The Judas Gate

The Judas Gate
Jack Higgins

Treachery has a price, in the mesmerizing Sean Dillon thriller from the Sunday Times-bestselling author.Helmand Province, Afghanistan: a lone convoy edges its way towards a deserted mountain village, led by US Army Rangers in Mastiff APVs. Stopping to search the area, the Rangers are hit by a massive roadside bomb, and as half the patrol lie dead or injured, the rest are ambushed with military precision. A nearby British medical team responds to the call for back-up, but all are slaughtered when their Chinook helicopter is blown up.The ambush is bad, but what's worse is that, amidst the battlefield chatter picked up by Major Giles Roper, not all the Taliban voices are Afghan – some are English, and the commander bears an Irish accent; he even names himself 'Shamrock'. Why would he commit such an atrocity, but more importantly can he be found before he masterminds another?Sean Dillon is put in charge of hunting the traitor down, with all the resources of the 'Prime Minister's private army' at his disposal. The fast and furious plot sweeps the reader from Pakistan to Algeria to London to Paris to Ireland, with many deaths along the way. The stakes are already high for Dillon and company then a familiar, deadly face makes a dramatic reappearance. This time, Dillon will not only be going to war – the war will be coming to him, and he will learn that this Judas has al-Qaeda on his side…

JACK HIGGINS

THE JUDAS GATE

Dedication

For Ian Williams

Contents

Title Page (#u1840c464-1cd2-58ed-ace3-ab14377e7584)

Dedication (#u63528c9a-381d-54e9-8adc-e8d64d65d7b3)

WASHINGTON, D.C.: THE OVAL OFFICE (#u049eabb5-49f4-5168-8f63-65a6819a6f58)

1 (#u437e7c99-ae04-5428-b264-0610663d4af5)

PARIS: ALGIERS (#u137635d6-d83b-53f9-8584-e7237c6cb8e8)

2 (#ub747d0c3-9c87-50a1-b384-ef256c8bfaaa)

LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND (#ucd660c38-6407-5cf9-842a-f05d27c58ef6)

3 (#u8a3aeff3-4500-578b-9ceb-9cfd8cd07e15)

4 (#u9d33e403-9e0b-50ea-bc31-b5b8a24a71f2)

NORTHERN IRELAND: LONDON (#litres_trial_promo)

5 (#litres_trial_promo)

PAKISTAN: NORTH-WEST FRONTIER PESHAWAR (#litres_trial_promo)

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LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND (#litres_trial_promo)

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ALGERIA: THE KHUFRA MARSHES (#litres_trial_promo)

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12 (#litres_trial_promo)

LONDON: NORTHERN IRELAND (#litres_trial_promo)

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REQUIEM (#litres_trial_promo)

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ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

WASHINGTON, D.C. (#ulink_f08309a4-7bd3-5867-a0f7-e3dd648bedbc)

1 (#ulink_40c7bf7a-880a-5afa-a7ac-1383bd889981)

The Washington day in August had been almost subtropical, but by late evening an unexpected shower had cooled things.

The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a short walk from the White House, and outside the bar two men sat at a small table on the terrace, a canopy protecting them against the rain. The elder had an authoritative moustache and thick hair touched with silver, and wore a dark blue suit and Guards tie. He was General Charles Ferguson, Commander of the British Prime Minister’s private hit squad, which was an unfortunate necessity in the era of international terrorism.

His companion, Major Harry Miller, was forty-seven, just under six feet, with grey eyes, a shrapnel scar on one cheek, and a calm and confident manner. A Member of Parliament, he served the Prime Minister as a general troubleshooter and bore the rank of Under-Secretary of State. He had proved he could handle anything, from the politicians at the United Nations to the hell of Afghanistan.

Just now, he was saying to Ferguson, ‘Are you sure the President will be seeing us?’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Blake was quite certain. The President said he’d make sure to clear time for us.’

Sean Dillon stepped out on to the terrace, glass in hand, and joined them, his fair hair tousled and his shirt and velvet cord suit black as usual.

‘So there you are.’

Before Ferguson could reply, Blake Johnson appeared from the bar and found them. He wore a light trenchcoat draped over his shoulders to protect a tweed country suit. He was fifty-nine, his black hair flecked with grey. As a boy, he’d lied about his age, and when he’d stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, he’d been only eighteen. Now, a long-time veteran of the Secret Service, he was Personal Security Adviser to the new President, as he had been for several Presidents before him.

‘We thought we’d been stood up,’ Dillon told him, and shook hands.

‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s good of him to make time for us.’

‘Your report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, he’s wanted to meet you for some time now.’

‘With all the new blood running around, I think that’s very decent of the man,’ Dillon said. ‘I thought we’d have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.’