Angel Of Death

SIXTEEN

Dillon drew his Walther, looking up, saw a movement and raised his gun to fire. It was Hannah who called out to stop him.

“No, Dillon, no!”

And then he saw the figure in the gallery and realized it was a nun. He turned and ran to Keogh, whom Ferguson was already bending over. The Senator was gasping for breath as they pulled him up.

“Bring him into the vestry,” Father Tim said. “He needs to sit down.”

As Grace Browning stepped back, she heard a sound, turned, and saw a boy of perhaps ten in scarlet cassock and white cotta. She stood there looking at him, holding the AK-47 across her front. He gazed at her round-eyed as she folded the butt and replaced it in the shoulder bag. She put a finger to her lips.

“Be a good boy now,” she said in an Irish accent, “and be off with you.”

He turned and ran the other way and she went down the spiral staircase.

In the vestry they got Keogh’s jacket and waistcoat off and removed the Kevlar jacket.

“God help me,” the Senator said. “But I feel like I’ve been kicked in the back twice by a mule.”

Dillon showed him the two rounds embedded in the Kevlar jacket. “You could have been dead.”

“Except that you made me wear that damn thing,” Keogh said.

Ferguson shook his head. “Not good enough, Senator. I was responsible and I got it wrong. In some way I got it wrong.”

Sister Mary Fitzgerald, standing listening, opened the door and went out. There were children at the main door, nuns trying to control them in the porch, and Father Tim doing his best to help. Sister Mary Fitzgerald took him to one side.

“It’s incredible. Someone tried to shoot Senator Keogh.”

“The IRA?” Father Tim asked.

“And why would they do that to one of their own? Praise be to God he was wearing a bullet-proof jacket. He’s all right.”

At that moment, the young acolyte from the gallery ran up, sobbing. “What is it, Liam?” Father Tim asked.

“I’m frightened, Father. I was in the gallery and there was a nun there, someone I didn’t know.”

“And what was so special about her?”

“She had a rifle, Father.”

On the other side of the pillar, where she had overheard everything, Grace Browning eased away and slipped out of the church through a side door. Putting up her umbrella, she started up through the gardens. She reached the woods and her car within five minutes, got behind the wheel, and drove away. She felt quite calm. She had tried and she had failed. That was how the script had turned out and there was nothing to be done about it.

“She was here,” Dillon said, “instead of at the bottom of the Thames. The whole thing was a trick, can’t you see? Lang and Curry were dead, so she had to die too to fool us.”

“My God!” Ferguson said. “What a woman.”

“But how?” Hannah Bernstein demanded. “That charade in Wapping. That was only a few hours ago. How did she get here?”

“How did we get here?” Dillon said. “I suspect she did it the same way.”

Ferguson said, “There’s only one important thing at the end of the day. She failed.” He turned and went to Keogh, who sat there on a chair, breathing deeply. “Are you all right, Senator?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And do you feel up to Ardmore House?”

Keogh laughed, and yet there was a hardness to him. “I sure as hell do. I’ve come this far, so let’s do it, Brigadier.”

Grace Browning drove very fast most of the way through the forest, was at Kilbeg within twenty minutes of leaving Drumgoole. There was nothing to keep her here now, no way of interfering with what was to take place at Ardmore House. The best thing to do was to get out.

She parked inside the shed beside the ruined cottage and killed the engine, then she got out of the Toyota, her shoulder bag in one hand, and walked toward the Conquest, holding the umbrella over her head.

Carson got out to meet her. “Everything okay?”

She smiled calmly. “Couldn’t be better. Coldwater next stop, so let’s get moving,” and she went up the steps in front of him.

In the helicopter Ferguson sat apart from them, the telephone to his ear. Finally he put it down and moved to join them.

“I’ve spoken to Chief Superintendent Hare. He’ll do what he can, but I don’t think it will be much. I mean, what do we have? An eight-year-old boy says he saw a nun in the gallery with a rifle.”

“Not much of a description, a nun in Ireland,” Dillon said.

“Exactly.”

Keogh was drinking black coffee supplied by Hannah from a thermos. “It seems to me there’s more here than meets the eye, Brigadier. Do I get to know?”

“Of course, Senator. If anyone has a right to know, it’s you.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “You’re the Irishman, the story-teller, so let’s see what you can do.”

When Dillon was finished, Keogh said, “let’s stick with the basics. This woman, this Grace Browning, is what’s left of January 30?”

“That’s right,” Dillon said.

“You last saw her apparently going into the River Thames yesterday. You assume it was she who tried to shoot me. Now how could she have been there and turn up here?”

“We were there, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said, “and we turned up here. A few hours’ flying, that’s all.”

“And I suspect she did the same,” Ferguson said.

“But where is she now?” Keogh asked. “Adrift in Ireland?”

Ferguson shook his head. “I doubt it, sir. If she flew in, she’ll already be flying back.”

“Leaving us with one God Almighty mess,” Keogh said. “The whole Drumgoole thing could hit front pages all over the world.”

“I don’t think so, sir. Most of the children, virtually all of them, have no idea what happened back there. There was one hell of a scrummage. As for the little boy in the gallery – he can be handled. Mother Mary and Father Tim will do whatever Chief Superintendent Hare suggests, I’m certain of that. It’s a remote place and the damage limitation will keep the lid on things in the immediate future. By the time any kind of story leaks out it can be dismissed as fantasy.” He smiled. “This is, after all, Ireland, Senator.”

“My God!” Patrick Keogh said. “After this, events on Capitol Hill will seem like an everyday story of country folk.”

The conquest was heading east fast. Grace Browning changed out of the nun’s habit, carefully folded everything, and replaced it in the suitcase. She had failed. All that effort and she had failed. Strange, because that wasn’t the way the script had intended at all. She opened the thermos, had some coffee, and sat back thinking of Rupert and Tom. She closed her eyes. The man wasn’t there, only the darkness, and after a while she slept.

The helicopter dropped in at the lawn in front of Ardmore House. Two men were posted in the porch on either side of the door, both carrying Armalites, and two men stood on the lawn itself, holding umbrellas against the rain – Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness.

The helicopter settled and the pilot killed the engine. Patrick Keogh turned to Ferguson. “This is it, then.”

“We’ll wait for you, Senator.”

“Like hell you will. After what we’ve been through, I want you to hear what I have to say.”

The second pilot opened the door, Keogh clambered out, and Dillon grabbed an umbrella. Gerry Adams came forward. “A pleasure to see you again, Senator.” He shook hands. “This is Martin McGuinness.”

Ferguson and Hannah emerged and joined the group. Keogh said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson, his aide Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and Sean Dillon.”

“We know only too well who Brigadier Ferguson is,” Gerry Adams said.

“Good,” Keogh told him. “I’d like the Brigadier and his people to hear what I have to say.”

Gerry Adams looked at McGuinness, who nodded. “Fine, Senator, whatever you want. They’re all waiting for you. They’ve just been told.”

They walked toward the house, Keogh leading with Ferguson and Hannah behind. Adams and McGuinness took up the rear on either side of Dillon.

“A long time, Sean,” Adams said.

“ Belfast, seventy-eight,” Dillon told him. “I remember it well. We got out of the Falls Road one night using the same sewer.” He turned to McGuinness. “And you, Martin. The old days in Derry were like a bad movie.”

“Incredible,” Adams told him. “You nearly got John Major and the whole British Cabinet in Downing Street in ninety-one, and here you are with Ferguson.”

“Turncoat is it, Sean?” McGuinness asked.

“And aren’t we all that now in the cause of peace?” Dillon shot back.

Gerry Adams exploded into laughter. “God help us, but he’s got you there, Martin,” he said as they followed the others up the steps to the entrance.

The entrance hall of Ardmore House was very large and there were at least fifty men crammed in there and a handful of women. Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon stood against the wall at the back and Keogh was halfway up the huge staircase, flanked by Adams and McGuinness.

Gerry Adams said, “One of our own, Senator Patrick Keogh. Listen to what he has to say, that’s all I ask.”

There was a murmur that stilled as Keogh started to speak.

“When my great-grandfather left Ireland all those years ago for East Boston, it was to find a new life – to be an American – but like so many other families in the same tradition we were Irish Americans – good Catholics with warm memories of home and nationalist ideals. Ireland must be free, that was our creed, but I think we perhaps forgot one thing, and it’s this. There are just as many Irish Americans with Protestant roots as Catholic.” There was a murmur from the crowd and he raised his hand. “Bear with me, friends, I beg you. I’m a Catholic by birth, perhaps not a good one, but I’ll always remain one, and isn’t there room for all of us? When I was a youngster and involved with Irish history, I was much influenced by Wolfe Tone, who founded the United Irishmen. He said that Ireland had a right to assert its independence. I agreed with everything he wrote and was amazed to discover that he was a Protestant.”

Someone laughed and there was scattered clapping. He carried on, “The other day someone quoted an ancient Protestant toast to me. Our country too.” He paused and there was total silence. “We should seize that toast, my friends. Ireland belongs to every decent Irish man and woman, irrespective of creed. If you can go forward and declare that as your belief, make peace after twenty-five bloody years, reach out your hand and say to the other side, let’s go forward together, then I think that would be the most significant step ever taken in the history of this country.”

There was total stillness and then someone started to clap and the clapping spread and suddenly there was cheering and the applause mounted.

Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein and Dillon. “That’s it. Back to the helicopter.”

Walking through the rain beneath the single umbrella Dillon had, Hannah said, “What did you think, sir?”

“Very impressive.”

“And you, Dillon?” She turned to him.

“I’ve lived my life day by day for the past twenty-five years,” he said. “I’ve a habit of expecting the worst.”

“Bastard!” she said.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the Gulfstream, Keogh turned to Ferguson and shook hands. “An interesting experience, Brigadier. If I can ever do you a favor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Keogh took Hannah’s hand. “Chief Inspector.” He turned to Dillon. “You know you haven’t said much since Drumgoole. Come on, Dillon, one Irishman to another.”

“I was thinking what a terrible pity it was that there wasn’t a press photographer present when she fired at you and you turned your back and protected those little girls. God, they’d have elected you President.” Dillon sighed. “And nobody will ever know.”

“I’ll know.” Patrick Keogh grinned. “Goodbye, my friend,” and he went up the steps.

They stood in the shelter of the hangar and watched the Gulfstream lift into the gray sky. Hare turned to Ferguson. “What about this Grace Browning?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about her,” Ferguson said. “Instinct tells me she’ll be on her way back to my patch.”

“And what then?”

“An interesting point,” Ferguson said. “She’s dead, remember, drowned in the River Thames after an unfortunate accident.”

“But she isn’t,” Hare said. “What happens when she surfaces?”

“She won’t,” Ferguson said. “Not in the way you mean. You see, she’s not quite on her own yet, Chief Superintendent. I do have a source I can go to. Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it, believe me.” He shook hands. “Thanks for your help.”

“Just do me one favor,” Hare said. “Don’t come back for a while. I don’t think I could stand the excitement.”

Ferguson laughed, then turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Come on, you two,” he said to Dillon and Hannah, put up his umbrella, and walked toward the Lear jet.

The Conquest landed at Coldwater just before darkness fell. Inside the hangar, Carson killed the engines, got out of the pilot’s seat, dropped the Airstair door, and went down. Grace Browning slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the suitcase, and followed.

He was lighting a cigarette and paused in the entrance to look out at the desolate landscape and the rain. When he turned there was a different look on his face, hard, calculating.

“I said I thought I knew you and now I remember. I saw you in a film on television.”

“Really?” she said. “So what?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but whatever it is it’s worth more than I’ve been paid. I had a look in your suitcase while you were away. I found that two thousand pounds. I’ve taken it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said calmly.

“You can suit yourself.”

“Oh, I will.”

She reached into her shoulder bag, took out the Beretta, and shot him twice in the heart. Carson fell back against the tail of the Conquest, bounced off, and fell on his back. He was already dead when she leaned down, felt inside his flying jacket, and found the two bundles of ten-pound notes. Her mad money. She frowned at the thought. Is that what I am? She put the money in her shoulder bag, picked up the suitcase, went out and rolled the hangar door shut, then she walked to her Mini car, got in, and drove away.

The Lear Jet had already landed at Gatwick and as the Daimler drove down into London, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the phone. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein sat there listening and finally Ferguson put the phone down.

“And what did the great man have to say?” Dillon asked.

“Damn glad things worked out for Keogh as they did, but he’s horrified that the Browning woman is out there like a loose cannon. Wants to make sure we do something about her.”

“But what can we do, sir?” Hannah asked.

Ferguson smiled. “I think it’s time I spoke to Yuri Belov,” and he leaned back in his seat.

Grace Browning drove into a motorway service area just before reaching the outskirts of London. She sat there in the car in the rain for a while feeling very tired, drained of all emotion. Finally she got out and made her way through the parked cars to the cafe.

There was a newsstand by the shop just inside the entrance, copies of the latest edition of the Evening Standard stacked there, and Rupert Lang’s face stared out at her. She took a copy, went into the cafe and got a coffee, then went and sat at a corner table and looked at the paper.

It was all there, his career in the Army, his presence at Bloody Sunday, his subsequent years in politics, and then the tragic accident. There was a smaller photo of Tom Curry, a discreet mention of the fact they had lived together for many years. The circumstances of Curry’s unfortunate death were treated fully and the inference was plain.

She turned the page automatically and saw a standard theatrical photo of herself. The article was brief and to the point. While going home from the King’s Head on her motorcycle the police had attempted to stop her from speeding. For some reason she had refused to stop and after a furious chase had gone over the edge of a wharf in Wapping. River Police were still looking for her body.

“Very clever, Ferguson,” she said softly, drank some of the coffee, and turned back to the front page.

Rupert was in uniform in the photo and wore the red beret of the Parachute Regiment and two medals, one for the Irish campaign and the Military Cross. He was standing outside Buckingham Palace and the photo had obviously been taken after being decorated by the Queen. He looked handsome and rather devil-may-care.

“Dear Rupert,” she said. “I never really understood why you did it. Not any of it.”

The article said that his body would be on view for friends who wished to pay their last respects at an undertaker’s named Seaton and Sons in Great George Street by the Treasury. The burial service would be at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, at three in the afternoon. She thought about it and smiled to herself. She had to say good-bye to Rupert, that was obvious, but first there was one last thing to do. She went and got some change at the counter and found a telephone.

Belov, in his office at the Embassy, picked up the phone and recognized her voice instantly. He was excited and nervous.

“Where are you?”

“Motorway service station just outside London.”

“What happened? There’s been nothing on the news. Did you get him?”

“Oh, I got him all right, Yuri, twice in the back, only he was wearing a Kevlar jacket.”

“My God!”

“They were all there, Ferguson, Dillon, Bernstein, but I got away with no trouble.”

“And flew back with Carson.”

“Yes, but there was a slight problem there. He recognized me, then stole a couple of thousand pounds I had in my case.”

Belov’s heart sank. “And you killed him?”

“He didn’t leave me much choice, did he? I left him on his back beside his plane in the hangar.”

“You kill everybody, Grace, and so easily,” Belov told her.

“You helped create me, Yuri, an Angel of Death was what you wanted and that’s what you got. Anyway, what will you do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Personally I don’t see that you have a choice,” she said. “If you go back to Moscow they’ll shoot you in some cellar. Isn’t that the usual reward for failure handed out by your people? I’d make my peace with Ferguson if I were you. He’ll look after you, Yuri. You’re too valuable to waste.”

“And you?” he asked. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll go and see Rupert. His body is on display at an undertaker’s in Westminster. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“But what happens then? Ferguson and Dillon now know you’re not at the bottom of the river. They’ll hunt you down. You’ve no place to go.”

“I know, Yuri, but I don’t care anymore. Take care of yourself.”

She hung up the phone, left the cafe, and walked to her car. A few moments later she was driving to London.

Yuri Belov sat there at his desk racked by conflicting emotions. She was right, of course. There was nothing back there in Moscow but a bullet, and the trouble was he actually preferred London now. He opened a deep drawer and took out a bottle of vodka and a glass. He filled it and poured the vodka down. At that moment his phone rang again.

“Colonel Yuri Belov? Charles Ferguson here. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped playing silly buggers? Senator Keogh is alive and well, Grace Browning is on the run.”

“Yes, I know all this,” Belov said. “She’s just spoken to me.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “Now that is interesting.”

“An extraordinary woman, but I now believe her to be truly mad,” Belov said.

“We can discuss that later. The point is, are you going to let your people ship you back to Moscow in disgrace? Not a very agreeable proposition. The crime rate there is worse than in New York now, bread queues, winter coming on and they’d very probably shoot you.”

“And what’s your alternative?”

“Come over to us. My dear chap, it would be the intelligence coup of my career to get my hands on someone like you. You’ll be well taken care of financially, we’ll find you a decent apartment, new identity.”

“Very tempting,” Belov said.

“And all you have to do is put on your coat and leave the Embassy now. Just walk out. You know the pub on the opposite side of Kensington Park Gardens?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll expect you.”

Belov put down the phone and poured himself another vodka. He raised his glass in a toast. “To ideals,” he said softly. “But then one must have a practical approach to life.”

He swallowed the vodka, then went to get his coat, switched off his office light, and went out.

In the booth at the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens, Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein listened to Yuri Belov. The Russian finally finished.

“There it is,” he said.

Ferguson nodded. “So she said she was going to see Rupert? Well we know where that is. He’s lying in his coffin at Seaton and Sons, Undertakers, in Great George Street.”

“You actually think she’ll turn up, sir?” Hannah Bernstein asked.

“She’s nowhere else to go, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “By the way, you’d better get on to the Kent Constabulary. Tell them to check out this airfield at Coldwater.” He sighed. “Poor devils. They’re going to have another unsolved murder case on their patch.” He stood up and checked his watch. “ Seven-thirty on a nice dark, rainy London night with a touch of fog at the end of the street. It would take Dickens to do justice to it.”

Dillon said, “Are we going where I think we are?”

“Seaton and Sons, Great George Street,” Ferguson said. “I’ve always been fascinated by funeral parlors.”

Grace Browning pulled into another motorway service area as she reached London. She parked, took her suitcase, and went to the rest area for women. There was no one about and she went into a vacant stall, closed the door, and opened the suitcase. When she emerged five minutes later she was dressed as a nun again. She walked back to the car, put the case on the rear seat, and drove back onto the motorway, heading for Central London.

It was just after nine-thirty that she arrived at Great George Street in Westminster and found herself a vacant parking place at the side of the street. She sat there for a while, then reached for the black shoulder bag and opened it. She removed the AK-47 and put it in the suitcase, then she got out, the bag over her shoulder, and walked along the street, her umbrella up.

There was a uniformed policeman walking toward her and she paused and said in a soft Irish accent, “ Excuse me, officer, but I’m looking for an undertaker’s. Seaton and Sons. I believe it’s somewhere about here.”

His raincoat was wet, sparkling in the light from a street lamp. “Indeed it is, Sister. Just over the road on the right. You can see the light over the door.”

“Thank you,” she said and crossed the road. He watched her go, then turned and carried on.

She found the door, the name Seaton and Sons etched in acid on the glass, paused, then tried the handle and went in.

There was the all-pervading smell of flowers peculiar to funeral parlors. She walked forward and found a small glass office, an old white-haired man in a dark blue uniform dozing on a chair. She put her umbrella down and tapped on the window and he sat up with a start.

He got to his feet and opened the door. “I’m sorry, Sister, how can I help you?”

“Mr. Rupert Lang,” she said.

“Ah, yes, we put Mr. Lang in the main parlor. We’ve had visitors most of the afternoon. Let me show you.”

He led the way along a dark corridor, doors open, and inside she could see coffins banked with flowers.

“These are our normal chapels of rest,” he said. “But Mr. Lang being a special case, he was put in the main parlor. As I said, we’ve had a lot of visitors to see him. There were three gentlemen and a lady a little while ago, but they must have gone.”

He opened the door and led her into a large room. It was a place of shadows, just a little subdued lighting, flowers banked everywhere and the coffin at the far end on a plinth.

“I’ll leave you now, Sister.” He closed the door and went away.

She stood beside the coffin and looked down. Only Rupert Lang’s head and shoulders showed. He wore a navy-blue suit and a Guards tie. His face was very calm, not Rupert at all, more like a wax mask.

“My poor Rupert,” she said aloud. “I let you down, I’m afraid. It all went wrong,” and she leaned over the coffin and kissed the cold mouth.

There was a movement at the other end of the room and as she turned, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah Bernstein, and Yuri Belov moved out of the shadows.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Browning,” Charles Ferguson said.

She looked at them and smiled. “So you made your choice, Yuri?”

“No option, Grace,” he told her.

“And now what?” She smiled again, at Hannah Bernstein this time. “Now you really do get a chance to read me my rights, Chief Inspector.”

“I’m afraid so,” Hannah said.

Grace Browning reached into her shoulder bag and took out the Beretta. She worked the slider and Hannah pulled a Walther from her bag and did the same.

“Please, Miss Browning, be sensible.”

It was Sean Dillon who took two paces toward her. “This isn’t Stage Six at MGM, Grace, it’s for real. It’s not a script any longer.”

“Oh, yes it is – it’s my script.”

Her hand came up and she took deliberate aim at him. Hannah Bernstein fired twice very fast and Grace Browning was thrown back against the plinth on which the coffin stood and slid to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Belov said and Dillon knelt beside her.

Hannah Bernstein stood there holding the gun at her side, totally shocked. “Is she dead?”

“With two in the heart she would be,” Dillon told her and picked up the Beretta. Suddenly there was a frown on his face. He examined the gun and worked the slider, then he held it up. “Empty.”

“It can’t be,” Hannah said.

“Her way out, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “She spoke to Colonel Belov, told him she intended to be here and knew he’d tell us. She’d nowhere else to go, you see.”

“Damn her!” Hannah Bernstein said. “Damn her! Damn her! Damn her for making me do that.”

Dillon went and took the Walther from her. He put an arm around her. “Hush, girl dear, it isn’t on you, this thing,” and he held her close.

Behind them Ferguson was using his Cellnet phone. He punched out the number and a calm, detached voice said, “Yes?”

“ Ferguson. I have a disposal. Total priority and utmost discretion. Seaton and Sons, Great George Street. I’ll wait.”

“Twenty minutes, Brigadier.”

Ferguson put his phone away and turned. “All for the best. She’ll be picked up in twenty minutes. A few hours and she’ll be five or six pounds of gray ash.”

“But you can’t do that,” Hannah Bernstein said.

“Oh, yes I can,” Charles Ferguson said calmly. “As far as the papers and the media are concerned, her body was discovered downriver. There will be no problem with the inquest, I’ll see to that. She had no relatives, remember?”

“Terrible,” Hannah Bernstein said. “Terrible.”

“It’s the business we’re in,” Ferguson said and nodded to Dillon. “Take her home. Colonel Belov and I will wait here.”

It was Friday of that week that the Cortege wound its way through Highgate Cemetery. It stopped at the designated place and two members of the funeral firm involved carried the cask containing her ashes to the grave. It was raining heavily.

“Jesus,” Dillon said, “I’ve never seen so many umbrellas.”

“An impressive turnout,” Ferguson said. “Sir John Gielgud over there, Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson, Ian Richardson. The great and the good.”

They were standing well away from the throng, Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon. Hannah said, “Isn’t it extraordinary – all those people and not one of them knows the truth.”

The priest’s voice was faint through the rain. Dillon said, “Right to the end she always played to a full house, you have to give her that.” He put an arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Come on, girl dear, let’s go,” and they walked away, Ferguson following.