Angel Of Death

LONDON
IRELAND
LONDON
1994
TWELVE

Hannah Bernstein was working in her office when Dillon went in. She took off her glasses and rubbed her forehead.

“Where’s the Brigadier?”

“Dropped off at Cavendish Square to change clothes. He’ll be here directly, then he wants to see the Prime Minister again.”

“Has anything been finalized?”

“You could say that. The IRA meeting is at Ardmore House on Sunday afternoon at two. Keogh will arrive at Shannon in a private Gulfstream. He’ll proceed by helicopter at once to Drumgoole.”

“And security?”

“The good Senator will be quite content with you, me, and the Brigadier.”

She smiled in delight. “So he hasn’t left me out? I thought he might.”

“Now why would he do a thing like that to you?” Dillon grinned and lit a cigarette.

“How do you get on with Keogh?”

“Fine. A decent enough stick and not at all the way some of these reporters write him up. He’s got plenty of guts to take this thing on.” Dillon nodded. “I liked him. How have we got on with the January 30 investigation?”

“I’ve pulled the printouts for you. I think it’s all done. Here, I’ll show you.” She got up and walked into the office Dillon had been using. The printouts were neatly stacked by the computer. “That lot there is the Russian inquiry you asked for, details of personnel at the Soviet Embassy.”

“Good, I’ll have a quick look.”

“A long look, Dillon, there’s a lot of it. Of course, senior personnel are at the top.” She smiled. “I’ll make some tea,” and she went back to her office.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, there was a step behind her and she turned. Dillon stood in the doorway, his face pale and excited. There was a computer printout in his hand. He laid it on her desk.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“A nicely colored photo and full details on a man called Colonel Yuri Belov, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy.”

“So?” She carried on making the tea.

“It’s been suggested he’s Head of London Station for the GRU, that’s the Russian Military Intelligence.”

“I know what it is, Dillon.” She came and stood at his shoulder. Belov, in the photo, smiled up at her.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Dillon asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t say that he does.”

“Well he does to me.”

At that moment the outer door opened and Ferguson entered. “Ah, is that tea on the go? Jolly good. I’ll have a quick cup, then I’ll get off to Downing Street.”

Hannah Bernstein handed him a cup of tea. “Dillon thinks he’s come up with something to do with the January 30 inquiry, sir.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Colonel Yuri Belov.” Dillon indicated the printout. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Senior Cultural Attaché at their Embassy. I’ve seen him around on the Embassy party circuit.”

“It says here he may be Head of Station, GRU.”

“That suggestion has been mooted, but never proved, and we’ve never been involved with the GRU over here in any kind of a conflict of interest. Our dealings with the KGB, of course, have been very different.” Ferguson sipped some of his tea. “But what is this, anyway?”

“I’ve only seen him once, but it was an important once.” He turned to Hannah. “Remember when we were at the Europa? I told you I spoke to Grace Browning, the actress, and a Professor Curry?”

“So?”

“I saw them at the Dorchester the night Liam Bell was killed. She and Curry were at the champagne bar. Rupert Lang appeared, all very affectionate. Old friends kissing, that sort of thing.”

“Good heavens, man, so Rupert Lang is a friend of hers, so what?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon held up the printout. “This man joined them, Colonel Yuri Belov, possibly Head of Station GRU. Now you must admit that would make a grand scandalous plot for the Sunday papers, a Minister of the Crown and a Russian agent.”

“But I’ve told you I’ve seen the man myself on the Embassy party circuit. These people are always around.” Ferguson put down his cup. “Politicians are constantly invited to such affairs. They meet everybody, Dillon.”

Dillon said, “Just hear me out, then you can give me the sack if you want.” He turned to Hannah. “And you use your fine policewoman’s mind on it, too.”

“All right,” Ferguson said. “Come into my office and get on with it.”

He sat behind the desk. Dillon said, “I was talking to Hannah about coincidences the other night. It got a little academic, what with Carl Jung being mentioned, but what I was really getting at was that I don’t believe in them.”

Ferguson was interested now. “Go on.”

“As I said to Hannah, all those hits with the Beretta in the January 30 murders, that’s no coincidence. Four IRA men stiffed and that’s no coincidence. Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Was that chance? I think not, and that’s why I asked for a computer printout on all staff at the Soviet Embassy.” He smiled. “Which brings us to Yuri Belov at the champagne bar at the Dorchester.” Dillon turned to Hannah. “I’ve always heard a good copper develops a nose for crime that has nothing to do with facts. Are you beginning to smell something unusual here, Chief Inspector?”

She turned to Ferguson. “I’d like to hear more, sir.”

“There is more,” Ferguson said. “I too can smell it. Carry on, Dillon.”

“My meeting with Daley that night in Belfast, the Sons of Ulster business. My supposed meeting with Daniel Quinn when they set me up. Who knew about it? Hannah, though she didn’t know where I was to meet them. You, Brigadier, the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Rupert Lang.” He turned to Hannah. “Let’s hear what a brilliant detective has to offer on this one.”

She glanced at Ferguson and he nodded gravely. “Carry on, my dear.”

“Right, sir. Let’s accept that January 30 knew Dillon was having a meet and didn’t know where, but the mystery woman knew enough to follow him and was armed and ready for action. My question would be, how did she know it was all going to happen?”

“And what is your conclusion, Chief Inspector?”

“You can discount yourself, Brigadier, me, Dillon.” She smiled. “Now we come to the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Rupert Lang.”

“We can hardly imagine the Prime Minister to be the source of the leak,” Ferguson said. “And the idea that the Deputy Director of the Security Services would seems inconceivable.”

“Which leaves us with only one probable source, sir.”

“It doesn’t seem possible.” He shook his head. “A Minister of the Crown, an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.” He shook his head. “ Rupert Lang served in my regiment, the Grenadier Guards. After that, One Para. He received a Military Cross in Ireland, was wounded.”

“Just bear with me,” Dillon said. “The Liam Bell killing. The whole thing was kept under wraps, his stop-off in London, I mean. We knew and as usual, you, the PM, and the Deputy Director and Lang.”

There was a pause. “They were ready for Bell’s presence at the Dorchester that night, Brigadier, ready enough to be able to wait ahead of him in ambush in that cemetery in Vance Square.”

Dillon was full of energy and very insistent. Ferguson raised a hand. “Enough, you’ve made your point.” He turned to Hannah. “What’s the police view, Chief Inspector?”

“Not strong enough to make a case, sir, but worth pursuing inquiries.”

“And you, Dillon?”

“At this point in time I’d say your little ad hoc committee of you, Carter, and Lang should cease functioning. There should be no further opportunity of Lang’s receiving secret and valuable information until we sort this out. For example, he knows about the Keogh affair.”

“But doesn’t at this moment know when Keogh will be arriving at Shannon or the time of the IRA meet at Ardmore,” Hannah said. “I’d say it should remain that way, sir.”

“But what on earth can I say to the Prime Minister?” Ferguson asked.

“Oh, come on, you old sod,” Dillon said impatiently. “You’ve been lying beautifully for years. Why stop now?”

“Dear God!” Charles Ferguson said. “But you’re right, of course,” and he reached for the red phone.

The Prime Minister in his study at Downing Street said, “I’ve just heard from President Clinton that the IRA meeting at Ardmore is scheduled for two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I presumed you would be coming round to fill me in on your meeting with Senator Keogh.”

“Something of supreme importance has happened, Prime Minister, a question of a leak of vital information.”

“Serious?” John Major asked.

“I’m afraid so, and it could have a bearing on Senator Keogh’s visit. As you know, secrecy is of the essence there.”

“Well of course it is, we all accept that.”

“Then may I very earnestly beg you to take my advice on this, Prime Minister. I know of the Sunday meeting because President Clinton has told me just as he has told you. Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein know because they must. Will you leave it at that for the moment?”

“You mean don’t tell the Deputy Director and Rupert Lang? Are you suggesting this leak you mention comes from one of them?” There was total astonishment in the Prime Minister’s voice. “Surely that’s inconceivable?”

“Prime Minister, be advised by me in this matter. It’s a question of checking all avenues. Give me a few hours only.”

There was a pause and John Major said, “Of course. I’m disturbed, Brigadier, because you’re usually right and this time I don’t want you to be, but carry on and speak to me at your soonest.”

When Ferguson went into Dillon’s office the computer was humming, Dillon and Hannah beside it. Ferguson was full of energy now, brisk and businesslike.

“All right, what are we up to?”

“We’re just checking on Tom Curry,” Hannah said.

Ferguson nodded. “You know that name is familiar. There’s a Professor Curry from London University who sits on a number of Government Committees.”

The printer started to eject paper and Dillon tore it out and laid it on the desk. Tom Curry’s picture stared up at them. The details from the data bank did not only mention his academic qualifications but, as usual with those engaged in Government work, referred to his private life in intimate detail.

“ Cambridge,” Ferguson said and frowned. “Good God, Moscow University, researching a Ph.D.”

The printer kept working. “Rupert Lang coming through now,” Hannah said.

“Good God, he doesn’t need to,” Ferguson told her. “It says here that Curry and Lang have been living together for years at Lang’s house in Dean Close. That’s within walking distance of Westminster. Homosexual relationship since they were at Cambridge together.”

“Yes, but look further down,” Hannah said. “It’s Curry’s academic record that’s interesting. He’s worked at Yale, Harvard, is a professor at London, but look at that, sir. He’s a visiting professor at Queen’s University, Belfast, three or four days a month.”

“How interesting.” Ferguson was all business now. “We know Curry was in Belfast when you and Dillon were handling the Sons of Ulster business, Chief Inspector.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Those two Provisional IRA foot soldiers in the alley that January 30 claimed the other year. It would be interesting to know if Professor Curry was in Belfast then.”

“It would be interesting to know if Rupert Lang was,” Dillon put in.

“Easy enough to find out,” Ferguson said.

“It also raises an interesting point about the famous Beretta January 30 used in all of their killings except the Sons of Ulster thing,” Dillon said. “The fact that a weapon used in London could have turned up in Belfast, security restrictions into Ulster being so tough. I suggested to Hannah that the explanation might be that the owner of the Beretta might have a permit to carry.”

“That would certainly apply to a Minister of the Crown, but we can check on that soon enough.” Ferguson frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Something’s just occurred to me. Those two KGB Head of Stations getting knocked off. Apparently, since the changes in Russia in the last few years, the long-standing feud with the GRU and the KGB has intensified. There could be a connection there with Belov. I’ll look into it.”

“I’ll phone Queen’s University and check if the date of the killing of those two IRA men coincided with Curry being there,” Hannah said. “And I’ll get a rundown on the times Lang’s visited Belfast from the Northern Ireland Office.”

“What about you, Dillon?” Ferguson demanded.

“Oh, I’ll just ring Grace Browning’s agent.”

Ferguson, in the act of reaching for the phone, stopped. “Why?”

“It was a woman who saved me in the Sons of Ulster affair, it was a woman who killed Liam Bell, someone in my opinion giving a rather excellent performance as a Pakistani woman. I’d like to remind you that she was performing in Belfast when I had my meeting with the Sons of Ulster and I did see her at the champagne bar at the Dorchester with Curry, Lang, and Belov.”

“No, that really would be too much,” Ferguson said. “What are you going to do?”

“Find out from her agent if she’s performed in Belfast before the time Hannah and I were there. I’ll also have a look at the files. Check her background.”

“Do that.”

Dillon paused in the doorway and turned to Hannah. “Remember the other night when we were talking about synchronicity and you asked me if there were any other coincidences I wanted to check?”

“Yes. You said there was, but for the life of you, you couldn’t think what it was.”

“I finally discovered. The night in Belfast when our mystery woman saved me and then raised her arm in salute. I’d seen Grace Browning’s picture on a theatre poster at the Europa. After the same woman didn’t shoot me and gave me that identical salute in the cemetery at Vance Gardens, I walked up to the King’s Head in Upper Street and saw Grace Browning’s face on a theatre poster.”

There was silence. Ferguson said, “That’s pretty slim evidence, Dillon. Circumstantial to say the least.”

“I know, Brigadier, but it’s what Carl Jung meant by synchronicity,” and Dillon went into the other office.

Within an hour he and Hannah were back at Ferguson ’s desk.

“Well, what have we got?” he demanded.

Hannah turned to Dillon. “You start.”

“Right,” Dillon said. “In October ninety-one, Grace Browning did a short run at the Minerva in Chichester of Brendan Behan’s The Hostage. The company was asked to do a two-week run of the play at the Lyric Theatre in Belfast. The first and second weeks in November.”

He paused. “Go on,” Ferguson said.

“The killing of those two IRA men that January 30 claimed credit for took place during the first week of the run.” He turned. “Hannah?”

She said, “Professor Tom Curry was there for four days covering the time in question, and also Rupert Lang. He was there for two days, but one of them was the day in question.”

“Dear God!” Ferguson said.

“More bad news,” Hannah Bernstein told him. “According to the record, Lang is licensed to carry a handgun when in Northern Ireland.”

“And the weapon?”

“A Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum. We’d need to check the rounds it’s fired.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said. “But there’s increasingly little doubt about what we’d find.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“One slight clue,” Dillon told him. “It seems Curry came from Dublin. There was a history of Irish nationalism in the family, but his mother became a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.”

“All right, that might explain Curry, but the Browning woman, one of our finest actresses, and Rupert Lang.”

“There is one link, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said. “A violent one. When she was twelve her parents were murdered in a street robbery in Washington. She was present. Saw it all.”

“Good Lord.”

“After that she came to London and lived with her aunt in the house she presently occupies in Cheyne Walk.”

“And Rupert Lang isn’t just Mr. Savile Row,” Dillon said. “He was at Bloody Sunday with One Para, wounded, killed at least three times, according to his Army record, and was awarded a Military Cross for undercover work.”

Ferguson sighed and turned to Hannah. “Is it still a circumstantial case, Chief Inspector?”

“Oh yes, sir, but a strong one.”

He nodded. “I can see that, but I’ll have to speak to the Prime Minister.”

“And Lang, sir?”

“We’ll see. Leave it to me.”

At around the same time, Grace Browning and Tom Curry, driving down from London into Kent, found a sign to Coldwater. The village wasn’t much, a line of cottages on either side of the road, a village green, a pond, a small inn called The George and Dragon. They carried on through and found another sign a quarter of a mile farther on that indicated Cold-water airfield to the right.

They found it at the end of a narrow lane, a couple of old hangars, a control tower, and a single tarmac runway that was crumbling badly. There was an old Land-Rover parked outside a Nissen hut. They parked beside it, and as they got out the door opened and a man emerged.

He was of medium height, obviously in his late forties, with a graying beard and tangled hair. He wore black flying overalls and an old American Air Force flying jacket.

“Mr. Carson?” Curry asked.

“That’s me.”

“Don’t let’s bother with names.”

Carson didn’t offer to shake hands. “Colonel Belov said you’d be around. Better come in.”

Curry opened the boot of his car and took out two suitcases and followed him into the Nissen hut, Grace behind him. Inside, he put the cases down and looked around. There was a stove for heating, a desk, charts pinned to the wall.

“You know the flight’s planned for Sunday?” Curry asked.

“That’s right.” Carson unrolled a flying chart across his desk. It covered Ireland across to the Galway coast. “I’ve found an old flying strip about ten miles from this Drumgoole place. Here at Kilbeg.”

“Do you envisage any problems with the flight?” Grace asked him.

“Only with the weather. Ireland ’s a sod. Too much rain. Flight time to County Clare could be anything between three and four hours, depending on the wind. I can’t do anything about that. You’re stuck with what you get on the day.”

“In view of what you say, if we want to be at Drumgoole by noon we’ll need an early start,” Curry said.

“I’d say seven to seven-thirty in the morning to be on the safe side,” Carson said.

“Fine.” Curry nodded. “We’ll be here.”

“And the return?” Carson asked.

“Let’s say we’ll be back with you by two o’clock,” Curry told him.

“That’s good. I don’t want to hang about.”

Grace said, “Could we see the plane?”

“Sure. This way.”

It had started to rain as they crossed to the hangars. She said, “It’s a strange place, this.”

“RAF feeder station during the Second World War. Everything falling apart now.”

He rolled back one of the hangar doors and led the way in. There were two planes in there, one single engined, the other a twin.

“The single is an Archer, the twin is a Cessna Conquest. That’s what we’ll be using.”

“Fine,” Grace said.

They turned and went out and he closed the door. When they reached their car Tom Curry said, “We’ll be here at the crack of dawn on Sunday. Let’s hope we have a good day.”

“I don’t care what kind of day you have,” Carson told him. “I’m getting more than well paid, so I mind my own business. I’m an in-and-out man, that’s all I’m interested in.”

“We’ll be seeing you then,” Grace told him.

He frowned slightly. “Do I know you from somewhere? You seem familiar.”

“I don’t think so,” she said and got in the car.

Curry opened the door. “The two suitcases aren’t locked, so you don’t need to break into them. Look after them until Sunday.”

He got behind the wheel and drove away. Carson watched them go and then went back into the Nissen hut. He lit a cigarette and stood looking down at the suitcases. Finally he shrugged and put them on the desk. When he opened the first one he found a priest’s cassock and clerical collar. The second one contained a nun’s habit. Underneath there was an AK-47 and a Beretta automatic.

He shivered and closed the cases quickly. None of his business, any of it. He didn’t want to know, much better that way, and he put the cases on the floor against the wall.

In the study at Downing Street the Prime Minister sat grim-faced as he listened to what Ferguson had to say.

“So there it is, Prime Minister. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”

“You were right, of course, to advise me to keep quiet about Sunday’s meeting at Ardmore House,” the Prime Minister said. “If there is any truth in what you say, if Rupert Lang is connected with January 30, the consequences could have been grave.”

“I must point out, Prime Minister, that even if January 30 knew of the meeting, it doesn’t necessarily mean they would have made an attempt on Senator Keogh’s life. Their general motive has been obscure to say the least.”

“True, but you’ve made a more than circumstantial case against Lang and the others, as far as I am concerned.”

“I’m afraid the word circumstantial is apt, Prime Minister. They can tough it out, the Browning woman and Professor Curry.”

“And Lang?”

“Well there is a point there. The Beretta. Once in our hands we can prove that it is the weapon that killed so many people. He has no way of avoiding that.”

“Then let us confront him,” the Prime Minister said. “Bear with me, Brigadier.” He lifted the phone. “Find out where Mr. Rupert Lang, Under Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, is at the present time.”

He put the phone down. Ferguson said, “Are you sure you want to do it this way, Prime Minister?”

“Absolutely. He has not only betrayed his country and his colleagues, he has betrayed me as his party leader.” The phone rang and he lifted it and listened. “Thank you.” He replaced the phone and stood up. “He’s at the House, Brigadier. I intend to see him there and I’d like you to accompany me.”

Some people consider the House of Commons to be the best club in London, with its numerous restaurants and bars. Most people’s favorite is the terrace, and it was to this the Prime Minister led the way, passing through the Central Lobby, acknowledging many people on the way.

The terrace itself was quite busy, plenty of people around, mostly with a glass in one hand. There was Westminster Bridge on the left, Albert Embankment on the other side of the river. They leaned on the parapet and the Prime Minister waved a waiter away.

“A rotten business, Brigadier. I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do it?”

Ferguson found a cigarette and lit it. “You could say the same thing about Philby, Maclean, Blunt.” He shrugged. “I can’t give you an answer, sir.”

“It certainly won’t do the Conservative Party any good.” John Major smiled. “Sorry, Brigadier, politics is not your consideration in this matter.”

“No, but I sympathize, sir. Not your fault, but you get the flak.”

“One of the privileges of rank, Brigadier.”

At that moment, Rupert Lang appeared on the terrace, paused, then saw them. He hurried across, smiling. “Prime Minister. I got your message.” He nodded to Ferguson. “Brigadier.” He turned back to the Prime Minister. “You said it was urgent.”

John Major turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”

Ferguson said, “Mr. Lang, as a Minister of the Crown you have a permit to carry a handgun when visiting Northern Ireland. The weapon, I understand, is a Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum.”

Lang knew, knew at once what this meant, but smiled. “That’s right.”

“I’d like to examine it, sir.”

“May I ask why?”

“To see if it is the weapon which has been responsible for the deaths of at least ten people, assassinations claimed by a terrorist group known as January 30.”

There was a long pause and then Lang said, “This is nonsense.”

“Rupert,” the Prime Minister said. “For God’s sake. It’s over.”

Rupert Lang stood there, staring at him, and suddenly smiled and turned to Ferguson. “What is it you want, Brigadier?”

“The Beretta, Mr. Lang.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll get it. It’s in my office desk.”

At that moment a crowd of Japanese tourists came onto the terrace. Lang turned and plunged into them, disappearing through the entrance on the far side before Ferguson or the Prime Minister could do a thing.

There are dozens of exits to the House of Parliament and Rupert Lang, an expert in all of them, was in his car in one of the underground car parks and driving away within five minutes of leaving Ferguson and the Prime Minister.