Angel Of Death

KENT
DRUMGOOLE ABBEY
ARDMORE HOUSE
LONDON
1994
FIFTEEN

It was just after one o’clock in the morning when Grace Browning reached Coldwater village, passed the George and Dragon and the village green, and found the sign a quarter of a mile farther on that pointed the way to the airfield. She turned down the narrow lane, then pulled in on the grass verge and switched off her lights.

She found a small torch in the glove compartment, got out and proceeded on foot, the final caution, but she had to be sure. She paused on the edge of the runway. There was a light on a bracket above the hangar door where she and Tom had inspected the Conquest, and there was another in the Nissen hut.

She waited for a moment, then, keeping to the shadows, crossed to the hangar and worked her way to the Nissen hut. When she peered through the window, she saw Carson sitting at the table, an enamel mug in one hand, a chart spread in front of him. Satisfied, she turned back across the runway and returned to the car.

She switched on the lights, started the engine, and set off across the runway. When she reached the Nissen hut she turned off the engine and sat there waiting. The door opened and Carson appeared.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” she said. She got out of the car and looked across at him.

“You’re early. Where’s your friend?”

“Change of plan. He won’t be coming. I thought I’d get here early in case of weather problems.”

“You’d better come in then.”

It was warm in the hut, so warm that she could smell the heat from the stove on which an old coffee pot stood.

“The coffee’s fresh. Help yourself if you like.” He wasn’t wearing the flying jacket, only the black overalls, and his beard seemed more tangled than ever. He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She found a spare mug, poured coffee into it, and crossed to the table. The chart was the one covering Ireland to the Galway coast.

“Checking our route?”

“For about the fifth time. I never leave anything to chance. I’ve been flying a long time, and that’s why I’m still here.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’d definitely like to be at Kilbeg by eleven. I’ve spoken to Colonel Belov within the last few hours and the car will be in place.”

“We’ll have to leave no later than seven then.”

“Fine by me.” She sipped some coffee. “Where are my cases?”

“On the bed in the next room.”

“Did you open them?”

“Of course not.” He tried to sound indignant. “Not my business. I’m not interested in what you’re up to. Like I said, I’m an in-and-out man. I’m getting paid well over the odds for this one, and that’s all that interests me.”

He was lying, she knew that, but she nodded calmly and sipped some more coffee. “Good. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

“You do that.” As she went to open the door to the other room he said, “You know, it’s funny, but I seem to know you from somewhere.”

She turned and shook her head. “Not possible, Mr. Carson. You see, I’d have remembered you,” and she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Curry’s case with the priest’s cassock was not needed now and she pushed it under the bed. She examined the other, placing the nun’s habit on the bed, taking out the AK-47 and Beretta, removing the clips, then reloading them. There were two spare clips for each and a capacious shoulder bag in soft black leather. She took the two thousand pounds from her raincoat pockets and put them in the bottom of the suitcase under the nun’s habit, placed the AK-47, its butt folded, in the shoulder bag, then dropped the bag back in the suitcase.

She put the suitcase against the wall, then took off the raincoat and lay on the bed in her tracksuit, her right hand on the Beretta beside her. The light was so dim that she left it on. In any case, she didn’t want total darkness in case she saw him again, that shadowy figure with the arm raised and the gun. In spite of herself, her eyes closed and after a while she slept fitfully.

And across the Atlantic at Andrews Air Force Base, a black sedan drove across the tarmac and pulled up beside the waiting Gulfstream. It was three o’clock in the morning in England, but with a five-hour time difference, only ten at night in America. Patrick Keogh was quite alone except for an Air Force driver, and the base commander got out and opened the door for him.

“Nice and private, this plane, Senator, as requested, but the crew are Air Force.” There were three of them, all wearing rather anonymous navy-blue airline uniforms. “Captains Harris and Ford take care of the flying and Sergeant Black takes care of you.”

Keogh shook hands with all three and turned to the base commander. “Many thanks.”

“Your luggage is on board and you’re cleared for immediate take-off, Senator.” The base commander saluted. “Good luck, sir.”

Keogh went up the steps into the luxurious interior of the Gulfstream, found himself a seat, and strapped in.

Sergeant Black checked him out. “I’ve got full meal facilities, Senator. I believe your wife suggested the menu. Anytime you like once we’re airborne, just say the word.”

“Sounds good to me,” Keogh said.

The engines had already fired and Black went and strapped in himself. A few moments later, the Gulfstream roared down the runway, lifted off, and started to climb.

Grace came awake with a start and stared up at the ceiling. A gray light filtered in and rain pattered against the pane. She realized she could smell cooking, got up and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. She put the Beretta in one of her tracksuit pockets, moved to the door and opened it.

Carson had a frying pan on the stove, and he turned and smiled. “Eggs and bacon. Best I can do, but you’ll need something inside you.”

She was surprised to find that she felt hungry and checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. She opened the door and looked outside at the relentless rain.

“It looks rough. Will there be a problem?”

“Not really,” he told her and dished out the bacon and eggs on two metal plates. “A bit bumpy to start, but we’ll soon climb above it. There’s bread and butter there and tea in the pot. Help yourself.”

At about the same time, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein arrived in Cavendish Square and were admitted to Ferguson ’s flat by Kim, who vanished at once into the kitchen. Ferguson appeared from his bedroom fastening a Guards tie.

“Ah, there you are. Have you had breakfast?”

Hannah glanced at Dillon. “Hardly, sir, we knew you were anxious for an early start.”

“Very conscientious of you, Chief Inspector. We’ll beat the traffic to Gatwick. Time enough to have breakfast at one of the airport cafes.”

“Jesus, but you’re a thoughtful man, Brigadier,” Dillon said.

“Aren’t I? Which is why I told Kim to make us a nice pot of tea.” At that moment the Ghurka came in with a tray. “There you are,” Ferguson said. “Help yourselves while I finish dressing,” and he went out.

It was soon after that the Cessna Conquest roared along the runway at Coldwater and lifted into the rain. Carson was sitting in the pilot’s seat, a chart spread on the right-hand seat. Grace sat in a seat at the rear of the cabin, her suitcase wedged between two seats on the other side.

She looked out of the window and saw only rain and heavy cloud. The plane rocked from side to side and was buffeted by a crosswind as they turned and climbed. After a while they broke out through the cloud, but there was no sunshine, only a great vault of gray.

The buffeting had stopped now and they seemed to have leveled out. “Curtain up,” she said softly. “First act.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

At precisely nine o’clock the Lear Jet lifted off at Gatwick and started to climb. Ferguson sat on the right of the gangway, Hannah Bernstein on his left. Dillon sat opposite her facing them.

The phone rang and Hannah Bernstein answered it. She listened, then said, “Thank you,” and put it down.

“What was that?” Ferguson said.

“The Yard. The River Police have recovered Grace Browning’s BMW but not her.”

“Oh, she’ll come up eventually,” Ferguson said, “and we’ll have a lovely funeral, half of show business crying into their hankies.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that is rather callous,” Hannah told him.

“That’s as may be.”

“As for me, I’d be happier if I’d seen her laid out on the slab,” Dillon said. “It’s my superstitious nature.”

“Now that is being melodramatic,” Ferguson told him. “Go and do something useful. From what the pilot tells me the weather at Shannon isn’t marvelous. Go and check with him. You’re the flyer.”

Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and Ferguson took a Times from the pile of newspapers he’d purchased at Gatwick and opened it.

After a while he said, “Here we go. Coroner’s inquest on Rupert Lang today.”

“Shouldn’t Dillon have been there, sir?”

“I got an exclusion order from the Home Office. Defense of the Realm and all that, so the Coroner has agreed to accept Dillon’s written statement. I wrote it myself. Rather good. Dillon was acting as a security guard, Lang suggested they go for a ride on the motorcycles, and it went tragically wrong.”

“What about the shepherd, Sam Lee?”

“All that lout can say is what he saw. They were riding along the track and Lang lost control and went through the gate. Funeral is tomorrow. St. Margaret’s, Westminster.”

“I should think that will be quite a turnout,” Hannah said.

“Good God, yes. They’ll all be there. The PM and the Cabinet, Leader of the Opposition, not to mention officers from the Grenadiers and the Parachute Regiment. After all, he was a hero,” Ferguson said. “MC and all that, brave officer. They’ll see him out in style.”

“He must be laughing his head off,” she said.

“Yes, he always was a cynical bastard.”

Dillon came back and slid into his seat. “Low cloud and turbulence at Shannon and heavy rain that’s expected to last most of the day.”

“Any problems?” Ferguson asked.

“Not with the two lads up there in the cockpit flying this thing. They flew Tornadoes in the Gulf War. Twenty trips each to Baghdad.”

“That’s all right then.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “We’ll have some tea, and just to stay politically correct and on the right side of Miss Wonderful here, I’ll make it.”

The conquest came out of cloud at approximately a thousand feet and saw the coast of Ireland ahead, County Waterford to be precise. Carson went lower, approaching the coastline at five hundred feet over a turbulent sea. And then, as Grace looked out, they were across, green fields below, hedgerows and farmhouses. A few miles inland and he started to climb until they were enveloped in cloud. She unbuckled her belt and went forward and tapped him on the shoulder and he pulled down his earphones.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“None so far, but there are headwinds from now on.”

“Will it hinder us? My timing is of absolute importance.”

“I shouldn’t think so, thanks to that early start. If it stays like this we’ll have a tailwind most of the way back. A much quicker trip home.”

“Good,” she said.

“There’s a black box back there by the luggage compartment and toilet. You’ll find a thermos flask of boiled water and coffee and tea bags.”

“What’s your preference?”

“Coffee, very black.”

“I’ll see to it,” and she turned and went along the gangway.

The Lear Jet came in to Shannon Airport sixteen miles west of Limerick at twenty minutes to eleven. The pilot made an excellent landing and proceeded to a dispersal point at the far end of the hangars as ordered, an area of little activity. The only other machine in sight was a helicopter, two crew visible in the cockpit. There was also a black Rover car parked there, a driver at the wheel, and a large man in a navy-blue raincoat and an umbrella over his head came forward as one of the pilots opened the door of the Lear jet and the stairs came down. Ferguson went first, followed by Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, who carried a canvas hold-all bag.

The big man had a Cork accent and a tough, hard face to him. “Brigadier Ferguson? I’m Chief Superintendent Patrick Hare, Special Branch.”

Ferguson shook hands. “This is my assistant, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.”

“A great pleasure.” Hare shook her hand.

“And this rogue is one Sean Dillon, of whom you may have heard over the years.”

Hare’s astonishment was plain. “Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe it.”

“In the flesh,” Dillon said. “I remember back in the eighties I was on the run in the Republic and you were snapping at my heels. Chief Inspector then.”

Hare grinned reluctantly. “So you’ve gone over?”

“Haven’t we all these days?” Dillon said and offered his hand.

After a slight hesitation Hare took it and turned to Ferguson. “There’s an office in the hangar we can use. The Gulfstream carrying Senator Keogh is twenty minutes out. As you can see, the helicopter is ready and waiting.”

“How much do you know?” Ferguson asked as they went into the hangar.

“Everything. I’ve been briefed by the Prime Minister himself, who stressed the need for total secrecy, which is why he’s not here himself. It would obviously attract too much attention.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said as they went into the office.

There was a tray with cups, a thermos flask and milk on a desk. Hare said, “Tea there if it takes your fancy.”

“How long to reach Drumgoole?” Ferguson asked as Hannah opened the thermos.

“Half an hour. I’ll wait until you’re ten minutes on your way and then I’ll telephone the mother superior, Sister Mary Fitzgerald. A good, kind soul. I know her well. The father confessor to the Little Sisters of Pity at Drumgoole is Father Tim McGuire, a decent ould stick. Just the nuns and the school kids there, and they’ll all go potty when they hear Keogh is coming.”

“But not for long. Ardmore House is what’s important,” Ferguson said as Hannah handed tea round.

“Well, I wish him well there,” Hare said. “I think he’s going to need it.”

“How close?” Grace was at Carson ’s shoulder now.

“Not far. Fifteen miles.”

“And where is Drumgoole Abbey from here?”

“We fly over it.”

“Good, I’d like to take a look.”

She went back to her seat and peered out of the window. The Conquest came out of cloud at two thousand feet into heavy rain and there it was in a pleasant wooded valley below, the Abbey, a schoolhouse, and several cottages. Grace took in the lay of the land, the approach road leading up from the valley and disappearing into a vast forest area.

The Conquest continued for another ten miles and during that time, she opened the suitcase, took off her tracksuit trousers, then dressed in the nun’s habit, not easy in the restricted space of the cabin, but years of having to change in cramped dressing rooms had given her a certain expertise. She finished off by pulling on a pair of black knee socks and black flat-heeled shoes. She took the shoulder bag out, pushed the case between two seats, and sat waiting.

Kilbeg was a desolate sort of place, the grass runway plain. There was a wind sock on a pole, a ruined cottage at the north end, a shed beside it, and as they landed she could see a dark green car parked inside.

The plane rolled to a halt close to the cottage and Carson switched off. When he got out of the pilot’s seat and saw her he looked truly shocked.

“God in Heaven.”

“The door, Mr. Carson.”

He got the Airstair door open and went down the steps, turning to give her a hand. She accepted, lifting the skirt of her habit with the other, and they ran through the relentless rain to the shelter of the shed.

The car was a Toyota saloon. The door wasn’t locked, but when she opened it there was no key in the ignition. She felt under the rubber mat and found it at once. She turned to Carson and held it up.

“Here we are.”

She got behind the wheel and put the shoulder bag on the passenger seat. “How long will you be?” Carson asked.

“Two to two and a half hours if I’m lucky.”

“I’ve got to have a time. Can’t wait forever.”

She looked up at him calmly. “Be here when I return, Mr. Carson. I need hardly remind you that Colonel Belov has a very long arm. There would be nowhere you could go that he couldn’t find you.”

He shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I don’t want to hang around too long.”

“You won’t have to.” She switched on the engine and drove away.

The Gulfstream landed and taxied toward the hangars, taking up position beside the Lear jet.

Patrick Hare said, “I’ll go and get him.”

He walked out toward the Gulfstream under his umbrella and the door opened and the stairs came down followed by Sergeant Black. A moment later Captains Harris and Ford appeared. They lined up at the bottom of the stairs and Keogh joined them, shaking hands with each in turn. As Ferguson watched, Hare engaged the Senator in a brief conversation, then they walked toward the hangar.

“Brigadier, great to see you again,” Keogh said. “And you, Dillon.”

“Allow me to introduce my aide, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein,” Ferguson told him.

Keogh gave her his best smile. “A real pleasure, ma’am,” and shook hands.

Dillon said, “We have a present for you, Senator.” He opened the hold-all he had been carrying. “Kevlar jacket, latest model.”

“Oh no,” Keogh groaned. “Must I? Those things make you look like you’ve put on twenty pounds.”

“They also stop most bullets from most modern rifles stone dead,” Dillon said. “Unless they’re armor piercing.”

“Am I supposed to feel happy with that thought?”

Keogh took off the jacket and waistcoat he was wearing and Hare and Dillon helped him into the Kevlar jacket. “We’ll get Armani to make this stuff into suits next season,” Dillon said. “It’ll save everyone a lot of trouble.”

They fastened the Velcro tabs and helped him back into his waistcoat and suit jacket. There was a small mirror on the wall and Keogh stood back and examined himself.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see now that I’ll definitely have to cut out the potatoes.” He grinned. “Can we go now?”

Grace Browning followed the road through the forest and paused while still in its cover to look at the Abbey. To her left there was a track leading into a further spread of trees. She drove along it, then paused while still screened from view, reversed and parked the Toyota pointing back the way she had come. She could see down into the Abbey gardens, various paths leading down to the Abbey itself although there was no one about in the heavy rain.

She turned to get her shoulder bag and noticed that there was a black folding umbrella on the backseat. Whether by accident or design, it didn’t matter. She pulled out the telescope handle, put the umbrella up against the rain, and went down through the gardens.

At that moment Patrick Hare telephoned Drumgoole Abbey and asked for Sister Mary Fitzgerald. There was a slight delay before she came on.

“Yes, who is it?”

“Sister Mary, it’s Chief Superintendent Pat Hare. I’ve got a shock for you. In approximately fifteen minutes a helicopter will be landing on your front lawn.”

“And why would it be doing that?”

“Because it has Senator Patrick Keogh on board. He wants to visit the Keogh Chapel and see the stained-glass window.”

“Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe it.”

“You’d better, Sister, because he’ll be dropping into your lap minutes from now.”

She slammed down the phone and ran into the main office, where three sisters were working at their desks.

“Drop everything, Sisters,” she cried. “I’ve just heard that a helicopter is arriving with Senator Patrick Keogh on board. We’ve fifteen minutes at the most. Sister Margaret – you and Sister Josephine get over to the school and have all the children taken to the Abbey church. Sister Amy, you will see that the acolytes are properly dressed for whatever service Father Tim wants to give. I’ll warn Father Tim. Now hurry.”

She chased them to the door, was about to leave herself when she remembered and went to the internal phone. “Sister Clara? We’re going to need the organ, so get over to the church. Senator Keogh is coming.”

She slammed the phone down, went out and ran along the corridor, holding up the skirts of her habit. She went out of the main door and ran through the rain to the great door of the Abbey, pushed it open, and hurried inside.

When she opened the vestry door, Father Tim was sitting at his desk, very frail with snow-white hair and steel-rimmed glasses. He turned in shocked surprise.

“Sister Mary, what on earth is it?”

She collapsed in the other chair, quite breathless, and told him.

Grace Browning moved down through a walled kitchen garden, her umbrella sheltering her from the rain. As she got closer to the Abbey, she saw considerable activity, nuns running backwards and forwards through the rain, and then a crocodile of young girls in white blouses, navy-blue school skirts and white socks moving from the school to the Abbey, a number of nuns hurrying alongside and trying rather ineffectually to protect them with umbrellas.

Grace stood watching and a nun turned and, on catching sight of her, called, “Come, Sister, we need you. Senator Keogh is coming.”

At that distance, and with the umbrella over her head, she was just another nun, but she seized the opportunity, hurried down and joined on the end of the tail of children as they went in through the great door of the Abbey.

Inside, they moved up the center aisle toward the high altar. Grace Browning put down her umbrella, paused just inside, glancing around her, then saw a stone spiral staircase through an archway, a gallery above it. She moved forward without hesitation and went up.

As the helicopter approached Drumgoole, Senator Keogh said, “What is it with the Kevlar jacket and so on, Brigadier? Do we really have a problem?”

“Let me put it this way, Senator. If there was a problem, it no longer exists. We’re just taking full precaution.”

“Well one thing’s for sure,” Keogh said, looking out as they approached the Abbey. “The visit down there should be the least of my problems. It’s what I’m going to say at Ardmore that concerns me. We’re so close, Brigadier, so damn close to getting the IRA to make a peace initiative. We’ve got to make it work, we’ve just got to.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Senator,” Ferguson told him as the helicopter settled on the lawn.

The second pilot came back and opened the door. Sister Mary Fitzgerald and Father Tim, wearing an alb over his cassock and a stole around his neck, stood waiting.

Dillon handed Keogh an umbrella. “You’ll need this, Senator. This is Ireland, remember.”

“And how could I forget that?” Keogh grinned.

He went down the steps and crossed to the Abbey, and Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon went after him.

From the gallery, Grace Browning had a perfect view of events below – the schoolgirls so excited, half a dozen boys, acolytes, bright in their scarlet cassocks and white cottas. Although she did not know who Sister Mary Fitzgerald was, she realized she was in charge from the way she marshaled people, and she’d also noticed Father Tim arranging things in the side chapel – that must be the Keogh memorial.

There was a sudden excited murmur from the nuns grouped at the door, which spread to the children, and then Patrick Keogh walked in, followed by Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein.

“Well, well,” Grace said softly. “Old Home Week.”

She moved to a position behind a pillar from which she could see across into the Keogh Chapel, put the shoulder bag on the floor, took out the AK-47, and unfolded the butt.

“Such an honor, Senator,” Sister Mary Fitzgerald told him.

“The honor is mine,” he replied.

“If we could show you the window, Senator,” Father Tim said. “A fitting memorial to your great ancestor.”

“I’m sure it is,” Keogh said and followed him.

There was a small altar in front of the stained-glass window and three young girls, neat in their school uniforms, stood in front of it holding tiny bouquets of flowers. Patrick Keogh smiled and stepped toward them.

“What’s this?”

In the gallery leaned against the pillar, took aim, and her finger eased on the trigger. At the same moment, a young girl ran forward, holding out a bunch of flowers, crossing Keogh, and Grace pulled the weapon up. There was the inimitable muted crack of a silenced AK-47 and a large vase on the altar disintegrated.

Dillon called, “Down, Senator, down! That’s rifle fire!”

The girls at the altar turned and Patrick Keogh, presenting his back, flung his arms around the three nearest, pulling them close, and Grace Browning shot him twice.