Angel Of Death

NINE

Ferguson was sitting by the fire, the telephone in his hand, when Kim showed them in. He waved them to sit.

“Yes, Prime Minister, of course, I’ll be there in an hour.” He nodded. “We’ll have a complete update for you.” He put the phone down. “What a balls-up. God knows what President Clinton’s going to say.”

“Yes, it’s bad news, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.

“Bad news?” His face was purple. “It’s bloody disastrous. I mean, you two were supposed to watch out for him.”

It was Dillon who said, “She was ahead of him, waiting in ambush in the cemetery. It was only chance that I noticed her as we drove off.”

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

Which Dillon did. When he was finished he said, “A bit of luck finding the muslin trousers and the chador, not that they’ll help much in my opinion.”

“Which doesn’t count for very much at the moment,” Ferguson told him.

Hannah said, “Dillon has a theory that January 30 will claim this one, sir.”

Ferguson, in the act of taking a cigarette from a silver box, paused, frowning a little. “But they just have. Phoned the BBC about an hour ago. That’s one of the things the Prime Minister wants to see me about.” He lit his cigarette. “All right, Dillon, let’s have it.”

“I think we’ve met before. That’s why she knew me.”

“Where?”

“ Belfast, when the Sons of Ulster set me up, the lone motorcyclist in black leathers who took out the lookout man. I said at the time, if you recall, that he made a strange gesture. Raised an arm in salute before riding off.”

“And?”

“She did exactly the same tonight. So it was no man on that motorcycle in Belfast; it was her.”

“Another thing, sir,” Hannah said. “The night she saved Dillon in Belfast she used an AK, but all the other hits have been with the same weapon, the Beretta. I’ve a hunch that the rounds that come out of Mr. Bell will match.”

“I’m not sure that makes sense to me,” Ferguson said, “but we’ll wait and see what the lab report shows. Anyway, I’ve got to go and see the PM now to discuss this whole unfortunate affair and the possible repercussions. You two will just have to wait here until I get back. Not much sleep for anyone tonight, but that’s the way it is.”

Simon Carter and Rupert Lang were waiting downstairs when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street.

“Good God, Ferguson, what went wrong?” Carter demanded.

“I’ll explain that to the Prime Minister,” Ferguson said as an aide took them upstairs. “Are you thoroughly briefed on all this?” he asked Rupert.

Lang nodded. “I’m afraid so. Terrible business.” He was, in fact, more up-to-date than any of them, for he had been at Cheyne Walk after the show discussing the night’s events with Grace, Curry, and Belov when the call on his Cellnet phone had summoned him to Downing Street.

The aide showed them into the study. The Prime Minister didn’t bother with the courtesies. “Sit down and let’s get on with it, gentlemen. Brigadier, what went wrong?”

Ferguson explained exactly what had happened. When he was finished, Carter snorted angrily. “So Dillon failed this time?”

“Nonsense.” It was the Prime Minister who had spoken. “There was nothing more that Dillon or Chief Inspector Bernstein could have done, that’s obvious. This woman was ahead of them, waiting to ambush Mr. Bell. What I’d like to know is how she knew about him, knew he was here, knew his whereabouts.”

“Yes, a mystery that, Prime Minister,” Ferguson said, “and Dillon has supplied another.” He explained briefly Dillon’s theory that the motorcyclist in Belfast and the Muslim woman were one and the same person. “And it may not be just a theory,” he concluded. “ Dillon predicted who would claim responsibility before we heard about the call to the BBC.”

“January 30,” the Prime Minister said. “Surely to God we can do something about these people? Brigadier, I would be obliged if you’d mount a special investigation, go over everything they’ve ever been connected with. There must be something, some clue or other. There must be.”

“If there is, we’ll find it,” Ferguson told him. “ Perhaps the Deputy Director’s people can do the same. Two separate approaches might turn something up.”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter told him. “And I’d particularly like to find out why this woman didn’t shoot Dillon when she had the chance.”

The Prime Minister stood up and warmed his hands at the fire. “Events in Ireland are moving faster than I would have thought possible. Because of this, I intend to make my flying visit to see President Clinton to-morrow. With luck I’ll be back before anyone knows I’ve gone. I do not, I repeat, do not want this on the front page of the Daily Express.”

“We understand, Prime Minister,” Carter said.

“But I stress again how worried I am that the Protestant factions may get out of hand and ruin all hopes of peace at the most crucial stage. This January 30 business tonight will hardly help. I know they’ve operated across the board, appear to kill willy-nilly, but Bell was not only a good man, he was a Catholic, and this won’t sit well with Sinn Fein and the IRA.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Rupert Lang said.

The Prime Minister nodded. “Another thing. As you know, President Clinton appointed Mrs. Jean Kennedy Smith American Ambassador in Dublin last year. I understand from reports from your people, Mr. Carter, that there have been threats to her life from Loyalist terrorists.”

“A lunatic fringe only, Prime Minister.”

“Perhaps,” John Major nodded. “But I need hardly point out the disastrous consequences of anything happening to the sister of the most revered American President of the century.”

At the Cavendish Square flat, Kim provided sandwiches and tea while Ferguson went over the proceedings at Downing Street with Dillon and Hannah Bernstein.

“So what does he want us to do?” Dillon asked. “We’ve already eradicated one of the worst Protestant factions and saved Ireland from nuclear threat. Do we work our way through the leadership of the UFF and UVF, one-by-one?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ferguson told him. “But coming up with an answer on January 30 would be more than helpful. I want you and the Chief Inspector to get straight on with it tomorrow. Go back in all the old files since they first struck. Check everything again. Ask the computer for answers.” He stood up. “Good God, two o’clock. I’m for bed,” and he walked out.

“All right for him,” Dillon said as they went downstairs. “Ten paces to his bedroom, that’s all.”

“Come off it, Dillon, it’s only five minutes’ walk to your place in Stable Mews,” Hannah said.

“True, but a lot further for you. I was thinking, how about a glass of something to warm you up on this cold night, and as you say, my place is just around the corner.”

“Well you can think again.” She got in her car and switched on the engine. “Night, Dillon, sleep tight.”

She drove off without waiting for his response.

They were waiting for Rupert Lang when he got back to Cheyne Walk. Grace opened the door for him and led the way into the drawing room, where the others were sitting by the fire.

“Foul night,” Lang said. “Any coffee?”

“Tea.” She nodded at the table. “Freshly made. Much better for you at this time of night.”

“So, my friend, what happened?” Yuri demanded.

“Considerable agitation, as you may imagine. The Prime Minister went through the roof. Carter got stuck into Ferguson – Dillon and Bernstein being supposed to keep an eye on Liam Bell on his way home. He felt they’d fallen down on the job.”

“And?”

“The PM pointed out that as Grace was waiting ahead of Bell in the cemetery to ambush him, it was rather unfair to blame Dillon. The thing is, Carter hates his guts.”

“Well he would,” Belov said. “What was Ferguson ’s reaction?”

“Oh, he agreed with the Prime Minister that Dillon couldn’t be blamed, especially as Dillon had actually forecast that January 30 would claim credit for the killing.”

“He what?” Tom Curry said. “But how could he know?”

Lang turned to Grace. “You, I’m afraid, my sweet. That Sons of Ulster thing. He said that before riding away you raised your arm in a kind of salute.”

“So?” Grace Browning said calmly.

“It seems you spoke to him tonight.”

“Quite deliberately in a very Pakistani accent,” she said. “To use your favorite phrase, Rupert, it muddies the waters.”

“Fine, but you could have shot him and didn’t.”

“But if he was dead, darling, nobody would know that the Muslim even existed, never mind had a Pakistani accent. Bernstein was too far away to see anything.”

“But according to the report, the old priest at the church saw you run past.”

“That was chance, Rupert. I didn’t know I’d be seeing the priest when I confronted Dillon.”

“I follow your logic,” Belov told her. “But the arm raised in salute. A trifle theatrical.”

“But then I am,” she said simply.

“Anyway,” Lang said. “The Prime Minister has ordered Ferguson to mount a special investigation into January 30. Go right through the files. See what the computer comes up with. He’s asked Carter to get his people to come up with something similar.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Belov said. “An old story. They’ve tried before and gotten nowhere.”

“I agree,” Tom Curry said.

Lang shrugged. “If you say so.”

Belov said, “Anything more?”

“Yes, actually.” Lang smiled. “I was saving the best till last. The Prime Minister is flying out tomorrow in secret to Washington. The Irish Prime Minister will join him there.”

“And the purpose of the meeting?”

“To discuss the final negotiations leading to Sinn Fein persuading the IRA to call a truce of some sort. You know how it goes. Come to the peace table. All is forgiven. He’ll be back in twenty-four hours.”

“Now that is interesting,” Belov said. “You really must keep me informed on that one, Rupert.” He stood up. “We’d better let you get to bed, Grace.”

She nodded. “Yes, I could do with it. It’s been a heavy night.”

She took them to the door and got their coats. Rupert kissed her on the cheek. “How about lunch tomorrow? The Caprice suit you?”

“Marvelous.”

“Not me, I’m afraid,” Belov said. “Too conspicuous.”

“I’ll be there,” Curry told her. “You can count on it.”

They stood for a moment on the pavement, waiting for Belov to adjust his collapsible umbrella. “I’ll get a taxi at the Albert Bridge,” Belov said. “And you?”

“Going the other way. We could always walk, only a mile and a half to Dean Close.”

Belov hesitated. “A pity she did what she did. I mean, alerting Dillon like that. Why on earth this business of the arm raised in salute?”

“One brave acknowledging another,” Curry said.

“Well it worries me,” Belov said. “Smacks of unbalance.”

“She never guaranteed you sanity, old sport,” Rupert Lang said, “only a performance. It’s theatre to Grace, an exciting game, that’s all, and you’ll just have to put up with that.”

“I take your point. Still…” Belov shrugged. “I’d better get off.”

They parted and Grace Browning watched them go from the parted curtains of her bedroom. She turned and moved through the quiet dark and got into bed. When she closed her eyes, the shadow man was there again, the gun raised, but only for a split second, then he disappeared. She smiled and drifted into sleep.

“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah asked.

It was the following morning and she and Dillon worked in one of the side offices of Ferguson ’s suite at the Ministry of Defence.

“Try this for size,” Ferguson said from the doorway. “Many assassins stick to the target and don’t deviate. Many psychological profiles agree on that.”

“He’s right,” Dillon told her. “If you take underworld killings, a professional hit man only goes for his target because that’s all he’s paid for.”

“Unless you happen to get in his way,” Hannah said.

“Of course.”

Ferguson said, “I’ll leave you two to sort it out, I’ve got other fish to fry. Check the letter file on my desk, Chief Inspector, and send them out. I’m due at the Home Office.”

The door closed and Hannah said, “The fact is, she could have killed you and didn’t.”

“Even more interesting, she could have let me die in Belfast and saved my life instead. That’s the real puzzle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, wrap your fine police brain around this. There is only one possible explanation for Belfast. She was protecting me.”

“So?”

“But there’s more than one possible explanation for her action last night.”

“We’ve just agreed you weren’t the target. What else do you suggest?”

“To start with, I don’t buy the Muslim woman act. Too up front, but let’s say she wanted me to see her in that guise. And calling to me in that Pakistani voice, just to reinforce the whole idea. Without me we wouldn’t have known that the assassin was apparently a Muslim.”

“Except for Father Tom.”

“And he was an accident.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed. “I’ll have to go and see to the Brigadier’s mail.” She went to the door. “What about you?”

“I’m going to start with that first hit in Wapping, the Arab. Go through the others step-by-step. See if there’s a pattern.”

“They did all that at Scotland Yard. They even allowed the FBI to go through the files after that CIA man was killed. None of them came up with a thing.”

“When ordinary men have failed, the great Dillon may achieve much. On your way, woman.”

She started to laugh helplessly and went out.

It was just before lunch that she returned. Dillon was surrounded by files and working away at the computer keyboard.

“How are you getting on?”

“I’m treating the whole thing as if nothing’s been done, punching in the facts from each case as I see them, picking out items which seem strange or unnatural to me and asking the computer to comment.”

“And?”

“Oh, nothing yet. I’ll wait until everything is there before putting it into the search pattern.”

“Anything strike you particularly?”

“Well, in a general way the randomness of it all. No apparent pattern.” He reached for a cigarette. “The first hit on the waterfront here was Wapping. That was when the Beretta was first used. The victim, Hamid, a known Arab terrorist. The following day, Colonel Boris Ashimov, who our people knew was Head of Station, KGB London.”

“I can’t see any connection there.”

“I think there must have been. I think the two hits were too close together not to be related. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Then there were two Provisional IRA men, not important, just foot soldiers, killed in Belfast and with the same Beretta. Now I find that particularly strange.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons. First of all, the fact that they weren’t important. I mean, if January 30 wanted to make a statement, why not do somebody of significance in the IRA framework? Secondly, how come the gun turns up in Belfast when last used in London?”

Hannah sat on the window seat. “What are you getting at exactly?”

“To get from London to Belfast you either fly or go by ferry. In either case, there’s strict security to pass through. No way of carrying a gun. Every alarm in the place would go off. No terrorist I can think of, whether IRA or anything else, would try it.”

“If we’re talking about our woman of mystery, maybe she just decided to take a chance.”

“Not this woman. It would be like committing suicide.”

“So what’s the answer?”

“Maybe whoever took the Beretta through had a right to. Lots of people are licensed to carry in Northern Ireland. Prominent civil servants, members of the Judiciary, Members of Parliament.”

“Plus serving members of the armed forces.” She hooked her head. “That’s a large assumption. Someone like Carter might think it just a little crazy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Think of that Greek outfit, November 17. It’s an open secret in Athens that the members are doctors, lawyers, politicians. They’ve killed as ruthlessly as January 30 in the last few years and never been caught.”

“An interesting idea.”

“Well never mind that now. The fact that January 30 means Bloody Sunday has no significance. We know from information the IRA have passed over that they’re not a known Irish Republican group. They not only killed those two Provos in Belfast, they did the two bombers released on a technicality by the courts here in London.”

“Yes, their operations do appear to be totally random.”

“You can say that again. They’ve killed Arabs, Prods, a CIA man, two KGB men here in London and a well-known East End gangster, and now an ex-American Senator.”

“Yes, random it certainly is.”

Dillon nodded. “But only in the sense that they’ll do anybody.”

“It’s almost as if they don’t take sides,” Hannah said.

“No, I don’t buy that.” Dillon shook his head. “I don’t think it’s as random as it looks. I think there’s a purpose.”

“It beats me.” She stood up. “Do you feel like some lunch?”

“Give me ten minutes. I just want to tap a few more facts in.”

She went back to her desk and busied herself with some papers. After a while he came in. “How do you fancy some pub food in Wapping?”

She sat back. “What are you up to?”

“The gangster who was shot in Highgate Cemetery, Sharp, along with that KGB man, Silsev?”

“What about him?”

“According to the file his chauffeur found him, a man named Bert Gordon.”

“So?”

“He said he didn’t see or hear a thing, said he sat in the car at the cemetery gates reading the paper until so much time had gone by he got worried.”

“So he went and found them,” Hannah said. “I read that file too.”

“Yes. He said his boss had a meet, but he didn’t know who with or what it was about.”

“So?”

“Oh, I’ve a suspicious nature. I’d imagine he knows more than he’s said. I mean, an East End hood meets the Head of Station KGB for London in Highgate Cemetery in the rain and they both get wasted. Come on, girl dear, there’s got to be a good reason.”

She nodded. “You think you can get this Bert Gordon to tell you what he wouldn’t tell Scotland Yard?”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“All right.” She stood up. “Where do we find him?”

“Runs a pub in Wapping called the Prince Albert.”

She picked up her shoulder bag. “We’ll take the car. Come on,” and she led the way out.

As they went downstairs she said, “Knowing how you operate, I think police presence very sensible. You drive while I talk to Central Records Office at Scotland Yard. I might as well find out all there is to know about Mr. Bert Gordon.”

The Prince Albert was at the end of a wharf in Wapping, overlooking the river. It looked in good order, brightly painted in green and gold. They got out of the car and Hannah looked across the cobbled street.

“It’ll be like a grave at lunchtime and shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar tonight.”

“And how would you be knowing that?” he asked.

“I did my time on the pavement as a constable in Tower Bridge Division. Lots of pubs like this down there. One fight a night and two on Fridays, we used to say.”

“Shocking,” he said. “A nice Jewish girl like you and Friday night, the start of the Sabbath.”

“Very funny,” she said and led the way in.

There was a long mahogany bar, mirrors on the wall behind, fronted by bottles. Tables were scattered here and there and there were three booths by the window. The only customers were two very old men sitting on high stools, pints of beer in front of them while they stared up at a television set suspended from the ceiling in a corner.

The barmaid was reading a newspaper and looked up. She was middle-aged with hair that had obviously been dyed black and a careworn face.

“What can I get you?”

“Mr. Bert Gordon,” Dillon said.

There was something in her eyes as if she sensed trouble. “He isn’t here. Who wants him anyway?”

Hannah produced her ID and held it up. “Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein.”

“So tell him to come out like a good boy,” Dillon told her.

He’d been aware of the door slightly ajar at the end of the bar. Now it opened and Gordon stepped out. Dillon recognized him from his photo in the file.

“It’s okay, Myra, I’ll handle it.” He took Hannah’s ID card and examined it, then passed it back. “Nice Jewish girl in a job like that. Disgraceful. You should be married with two kids. I’m Jewish myself.”

“I know, Mr. Gordon. You changed your name from Goldberg years ago.”

“Anti-Semitism used to be a problem when I was a kid.”

“Yes, well a change of name didn’t keep a nice Jewish boy out of prison. I calculate you’ve done fifteen years when you add it together.”

“So I did my time. What is this anyway?”

“We want a little information,” Dillon said. “About the killing of your old boss in Highgate Cemetery.”

Gordon shrugged. “I told the police everything I knew. I gave evidence at the inquest. It’s all in the record.”

“I wouldn’t say all was the right word,” Hannah said. “In fact, you were rather sparse on facts, so let’s talk.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly and raised the bar flap. “Follow me,” and he led the way out through the door.

“Anyone like a drink?” he asked. He and Hannah were sitting on either side of a large cluttered kitchen table.

“No thank you,” Hannah answered.

“Well I’ll join you,” Dillon told him. “Just to stay friendly.”

“You don’t look to me as if you’ve ever been friendly to anyone in your life, my old son,” Gordon said. “Scotch all right?”

He splashed whisky into two glasses and handed Dillon one. The Irishman went and stood by the door. Hannah said, “Albert Samuel Goldberg, known as Gordon. I checked you out. Quite a record. Bookie’s runner as a kid, professional boxer, nightclub bouncer, then you were mixed up in that gold bullion robbery at Heathrow in March seventy-three. You served three years.”

“Ancient history.”

“Grievous bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon. Armed robbery in seventy-nine. You got ten years and served seven. Lately you’ve been Frank Sharp’s chauffeur and minder. He always looked after you, didn’t he? But then he wasn’t the one who went to prison. It was idiots like you.”

“Frank was good to me. He was good to all his boys.” He swallowed his Scotch. “But like I said, all ancient history, so what is this?”

“You said you didn’t know who your boss was meeting at Highgate and that you’d no idea what the meet was about?”

“That’s what I told those guys from Scotland Yard and that’s what I told the coroner’s inquest.”

Hannah leaned back in her chair. “Then why is it I don’t believe you?”

“Fuck you, darling,” Gordon told her. “And mind you, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Naughty, that,” Dillon said. “Bad language to a lady brings out the worst in me.”

“Well fuck you too,” Gordon said and reached for the whisky bottle.

Dillon’s hand came out of his trench coat pocket, clutching the silenced Walther. There was a dull thud and the whisky bottle shattered in Gordon’s hand.

“Jesus Christ!” He jumped up, soaked in whisky. “What’s going on here? I didn’t count on shooters. What kind of police are you?”

He reached for a kitchen towel and Dillon said, “Just keep thinking Gestapo and we’ll get along. I’m very good with this thing. I could shoot half your right ear off.”

He leveled the Walther and Gordon put up a hand and cowered away. “For God’s sake, no!”

“Dillon, stop it!” Hannah ordered.

“When I’m finished.” He lowered the Walther. “I could say you’re going to tell me the truth because Frank Sharp was a friend of yours and you’d like to see the people responsible pay.” Gordon was shaking and mopped himself down. Dillon continued, “But we’ll forget about loyalty, morality, all that good old English rubbish. We’ll say you’re going to speak up in the next five seconds because if you don’t I really will shoot your ear off.”

“Dillon, for God’s sake,” Hannah said.

Gordon put up a hand defensively. “Okay, I give in. Just let me get another drink. I need it.”

He found another bottle of Scotch in a cupboard and opened it, and Dillon said, “You knew it was this Russian Silsev that Sharp was meeting in the cemetery?”

“Yes, Frank told me. The meet was at the Karl Marx statue. I asked if he wanted me along, but he said no.”

“And you knew what the meeting was about?” Hannah asked.

“It was to do with drugs. Frank said this Silsev geezer was KGB working in London, but he had connections with this Moscow Mafia.”

“And what are we talking about?” Hannah asked.

“Heroin. Frank said a street value of maybe a hundred million.”

“I see.” She nodded. “And that’s all you know about it?”

“On my mother’s life. Frank said this guy had approached him and no other mob in London. Told him he was offering him the deal of a lifetime.”

“So no one else knew?”

“Of course not. I mean, why would this Silsev geezer approach anyone else? Frank was the number one man in the East End for years.” He poured a little more Scotch, hand shaking.

Dillon said, “You just sat in the car waiting for him?”

“Like I told the cops, and I didn’t hear a thing. The gun must have been silenced. I sat there reading the paper until I got worried and went looking.”

“And you saw nobody?”

“Like I told the police, nobody.”

“Think hard,” Dillon said. “It’s raining heavily and getting dark and you’re sitting there at the wheel with the newspaper and no one came out.”

“I’ve told you.” Gordon paused, frowning. “Here, just a minute. Yes, that’s right.” It was as if he was looking back and re-creating the scene. “Yes, this big bike came out through the gates. The guy in the saddle wore black leathers and one of those black helmets you can’t see through.”

“Bingo,” Dillon said. “Give the man the star prize.”

“God, you were a bastard in there, Dillon,” she told him as they drove away. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“It got a result,” he said. “Exact description of our mystery rider from Belfast and you now know what Silsev and Sharp were up to.”

“My God,” she said. “Heroin at a street value of a hundred million pounds. It doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“Well don’t,” he said. “Let’s call in at Mulligans in Cork Street. Smoked salmon and champagne.”

“I’m driving, Dillon.”

“I know, girl dear. I’ll drink the champagne for you. You can content yourself with the smoked salmon.”

He sat back, grinning, and lit a cigarette.