Angel Of Death

FOUR

Rupert Lang was more right than he knew. There was something round the corner, something profound and disturbing that was to affect all three of them, although it was not to take place until the Gulf War was over and done with. January 1992, to be precise.

Grace Browning was born in Washington in 1965. Her father was a journalist on the Washington Post, her mother was English. When she was twelve tragedy struck, devastating her life. On the way home from a concert one night their car was rammed into the curb by an old limousine. The men inside were obviously on drugs. She remembered the shouting, the demands for money, her father opening the door to get out and then the shots, one of which penetrated the side window at the rear and killed her mother instantly.

Grace lay in the bottom of the car, frozen, terrified, glancing up only once to see the shape of a man, gun raised, shouting, “Go, go, go!” and then the old limousine shot away.

She wasn’t even able to give the police a useful description, couldn’t even say whether they were white or black. All that mattered was that her father died the following morning and she was left alone.

Not quite, of course, for there was her mother’s sister, her aunt Martha, Lady Hunt to be precise, a woman of considerable wealth and widowed early, who lived in some splendor in a fine town house in Cheyne Walk in London. She had received her niece with affection and firmness, for she was a tough, practical lady who believed you had to get on with it instead of sitting down and crying.

Grace was admitted to St. Paul ’s Girls’ School, one of the finest in London, where she soon proved to have considerable intellect. She was popular with everyone, teachers and pupils alike, and yet for her, it was a sort of performance. Inside she was one thing, herself, detached, cold, but on the surface, she was charming, intelligent, warm. It was not surprising that she was something of a star in school drama circles.

Her social life, because of her aunt, was conducted at the highest level: Cannes and Nice in the summer, Barbados in the winter, always a ceaseless round of parties on the London scene. When she was sixteen, like most of the girls she knew, she attempted her first sexual encounter, a gauche seventeen-year-old public schoolboy. It was less than rewarding and as he climaxed, a strange thing happened. She seemed to see in her head the shadowy figure of the man who had killed her parents, gun raised.

When the time came for Grace to leave school, although her academic grades were good enough for Oxford or Cambridge, she had only one desire – to be a professional actress. Her aunt, being the sort of woman she was, supported her fully, stipulating only that Grace had to go for the best. So Grace auditioned for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and they accepted her at once.

Her career there was outstanding. In the final play, Macbeth, she played Lady Macbeth, absurdly young and yet so brilliant that London theatrical agents clamored to take her on board. She turned them all down and went to Chichester, to the smallest of the two theatres, the Minerva, to play the lead in a revival of Anna Christie and so triumphantly that the play transferred to the London West End, the Theatre Royal at the Haymarket, where it ran for a year.

After that, she could have everything, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre, establishing herself in a series of great classic roles. She went to Hollywood only once to star in a classy and flashy revenge thriller in which she killed several men. After that she turned down all subsequent offers except for the occasional TV appearance and returned to the National Theatre.

Money, of course, was no problem. Aunt Martha saw to that and took great pride in her niece’s achievements. She was the one person Grace felt loved her and she loved her fiercely in return, dropping out of theatre totally for the last, terrible year when leukemia took its hold on the old woman.

Martha came home at the end to die in her own bed, the windows of her room looking over the Thames. There was medical help in abundance, but Grace looked after her every need personally.

On the last evening it was raining, beating softly against the windows. She was holding her aunt’s hand and Martha, gaunt and wasted, opened her eyes and looked at her.

“You’ll go back now, promise me, and show them all what real acting is about. It’s what you are, my love. Promise me.”

“Of course,” Grace said.

“No sad tears, no mourning. A celebration to prove how worthwhile it’s been.” She managed a weak smile. “I never told you, Grace, but your father always believed the family tradition that they were kin to Robert Browning.”

“The poet?” Grace said.

“Yes. There’s a line in one of his great poems. Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things. I don’t know why, but it seems to suit you perfectly.”

Her eyes closed and she died a few minutes later.

She was healthy now, the house in Cheyne Walk was hers, and the world of theatre was her oyster, but no one could control her, no one could hold her. Her wealth meant that she could do what she wanted. Her first role on her return was in Look Back in Anger with an obscure South Coast repertory company in a seaside town. The critics descended from London in droves and were ecstatic. After that she did a range of similar performances at various provincial theatres, finally returning to the National Theatre to do Chekhov’s A Month in the Country.

No long-term contracts, no ties. She had set a pattern. If a part interested her, she would play it, even if it was for four weeks at some obscure civic theatre in the heart of Lancashire or some London fringe theatre venue such as the King’s Head or the Old Red Lion, and the audiences everywhere loved her.

Love in her own life was a different story. There were men, of course, when the mood came, but no one who ever moved her. In male circles in the theatre she was known as the Ice Queen. She knew this, but it didn’t dismay her in the slightest, amused her if anything, and her actor’s gift for analysis of a role told her that if anything, she had a certain contempt for men.

In October 1991, she did Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the Minerva Studio at Chichester, still her favorite theatre. It was a short run, but such was the interest in this most Irish of plays that the company was invited to the Lyric Theatre, Belfast, for a two-week run. Unfortunately, Grace was scheduled to start rehearsals at the National for A Winter’s Tale immediately after her stint at the Minerva, and so the director of The Hostage came to see her in some trepidation.

“The Lyric, Belfast, would like us for two weeks. Of course, I’ll have to say no. I mean, you start rehearsing Monday at the National.”

“ Belfast?” she said. “I’ve never been. I like the sound of that.”

“But the National?” he protested.

“Oh, they can put things on the back burner for a couple of weeks.” She smiled, that famous smile of hers that seemed to be for you alone. “Or get someone else.”

She indulged herself by staying at the Europa Hotel. She stood at the window of her suite and looked out at the rain driving in across the city, suddenly excited to be here, surely one of the most dangerous cities in the world. It was only four o’clock and she was not due at the Lyric until six-thirty. On impulse, she went downstairs.

At the main entrance, the head doorman smiled. “A taxi, Miss Browning?”

Posters advertising the play with her photo on them were on a stand close by.

She gave him her best smile. “No, I just need some fresh air and I like the rain.”

“Plenty of that in Belfast, miss. Better take this,” and he put up an umbrella for her.

She started toward the bus station and the Protestant stronghold of Sandy Row, feeling suddenly cheerful as a bitter east wind blew in from Belfast Lough.

Tom Curry always stayed at the Europa during his monthly visits as visiting Professor at Queens University. He liked Belfast, the sense of danger, the thought that anything might happen. Sometimes his visits coincided with Rupert Lang’s, for Lang was now an extra Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office, which meant frequent visits to Ulster on Crown business, and this was one of them.

He arrived back at the Europa at five-thirty, went into the Library Bar and found Tom Curry seated at one end reading the Belfast Telegraph, a Bushmills in front of him.

Curry glanced up. “Hello, old lad, had a good day?”

“Bloody raining every time I come to Belfast.” Lang nodded to the barman. “Same as my friend.”

“You don’t like it much, do you?” Curry said.

“I went through hell here, Tom, back in seventy-two. Close to six hundred dead in one year. Bodies under the rubble for days, the stink of explosions. I can still smell it.” He raised his glass. “To you, old sport.”

Curry toasted him back. “As the Fenians say, may you die in Ireland.”

“Thanks very much.” Lang smiled. “Mind you, you can’t fault them on their attitude to culture here.” He nodded behind the bar where Grace’s poster was displayed.

Curry said, “Grace Browning. She’s wonderful. Strange choice of a play for Belfast though, The Hostage. Very IRA.”

“Nonsense,” Lang said. “Behan showed the absurdity of the whole thing even though he was in the IRA himself.”

At that moment Grace Browning entered. As she unbuttoned her raincoat, a waiter hurried to take it. She walked to the bar and Rupert Lang said, “Good God, it’s Grace Browning.”

Hearing him, she turned and gave him that famous smile. “Hello.”

“May I introduce myself?” he asked.

She frowned slightly. “You know, I feel I’ve met you before.”

Curry laughed. “No, you’ve occasionally seen him on the television. Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office. Rupert Lang.”

“I’m impressed,” she said. “And you?”

“Tom Curry,” Lang said. “He’s just a rotten old Professor of Political Philosophy at London University. Visiting Professor here at Queen’s once a month. Can we offer you a drink?”

“Why not. A glass of white wine. Just one. I’ve got to give a performance.”

Lang gave the order to the barman. “We’ve seen you many times.”

“Together?”

“Oh yes.” He smiled. “Tom and I go back a long way. Cambridge.”

“That’s nice.” She sipped her wine. There was something about them. She sensed it. Something unusual. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“Didn’t realize it was on,” Curry said. “Only here for three days. Don’t suppose there are any tickets left.”

“I’ll leave you two of my tickets at the box office,” she said.

It was a challenge instantly taken up. “Oh, you’re on,” Lang said. “Wonderful.”

She swallowed the rest of the wine. “Good. I’ll have to love you and leave you. Hope you enjoy it.”

She went out. Curry turned to Lang and they toasted each other. “By the way,” Curry said, “are you carrying?”

“Of course I am,” Lang told him. “If you think I’m going to walk the streets of Belfast without a pistol you’re crazy. As a Minister of the Crown I have my permit, Tom. No problems with security at the airports.”

“The Beretta?” Curry asked.

“But of course. Lucky for us, I’d say.”

Curry shook his head. “It’s just a game to you, isn’t it? A wild, exciting game.”

“Exactly, old sport, but then life can be such a bore. Now drink up and let’s go and get ready.”

And Grace Browning was wonderful, no doubt about it, received a rapturous reception from the packed house at the end of the play. Curry and Lang went into the bar for a drink and debated whether to go round and see her.

It was Lang who said, “I think not, old sport. Probably lots of locals doing exactly that. We’ll go back to the Europa and have a nightcap at the bar. She may well look in.”

“You like her, don’t you?” Curry said.

“So do you.”

Curry smiled. “Let’s get the car,” and they went out.

On their way back to the hotel, Curry who was driving, turned into a quiet road between several factories and warehouses, deserted at night. Lang put a hand on his arm as they passed a woman walking rapidly along the pavement, an umbrella up against the rain.

“Good God, it’s her.”

“The damned fool,” Curry said. “She can’t walk around the back streets of Belfast like that on her own.”

“Pull in to the curb,” Lang said. “I’ll get her.”

Curry did so. Lang opened the car door and saw two young men in bomber jackets run up behind Grace Browning and grab her. He heard her cry out and then they hustled her into an alley.

Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.

They hustled her to the end of the alley where there was a dead end, a jumble of packing cases under an old street lamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.

“What do you want?”

“English, is it?” The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. “We don’t like the English.”

The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, “There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.”

He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.

“Let me go, damn you!” She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whisky breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.

“That’s enough,” Rupert Lang called through the rain.

The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned too as Lang and Curry approached.

“Just let her go,” Curry said. “You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You’d better keep out of this, friend,” the man in the tweed cap told him. “This is Provisional IRA business.”

“Really?” Rupert Lang replied. “Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.”

They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one in the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson.38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.

At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways so that she fell. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist so that he dropped the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles toward Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him, and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.

She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him, and Rupert Lang said, “Give it to me.”

“Is he dead?” she asked in a calm voice.

“If not, he soon will be.” Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. “Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.” He picked up the umbrella. “Yours, I think.”

Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hustled her away. “No police?” she said.

“This is Belfast,” Curry told her. “Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?”

“But were they?” she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear.

“Probably not, my dear,” Rupert Lang said. “Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.”

“Never mind,” Curry told her. “They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.”

“Especially if January 30 claims credit.” Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. “Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.” She accepted it, strangely calm. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.”

“Good,” Curry said. “Then a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.”

“Oh yes it did,” she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.

When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on Grace’s arm, started toward the lifts. She said, “ Actually, I’d like a nightcap.”

Lang frowned, then nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Curry. “Better make the call, Tom,” then he led her into the Library Bar.

A few minutes later the phone rang on the desk of the night editor at the Belfast Telegraph. When he picked it up, a gruff voice said, “ Carrick Lane, got that? You’ll find a couple of Provo bastards on their backs there. We won’t be sending flowers.”

“Who is this?” the night editor demanded.

“January 30.”

The phone went dead. The night editor stared at it, frowning, then hurriedly dialed his emergency number to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Curry joined them in the bar at a corner table. They were drinking brandy and there was a glass for him.

Lang said, “You seem rather calm, considering the circumstances.”

“You mean, why am I not crying and sobbing because I just killed a man?” She shook her head. “He was a piece of filth. He deserved everything he got. I loathe people like that. When I was twelve I was driving back from a concert in Washington one night with my parents. We were attacked by armed thugs. My parents were killed.”

She sat staring down into her glass and Curry said gently, “I’m sorry.”

Lang said, “You handled the gun surprisingly well. Have you had much training?”

She laughed. “One Hollywood movie, just one. I didn’t like it out there. There were a few scenes where I had to use a gun. They showed me how.” She finished the brandy and raised the empty glass to the barman. “Three more.” She smiled tightly. “I hope you don’t mind, but we do seem to be rather tied in together, don’t we?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Curry told her.

She turned to Lang as the barman brought the brandies and waited until he’d gone. “You said in the car something about January 30 claiming credit. I’ve read about them. They’re some sort of terrorist group.”

“That’s right,” Lang said. “Of course in this sort of case, revolutionaries and so on, all sorts of groups like to claim credit. Very useful fact of life. We’re just making sure somebody does.”

“I’ve already spoken to the night desk at the Belfast Telegraph,” Curry said. “By tomorrow, you’ll find the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand of Ulster claiming credit also. They’re Protestant Loyalist factions.”

“But you’d prefer January 30 to get the credit?” she said.

There was a moment of silence. It was Lang who said, “You’re a remarkably astute young woman. Is there a problem here?”

“Not in the slightest. As I said, it would seem we’re tied together in this.”

“Invisible bonds and all that.”

“Exactly.” She opened her handbag, took out a card, and passed it to him. “That’s my address and phone number. Cheyne Walk. I’ll be back in London in twelve days. Perhaps we could meet?”

“I think you can count on that.”

She stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a matinee tomorrow.”

She walked out. Curry said, “My God, what a woman.”

“Yes, quite remarkable. You know, Tom, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

When she put out the light and pulled up the covers, Grace Browning lay there, strangely calm, staring up through the darkness looking for him, the shadowy figure with the gun in his hand, but he seemed to have gone. She closed her eyes and slept.

It was four weeks later that Rupert Lang received a call from her in response to a message he had left on her answering phone a week earlier.

“Sorry I haven’t called you before,” she said. “But some friends had a problem at Cross Little Theatre in the Lake District. They had a week unexpectedly vacant. Someone let them down, so I went up and did my one-woman show.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“No big deal. Shakespeare’s Heroines – that sort of thing.”

“Can we meet? Tom’s in town. I thought we could have dinner.”

“That sounds fine. You could come here for drinks first. Six-thirty suit you?”

“Smashing. We’ll look forward to it.”

At the Cheyne Walk house she opened the door to them herself. She wore a deceptively simple Armani trouser suit in black crepe and her black hair was tied at the back of the neck with a velvet bow.

Rupert Lang took her hands. “You look fabulous.”

“That’s a bit over the top,” she said.

“Not at all.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Don’t you think she looks fabulous, Tom?”

Curry took her hand briefly. “Don’t mind Rupert. Extravagant in everything.”

They went through into a panelled drawing room. It was furnished in Victorian style, dark velvet drapes at the windows, a basket fire on the hearth, four paintings by Atkinson Grimshaw on the walls.

“My goodness, they’re worth a bob or two,” Curry said as he inspected them.

She took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and Rupert Lang moved in fast. “Allow me.”

“Yes,” she said, “my aunt loved Grimshaw, loved everything Victorian. Lady Martha Hunt, to be precise. She raised me from the age of twelve when my parents were killed. This house was her pride and joy.”

Rupert Lang poured the champagne. “I remember her husband, Sir George Hunt. Merchant banker in the city. My father used to do business with him.”

“He died before I arrived,” she said, “and Martha only the other year.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

She went and opened the French windows. A cold, February night outside, a slight drizzle, some fog and some barge traffic, their red and green lights clear in the murk as they passed downriver.

“I love the Thames at night.”

“Heart of the city,” Lang said. “Lovely to see you.” He raised his glass. “Now what shall we drink to?”

“Why not January 30?” she said. “I read about that in the Belfast Telegraph. I also noticed, just as you said, that some Protestant terrorist organizations also claimed credit.” She moved to the fire and sat down in a wing-backed chair. “And those two thugs were IRA after all. There were details of their military funerals.”

Lang and Curry sat on the long sofa opposite her. “That’s right,” Curry said. “Irish tricolor on the coffin, black beret and gloves neatly arranged.”

“Weeping relatives, lots of women in black,” Lang said. “Always looks good. Keeps the glorious cause going.”

“And you don’t approve?”

“Only one solution. The British Army should leave.”

“But that would lead to civil war and total anarchy.”

“Exactly, but this time we’d build from the ashes. A new state entirely,” Curry said.

“Run on the political lines he approves of,” Lang told her. “Which is Marxist-Leninist to the core. I should warn you, Tom is the Communist equivalent of a Jesuit.” He went and got the bottle of champagne and replenished their glasses.

“I’ve looked you up,” she told Curry, “mentioned you to one or two people. All I heard was that you were a brilliant academic who serves on all sorts of Government Committees. Not a hint of this Marxist-Leninist thing.”

“Well thank God for that,” Curry said.

She turned to Lang. “You were easier. I just asked my press agent to check the newspaper libraries. It would appear, from the dates, that you two were at Cambridge together. Afterwards, you served briefly in the Grenadier Guards and transferred to One Para. Rather a notorious outfit. Bloody Sunday and all that.”

“So they tell me.”

“You served again in Ireland before leaving the Army when your father died. Interesting. There was only one mention of your Military Cross and that was tucked away in a decoration list in the Times. No reason for the award given and you never mention it, not even in election speeches.”

“Natural modesty.” Lang smiled.

“You never even told me,” Curry said.

“Secrets again, old sport, we all have them.”

“I certainly do. I killed a man,” Grace said.

“Perhaps not. I was the one who made sure with both of them.”

“I killed him,” she said. “I know it and so do you.”

“Has it given you a problem coming to terms with it?” Curry asked.

“Not really. Looking back it seems to have been like a performance in a play or film and it merges into all my other performances.” She shook her head. “Heaven knows what a psychiatrist would make of that, and anyway, those men were scum.”

“Exactly,” Lang said. “There was, as the courts put it, reasonable cause.”

“A good point,” she said. “I got all the press cuttings on January 30. There was Ali Hamid, an Arab terrorist, a KGB Colonel called Ashimov, two IRA bombers some silly judge released, an American here in London reputed to be a CIA agent, and now our two friends in Belfast. I’d say the one weak link would be the American.”

“I see,” Curry said. “You accept the killing of the KGB Colonel, but the CIA man is a different proposition.”

“I see the logic in what you’re saying. I suppose it’s a question of your point of view.” She finished her champagne and put the glass down on a side table. “Of course, it didn’t take the authorities long to work out that January 30 was the date of Bloody Sunday in Londonderry and you were there, Mr. Lang. Interesting coincidence.”

“Rupert,” he said. “Please. Yes, I was there along with a couple of thousand soldiers and large numbers of IRA supporters.”

There was a long silence. She opened a silver cigarette box and took one out. Lang gave her a light and she blew out a feather of smoke. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what exactly?” Lang asked. “I mean, just because we arrived in that alley at an opportune moment and as a Minister of the Crown on service in Ulster I do have a permit to carry a weapon.”

“A silenced Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum,” she said. “In all the newspaper reports they constantly mention the fact that all January 30 hits have been committed with the same weapon.”

“Many people think of it as the best handgun in the world these days,” Lang said. “The American Army uses it – thousands of them around.”

She opened a drawer in the side table and took out a newspaper clipping. “This is the Belfast Telegraph report on the deaths of those two animals in Carrick Lane. They state that the credit for the killings claimed by January 30 is substantiated by the forensic tests on the rounds removed from the bodies indicating that they were killed by the same weapon used to assassinate the other victims, a Beretta 9 millimeter, silenced version.”

“Amazing what they can do these days,” Lang said. “The scientific people, I mean.”

Curry emptied his glass. “What are you going to do? Turn us in?”

“Don’t be stupid, Tom. I’d be turning myself in, however much a good lawyer tried to argue my case. No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that, but one thing I would like to know. Why do you do it?”

“For me it’s simple,” Curry said. “I’ve been a Marxist-Leninist since boyhood. It’s my faith, my religion if you like. I think the world needs to change.”

“And Communism is the answer?”

“Yes, but change comes out of chaos and anarchy, which is where we come in.”

“And you?” she said to Lang.

“Well life can be such a bloody bore. Helps to have a little excitement once in a while.”

“Rupert never takes anything seriously,” Curry told her.

Lang smiled. “All right, Father. She can play good women or bad, great queens, murderers, the worst harlot in the world. Now that’s really getting your rocks off.” He turned to Grace. “But it isn’t enough, is it, and never will be.”

“You bastard,” she said. “You clever, clever bastard.”

“But I’m right. You’d like to join in.”

She sat there looking at him and, for a moment, had a quick glimpse of that shadowy figure in Washington, gun raised high, and her stomach crawled with excitement.

It was two weeks later that Curry turned up at the Old Red Lion, a pub fringe theatre where she was doing her one-woman show for a week. She was sharing a cramped little dressing room with two young girls acting as assistant stage managers. He glanced in and found her putting on jeans.

“Hello, it’s me,” he said.

“Tom, how nice. How was I?”

“Dreadful.”

“Bastard,” she said.

“Only sometimes. Are you free for a Chinese?”

“Why not?”

An hour later, working their way through a third or fourth course, she said, “It’s lovely to see you, but to what do I owe the honor?”

“We saw that interview on you in the Stage. All about you having a month off after finishing this show until you start Macbeth for the Royal Shakespeare Company.”

“So?”

“There’s a Parliamentary break, so Rupert’s free and I have nothing on. The thing is, Rupert has this old hunting lodge in Devon, Lang Place. Been in his family for years. Moors, shooting, all that kind of stuff. On Dartmoor.”

“My dear Tom, the only time anybody bothers to go there for the shooting is August when the birds do their usual stupid thing, and deer culling is so rigid these days that it’s hardly worth the effort. So – what’s it all about?”

He paused while crispy duck and pancakes were served. “The shooting could be fun – all kinds of shooting. I know Rupert might seem your effete aristocrat, but he knows his stuff when it comes to weaponry.”

She nodded. “That does sound interesting. Anything else?”

He paused, looking at her, then sighed. “You’ve heard of Kim Philby, Burgess, Maclean?”

“Oh, yes – didn’t they all go to Cambridge too and work for Russia?”

“Yes, well they all had rank in the KGB. I’m a Major in the GRU. That’s Russian Military Intelligence. My boss would like to meet you.”

“And who might that be?”

“Colonel Yuri Belov.”

She started to laugh. “But I know him. When I did Chekhov’s Three Sisters last year the Soviet Embassy gave us a reception. He was chief cultural attaché or something.”

“Or something,” Curry said with an apologetic smile.

She laughed again. “All right. When do we leave?”

And she was glad she’d gone. Rupert had a twin-engined Navajo Chieftain pick them up from an airfield in Surrey, and the flight to an old World War Two RAF landing strip near Okehampton only took an hour. Here a man with a weather-beaten face was waiting for them. He introduced himself as George Farne and escorted them to a Range Rover.

After a half-hour drive through wonderful moorland scenery and forest, they reached a wooded valley and saw Lang Place. It appeared to be eighteenth century, with tall chimneys and an ornate garden behind high walls.

When they pulled up at the steps below the front door, Rupert Lang came out wearing jeans and a sweater, an Irish wolfhound at his heels. He came down the steps and took Grace’s hands.

“You look wonderful, as usual.”

“Well, you don’t look too bad yourself.” She kissed him on the cheek. “What’s the wolfhound’s name?”

“Danger.” Lang fondled its ears.

“Bring the bags, George,” he called and took her up the steps, an arm about her waist. “Tell me, can you ride a motorcycle?”

“One thing I’ve never tried.”

“Oh, you’ll take to it like a duck to water. I have a couple of Montesa dirt bikes. Spanish job. Go anywhere. Good if you’ve got sheep in the high country. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

They had an excellent dinner, although very simple, all prepared by George Farne’s wife, steak, new potatoes, salad, and some sort of cream tart. Afterwards, Lang opened the French windows and they stood on the terrace with brandies, listening to the silence.

“Do you only have the Farnes working here?” she asked.

“That’s right. George’s Dad worked for my father, so he’s known this place as long as I have. He and his wife caretake. He brings in local help when he needs it.”

“What a heavenly existence,” she said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tom Curry told her. “You’d be screaming your head off by the second week.”

“Philistine,” she said and turned to Lang. “What now -, Bridge?”

“Actually, I have a shooting range in the barn. I thought you might like to try your hand.”

For a moment, she stared at him and then she smiled. “Why not.”

When Lang switched on the lights in the barn they disclosed a very professional shooting range with a wall of sandbags at the rear fronted by six-foot cardboard replicas of charging soldiers. An assortment of weaponry was laid out on several trestle tables, hand guns, machine pistols, and rifles.

Curry lit a cigarette and stood watching. Lang picked the first pistol up. “Recognize this, our old friend the Beretta? This is how you load it.” He picked up an ammunition clip and rammed it in the butt. “Would you like to try?”

“Why not.”

He ejected the clip and handed her the Beretta. She loaded it for herself. “Good, now pull the slider and you’re in business, but don’t fire. Let me give you some ear muffs.” He adjusted them. “Good. Take aim, both eyes open, then squeeze gently.”

She did as she was told, hitting the target she aimed at in the shoulder, firing one round after the other, a widely dispersed pattern. He showed her how to discharge the magazine.

“Not bad. At least you hit him.”

She was suddenly angry. “Could you do better?”

Rupert slammed another magazine in the butt of the Beretta, pulled the slider, and his hand swung up. He fired three times very rapidly, shooting out the target’s eyes and putting the third in between. “My God!” she said.

“He’s got nothing to do with it. I’ve got a selection for you here. Walther PPK, Browning, both similar to the Beretta, and a Smith & Wesson revolver.”

She moved to the other table. “And this lot?”

“Stun grenade, standard-type hand grenade. The rifles are an Armalite, AK-47, both with sonic noise suppressor – silencer to you. The big job is a Barret Light Fifty Rifle with a laser guide night sight. Fifty-round, that thing fires, guaranteed to penetrate a Kevlar at two thousand yards.”

“A Kevlar?”

“Flak jacket like the army wears in Ireland. Actually, I’ve got a neater job here, rather like a waistcoat. Titanium and nylon. Should suit you down to the ground.”

She examined it. “You were sure of me, weren’t you? Do I get to try the rifles?”

“Plenty of time, we have all week, but why not.”

He reached for the AK-47, unfolded the butt, and Curry came forward. “Just one thing before you two start having fun.” He picked up the Walther, slammed in the magazine, and said to Grace, “Come on.”

He walked down the range and paused about five feet from the targets. “You want to make sure? I’ll show you how.”

He walked to the center target, held the gun to it, and pulled the trigger. “See what a brilliant marksman I am?”

He came back to her. “But if that isn’t possible, never further away than five or six feet.”

He raised the Walther and emptied it into the target.

Grace said, “I get your point.”

Curry turned, walked to the table, and put down the Walther. “She’s all yours, old lad,” he said and walked out.