The Judas gate

The congestion in the streets was incredible. Every kind of vehicle – from ageing taxis to motor rickshaws, mopeds and light motorcyles, sometimes with two passengers on the pillion seat, hanging on to each other and the driver – thronged the road. Hundreds of people on bicycles weaved between market stalls, mounting pavements where there was one. The military and police presence was very visible.

Salim said, 'There's a war out there, and not just over the border in Afghanistan, but in the tribal areas. This is a military city now. It has to be. We can't say the barbarians are at the gates, but real trouble waits out there. If you and the Americans lose to the Taliban, God help my country.'

'I think you have a point,' Ferguson said.

The Captain nodded. 'Military Police Headquarters coming up, General.' The Sultan swung in between sentries guarding a wide double gate, drove towards an imposing three-storeyed building with a red-tiled roof and a pillared front door that looked as if it might have been a relic of Empire. Ferguson and Miller got out and stood looking at it.

'I know,' Salim said. 'It used to be quite impressive. This way, gentlemen.' Colonel Ahmed Atep was sitting behind his desk examining some papers and managing to look busy, when Selim ushered them into the office. He jumped to his feet, came round the table and shook hands.

'General Ferguson, Major Miller. What an honour. Be seated, please. Perhaps you would care for some tea?'

'A kind thought, but after such a long flight, the prospect of a shower and a good hotel have quite a pull,' Ferguson said. 'Especially breakfast.'

'Of course, but sit down for a moment. I shan't keep you long. First, I've allocated Captain Abu Salim to take care of you during your visit. One of my finest young officers. A Sandhurst man.'

Salim managed a modest look and Ferguson said, 'So we have something in common.' He carried on, 'This is only a flying visit, Colonel. A day, two at the most, then we'll carry on to Islamabad.'

Which wasn't true, but Atep appeared to accept it. 'You wish to visit the Afghan border area, I believe?'

'Certainly. In London, we hear all sorts of stories about arms-smuggling, obviously to the benefit of the Taliban.'

'Grossly exaggerated,' Atep said. 'We have had considerable success in stemming that flow.'

'And people?' Miller queried. 'Passing over illegally to offer their services to the Taliban? We have evidence that British Muslims are engaged in the fighting over there.'

'Newspaper stories, rumour. If such individuals exist, they will be very few.'

Ferguson decided to take a chance. 'Does the name "Shamrock" mean anything to you?'

Atep managed to keep a straight face. 'No – should it?' He turned to Salim. 'What about you?'

Salim shook his head and answered, 'No, I've never heard the name before.'

'It seems we can't help,' Atep said. 'But I understand you wish to speak with two men called Dak Khan and Jose Fernandez?'

'That's right,' Ferguson told him, without elaborating.

Colonel Atep picked up a flimsy. 'Fernandez has been called to Lahore. His mother is a Muslim and is ill. Cancer, I understand.'

Ferguson said, 'And Dak Khan?'

'Captain Salim will see to that for you, just as he will also see you to your hotel. He is yours to command, General. Look on him as your military aide for the duration of your visit.'

'Most kind, Colonel,' Ferguson told him, and turned. Then Salim ushered them out. They got into the Sultan, and Salim said to Sergeant Nasser, 'The Palace.' As they drove out of the gate, he said, 'An old, old hotel from the days of the Raj. For years it was called the Indian Palace, but as local people always called it just the Palace, it was easy to make it official. The manager is simply known as Ali Hamid to everyone. It is on the edge of town, by the river.'

'It sounds like just the thing,' Ferguson said. 'How long have you been in the army, Captain?'

'I did one year at university, applied for the army at nineteen, and was accepted at Sandhurst. I am twenty-seven.' He half turned to Miller. 'We have met before, Major. Your lectures on counter-terrorism were hugely appreciated by all of us.'

'That is good to know.' Miller shook his hand.

'The matter I raised with Colonel Atep, the question of British Muslims serving with the Taliban? Colonel Atep dismissed it as newspaper stories,' Ferguson said, 'and of little account. I know it's unfair to expect you to contradict your commanding officer.'

'In this case, it's easy,' Salim said. 'No disrespect to the Colonel, but we hear the reports often.'

'And the name Shamrock?' Miller asked. 'You said it meant nothing to you.'

'And it doesn't, apart from the fact that it's the Irish national emblem.'

But at that moment, they arrived at the entrance to a wonderful old Colonial-style building surrounded by a high wall. They turned in through the arched entrance and drove along through an enchanting garden to a wide terrace where a double door stood open. The man standing there waiting to greet them was large and imposing. His iron-grey hair was tied in a ponytail and his beard reached his chest. He wore a black ankle-length cotton kaftan.

They went up the steps and he salaamed, his hand touching his forehead. 'Gentlemen, I am Ali Hamid. Welcome. My house is yours.' An hour later, after being shown to their rooms, unpacking, showering and changing, Ferguson and Miller went downstairs, and were directed to a back terrace with a fine view over the river, where they found no difficulty in ordering a full English breakfast.

Abu Salim came in as they were eating. 'Are you going to have something?' Ferguson asked.

'I already have, while you were upstairs. I've been talking to the Orderly Sergeant in my office to make sure he can cope while I'm dealing with you gentlemen.' The waiter approached and he ordered tea. 'We were side-tracked after you asked me about Shamrock.'

'So I was.' Ferguson looked at Miller. 'What do you think?'

'He's a Sandhurst man.'

'Of course he is.' Ferguson reached for the marmalade. 'Tell him, Harry.' Salim took it all in, listening intently, and when Miller was finished, said, 'A fantastic business. But what do you expect to find, here in Peshawar?'

'Not very much, but I prefer to see for myself what a situation looks like instead of just thinking about it. It's eleven miles from here to the Khyber Pass. Over that border, the war is real and earnest, and Shamrock exists.'

'And where does Dak Khan come in?'

'A colleague of mine in London tells me he's a thoroughly unsavoury arms dealer who operates in this area.'

'Oh, I know him well, and he is more than unsavoury. He would sell his sister's favours in a house of pleasure if there was money in it.'

'My friend has discussed our problems with Khan, who's willing to help. We're in your hands.'

'All right, we'll go and see him. May I assume that you are both armed?'

'Absolutely,' Ferguson told him.

'Good.' Dak Khan's house was a mile further down the river, a rambling old bungalow with a tiled roof. The courtyard was large, with a Jeep and a medium-sized truck parked there. Four men in soiled and dusty clothes, wearing turbans, sat against the wall smoking. They ignored Salim and the others, and when Salim was close enough, he kicked a man with a walleye.

'Get on your feet, you dog,' he said in English. 'Where is your master?'

'No need for that, Captain,' a voice called from inside the open door. 'I shall give him the whipping he deserves. Please come in.'

Dak Khan was of medium height, but squat. He wore a soiled white shirt and a shabby fawn suit with a red cummerbund. His hair was greasy, his face brown, and he had a thick black moustache which somehow looked false.

The room was surprisingly sparse; an empty fireplace with a couch on either side, a couple of coffee tables, several cane chairs, and a desk, where Khan now seated himself.

'Please be seated, gentlemen, and tell me how I may help you.'