The Judas gate

'It's your decision, not mine,' Jean Talbot said. 'I'll go along with anything you want and we'll keep our fingers crossed, but remember, Justin, this is Ireland, where a secret is only a secret when one person knows it.'

'Then God help us.' They had passed down the main street, a few parked cars, not many people about, and there was the Kilmartin Arms and the Church of the Holy Name to one side of it, a low stone wall surrounding a well-filled cemetery, the church standing some distance back. There was an old-fashioned lych-gate, a roofed entrance to the churchyard.

'Let me out here,' Talbot said, and his mother braked to a halt. He got out, taking his flight bag with him, and examined the notice board. 'Church of the Holy Name, Father Michael Cassidy. My God, the old devil goes on forever. How old is he?'

'Seventy-eight. He could have had preferment years ago, but he loves this place. You've got the times for Mass and the Confessional.'

'Don't tempt me, but I will have a word with him, and in friendship only. The fact of my new religion stays out of it.'

'I'll get moving then.'

'I shan't be long.' He walked through the lych-gate as she drove off, and threaded his way through the gravestones to a horseshoe of cypress trees. There was a monument there, which bore the names on a bronze plaque of local men who had died while serving in the IRA. He didn't bother with that, but walked through to a well-kept grave with a black granite headstone. The inscription was in gold and read: Killed in Action, Volunteer Sean Kelly, Age 19. August 27, 1979. It said other things, too, about a just cause and the IRA love of country, but Justin Talbot ignored them. Only the name and the age of someone he had truly loved meant anything to him. He turned away, close to weeping, and found Jack Kelly standing some little distance away, lighting his briar pipe.

He carried his sixty-nine years well, dark hair streaked with silver now, a face that had weathered intelligence there, also a quiet good humour. He wore a tweed suit and an open-neck shirt and there were good shoulders to him, a man who could handle himself, which wasn't surprising in someone whose life had been devoted to the IRA.

'Good to see you back, boy,' Kelly said. 'Tim keeps in touch on his mobile. I heard from him you'd been disappearing over the border again to Afghanistan.'

Tim Molloy was his nephew, one of many men in the Kilmartin district who had eagerly accepted the recruitment to Talbot International at good salaries. Tim, for example, was contract manager to the vehicle maintenance side of the business based in Islamabad, servicing civilian convoys to Peshawar and beyond, to the Khyber Pass itself. It was an important and hazardous job.

The truth was that Molloy and the Kilmartin group used their privileged position to off-load arms close to the border to dealers who took them over. Honed by years of experience with the IRA, Molloy's group of ten men, all mainly in their middle years, formed a tightly knit crew that kept themselves to themselves. No one at Talbot International headquarters had the slightest idea of what was going on, except Justin Talbot.

'Tim's a good man, even on the worst of days,' Talbot said. 'But he hates me changing my clothes and slipping off over the border to have a look around and visit.'

They had moved to a bench close to Sean's grave and were sitting. Kelly's pipe had gone out and he lit it again. 'He thinks you're a lunatic going over for a stroll in a place like that – and disguised as a Pathan. He's convinced that, sooner or later, someone's going to take a pot shot at you.'

'God bless Tim, but then he doesn't know what we do,' Talbot said.

'And a burden it is sometimes.' Kelly looked sombre.

Jack Kelly was the nearest thing to a father Justin Talbot had known, that was the truth of it, and Justin was well aware that in many ways he had stood in for Sean, and not only in Jack's eyes, but in those of his wife, Hannah, also. The word from Molloy about Talbot's trips had worried the Kellys, and Jack had raised the matter almost a year before.

It had been at a bad time or a good time, depending how you looked at it, but it was not long after Al Qaeda and the Preacher had invaded Talbot's life. So, sitting in the study of Talbot Place with Kelly, just the two of them, with whisky taken, Talbot had unburdened himself.

Kelly had been shocked and angry. 'What the hell were you playing at? Surely you must have seen that once you put your foot on such a road, there could be no turning back?'

'I got tired of big business. I missed what I had in the army – excitement, action, passion; put it any way you like. It started simple, then it got out of hand.'

'And Shamrock? Whose bright idea was that?'

'Mine.' Talbot shrugged. 'Okay, a bit stupid, but I certainly wasn't going to say Major Talbot here, are you receiving me?'

'You bloody fool,' Kelly had said.

'That helps a lot. The thing is, how do I get out of it? You're the experts, you've had thirty-five years of fighting the British Army.'

'You don't,' Kelly said, a certain despair on his face. 'This is Al Qaeda we're talking about. You're too valuable to let go. Even if you could find this anonymous man, the Preacher, and managed to kill him, it wouldn't make the slightest difference. You belong to them. They'll never let you stop. Your mother knows nothing of this, I hope?'

'Certainly not.'

'Thank God. She'd never be able to cope.' 'So I just keep going?' 'I don't see what else you can do.' But all that had been almost a year before, and a lot had happened since then. Sitting there on the bench, Talbot brooded for a while, at a loss for words. It had certainly been a day for disclosure, but of things it would not be a good idea to reveal to anyone else. His service with the SAS and his new Catholic self were matters best left alone.

Kelly said, 'You've got something else on your mind, haven't you? You might as well spill it.'

Talbot said, 'Okay, I will. It will take a while to cover everything, but bear with me. You thought I was in a mess, but with the things I've done over there – now it's infinitely worse.'

It took a long time in the telling, almost an hour, because he told Kelly everything right up to Ferguson and Miller flying to Pakistan.

'So there it is,' Talbot said. 'I don't think I've missed anything. What do you think?'

'That you're probably a lunatic. You must be to dig yourself in so deep.'

'Do any of the names mean anything to you?'

'They certainly do. General Charles Ferguson was in and out of Ulster throughout the Troubles, a thorn in our side.'

'And these two IRA men? Are they genuine?'

'You can bet your life on it. Sean Dillon's a Down man who became a top enforcer and then ended up in a Serb prison some years ago. Ferguson saved him from a firing squad and the payment was that Dillon had to join him.'

'And Holley?'

'Half-English. His mother was a Coogan from Crossmaglen. He's highly regarded by that family. His cousin, Rosaleen, was raped and murdered by four Protestant scumbags. He shot the lot of them.' He shook his head. 'He and Dillon are serious business.'

'Yes, but they don't know who I am; I'm just a name.'

'Not to the Taliban who fight with you, and don't tell me you wear a turban and pull your robes about and wrap a scarf around your face. Some of those men will have seen you.'

'No Taliban I know would sell me out,' Talbot told him. 'If anyone did, they'd hunt him down and feed him to the dogs.' He shrugged. 'I don't know. It's a bugger.'

'One of your own making,' Kelly said.

'I suppose so. Maybe I have a death wish. Anyway, I suppose I'd better get up to the Place and see what's what. I mustn't forget your mail, though.'

He opened his flight bag and took out a stack of letters held together by a rubber band. Kelly took it and said, 'The ladies will welcome them. They can all call up Peshawar on their mobiles, but everyone loves a letter. The money is just pouring in for them. Some of them don't know what to do with it.'