Angel Of Death

LONDON
BELFAST
DEVON
1972-1992
THREE

If it began anywhere, it began with Tom Curry, who was professor of Political Philosophy at London University, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and had in his time been a visiting professor at both Yale and Harvard. He was also a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

Born in 1949 in Dublin into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family, his father, a surgeon, had died of cancer when Curry was five, leaving the boy and his mother in comfortable circumstances. A fierce, proud, arrogant woman whose father had fought under Michael Collins in the original Irish Troubles, she had been raised to blame everyone for the mess Ireland had been left in after the English had partitioned the country and left. She blamed the Free State Government as much as the IRA.

Like many wealthy young women of intellect at that period, she saw Communism as the only answer, and as part of her brilliant son’s education taught him that there was only one true faith, the doctrine according to Karl Marx.

In 1966 at seventeen, Curry went to Trinity College, Cambridge, to study Political Philosophy, where he met Rupert Lang, an apparently effete aristocrat who never took anything seriously, except Tom Curry, for the bond was instant and for a lifetime and they enjoyed a homosexual relationship which lasted throughout their period at university.

They went their separate ways, of course – Lang to Sandhurst and the Army, following the family tradition, and Curry to the University of Moscow to research for a Ph.D. on aspects of modern politics, where he was promptly recruited by the GRU.

They gave him the usual training in weaponry, how to handle himself in the field and so on, but told him that he would be regarded as a sleeper once back in England, someone to be called on when needed, no more than that.

On 30 of January, 1972, Rupert Lang, having transferred from the Grenadier Guards, was serving as a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment in Londonderry in Northern Ireland, a day that would be long remembered as Bloody Sunday. By the time the paratroopers had stopped firing, thirteen people lay dead and there were many wounded, including Rupert Lang, who took a bullet in the arm, whether from his own side or the IRA he could never be sure. On sick leave in London he had lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and was totally delighted when he went into the bar to find his old friend sitting in a window seat enjoying a quiet drink.

“You old bastard, how marvelous,” Lang said. “I thought you were in Russia?”

“Oh. I’m back now at Trinity putting the thesis together.” Curry nodded at Lang’s arm. “Why the sling?”

Lang had always been aware of his friend’s politics, and he shrugged. “I don’t expect you’ll want to speak to me. Bloody Sunday. I stopped a bullet.”

“You were there?” Curry called to the barman for two Bushmills. “How bad was it?”

“Terrible. Not soldiering, not the way I thought it would be.” Lang accepted his whisky from the barman and raised his glass. “Anyway, to you, old sport. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”

“That goes double.” Curry toasted him back. “What are you going to do?”

Lang smiled. “You could always read me like a book. Yes, I’m finished with the Army as a career. Not straightaway. My Captaincy’s coming up and I want to keep the old man happy.”

“I see he’s a Minister at the Home Office now.”

“Yes, but his health isn’t good. I think he’ll stand down at the next election, which will leave a vacancy for one of the safest Conservative seats in the country.”

Curry said, “You’re going to go into Parliament?”

“Why not? I’ve all the money in the world so I don’t need to work, and I’ll walk into the seat if the old man steps down. What do you think?”

“Bloody marvelous.” Curry stood up. “Let’s have a bite to eat and you can tell me all about Bloody Sunday and your Irish exploits.”

“Terrible business,” Lang said as they walked through. “All hell going on at Army Intelligence HQ at Lisburn. I heard the Prime Minister is going through the roof.”

“How interesting,” Curry said as they sat down. “Tell me more.”

Curry’s control was a thirty-five-year-old GRU Major named Yuri Belov, who was supposed to be a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Curry met him in a booth at a pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy. Belov enjoyed London and had no great urge to be posted back to Moscow, which meant that he liked to look good to his superiors back there. Curry’s version of Bloody Sunday and his account of the sensory deprivation methods used to break IRA prisoners at Army headquarters at Lisburn was just the sort of stuff Belov wanted to hear.

“Excellent, Tom,” he said when Curry was finished. “Of course your friend has no idea you’ve been pumping him dry?”

“Absolutely not,” Curry said. “He knew what my politics were when we were at Cambridge, but he’s an English aristocrat. Couldn’t care less.” Curry lit a cigarette. “And he’s my best friend, Yuri. Let’s get that clear.”

“Of course, Tom, I understand. However, anything further you can learn from him would always be useful.”

“He intends to leave the Army soon,” Curry said. “His father’s a Minister of the Home Office. I think Rupert will step in when the old man leaves.”

“Really?” Yuri Belov smiled. “A Member of Parliament. Now that is interesting.”

“Yes, well while we’re discussing what’s interesting,” Curry said, “what about me? This is the first time we’ve spoken in nine months, and I’m the one who’s come to you. I’d like to see a little action.”

“Patience,” Belov said. “That’s what being a sleeper is. It’s about waiting, sometimes for many years until the time comes when you are needed.”

“A bloody boring prospect.”

“Yes, well spying usually is most of the time, and after all, you’ve got your work.” Belov stood up. “Hope to see you again soon, Tom.”

But he didn’t and it was to be fourteen years before they met again. Belov was transferred back home, Tom Curry went to America, Harvard for five years, Yale for four, before returning to Cambridge where he became a Fellow of Trinity College.

Rupert Lang’s father died in office and Lang promptly left the Army and put himself forward for the seat in Parliament, winning with a record majority. He and Curry were as close as ever. Lang often spent vacations with him during the American period and Curry always stayed, when in London, at Lang’s beautiful town house in Dean Court close to Westminster Abbey and within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament.

In 1985 Curry became a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University and visiting Professor at Queen’s University, Belfast. His mother had been dead for some time, but he had his friendship with Lang, his work and the fact that due to his academic standing, he had been invited to sit on a number of important Government Committees. The arrangement made with Yuri Belov was so long ago that it might never have happened. Then one day, out of the blue, he received a telephone call at his office at the university.

Belov had put on a little weight and there was a scar on his left cheek. Otherwise he had changed little: the same sort of Savile Row suit, the same genial smile. They sat in a booth in the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and shared half a bottle of Sancerre.

The Russian toasted Curry. “Good to see you, Tom.”

“And you. What about the scar?”

“ Afghanistan. A dreadful place. You know those tribesmen skinned our men when they caught them.”

“But you’re back now?”

“Yes, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Embassy, but you must treat me with respect.” He grinned. “I am now a full Colonel in the GRU and Head of Station here in London. You, by the way, have been promoted to Major.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Curry said. “Except sit on my arse for years.”

“You will, Tom, you will. All these Government posts you hold, particularly on the Northern Ireland Committee, and your friend, Lang? He’s doing well. A Government Whip? That’s very important, isn’t it, and I hear Mrs. Thatcher likes him.”

“Don’t set too much store by that. Rupert doesn’t take life too seriously.”

“He still isn’t aware of your connection with us?”

“Not a hint,” Curry told him. “I prefer it that way. Now what do you want?”

“From now on full and intimate details of all those Committee meetings, especially Irish affairs and anything to do with the activities of our Arab friends and their fundamentalist groups. All over London these days. The English are far too liberal in letting them in.”

“Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.” Belov stood up. “You’re too valuable to waste on small things, Tom. Your day will come, believe me. Just be patient.” He took out his wallet and passed over a slip of paper. “Emergency numbers if you need me, Embassy and home. I’ve a cottage in a mews just up the road. I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.

It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lane was at the Commons making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.

“Belov here,” the Colonel said. “I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.”

Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year, although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information. It was raining hard outside, so he found an old Burberry trench coat, a trilby hat, and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the curb and Belov leaned out.

“Over here, Tom.”

Curry climbed in beside him. “What’s so important?”

Belov pulled out from the curb. “I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.”

“Who is this Arab?”

“A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler ’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.”

“Can you be sure all this is kosher?” Curry asked.

“The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.”

“Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?”

“Strictly speaking it’s none of their business. Division of labor. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.”

“Very capitalistic,” Curry told him. “Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.”

He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the curb. “You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.”

Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.

It was no more than thirty-minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, no one about. He found Butler ’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end, and stood by an old-fashioned street lamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him.

The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.

“Ali Hamid?”

“Who are you?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.

“Colonel Belov sent me.”

“But he was to come himself.” Hamid laughed in a strange way. “It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.” He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. “ Unfortunate.”

His hand came out of his right pocket holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.

Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain, although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve, then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase, and slipped it inside.

He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. A lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in the hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.

Rupert Lang, returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes earlier, was pouring a large Scotch in the drawing room when the front doorbell sounded. He swallowed some of the whisky, put down his glass, and went into the hall. When he opened the door, Curry, almost out on his feet, fell into his arms.

“Tom, what is it?”

“Quite simple, old lad. I’ve been shot. Get me into the kitchen before I bleed all over your best carpet.”

Lang got an arm round him, helped him into the kitchen, and eased him into a chair. Curry tried to get his Burberry off and Lang helped him.

“Dear God, Tom, your sleeve’s soaked in blood.”

“Yes, well it would be.”

Lang reached for a towel and wrapped it around the arm. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No you won’t, old lad. I’ve just killed a man.”

Lang, on his way to the door, stopped and turned. “You’ve what?”

“Arab terrorist called Ali Hamid tried to kill me, that’s when I stopped the bullet. Took a couple himself in the struggle. I left him on Butler ’s Wharf in the rain. It’s all right. No one saw me and I didn’t get a cab on the way back. Long bloody walk, I can tell you.” Curry managed a smile. “A large whisky and a cigarette would help.”

Lang went out and returned with a glass and a bottle of Scotch. He poured, handed the glass over, and found a packet of cigarettes. As he gave Curry a light, he said, “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

Tom Curry said, “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Best of friends,” Rupert Lang said.

“No one’s known me better than you, old lad, and I’ve always been honest. You know my politics.”

“Of course I do,” Lang said. “Comes the revolution you’ll take me out and have me shot, with great regret, of course.”

“Just one thing I never told you.”

“And what’s that?”

Curry swallowed the Scotch and held out the glass for another. “Let’s see, you were a Captain in One Para when you retired?”

“That’s right.” Lang poured more whisky.

“Well the thing is, old lad, I outrank you. I’m a Major in Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU.”

Lang paused in pouring, then carefully replaced the cap on the bottle. “You old bastard.” He was smiling, suddenly excited. “How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since Moscow. That’s when they recruited me.”

“Shades of Philby, Burgess, and Maclean.”

Lang put the bottle down and lit a cigarette himself. He paced around the kitchen, full of energy. “Tell me everything, Tom, not only what happened tonight. Everything.”

When Curry finished talking, he tried to stand up. “So you see, much better if I get out of here.”

Lang pushed him down. “Don’t play silly bastards with me, although I must say you have done. My God, all that stuff from the Northern Ireland Office going to our Russian friends. Dammit, Tom, I sat on one of those Committees with you.”

“I know, isn’t it terrible?” Curry said.

“You say Belov’s at the Savoy?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. I’m going to ring him up. He can sort this mess out for you. After all, it’s his kind of business.”

He reached for the kitchen phone. Curry said, “For God’s sake, old lad, you can’t afford to get involved. Just let me go. I shouldn’t have come back here. Only a guest, after all.” It was as if he was losing consciousness. “Not your affair.”

“Oh yes it is.” Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling now. He ran a hand over Curry’s head. “Rest easy, Tom, I’ll handle it.”

He rang through to the Savoy and asked that Colonel Yuri Belov come to the phone urgently.

Rose House Nursing Home was a discreet establishment in Holland Park. It had once been the town mansion of some turn-of-the-century millionaire and stood in two acres of gardens behind high walls. In a lounge area on the second floor, Belov and Rupert Lang drank coffee and waited. Finally a door opened and a small cheerful Indian walked in in green surgical robes.

“This is Dr. Joel Gupta, the principal of this establishment,” Belov said to Lang. “How is he, Joel?”

“Very lucky. The Beretta fires 9-millimeter Parabellum. At close quarters, enough to take a man’s arm off. It only chipped the bone, passed through flesh. He’ll be fine, but I want him in for a week.”

“When can we see him?” Belov asked.

“He’s woozy right now. Give him half an hour, then five minutes only. I’ll see you later.”

Gupta went out. Lang said, “He seems on your side.”

“I knew him in Afghanistan,” Belov said. “Helped him come to England. Don’t get the wrong impression. He helps me out on the odd occasion. Most of the time he specializes in drug addiction. Does fine work.”

“So what went wrong tonight?” Lang asked.

“My dear man, do you really want to get into this any more than you have to?”

“I’m already up to my ears,” Lang said. “And Tom Curry is the best friend I have in the world.”

“But you’re in the Government.”

“So?”

“And Curry, like me, is a committed Communist. We believe that we are right and you are wrong.”

“But I often am,” Lang told him. “I’m sure you’ll lead me to the guillotine when the moment arrives, but I take friendship seriously, so what about Tom? What went wrong?”

“Colonel Boris Ashimov went wrong. He’s Head of Station at the London Embassy for the KGB. As you know, GRU is Military Intelligence and we have our differences. I hadn’t realized how deep they were until tonight.”

“He set you up?” Rupert Lang said.

“So it would appear. If it hadn’t been for the Savoy affair, I’d have gone personally.”

“But instead, poor old Tom takes the bullet.” Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling. His eyes glittered, there was a wolfish look to his face. “I took a bullet myself once. Not nice.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “One Para. Bloody Sunday. You were a Lieutenant then.”

Just then a nurse appeared. “He’s surfaced. You can go in now if you like.”

Curry managed a weak smile. “Still here, am I?”

“For a long time yet,” Rupert Lang told him.

Curry turned to Belov. “What went wrong, Yuri?”

“It would appear Ashimov set me up. Ali Hamid was supposed to knock me off. Unfortunately I sent you. For you, that is, not for me. However, we must cover the trail as much as possible, give an explanation for Hamid’s death. He’s a known terrorist. Both Scotland Yard and MI5 will find that out soon enough.”

“What would you suggest?” Lang asked.

“Someone should claim credit for his death.” Belov nodded. “That would take care of things nicely.”

“Like the Provisional IRA?” Curry demanded.

“No, something new, something to confuse them all.”

“You mean an entirely new terrorist group?” Rupert Lang asked.

“Why not?” Belov smiled. “Bloody Sunday, wasn’t that January 30, 1972? What if I put a call through to the Times claiming credit for Hamid’s killing on behalf of January 30? That would certainly give the anti-terrorist units at every level something to chew on.”

“Rather like that Greek group we read about,” Lang said. “November 17. Yes, I like it. Should muddy the waters nicely.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “You see, Mr. Lang, because of the cause I serve and Tom here, chaos is my main interest in life. Fear, uncertainty, and chaos. I want to create as much of all these things as possible in the Western world. Then gradually the cracks begin to show and finally the system breaks down. Ireland, for example. We don’t take sides, but we do actively help to keep the whole rotten mess going. A civil war, a descent into madness, and then our friends, and there are many in Ireland, take over.”

“Another Cuba, only in Britain ’s backyard,” Lang said. “Interesting.”

“I’ve been very frank,” Belov said. “But it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Very little in this life does, old sport.”

“Fine. I’ll take care of this January 30 thing then.”

It was Curry who said, “And who takes care of Ashimov? He’s got to kill you now, Yuri, no choice.”

“Yes, someone should sort that bastard out.”

Rupert Lang opened the briefcase beside the bed and took out the Beretta. He said to Belov, “Fifty thousand dollars in there. I believe it’s yours. I’ll keep the Beretta. Just tell me where and when.”

There was a moment’s silence and Curry said, “You can’t be serious.”

Lang smiled that strange wolfish smile again. “I killed three people on Bloody Sunday, Tom, and two others elsewhere during my service in Ulster. Never told you that. Secrets, you see, just like you.” He turned to Belov. “Another job for January 30. First this Arab, then the Station Head of the KGB in London? That should really make the Security Services squirm, and I should know. I’m on half the Committees.”

He killed Colonel Boris Ashimov with absurd simplicity a week later on a rainy morning in Kensington Gardens. Belov had timed it for him. Every morning at ten, Ashimov walked in the gardens whatever the weather. On that particular Thursday it was raining heavily. Rupert Lang, enjoying a coffee in a café opposite Kensington Park Gardens, was not expecting Ashimov to appear. But the man carrying an umbrella over his head filled the description Belov had given him. Ashimov turned into the Bayswater Road and entered the gardens. Lang got to his feet and went after him.

He followed him along the path, keeping well back, his own umbrella raised. There was no one about. They reached a clump of trees at the center of the gardens, and Lang quickened his pace.

“Excuse me.”

Ashimov turned. “What do you want?”

“You, actually,” Rupert Lang said, and shot him twice in the heart, the silenced Beretta making only a slight coughing sound. He leaned down and put another bullet between Ashimov’s eyes, then put the Beretta in his raincoat pocket, moved rapidly across the gardens to Queen’s Gate, crossed to the Albert Hall, and walked on for a good half mile before hailing a cab and telling the driver to take him to Westminster.

He lit a cigarette and sat back, shaking with excitement. He had never felt like this in his life before, not even in the Paras in Ireland. Every sense felt keener, even the colors when he looked out at the passing streets seemed sharper. But the excitement, the damned excitement!

He closed his eyes. “My God, old sport, what’s happening to you?” he murmured.

He arrived at the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Commons, went through the Central Lobby to his office, and got rid of his umbrella and raincoat and put the Beretta in his safe, then went down to the entrance to the House and passed the bar. There was a debate taking place on some social services issue. He took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. When he looked up he saw Tom Curry seated in the front row of the Strangers’ Gallery, his left arm in a sling. Lang nodded up to him, folded his arms, and leaned back.

Half an hour later the London Times news desk received a brief message by telephone in which January 30 claimed credit for the assassination of Colonel Boris Ashimov.

In the three years which followed, Curry maintained a steady flow of confidential information of every description, aided by Lang. They made only three hits during the period. Two at the same time, a couple of IRA bombers released from trial at the Old Bailey on a legal technicality, who proceeded on a drunken spree that lasted all day. It was Curry who charted their progress until midnight, then called in Lang, who killed them both as they sat, backs to the wall, in a drunken stupor in a Kilburn alley.

The third was an American field officer of the CIA attached to the American Embassy’s London Station. He had been giving Belov considerable aggravation and, after the Berlin Wall came down, appeared to be far too friendly with the Russian’s latest rival, Mikhail Shimko, who had replaced Ashimov as Colonel in Charge of London Station KGB.

The CIA man was called Jackson and, by chance, his name came up at one of the joint intelligence working parties, news that he was having a series of meetings at an address in Holland Park with members of a Ukrainian faction resident in London. Curry kept a watch at the appropriate times and noticed that Jackson always walked for a mile afterwards, following the same route through quiet streets to the main road where he hailed a taxi.

After the next meeting, Lang was waiting in a small Ford Van at an appropriate point on the route, provided by Belov, of course. As Jackson passed, Lang, wearing a knitted ski mask in black, stepped out and shot him once in the back, penetrating the heart, finished with a head shot, got in the van and drove away. He left the van in a builders’ yard in Bayswater, again an address provided by Belov, and walked away, whistling softly to himself.

It was half an hour later that a young reporter on the news desk of the London Times took the phone call claiming credit for the killing by January 30.

The British Government allowed the Americans to flood London temporarily with CIA agents intent on hunting down Jackson ’s killer. As usual, they drew a complete blank. That the killings claimed by January 30 from Ali Hamid onwards had been the work of the same Beretta 9-millimeter was known to everyone, as was the significance of January 30. The Bloody Sunday connection should have indicated an Irish revolutionary connection, but even the IRA got nowhere in their investigations. In the end, the CIA presence was withdrawn.

British Army Intelligence, Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist department, MI5, all failed to make headway. Even the redoubtable Brigadier Charles Ferguson, head of the special intelligence unit responsible to the Prime Minister, had only total failure to report to Downing Street.

It was in January 1990, following the collapse of the Communist-dominated government of East Germany, that Lang and Curry attended a cultural evening at the American Embassy. There were at least a hundred and fifty people there, including Belov, whom they found at the champagne bar. They took their glasses into an anteroom and found a corner table.

“So, everything’s falling apart for you people, Yuri,” Lang said. “First the Wall comes tumbling down, now East Germany folds, and a little bird tells me there’s a strong possibility that your Congress of People’s Deputies might soon abolish the Communist Party’s monopoly of power in Russia.”

Belov shrugged. “Disorder leads to strength. It’s inevitable. Take the German situation. West Germany is at present the most powerful country in Western Europe economically. The consequences of taking East Germany on board will be catastrophic in every way and particularly economically. The balance of power in Europe once again altered totally. Remember what I said a long time ago? Chaos is our business.”

“I suppose you’re right, when you come to think of it,” Lang said.

Curry nodded. “Of course he is.”

“I invariably am.” Belov raised his glass. “To a new world, my friends, and to us. One never knows what’s round the corner.”

“I know,” Rupert Lang said. “That’s what makes it all so damned exciting.”

They touched glasses and drank.