Angel Of Death

THIRTEEN

Belov was in his mews cottage off the Bayswater Road when he got Lang’s call.

“My dear Rupert, how are you?”

“Not good, Yuri, I’ve been rumbled.”

“Calm yourself, Rupert, and explain,” Belov said.

Lang went through exactly what had happened on the terrace with Ferguson and the Prime Minister. When he was finished he said, “There was no mention of you or Tom or Grace, just the Beretta.” He laughed. “I licensed it because I was entitled to, you know that, Yuri, but once they’ve tested it, fired a couple of rounds, I’ve had it.”

“Where is it?”

“I gave it to Grace. She wanted it for Sunday.”

“I see.”

“I’ve been thinking, Yuri. Perhaps Ferguson has made something of my connection with the Prime Minister’s special security committee, but there’s one thing they don’t know. That we know that the IRA meeting at Ardmore is to take place on Sunday afternoon.”

“You’re right,” Belov said. “Let’s make sure that stays that way. You see, my friend, if the Prime Minister and Ferguson think you don’t know, the whole thing will go ahead as normal. No need to give Keogh any anxieties.”

“Of course, but that doesn’t help me. I’ve got to get out of it.”

“Where will you go, Rupert?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps to Devon. To Lang Place.”

“They’ll catch up eventually.”

“Yes, it’s the end of something, you don’t need to tell me that. It’s so bloody frustrating not knowing what Ferguson is up to. Is it just me and the damn Beretta, or is more going on? Have other connections been made? If so, they’ll work their way round to all of us, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, Rupert, take care of yourself and good luck. They can’t touch me if I go to the Embassy.”

Belov put the phone down, went to his bedroom, and packed a bag with a few essentials. He left the cottage, went to his car parked at the curb, and got in. Ten minutes later he drove into the diplomatic safety of the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.

Land stopped at a phone box and rang his house in Dean Close. The ringing seemed to go on forever before Tom Curry answered.

“Thank God,” Rupert Lang said.

He told Curry what had happened. When he was finished his friend said, “What will you do?”

“I’ll go to Lang Place and think things out. I’ll use the usual air-taxi people. I’ll be there tonight. It’s you I’m worried about, old sport. They didn’t mention Yuri or you or Grace, but Ferguson ’s a downy old bird. It’ll only be a matter of time.”

“Don’t worry, old lad,” Curry said. “We’ll manage.” Suddenly he was choking with emotion. “Take care, Rupert,” and then he said the words that were always so difficult for one man to another. “I love you.”

He put down the phone, then picked it up again and dialed Grace Browning. When she answered he said, “Just listen.”

She didn’t feel afraid, more excited than anything else. When he was finished she said, “So what now?”

“It could be a while before they make connections, and as regards the Ardmore House meeting, Rupert wasn’t supposed to know anything.”

“Sit tight, is that it?”

“I honestly think so. They can’t touch Yuri if he stays in the Embassy. Diplomatic immunity. They don’t have, can’t have, any reason to move against you or me. I’ll be around tonight as usual at the King’s Head and take you to supper.”

“Look forward to it.”

She put down the phone and turned to the window and her head spun for a moment; she saw the shadow of a man, gun raised, but when she took a deep breath it went away.

It was late in the afternoon when Rupert Lang arrived at the small air-taxi firm in Surrey he habitually used for flights to Devon. His usual pilot, a young man called Alan Smith, greeted him as he got out of the car.

“All ready to go, Mr. Lang?”

“Good,” Rupert said. “Let’s get moving.”

Ten minutes later the Navajo Chieftain lifted off the runway. He opened the bar box and poured a double Scotch into a plastic cup.

“Here’s to you, old sport.” He toasted himself. “I think Bloody Sunday has finally caught up with you.”

At the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson was at his desk at six o’clock that evening when Hannah Bernstein came in with Dillon.

“Our inquiries finally showed that he frequently flies down to his house in Devon, sir, Lang Place.”

“He uses an air-taxi firm in Surrey. We’ve checked and he flew down there during the late afternoon in a Navajo Chieftain. The pilot has not yet returned.”

“I see.” Ferguson looked out at the gathering gloom. “Too late to do anything now. We’ll fly down in the morning. Use the same firm. He won’t be going anywhere and he knows it. Make the booking, Chief Inspector.”

“Do you want the Okehampton police involved, sir?”

“No. Just tell the air-taxi people to arrange to have a car waiting to take us to Lang Place. Tell them we’re expected.”

“And the Browning woman, sir?” Hannah asked. “And Curry?”

“Oh, he’ll have tipped them off and Belov. Unless I’m mistaken, our Russian friend will have headed straight for sanctuary at the Soviet Embassy, but to a certain extent they’re in the dark. All they know for certain is that I asked for Lang’s Beretta to see if it had any connection with the January 30 killings. He knew it damn well had, which is why he did a runner, but there was no mention of any connection with the others. They may even be banking on the fact that there is no connection.”

“Well all I can say is that if it was me, I’d smell a very large rat,” Dillon said.

“Yes, very probably.”

“Shall I have Curry and the Browning woman put under surveillance, then?” Hannah Bernstein asked.

“From the facts you’ve put before me of this young woman’s life and background, I’ve formed certain opinions about her,” Ferguson said. “Something went very obviously wrong in her head a long time ago. Possibly the trauma of her parents being murdered in Washington. A hell of a thing for a child to see. I suspect there may be more to it than that. We’ll probably never know the whole truth.”

“But what if they decide to run, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Why should they? Lang and Curry lived together. What does that prove? They were friendly with Grace Browning. So what? Yuri Belov exchanged pleasantries with them at a drinks party. He also probably spoke to at least fifty people. Now your fine police mind knows that everything about this case is circumstantial.”

“Except for Lang’s Beretta. Once that’s tested, it’s curtains for him and he knows it,” she said.

“And if he disposes of it, where’s your evidence then?” Dillon asked. “Another thing. Even under interrogation, would he be likely to shop his friends? He doesn’t seem the sort to me.”

“I agree,” Ferguson said. “The blunt truth is we know what these people are and what they have done. Proving it will be another matter. In my opinion they’ll sit tight for the moment and await developments.”

“So no surveillance?” Hannah said.

“She won’t be going anywhere and neither will Curry. She’s got a show to give. Last performance to-morrow night. She wouldn’t walk out on that, would she, Dillon?” He smiled. “Why not see if you can get us some tickets, Chief Inspector?”

Hannah gave Dillon a lift home and it was six-thirty as they drove out of the Ministry of Defence car park.

Dillon checked his watch. “She’ll be leaving for the theatre soon. Let’s drive past her house.”

“Have you something in mind?”

“Not really, just idle curiosity.”

It was raining slightly as they turned along Cheyne Walk and slowed as they approached the house. “Shall I stop?” Hannah asked.

“Just for a minute.”

At that moment she emerged from the side entrance on her BMW motorcycle. She wore black leathers and a dark helmet. She paused, legs astride, and pushed up the dark visor and checked the traffic. In the light of the street lamp they saw her face clearly. She pulled the visor down and rode away.

“My God!” Hannah breathed. “The final proof.”

“So it would seem,” Dillon said. “So it would seem.”

Rupert Lang was sitting by the fire in the drawing room at Lang Place, Danger lying in front of the fire, when the phone rang. It was the Navajo pilot, Alan Smith, calling from Surrey.

“That you, Mr. Lang? Alan Smith here. About the flight in the morning.”

“Which flight would that be?” Lang asked.

“A Brigadier Ferguson, a lady, a Miss Bernstein, who made the booking, and a man called Dillon. She said you were expecting them.”

“Ah, yes,” Lang said. “What time will you drop in?”

“Nine-thirty start. A little wind forecast, but we should do it in an hour. They asked for a taxi.”

“No need. I’ll have George Farne pick them up in the Range Rover. Thanks, Alan, and good night.”

He sat there thinking about it, then went and poured a Scotch. Finally he picked up the phone and called Dean Close. Curry answered at once.

“I’ve just heard they’re flying in tomorrow,” Rupert told him. “ Ferguson, Bernstein, and Dillon.”

“How did you find out?”

“The pilot rang me. Said he’d been told I was expecting them.”

“Strange, that. Ferguson must have known the pilot might do that.”

“Of course he did. Maybe he wants to give me a chance to do the decent thing and put a bullet through my head. Honor of the Regiment and all that.”

“For God’s sake, Rupert.” There was panic in Curry’s voice.

“Don’t worry, old sport, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. I’ll hear what he has to say. I want to know how close they are to the rest of you, if at all.”

“And the Beretta? What will you say when he asks for it?”

“Found it had been stolen from my desk. I panicked, shocked by the appalling suggestions made at that meeting with the PM, so I cleared off down here to think.”

“Rather weak, old lad.”

“Of course it is.” Lang laughed out loud. “You know that and so does Ferguson, but let’s see what he comes up with. You’d better phone Yuri at the Embassy and bring him up to date.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good night, old sport.”

Lang put the phone down, reached for his glass, and sat staring into the fire while he stroked the wolfhound’s head.

The weather was wretched the following morning when the Daimler turned into the entrance of the small airfield in Surrey and pulled up on the concrete apron. The doors of one of the hangars stood open and they saw the Navajo standing inside, the pilot beside it talking to an engineer in overalls. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah got out and ran through the rain.

“Brigadier Ferguson? Alan Smith,” the pilot said. He nodded out at the curtain of rain. “Not too good.”

“Are you saying we can’t go?”

“It’s up to you. Could be rough.”

“My friend here is a pilot.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “What’s your opinion?”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” Dillon smiled and gave Smith his hand. “Sean Dillon. I’ve got a commercial license, so it will comfort you to know that if you have a heart attack I can take over.”

Smith laughed. “All right then, if you folks are game, so am I. Let’s climb aboard and get on with it.”

It was raining steadily in Devon as Rupert Lang rode one of the Montesa dirt bikes along the track above the forest, Danger running alongside. Lang wore riding breeches and boots and an old paratrooper’s camouflaged smock. Instead of a helmet he wore a tweed cap.

He paused beside a low wall. There were sheep over there, crowding round Sam Lee the shepherd, and Danger went over the wall and ran to them, barking. Sam Lee struck out at him with his shepherd’s crook.

“Damn your eyes, Lee, I’ve told you before,” Lang called. “Do that again and I’ll break that thing over your head.”

“It’s the sheep, Mr. Lang, he won’t leave them alone.”

“Damn the sheep!” Lang paused, looking up into the rain, aware of the sound of an aircraft in the distance. He whistled to the dog. “Come on, boy,” started the Montesa, and rode away.

When the Range Rover entered the courtyard at Lang Place Rupert was standing at the front door, still wearing the old cap and the paratrooper’s smock, a curiously debonair figure.

“Ah, there you are, Ferguson, right on time.”

“Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my personal assistant, and Sean Dillon.”

“Your personal hit man.” Lang smiled at Dillon. “We probably traded shots back there in Derry in the old days.”

“And isn’t that a fact?” Dillon told him.

Lang turned to Hannah. “And what have they brought you along for, Chief Inspector? To read me my rights, make an arrest?”

“If necessary, sir.”

“Well it isn’t, I assure you. Stupid mistake, the whole thing, but come in out of the rain and I’ll explain.”

He led the way into the drawing room where Danger, lying in front of the fire, got up. “Down, boy.” Lang stroked him cheerfully. “Not a bit of harm in him, believe me. Soft as a brush. I’ve got a bottle of Bollinger on ice and Mrs. Farne will serve a light lunch in the conservatory before you go back.”

“Don’t you mean we, sir?” Hannah said.

“A trifle premature, I would have said. Would you mind doing the honors, Dillon? It’s stuffy in here.” He went and opened the French windows to the terrace. “That’s better.”

Dillon uncorked the champagne and poured. Hannah said, “Not for me.”

“On duty, Chief Inspector?” Lang smiled, looking immensely attractive, and held a glass out to her and in spite of herself she took it. “Now what shall we drink to?”

“Why not January 30?” Ferguson said.

“Oh dear, there you go again, Brigadier. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. As for the Beretta, well unfortunately it’s been stolen from my desk at the House…”

Ferguson held up a hand and took one of the chairs by the fire. “I’d sit down if I were you.” He turned to Hannah. “Chief Inspector, in the matter of Mr. Rupert Lang’s involvement in the terrorist group we know as January 30, make your case.”

Land sprawled in a chair listening, a slight smile on his face, one hand stroking Danger’s head, the other holding his glass of champagne. When she was finished, he stood up and went and recharged his glass.

“Anyone else?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “No?”

“A convincing case, you must agree, Lang,” Ferguson said.

“Total fantasy, the lot of it. Tom Curry and I have lived together for years and quite openly, that’s the connection there. Colonel Yuri Belov is someone I’ve met casually on the Embassy party circuit, as I’m sure many Members of Parliament have. Grace Browning is a dear friend to both Tom Curry and myself. To attempt to tie us all in together as members of this January 30 group quite frankly beggars belief.”

“High melodrama, the whole thing, I grant you that,” Ferguson told him.

“And totally circumstantial. I mean, come on, Ferguson. I’m in Belfast on Government business, Tom has a few days at Queen’s, and Grace Browning happens to be performing at the Lyric Theatre, and when a couple of IRA louts end up dead in an alley, you accuse the three of us.”

“I accuse January 30,” Ferguson said, “who claimed those killings. After all, there’s the business of Dillon and the Sons of Ulster. Only Dillon himself, Chief Inspector Bernstein, Simon Carter, myself, the Prime Minister, and you knew about that, and the same circumstance applied in the unfortunate killing of Liam Bell.” He shook his head. “Simple process of elimination, Lang. In both cases you had to be the leak.”

Lang stood there, the slight fixed smile on his face. “Any good barrister could demolish that argument at an Old Bailey trial in five minutes flat. You see, Ferguson, the only link to the January 30 killings is the Beretta. Now you say it’s my Beretta, but as that has unfortunately been stolen, we’ll never know, will we? Of course, I’m sorry I panicked and cleared off after finding the gun was missing. Naturally I’ll offer the PM my resignation.”

It was Dillon who broke the log jam. “Jesus, me ould son, but you’ve got a tongue on you.” He went to the table and took the bottle of Bollinger from the bucket. “Is it all right if I help myself?”

“Be my guest, old sport.”

Dillon filled his glass. “Why did you do it, that’s what interests me. I mean, Belov I understand. He’s a pro working for his own side, and Curry is obviously your typical British middle-class wealthy liberal nut case who wants to make the world safe for Communism. Have I left anything out?”

“He’s Irish, actually,” Lang said.

“As for the girl, I’ve formed the opinion she’s touched in the head,” Dillon told him. “But that’s another story.” He looked up at the portrait of the Earl of Drury over the fireplace. “Ancestor of yours, from the look of his face. A grand arrogant bastard who walked over everybody. He probably laid his riding crop over the shoulders of his servants and made all the maids have sex with him.”

Lang’s face was pale. “Take care, Dillon.”

“You’d rather be him, is that it? Modern life too boring? All the money in the world and all you could find to do was play at politics and then January 30 came along. I don’t know how, but it came along.” There was that wolfish look on Lang’s face now. Dillon said, “I’d like to know one thing. Did Grace Browning make all the hits or did you share?”

“You go to hell,” Lang told him.

Ferguson stood up. “I believe there is enough evidence to take you into custody, Lang. You’ll come back to London with us.” He turned to Hannah. “Read him his rights, and for the moment charge him with treason.”

“Nobody’s taking me anywhere,” Lang said and snapped his fingers. “Stand, boy.” Danger was on his feet instantly, a rumble like distant thunder deep in his throat. “He’ll tear your arm off, Ferguson, if I tell him to.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said and whistled, a strange eerie sound that seemed to come from another place. “Now then, Danger boy.” He held out a hand. The wolfhound wriggled close, reached up and licked the hand.

“Good God!” Lang said.

“A man who was once my friend taught me that trick,” Dillon said.

“Ah, well, it just goes to show you can’t rely on anything in this wicked old world,” Rupert Lang said and took a Browning from inside the pocket of his smock. “Except one of these, of course. Sorry, Ferguson, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He backed out of the window and was gone, the dog running after him. Dillon took out his Walther and ran onto the terrace, pausing to get his bearings. There was no sign of Lang and then the roaring of an engine and he rode out of the barn on the Montesa, skidded out through the main gate, and took the track up to the moor.

Dillon ran across to the Range Rover and in the same moment saw the other Montesa on its stand inside the barn.

He turned and called to Ferguson and Hannah, who had emerged onto the terrace. “There’s another bike. I’m going after him. I’ll call you on my Cellnet phone, Hannah.”

A moment later, he roared out of the barn, turned through the gates, and went after Lang, who was high up on the track now, the wolfhound chasing him.

Dillon’s tweed suit was soaked within minutes, water spraying everywhere from the rough track, and the rain dashed in his face, half-blinding him. For some reason he seemed to be gaining, and when he went over a rise after coming up through the trees he saw Lang no more than a hundred yards in front, Danger running alongside, keeping pace with him with apparent ease.

And yet it was the wolfhound in the end that was Lang’s undoing, for as they reached the crest of the track, high above the forest, three sheep came over the drystone wall. Danger, ahead of the motorcycle at that point, crossed in front to snap at the sheep. Lang swerved to avoid him.

At that point there was a wooden five bar gate. He smashed through it, careered down a grass slope, and plunged over a ledge of rock, still astride the Montesa and, amazingly, the dog leapt after him.

Dillon left his bike by the smashed gate, slithered down the slope, and looked over. Lang lay there with the Montesa on top of him and the wolfhound was crawling toward him, dragging its hind legs. Dillon moved to one side where the grass sloped again and went down.

He got both his hands to the Montesa, lifted it up, and tossed it to one side. There was blood on one side of Lang’s face. Dillon leaned down to lift him and Lang cried out in agony.

“My bloody back’s broken, Dillon. Christ, I can feel the bone sticking out.”

“I’ll get help, I have a phone.” Dillon got his Cellnet out and dialed Hannah’s number.

She was with him in seconds. “Are you okay, Dillon?”

“There’s been a bad accident. Lang’s crashed and broken his back. You’d better get onto the police at Okehampton. We’ll need an ambulance or a helicopter if there is one. I’m high on the track above the forest.”

“I’ll get straight onto it.”

Dillon turned to Lang and Danger whimpered in pain, trying to drag himself to his master. Lang turned his head. “There’s a good boy.” He tried to reach the dog with a hand and groaned. “My God, his rear legs, Dillon, the bones are jutting out.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Finish him for me, Dillon, do the decent thing. Can’t bear to see him suffer.”

Dillon took out his silenced Walther. Danger looked up at him, eyes filled with pain. “There’s a boy,” Dillon said, stroking his head, and shot him.

Dillon crouched beside Lang, lit a cigarette, and put it to his lips. Lang coughed and said weakly, “What a way to go. What a stupid bloody way to go.”

“Someone will be here soon,” Dillon said. “One of the advantages of the Cellnet phone system. Instant communication.”

“Not instant enough. I’m dying, Dillon.”

“Maybe not. Just hang in there.”

“What for? A show trial.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve always been so bored, Dillon, had everything and had nothing, if you follow. Ireland disgusted me, so I left the Army for silly political games, and then things happened, all by chance, wonderful, exciting things. Nothing was ever so exciting.”

His breathing was labored. “Take it easy,” Dillon told him.

“No, something I want you to understand, want to tell you because it doesn’t seem to matter now. The first January 30 was a mistake. Tom was a delivery boy for Belov, but the Arab he met was supposed to kill Belov for the KGB. Tom shot him in a struggle for the gun – the Beretta. That’s why we invented January 30. To explain the killing. But Tom was shot and I couldn’t have that, so I knocked off Ashimov, the KGB bastard behind everything. I killed people in Ireland, Dillon, so why couldn’t I kill a piece of slime like that?”

Blood was trickling out of his mouth. “Easy,” Dillon said.

“So it started and after a while came Grace.” His words were distorted now. “Tom and I went to see her at the Lyric. On the way back, those two scum jumped her, heroes of the glorious revolution. Took her up an alley to rape her. Tom and I intervened. I was carrying, you see. I’d made the Beretta my licensed handgun for visits to the Province.”

“And you killed them.”

“They were armed. I shot one, there was a struggle and Grace picked up the Beretta and took out the other bastard.”

“And that was the start of it for her?”

“Got a taste for it. Another kind of performance. I put her through a weapons course here. Very apt pupil!”

He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. Dillon said, “The Beretta, has Grace got it?”

“Oh yes, needs it.”

Dillon frowned. “Why?”

“Poor Ferguson. Another Bloody Sunday. Like to see his face,” Lang said and coughed, turning his head to one side, blood erupting from his mouth. His body shook violently, then went very still.

A moment later Dillon heard his Cellnet phone. He took it out and switched on and Ferguson said, “Dillon, there’s an RAF base only twelve miles away. They’re sending a helicopter.”

“Too late,” Dillon said. “He just died. I’ll see you in a little while, Brigadier.”

He switched off and turned, as stone cascaded down the slope, and Sam Lee arrived. “What happened, then?”

“He crashed through the gate off the track and came down the slope.”

“Dead, is he?” There was a certain satisfaction on Lee’s coarse face. “Ah, well that’s the way of the world. Even the high and mighty come down to this.”

“Who the hell are you?” Dillon asked.

“The estate shepherd, and that damn dog lying there like that is the best news I’ve had in years.”

He stirred Danger with his foot and Dillon, anger flooding through him like lava, put a knee in Lee’s crotch and raised it again into the descending face, sending the shepherd back down the slope a good forty feet.

It was mid-afternoon when Alan Smith took the Navajo up over the trees at the end of the old RAF landing strip and climbed through the rain.

“One bright spot from the Prime Minister’s point of view,” Hannah Bernstein said. “With Rupert Lang’s timely death, a rather large scandal is averted for the Conservative party.”

“But it still leaves us with the Browning woman, Curry, and Belov. Thanks to Rupert Lang’s rather emotional leave-taking, we now have our suspicions confirmed.”

“I’d like to point out, Brigadier,” Hannah said, “that Dillon’s account of Lang’s dying confession carries no weight in a court of law. If it was put forward by the prosecution, the Judge would have no option but to throw it out.”

“Yes, I am aware of that sad fact, Chief Inspector.” Ferguson sighed. “But I’m deeply disturbed by Dillon’s other piece of information. He said that the Browning woman had the Beretta?”

“Yes,” Dillon told him. “He said she needed it. I asked what he meant and he said: ‘Poor Ferguson. Another Bloody Sunday. Like to see his face.’ That’s exactly what he said. Then he died.”

“How very inconvenient of him,” Ferguson said.

“Isn’t that rather hard, sir?” Hannah told him.

“Not at all. There’s only one Sunday that’s important in my book – tomorrow – and any kind of involvement in that affair by Grace Browning fills me with horror.”

“But she’s here in London, sir,” Hannah said, “ performing at the King’s Head tonight.”

“So are we, my dear, but flying out to Shannon in the morning. She could do the same.”

“Shall I have her lifted, sir?”

“You got the tickets for the show?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll allow her the final performance. Pick her up afterwards. My guess is Curry will be there.” He turned to Dillon. “Are you looking forward to it?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for all the tea in China,” Sean Dillon told him.