Angel of Death (2 page)

“Good man. Ring the box office for me.”

“I will, Mr. Friar.”

Dillon went back to Hannah. “There you go, girl dear. Grace Browning’s one-woman show.
Shakespeare’s Heroines
. She’s brilliant.”

“I know. I’ve seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, don’t you ever get confused? One minute sounding like you’ve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?”

“Ah, you’re forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in
Lady from the Sea
. Ibsen that was.”

“You’ve mentioned it several times since I’ve known you, Dillon.” She stood up. “Let’s get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.”

Ferguson’s Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.

John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. I’ve asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.”

“I have met Mr. Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.”

“Yes, fine record. I know you don’t care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services don’t care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Minister’s private army.”

“So I believe.”

“Try and get along, if only for my sake.” There was a knock at the door and two men entered. “Ah, come in, gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said. “I believe you all know each other.”

“Hello, Ferguson,” Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow-white hair.

Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.

“Nice to see you again, Brigadier.”

“And you.”

“Good. Sit down and let’s get started,” the Prime Minister said.

They worked their way through a variety of intelligence matters for some forty minutes with particular reference to terrorist groups of various kinds and the new menace of Arab fundamentalism in London.

The Prime Minister said, “I’m sure everyone tries, but look at this group, January 30. How many have they killed in the last few years, Mr. Carter?”

“Ten that we know of, Prime Minister, but there’s a particular difficulty. Other groups have specific aims and targets. January 30 kill everybody. KGB, a CIA man, IRA both here and in Belfast. Even a notorious East End gangster.”

“All with the same weapon,” Ferguson put in.

“Could that indicate just one individual?”

“It could, but I doubt it,” Carter said. “And the name is no help. January 30 was the date of Bloody Sunday, but they kill, amongst others, members of the IRA.”

“A puzzle,” the Prime Minister said, “which brings me to the Downing Street Declaration.” He spoke about the Government’s discussions with Sinn Fein and the efforts, so far unsuccessful, to achieve a cease-fire.

It was Rupert Lang who said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have as many problems with the Protestant factions from now on, Prime Minister.”

“True,” Carter said. “They’re killing just as many as the IRA.”

“Can we do anything about that?” the Prime Minister queried. He turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”

Ferguson shrugged. “Yes, I’m conscious of the Protestant Loyalist problem.”

“Yes, but are your people doing anything about it?” Carter said with some malice.

Ferguson was nettled. “Actually I’ve got Dillon taking care of something rather special in that direction at this precise moment in time.”

Carter said, “So we’re back to that little IRA swine?”

Rupert Lang frowned. “Dillon? Who’s he?”

Ferguson hesitated. “Go on, tell him,” the Prime Minister said. “But this is top secret, Rupert.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

“Sean Dillon was born in Belfast and went to school in London when his father came to work here,” Ferguson said. “He had a remarkable talent for acting and a flair for languages. He went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for a year and then joined the National Theatre.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Lang said.

“You wouldn’t. Dillon’s father went back to Belfast on a visit and got caught in the middle of a firefight. He was shot dead by Paratroops. Dillon joined the IRA and never looked back. He became the most feared enforcer they had.”

“Then what?”

“He became disenchanted with the glorious cause and switched to the international scene. Worked for everybody. Not only the PLO, but the Israelis.”

“For money, I presume?”

“Oh yes. He was behind the mortar attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War. That was for the Ira-quis.”

“Good God.”

Carter broke in, “And he employs this man.”

“He also flew drugs into Bosnia, medical supplies for children. The Serbs held him under death sentence. I did a deal with them and him. He came to me, slate wiped clean.”

“Good heavens,” Lang said.

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” the Prime Minister said. “He’s been more than useful, Rupert. Saved the Royal Family from a dreadful scandal involving the Duke of Windsor’s involvement with the Nazis. Then there was a rather tricky business involving Hong Kong, but never mind that. What’s he up to now, Brigadier?”

Ferguson hesitated. “Actually he’s in Belfast.”

“Doing what?”

Ferguson hesitated again and the Prime Minister said impatiently, “Come on, man, if you can tell anyone, you can tell us.”

“All right,” Ferguson said. “The Deputy Director wanted to know what we’re doing about Protestant terrorism. As you know, there are numerous factions. One of the worst call themselves the Sons of Ulster. Their leader is undoubtedly the most dangerous man on the Loyalist side of things. Daniel Quinn. He’s killed many times, soldiers as well as IRA.”

“And dares to use the word
Loyalist
,” Carter said. “Yes, I know about Quinn.”

“The trouble is that he isn’t just another thug,” Ferguson replied. “He’s astute, cunning, and a first-class organizer. Dillon has been staying at the Europa under the name of Barry Friar with my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein. He posed as an arms dealer for a Paris outfit and met with Quinn’s right-hand man, Curtis Daley, tonight.”

“I know that name too,” Carter said.

“What’s the point of all this?” the Prime Minister asked.

“To draw Quinn into the open and deal with him,” Ferguson said.

“You mean shoot him?”

“That is correct, Prime Minister. Dillon has a meeting with Quinn tomorrow at six. All he would tell Chief Inspector Bernstein was that he was to drive there alone. Wouldn’t say where because he knew she’d tell me and thought I might send in the heavy brigade.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Carter commented.

“Perhaps.” The Prime Minister nodded. “But he does seem to get results.” He closed the file in front of him. “You’ll keep me informed, Brigadier.” He stood up. “Good night, gentlemen.”

As Ferguson went to his Daimler outside Number Ten, Carter paused on his way to his own car. “He’ll get you into trouble one of these days, Ferguson.”

“Very probably,” Ferguson said and turned to Lang. “Have you got a car or would you like a lift?”

“No thanks, I feel like the exercise. I’ll walk.”

Lang went out through the security gates and walked along Whitehall. He stopped at the first phone box and made a call. After a while, the phone was picked up at the other end.

“Belov.”

“Oh, good, Yuri. Glad I caught you at home. Rupert here. Something’s come up. I’ll be straight round.”

He put the phone down and hailed the first cab that came along.

Twenty minutes later he was ringing the bell of the small cottage in a mews off the Bayswater Road. The door was opened within moments and Belov stood there, dressed in a navy-blue pullover and slacks. A small, dark-haired man with a humorous mouth, he was in his late fifties. He motioned Lang inside.

“Good to see you, Rupert.”

He led the way into a small sitting room, where a gas fire was burning cheerfully in the hearth.

“This is nice,” Lang said, “on a night like this.”

“A Scotch would make it even better, yes?”

“I should say so.”

Lang watched him get the drinks. Belov was Senior Cultural Attaché at the Soviet Embassy just up the road, a job which masked his true vocation as Colonel in charge of the London Station of the GRU, Soviet Military Intelligence, the KGB’s great rivals. He handed Lang a glass.

“Cheers, Rupert.”

“How are you? Still having trouble with the KGB?”

“They keep changing their name these days.” Belov smiled. “Anyway, what was so important?”

“I’ve just had one of my regular meetings with the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Brigadier Charles Ferguson. Tell me, does the name Sean Dillon mean anything to you?”

“Oh yes,” Belov said. “Quite a character. He was very big in the IRA, then moved on to the international scene. I’ve the best of reasons for thinking he was behind the attack on Downing Street in ninety-one, then Brigadier Charles Ferguson got his hands on him.” Belov smiled again. “You British really are devious bastards, Rupert. What’s it all about?”

So Lang told him and when he was finished Belov said, “I know all about Daniel Quinn. Believe me, my friend, if the Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration really do bring Sinn Fein and the IRA to the peace table, you are going to have serious problems with the Protestant factions.”

“Well that seems to be the general opinion, and that’s why Dillon hopes to meet Quinn and eliminate him tomorrow night.”

“Only one problem,” Belov said. “My man at our Embassy in Dublin told me yesterday that Quinn is in Dublin en route for Beirut under the alias of Brown. An associate of his named Francis Callaghan went to Beirut last week.”

“Do you know why?”

“There is a KGB involvement, but I believe it’s a rather nefarious one. Some connection with gangsters from Moscow. What you call the Russian Mafia. I understand an Arab faction, the Party of God, are also involved. They make Hezbolla look like a primary school outing.”

“But what could it be? Arms?”

“Plenty of ways of getting arms these days. Something big, that’s all I know.”

“All right,” Lang said. “Let’s look at this thing. This man Daley has arranged a meeting for Dillon to-morrow to meet Quinn, only we know Quinn won’t be there. What does that tell you?”

“That Dillon’s cover is blown. They intend to kill him, my friend.”

“Is that what you think will happen?”

“Dillon’s reputation goes before him. He’s the original survivor. In fact, I would imagine he knows what he’s doing.”

“Which means you think he’ll survive this meeting?”

“Possibly, but more than that. Dillon is extremely astute. What he wants is Quinn. Now if he expects skulduggery, he will also expect not only to survive it but to come out of it knowing Quinn’s whereabouts.”

“Beirut?”

“Which is where Charles Ferguson will send him.” Belov got up, reached for the bottle of Scotch, and replenished the glasses. “And that would suit me. We of the GRU and the KGB don’t hit it off too well these days. They have a disturbing tendency to associate with the wrong people, the Moscow Mafia for example, which doesn’t sit well with me. I’d like to know what they’re up to with Quinn in Beirut. I’d like to know very much.”

“Which means it would suit you to have Dillon on their case.”

“Unquestionably.”

“Then you’d better pray he survives this meeting tomorrow night.”

“Exactly.” Belov nodded. “A great inconvenience if he didn’t, but I get the impression you have thoughts on this?”

Lang said, “You have your associates in Belfast who could provide backup when necessary, equipment and so on?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Tom Curry is in Belfast at the moment doing his monthly two or three days as a visiting professor at Queens University. By coincidence, Grace Browning has been there doing her one-woman show at the Lyric Theatre.”

“How convenient.”

“Isn’t it. Dillon could have an invisible support system, a phantom minder watching his back.”

“My dear Rupert, what a splendid idea.”

“Only one thing. If he’s to be followed from the hotel, they need to know what he looks like.”

“No problem. I have his file at the Embassy. I can fax Tom Curry at his office at Queens tonight. He only needs to know it’s on its way.”

“And I’ll take care of that.” Rupert Lang raised his glass. “Cheers, old sport.”

Half an hour later, Professor Tom Curry, at his office at Queens University and working his way through a mass of papers, cursed as his phone rang.

“Curry here,” he said angrily.

“Rupert. Are you alone?”

“Well, I would be, old lad, considering it’s ten o’clock at night. I’ve been hacking my way through exam papers, but what brings you on? I’ll be with you on Sunday evening.”

“I know, but this is important, Tom. Very important, so listen well.”

About half an hour later Dillon and Hannah Bernstein returned to the Europa. They got their keys at the desk and she turned to him. “I really enjoyed that, Dillon. She was wonderful, but I’m tired. I think I’ll go straight up.”

“Sleep well.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I think I’ll have a nightcap.”

She went to the lift and he went into the Library Bar, which was reasonably busy, and ordered a Bushmills. A moment later Grace Browning walked in with a man in an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket and slacks. He looked in his forties, had brown hair and a pleasant, rather amiable face. They sat down at a corner table and were immediately approached by a woman who’d been to the show. Dillon recognized the program. Grace Browning signed it with a pleasant smile, which she managed to retain even when a number of other people did the same thing.