’

* * *

Sitting there, nursing a drink, Holley had a sudden urge to call Roper, and he did so, finding him wide awake.

‘How did your business appointment turn out?’ Roper asked.

‘What the hell, why shouldn’t I tell you?’ Holley said. ‘The ramifications, in a way, touch the world. I may just have saved Vladimir Putin from assassination.’

Roper took it surprisingly calmly. ‘Tell me more.’

Which Daniel did.

The first thing Roper said was: ‘What am I going to do with you? You’re getting worse than Dillon. You’ve been shooting people again.’

‘If ever two people deserved it, those two did, but isn’t it incredible that the apparent boastings of a drunken fool turned out to be true?’

‘Because somebody talked, somebody at the very heart of Russian intelligence, told the wrong person. Everyone in the business over there will be working flat out to find out who. Of course, there is the mention Kupu made about his uncle in Tirana.’

‘They’ll hunt him down like a dog,’ Holley said.

‘I wouldn’t like to think what they’re going to do to him to make him talk.’

‘But the source of the leak is the thing. It’s got to be at the highest level,’ Holley persisted. ‘And yet someone willing to deal with Al Qaeda.’

‘And someone interested in getting rid of Putin,’ Roper said. ‘A palace revolution.’

‘God help whoever it is, with Putin on their case. Now, to other matters, the Afghan business. There’s talk of training camps in Northern Pakistan, but traditionally most of the good ones are in Libya and Algeria. Both Dillon and I were trained in the same place, though at different times: Shabwa, deep in the Algerian desert. Check up on it for me.’

‘I’ll get right on it,’ Roper told him.

‘I’ll be there mid-morning.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

Which only left Hamid Malik, who would undoubtedly be sitting in his villa with its magical views of the great harbour of Algiers, biting his nails about the outcome of the Kupu business. Better to get it over with.

‘Praise be to Allah to hear your voice,’ Malik told him. ‘I’ve been genuinely worried about this business, Daniel; it didn’t sit right with me.’

‘You were right about Kupu. A bastard of the first order. He even had connections with Al Qaeda.’

‘No, surely this cannot be?’ There was a wariness in his voice now, a touch of fear, but then that was a common reaction of many Arabs when a mention of Al Qaeda was made.

‘Don’t worry, Ali Kupu is now feeding what fish there are in the Seine, accompanied by his revolting muscle man, one Abu.’

‘Allah preserve me,’ Malik was truly shocked. ‘You did this?’

‘Who else? They were going to do worse to me.’

‘Tell me what happened. I need to know in case of repercussions.’

‘There won’t be any. Two members of the Albanian Mafia turn up in the Seine—it happens all the time. The Paris police will say “good riddance” and move on.’

‘But… Al Qaeda. What has that got to do with anything?’

‘A great deal, as it happens.’

He told Malik everything and, when he was finished, the Algerian said, ‘You never do things by halves, Daniel. Where will it all end?’