Angel Of Death

LONDON
1994
EIGHT

The Prime Minister at the debriefing the following morning was absolutely delighted. “So Dillon’s done it again.” He turned to Carter. “I know you don’t like him, but you must admit he gets results.”

“Yes, the little swine manages that all right.”

“Oh, come on, Simon,” Rupert Lang told him. “It’s results that count. The Protestant terrorist movements have been dealt a crippling blow. Ferguson ’s unit has not only foiled the worst bomb threat possible, a threat that would have added an entirely new dimension to the Irish problem, they’ve also got rid of one of the most dangerous leaders there was.”

“And that is of crucial importance,” the Prime Minister told them. “President Clinton is giving us all his support in an effort to produce a final and lasting peace in Ireland. Senator Edward Kennedy has brought his considerable influence to bear in Congress, and several other prominent Irish Americans, such as Senator Patrick Keogh and former Congressman Bruce Morrison, have been working behind the scenes for months to persuade the IRA to come to the peace table.”

“I’ll believe it when it happens,” Carter snorted. “I mean, how can we deal with people who’ve bombed the hell out of us for twenty-five years?”

“We dealt with Kenyata in Kenya after the Mau Mau rebellion and gave them independence,” Ferguson told him. “Same thing in Cyprus with Archbishop Makarios.”

“I think Ferguson ’s right,” Rupert Lang said. “We have to travel hopefully.”

“Quite right,” the Prime Minister said. “Look, gentlemen, I’m the last person to look favorably on the IRA. I don’t forget the Brighton Bombing when they almost got the entire Government, but twenty-five years is long enough. The chance for peace is overwhelming and we must seize it, but it does mean keeping the lid on the Protestant hard men. It’s the most volatile of situations. Let me put it this way. I don’t want us on the very brink of peace to see it all destroyed by the wrong kind of incident.”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” Ferguson told him.

“I intend a flying visit to Washington quite soon to see President Clinton. The Irish Prime Minister, Mr. Reynolds, will be joining us. This is all very hush-hush and you gentlemen will respect my confidence.”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter said and they all nodded.

“One other matter. You may have heard of Mr. Liam Bell?”

“I know him,” Rupert Lang said. “Met him in Washington when he was a Senator before he gave up politics and became president of some huge electronics firm.”

“He’s also Irish American and was much involved with fund-raising for the IRA through NORAID, the Northern Ireland Aid Committee.”

“Yes, well he’s seen the error of his ways there. He’s genuinely committed himself to achieving peace. He’s coming over on a fact-finding mission on behalf of President Clinton on Thursday. He’ll spend one night in London at his house in Vance Square, then proceed to Belfast. He’ll be coming in by private jet.”

“Do you want us to look after him, Prime Minister?” Carter asked.

“No publicity, that’s essential. As it happens, there’s a Conservative Party fund-raiser on Thursday night at the Dorchester. Six o’clock for drinks, you know the sort of thing? I’ll have to show my face and I’ve seen that Mr. Bell has an invitation so that I can have a private word with him.” He turned to Ferguson. “I’d like you to keep an eye out for him, Brigadier.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

John Major stood up. “Hard times, gentlemen, dangerous times.” He smiled. “But we shall come through. We must.”

Rupert Lang and Yuri Belov had lunch in the pub opposite Kensington Gardens. Shepherd’s Pie washed down with lager.

“So civilized, London,” Belov said. “You English are unique. The French say you can’t cook, but your pub grub is wonderful.”

“They’ve never forgiven us for Waterloo,” Lang said.

Belov sat back. “ Ferguson and Dillon are a rare combination.”

“You can say that again, and this Bernstein girl is pretty hot stuff too.”

Belov nodded. “So where do we stand? The Sons of Ulster destroyed, Daniel Quinn eliminated, the plutonium threat taken care of…”

“And Francis Callaghan singing like a bird.” Lang smiled. “So where does that leave us?”

“With the prospect of peace looming up in Ireland, and that doesn’t suit.”

“I see. You mean you and your people would prefer another Bosnia? A civil war?”

“I’ve told you before, Rupert, out of chaos comes order.”

“And the kind of Ireland you’d like to see, based on sound Marxist principles?”

“Something like that, but the most important factor in the equation will be how well the Protestants react to the peace proposals.”

“I think there’s a fair chance they might react violently,” Lang said.

“It’s essential,” Belov told him. “To provoke not so much the IRA, but the Catholics.”

“Yes, I see the logic in that, so what are you thinking of?”

“That perhaps we should do it for them. After all, January 30 have hit the IRA before this.”

“And the Prods.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s consequences that are important. For example, this Irish American, Liam Bell, here on behalf of Clinton. What if something unpleasant happened while he was here in London?”

“There’d be hell to pay.”

“Exactly. I mean, never mind President Clinton – I don’t think the great American public would be pleased.”

“So where is this leading to?”

“What’s Grace doing at the moment?”

“A Noel Coward thing, Private Lives, at the King’s Head. That’s a pub theatre. You know the sort of thing – fringe.”

“What time does she go on stage?”

“Eight-fifteen. I went last night.”

“Excellent. Speak to her and Tom. Get them invitations for this affair at the Dorchester on Thursday. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

When Dillon called at Ferguson ’s office at the Ministry of Defence just after lunch on Thursday, the Brigadier was busy, but Hannah came to the outer office to greet him. Dillon wore a bomber jacket, navy-blue sweater, and jeans.

He said, “How is he? Your message on my answer machine said urgent.”

“It is. He’ll speak to you in a moment.”

Dillon lit a cigarette and she sat down at her desk, her tan wrapover skirt opening. “I love that fashion,” he said. “Let’s a fella see what grand legs you’ve got.”

“Well get used to it,” she said, “because that’s all you’re going to see.”

“The hard woman you are. Have we got far with Francis Callaghan?”

“Oh yes, he’s behaved himself. The trouble is most of his hard-core information concerns the Sons of Ulster, so it’s out of date. The other stuff concerning the UVF, the UFF, and the Red Hand of Ulster is very generalized. He’s not told us much that we didn’t know.”

“What about January 30?”

She shook her head. “He seems as much in the dark as the rest of us.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Our interrogation team does and they haven’t left it to chance. They’ve used a pretty advanced lie detector test and it certainly shows he was telling the truth.”

“Another dead end there then.” He walked to the window. “Strange, that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It could simply indicate a terrorist group operating very privately on a cell system.”

“Good sound Marxist principles, that.”

She frowned. “That’s an interesting point. You could be right.”

The buzzer sounded. She got up and Dillon followed her into Ferguson ’s office, where they found him seated at his desk.

“Ah, there you are so we can get on,” he said as if Dillon had kept him waiting.

“ ’Tis sorry I am,” Dillon said, doing his stage Irishman. “Ten miles I’ve walked from the Castledown Bridge in my bare feet, my boots tied round my neck to save the leather, but an honor it is to serve a grand Englishman like yourself. In what way may I be of service?”

“There are times, Dillon, when I think you’re quite mad, but never mind that now. I see you’re dressed in your usual careless way. Well it won’t do. Decent suit, collar and tie, and be at the Dorchester ballroom for six.” He pushed an engraved card across his desk. “That gets you in. You as well, Chief Inspector. I’ll meet you there. I want you both armed, by the way.”

It was Hannah who said, “Do we get to know why, sir?”

“Of course. As you can see from the card, fund-raiser for the Conservative Party. The Prime Minister will be looking in. There will be one unexpected guest.”

“And who would that be, sir?”

He told them about Liam Bell. When he was finished he said, “He’ll just be a face in the crowd. Highly unlikely anyone would recognize him.” He pushed a photo across. “There he is. No press release. He’ll arrive at six-fifteen. I’ll greet him when he comes in and take him to a private room where he and the PM will have a little chat. He has a house in Vance Square. I presume he’ll return there afterwards. He has an onward journey by private jet in the morning at seven o’clock from Gatwick, so he’s hardly likely to go out on the town.”

“And what would you like us to do, sir?”

“Keep an eye on him, that’s all.”

“Fine, sir,” Hannah said. “We’ll see you there then.”

She and Dillon went out and Ferguson opened a file and started to go through some papers.

Dillon arrived at the Park Lane entrance to the Dorchester at ten minutes to six. There was quite a crowd pressing to get in and he pushed his way through, taking off his navy-blue Burberry trench coat to reveal a rather smart gray flannel suit by Yves St. Laurent, with blue silk shirt and dark blue tie. He saw Hannah Bernstein standing beside the uniformed security guards and she waved.

“Here, give me your coat. I’ll put it with mine. Don’t use the cloakroom. It would take an hour to get it back.” She turned to the head security guard. “He’s with me. Ministry of Defence.”

Dillon produced his ID card and the man nodded. “That’s fine, sir.”

They moved toward the entrance to the ballroom and found Ferguson standing, talking to Rupert Lang.

“Ah, there you are,” Ferguson said and turned to Lang. “Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon. This is Rupert Lang, an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.”

“A pleasure, Chief Inspector.” Lang took in her black silk trouser suit with obvious approval. “Mr. Dillon.” He didn’t hold out his hand. “Your fame precedes you.”

“What you really mean is ill-fame,” Dillon said cheerfully.

“For God’s sake, Dillon, I can’t take you anywhere,” Ferguson said. “Clear off and get yourself a drink while the going’s good and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

Dillon and Hannah pushed through the crowd to the champagne bar. “Not for me,” she said.

“Good God, girl, is it the Sabbath or something?” He reached for one of the glasses of champagne and drank it down. “Of course, I was forgetting. You only drink kosher wine.”

“I shall kick you very hard if you don’t behave yourself,” she told him.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement at the entrance and they turned to see the Prime Minister enter. The crowd parted and started to applaud. He smiled his acknowledgment, most of the cabinet behind him, and waved.

“The great and the good and the not so good,” Dillon said. “They’re all here.”

He turned to reach for another glass of champagne and saw Grace Browning and Tom Curry at the other end of the bar.

“Jesus!” he said. “Would you look who’s here?”

“Who?” Hannah asked.

“Grace Browning and that professor fella from the Europa. I told you I spoke to her after you’d gone to bed. I’ll have a word with her.”

“No you will not. It’s just on six-fifteen. We’re needed,” and she turned and moved toward the entrance.

As they arrived, Ferguson was greeting Liam Bell, a tall, gray-haired man with a fleshy face, who seemed to smile easily.

“That’s real kind of you, Brigadier,” he was saying as Ferguson took his coat.

Ferguson passed the coat to Dillon. “Sean Dillon, who is on my staff.”

“A good Irish name.” Liam Bell held out his hand and Dillon warmed to him.

“And Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.”

Bell smiled. “I’ve always approved of women police officers, but never more than now.”

Before she could reply, Ferguson said, “The Prime Minister is waiting. I’ll take you to him.” He nodded to Dillon and Hannah. “Be available.”

They moved off through the crowd. Dillon said, “Did you come in your car?”

“Yes, I have priority parking right outside on the curb.”

“See what having great legs gets you?”

“You offensive little jerk.” She punched him in the side.

“Only some of the time. Now let’s one of us have another drink.”

Grace Browning, at the bar with Tom Curry, sipped a glass of Perrier.

“You’re sure you don’t want a glass of champagne?” he asked.

“Don’t be silly, Tom. I have to perform, don’t I? What about transport?”

“A black cab just for us. One of Yuri’s boys at the wheel. He knows what we look like. He’ll be straight across the road the moment we appear.”

“That seems all right.”

An arm went about her shoulder and Rupert Lang kissed her hair. “You’re looking rather delicious.”

“Rupert, darling.” She kissed him on the mouth.

“Stop trying to make Tom jealous,” he said. “ Bell has just arrived and Ferguson ’s taken him to see the PM in a side room. You know what he looks like.”

“Of course I do. I’ve been shown enough pictures.”

Yuri Belov moved out of the crowd, urbane and charming, a glass of champagne in one hand.

“Hello, Colonel, good to see you,” Rupert Lang said.

“Mr. Lang – Professor.” Belov took Grace’s hand and kissed it. “Miss Browning, you look as charming as ever. You’re looking forward to your performance this evening?”

“Of course.”

Rupert said softly, “By the way, Ferguson has Sean Dillon here and the Bernstein woman. Just your type, Tom. She went to Cambridge too.” He kissed Grace again. “See you later.”

“After the show at my place.”

He walked one way and Belov another, and Dillon, who had observed the whole scene, said to Hannah, “I’ll be back,” and pushed through the crowd.

“Miss Browning.” He gave her his best smile. “You won’t remember me.”

“But I do,” she said. “The Europa in Belfast. You’d been to see my show and were very charming about it.”

“You were wonderful.”

“You remember Professor Tom Curry?”

“Of course.” Dillon nodded.

“But you didn’t tell us your name.”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon.”

“And you were at RADA?”

“A long time ago. I worked at the National briefly. Played Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea.”

“One of my most favorite plays. But I’ve never heard of you.”

“Oh, I gave it all up a long time ago.”

“Ah, I see, you found something better?”

“No, you might say the theatre of life called. Are you working at the moment?”

“I’m doing Private Lives at the King’s Head.”

“Not a bad play,” Dillon said. “He had a way with words, old Noel.”

At that moment he was tapped on the shoulder and turned to find Hannah Bernstein there. “Sorry to interrupt, but our friend’s ready to go.”

Dillon smiled, took Grace Browning’s hand, and kissed it. “I’ll try to get in to see the show. I’d hate to miss it.”

Curry said, “Actually, we’d better make a move too. Grace hasn’t a lot of time. Good night,” and he led her away through the crowd.

“Come on, Dillon,” Hannah said and pulled on his arm.

As Dillon and Hannah reached the foyer, Ferguson led Liam Bell through the crowd. “I hope everything went well,” the Brigadier said.

“Fine, just fine. The Prime Minister was most helpful. I hope things are as constructive in Belfast and Dublin, but you must excuse me now. I’m kind of jet-lagged and I’ve an early start. I’ll get a cab.”

“Good God, no,” Ferguson said. “My Daimler’s outside. My chauffeur can run you home. It’s Vance Square, isn’t it? Islington?”

“That’s right. I have this rather nice old house on the other side of the churchyard. Used to be the minister’s.”

“Good, we’ll take care of that.” As Bell walked to the door, Ferguson dropped back slightly. “Follow him, Chief Inspector, just to make sure, and you, Dillon.”

“Right, sir,” she said.

Ferguson and Bell paused in the doorway while the Brigadier waved to his driver. Grace Browning, in the back of the black cab Belov had provided, saw them.

“There he is,” she said. “Let’s go – I want to be there before him,” and the cab moved out into the Park Lane traffic.

As Liam Bell got into the Daimler, Dillon and Hannah turned to her Rover saloon. She got behind the wheel, Dillon scrambled in, and they were away.

“Hold the bag open,” Grace told Curry.

He did as he was told. She removed her high-heeled shoes, took out a pair of loose muslin trousers and pulled them on, tucking the short skirt of her dress inside. Next came a pair of slippers and a cheap, three-quarter-length raincoat. Then she found a long scarf and wrapped it round her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. Finally she took out a Harrod’s plastic bag with the Beretta inside. She checked the action, then put it in her shoulder bag.

“Ready to go. I didn’t tell you, Tom, but I’ve changed the plan. I went and had a look at this place Vance Square this afternoon. Bell lives in the old rectory, and the easiest way to get there is to walk through St. Mary’s churchyard. I’m banking that’s what he’ll do, so you drop me there and clear off.”

“Now look here,” he protested.

“It’s only a quarter of a mile to the King’s Head. I’ll walk. No problem.”

“I can wait.”

“No way,” she said fiercely. “I’ll see you at the theatre. It’s how I want it, Tom.”

The cab turned into Vance Square and she tapped on the window. The driver pulled in at the curb. She turned, smiled once at Curry, got out and crossed to the entrance to the churchyard, and the cab moved away.

The churchyard was a jumble of Gothic monuments and gravestones, great crosses, and here and there a marble angel. There was a path running through to the old rectory with a light at the entrance and one at the other end. In between it was a place of shadows. She walked about halfway, positioned herself between a mausoleum’s bronze doors, and waited.

It started to rain in a sudden rush as the Daimler deposited Liam Bell at the curb by the entrance to the churchyard.

“Good night,” he said to the chauffeur and turned.

The Daimler drove away and Hannah Bernstein coasted into the square and slowed down. “There he goes,” she said as Bell entered the churchyard. “We can go now.”

She started to increase speed and Dillon grabbed her arm. “Just a minute. I think I saw someone in there up ahead of him.”

“Are you sure?” She braked to a halt.

“Yes, I damn well am.”

He was out of the car in a second and running for the entrance to the churchyard, a silenced Walther in his hand.

Liam Bell pulled up the collar of his raincoat and hurried on as the rain increased. He reached the center of the churchyard, was aware of a movement up ahead in the shadows. He paused and Grace Browning moved out of the shadows. At the same moment, Dillon ran through the entrance gates. In the half light, he saw Grace and shouted at the top of his voice.

“Mr. Bell, get down!”

Bell paused, bewildered, turned to look at Dillon, turned again and she leveled the Beretta and fired twice, hitting him in the heart, knocking him to one side of the path. He fell against a tombstone and hung there for a moment.

Dillon dropped to one knee and fired the Walther, but she had already slipped into the shadows of the mausoleum. He emptied his gun into the darkness of the bronze doorway, but unknown to him, Grace had dropped flat on her face on the ground. He ejected his magazine and reached for another. As he rammed it into the butt, she stepped into the light and took deliberate aim, her arm extended.

“Very foolish, Mr. Dillon.” Her voice was perfect Pakistani English in its inflection. “And you don’t often make mistakes. I admire that.”

Dillon stood there, frozen, awaiting the bullet, then suddenly she raised an arm in a kind of salute and slipped into the shadows. He pulled the slider on the Walther and fired twice, and behind him, Hannah ran up the path, gun in hand.

“See to him,” he said and ran along the path into the darkness.

Grace Browning was already on the other side of the rectory, the church to one side. There was another, older part of the cemetery there. As she went round the end of the church, a side door opened and an old man in a cassock appeared, light flooding out. She ran past him, head down, to where she knew there was a gate in the wall, opened it, and darted along the street outside. She paused in a doorway at the far end, removed the chador from her head, slipped off the muslin trousers, and pulled down her skirt. She put the Beretta into her shoulder bag, rolled up the muslin trousers, and put them and the chador in her plastic Harrod’s bag. At the end of the street there was a rubbish bin at the base of a streetlight. She dropped the plastic bag inside, turned into the High Street, and walked calmly away along the pavement.

As Dillon entered the other part of the cemetery, the side door was still open, light flooding out, and the old man in the cassock stood there.

“What on earth’s going on?” he demanded.

“Police,” Dillon told him because it was the easiest thing to say. “Who are you?”

“Father Thomas.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“A woman ran past a few moments ago, Muslim, I think. She wore one of those headscarves. Oh, and baggy cotton trousers. What’s happened?”

“There’s been a shooting, a neighbor of yours, Liam Bell.”

The old man was shocked. “Oh, my God!”

“Back there on the path. You’ll find a young woman there. She’s a Chief Inspector Bernstein. Tell her I’ll contact her on my Cellnet phone.”

Dillon hurried away, found the gate in the wall, and ran to the end of the lane.

Grace Browning reached Upper Street fifteen minutes later. There were already large numbers of people crowding into the King’s Head, one of the most celebrated pub theatres in London, and a poster on the wall featured her prominently. She walked through the crowd. Many people recognized her, smiled and said hello, but she kept on going until she reached Curry, who was at the far end of the bar.

“Oh, there you are, Tom,” she called brightly.

“Thought you were going to be late,” he said. “And I’ve never known you to do that.”

All this was for the consumption of those standing nearby. She said, “Come through and talk to me while I dress.”

Dillon hesitated on the corner of The Lane and Islington High Street. It was quite busy in spite of the rain, plenty of people hurrying by and lots of traffic. Hopeless, really, and then he noticed the plastic shopping bag sticking out of the rubbish bin at the base of the street lamp in front of him. It was the Harrod’s name that caught his eye, common enough in the right place, but not on the High Street. He took it out, opened it, and found the muslin trousers and the chador.

“Would you look at that now,” he said softly.

He replaced them in the bag and pushed it inside the front of his trench coat, then he called Hannah on his Cellnet phone. She answered at once.

“I’m on Islington High Street,” he said. “You’ve seen Father Thomas?”

“Yes, he’s here. Two police cars arrived already and I can hear the ambulance. A waste of time, I’m afraid. Liam Bell is dead.”

“Poor sod,” Dillon said. “Didn’t stand a chance. Did the priest tell you about the woman dressed like a Muslim?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve just found a Harrod’s shopping bag sticking out of a rubbish bin here on the corner of the back lane and Islington High Street. Inside a pair of muslin trousers and one of those headscarves, the chador.”

“Sounds like an Arab fundamentalist hit.”

“I don’t think so. She called out to me, Hannah, called me by name. She had a very pronounced Pakistani accent. Another thing. I’ll bet you five pounds that January 30 claim this one within the next hour.”

“But why?”

“I’ll tell you later. I’m going to take a walk up the High Street, nothing I can do here. I’ll call you.”

He put the Cellnet phone in his pocket, turned up the collar of his raincoat, and walked rapidly away through the rain.

A waste of time, of course. After all, he’d no reason to know whether she’d gone left or right on the High Street. The rain increased in force, clearing the pavements to a certain degree as people sought shelter. He turned into Upper Street and paused, looking across at the welcoming lights of the King’s Head, remembering that Grace Browning had told him she was playing there in Private Lives. He could see the poster on the wall, darted across the road, and paused in the doorway. He took out the Cellnet and called Hannah again.

She answered at once. “Bernstein.”

“Dillon.”

“Where are you?”

“Took a walk up the High Street and ended up at the King’s Head. What’s happening?”

“All the usual things. Forensic are onto it now. They’ve just turned up with the scene-of-crime van.”

“Have they taken him away?”

“They’re bagging him now. The Brigadier’s here. I’ll see if he wants a word.” She called to Ferguson. “Dillon, sir. Do you want to speak to him?”

Ferguson, who was talking to Father Thomas, called, “Tell him to come to Cavendish Square. I’ll see you there as well. I’m waiting for the American Ambassador.”

“Dillon?” she said. “Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”

He got himself a Bushmills and moved to the door giving access to the theatre section. The young girl on duty had the door half open and was peering inside herself.

She half-turned as Dillon appeared at her shoulder. “It’s a sellout, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right, I just wanted a peek. I happen to know Grace Browning.”

He looked over her shoulder across the darkened room, the audience seated at the tables, to the brightly lit stage area. Grace Browning, dressed in a costume from the nineteen thirties, was vigorously denouncing her leading man. She turned and stormed off and the audience applauded.

The young girl said, “Isn’t she wonderful?”

“You could say that,” Dillon said and smiled. “Yes, I think you could.”

He turned away as the intermission crowd started to come out to the bar and saw Hannah enter. He went to her, draining his glass and putting it on the bar.

“I might have known. I meant you to wait outside, not inside,” she said. “Let’s get going.”

“Jesus, girl, the bad mood you’re in.”

“I got both barrels from the Brigadier. In his opinion you and I have fallen down on the job rather badly.” They got into her car and drove away. “Now what happened back there?”

“She stepped out from a mausoleum doorway on the other side of Bell. There wasn’t much light and she had the scarf around her head. I shouted to Bell to get down, but she shot him twice, silenced weapon of course. As I fired in return, she faded away.”

“And then?”

“Rather stupid. I emptied my gun, hoping for a lucky hit. While I was reloading she stepped into the path, leveled her gun, and called to me.”

“What did she say?”

Dillon told her. “And the accent was very Pakistani, no doubt about that. When she made off, I opened fire again, which was when you arrived.”

“So we’re looking for a Muslim woman?”

“Or someone pretending to be one.” Dillon took the Harrod’s shopping bag from inside his trench coat and opened it. “A pair of muslin trousers and one chador.”

“Good,” she said. “You can get good fingerprints from a plastic bag, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. And how did she know who you were?”

He lit a cigarette. “Oh, that’s easy. You see, I think we’ve met before.”