Angel of Death (22 page)

“All right,” Ferguson said. “Come into my office and get on with it.”

He sat behind the desk. Dillon said, “I was talking to Hannah about coincidences the other night. It got a little academic, what with Carl Jung being mentioned, but what I was really getting at was that I don’t believe in them.”

Ferguson was interested now. “Go on.”

“As I said to Hannah, all those hits with the Beretta in the January 30 murders, that’s no coincidence. Four IRA men stiffed and that’s no coincidence. Two Heads of Station KGB London knocked off. Was that chance? I think not, and that’s why I asked for a computer printout on all staff at the Soviet Embassy.” He smiled. “Which brings us to Yuri Belov at the champagne bar at the Dorchester.” Dillon turned to Hannah. “I’ve always heard a good copper develops a nose for crime that has nothing to do with facts. Are you beginning to smell something unusual here, Chief Inspector?”

She turned to Ferguson. “I’d like to hear more, sir.”

“There is more,” Ferguson said. “I too can smell it. Carry on, Dillon.”

“My meeting with Daley that night in Belfast, the Sons of Ulster business. My supposed meeting with Daniel Quinn when they set me up. Who knew about it? Hannah, though she didn’t know where I was to meet them. You, Brigadier, the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Rupert Lang.” He turned to Hannah. “Let’s hear what a brilliant detective has to offer on this one.”

She glanced at Ferguson and he nodded gravely. “Carry on, my dear.”

“Right, sir. Let’s accept that January 30 knew Dillon was having a meet and didn’t know where, but the mystery woman knew enough to follow him and was armed and ready for action. My question would be, how did she know it was all going to happen?”

“And what is your conclusion, Chief Inspector?”

“You can discount yourself, Brigadier, me, Dillon.” She smiled. “Now we come to the Prime Minister, Simon Carter, and Rupert Lang.”

“We can hardly imagine the Prime Minister to be the source of the leak,” Ferguson said. “And the idea that the Deputy Director of the Security Services would seems inconceivable.”

“Which leaves us with only one probable source, sir.”

“It doesn’t seem possible.” He shook his head. “A Minister of the Crown, an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.” He shook his head. “ Rupert Lang served in my regiment, the Grenadier Guards. After that, One Para. He received a Military Cross in Ireland, was wounded.”

“Just bear with me,” Dillon said. “The Liam Bell killing. The whole thing was kept under wraps, his stop-off in London, I mean. We knew and as usual, you, the PM, and the Deputy Director and Lang.”

There was a pause. “They were ready for Bell’s presence at the Dorchester that night, Brigadier, ready enough to be able to wait ahead of him in ambush in that cemetery in Vance Square.”

Dillon was full of energy and very insistent. Ferguson raised a hand. “Enough, you’ve made your point.” He turned to Hannah. “What’s the police view, Chief Inspector?”

“Not strong enough to make a case, sir, but worth pursuing inquiries.”

“And you, Dillon?”

“At this point in time I’d say your little ad hoc committee of you, Carter, and Lang should cease functioning. There should be no further opportunity of Lang’s receiving secret and valuable information until we sort this out. For example, he knows about the Keogh affair.”

“But doesn’t at this moment know when Keogh will be arriving at Shannon or the time of the IRA meet at Ardmore,” Hannah said. “I’d say it should remain that way, sir.”

“But what on earth can I say to the Prime Minister?” Ferguson asked.

“Oh, come on, you old sod,” Dillon said impatiently. “You’ve been lying beautifully for years. Why stop now?”

“Dear God!” Charles Ferguson said. “But you’re right, of course,” and he reached for the red phone.

The Prime Minister in his study at Downing Street said, “I’ve just heard from President Clinton that the IRA meeting at Ardmore is scheduled for two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I presumed you would be coming round to fill me in on your meeting with Senator Keogh.”

“Something of supreme importance has happened, Prime Minister, a question of a leak of vital information.”

“Serious?” John Major asked.

“I’m afraid so, and it could have a bearing on Senator Keogh’s visit. As you know, secrecy is of the essence there.”

“Well of course it is, we all accept that.”

“Then may I very earnestly beg you to take my advice on this, Prime Minister. I know of the Sunday meeting because President Clinton has told me just as he has told you. Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein know because they must. Will you leave it at that for the moment?”

“You mean don’t tell the Deputy Director and Rupert Lang? Are you suggesting this leak you mention comes from one of them?” There was total astonishment in the Prime Minister’s voice. “Surely that’s inconceivable?”

“Prime Minister, be advised by me in this matter. It’s a question of checking all avenues. Give me a few hours only.”

There was a pause and John Major said, “Of course. I’m disturbed, Brigadier, because you’re usually right and this time I don’t want you to be, but carry on and speak to me at your soonest.”

When Ferguson went into Dillon’s office the computer was humming, Dillon and Hannah beside it. Ferguson was full of energy now, brisk and businesslike.

“All right, what are we up to?”

“We’re just checking on Tom Curry,” Hannah said.

Ferguson nodded. “You know that name is familiar. There’s a Professor Curry from London University who sits on a number of Government Committees.”

The printer started to eject paper and Dillon tore it out and laid it on the desk. Tom Curry’s picture stared up at them. The details from the data bank did not only mention his academic qualifications but, as usual with those engaged in Government work, referred to his private life in intimate detail.

“Cambridge,” Ferguson said and frowned. “Good God, Moscow University, researching a Ph.D.”

The printer kept working. “Rupert Lang coming through now,” Hannah said.

“Good God, he doesn’t need to,” Ferguson told her. “It says here that Curry and Lang have been living together for years at Lang’s house in Dean Close. That’s within walking distance of Westminster. Homosexual relationship since they were at Cambridge together.”

“Yes, but look further down,” Hannah said. “It’s Curry’s academic record that’s interesting. He’s worked at Yale, Harvard, is a professor at London, but look at that, sir. He’s a visiting professor at Queen’s University, Belfast, three or four days a month.”

“How interesting.” Ferguson was all business now. “We know Curry was in Belfast when you and Dillon were handling the Sons of Ulster business, Chief Inspector.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Those two Provisional IRA foot soldiers in the alley that January 30 claimed the other year. It would be interesting to know if Professor Curry was in Belfast then.”

“It would be interesting to know if Rupert Lang was,” Dillon put in.

“Easy enough to find out,” Ferguson said.

“It also raises an interesting point about the famous Beretta January 30 used in all of their killings except the Sons of Ulster thing,” Dillon said. “The fact that a weapon used in London could have turned up in Belfast, security restrictions into Ulster being so tough. I suggested to Hannah that the explanation might be that the owner of the Beretta might have a permit to carry.”

“That would certainly apply to a Minister of the Crown, but we can check on that soon enough.” Ferguson frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Something’s just occurred to me. Those two KGB Head of Stations getting knocked off. Apparently, since the changes in Russia in the last few years, the long-standing feud with the GRU and the KGB has intensified. There could be a connection there with Belov. I’ll look into it.”

“I’ll phone Queen’s University and check if the date of the killing of those two IRA men coincided with Curry being there,” Hannah said. “And I’ll get a rundown on the times Lang’s visited Belfast from the Northern Ireland Office.”

“What about you, Dillon?” Ferguson demanded.

“Oh, I’ll just ring Grace Browning’s agent.”

Ferguson, in the act of reaching for the phone, stopped. “Why?”

“It was a woman who saved me in the Sons of Ulster affair, it was a woman who killed Liam Bell, someone in my opinion giving a rather excellent performance as a Pakistani woman. I’d like to remind you that she was performing in Belfast when I had my meeting with the Sons of Ulster and I did see her at the champagne bar at the Dorchester with Curry, Lang, and Belov.”

“No, that really would be too much,” Ferguson said. “What are you going to do?”

“Find out from her agent if she’s performed in Belfast before the time Hannah and I were there. I’ll also have a look at the files. Check her background.”

“Do that.”

Dillon paused in the doorway and turned to Hannah. “Remember the other night when we were talking about synchronicity and you asked me if there were any other coincidences I wanted to check?”

“Yes. You said there was, but for the life of you, you couldn’t think what it was.”

“I finally discovered. The night in Belfast when our mystery woman saved me and then raised her arm in salute. I’d seen Grace Browning’s picture on a theatre poster at the Europa. After the same woman didn’t shoot me and gave me that identical salute in the cemetery at Vance Gardens, I walked up to the King’s Head in Upper Street and saw Grace Browning’s face on a theatre poster.”

There was silence. Ferguson said, “That’s pretty slim evidence, Dillon. Circumstantial to say the least.”

“I know, Brigadier, but it’s what Carl Jung meant by synchronicity,” and Dillon went into the other office.

Within an hour he and Hannah were back at Ferguson’s desk.

“Well, what have we got?” he demanded.

Hannah turned to Dillon. “You start.”

“Right,” Dillon said. “In October ninety-one, Grace Browning did a short run at the Minerva in Chichester of Brendan Behan’s
The Hostage
. The company was asked to do a two-week run of the play at the Lyric Theatre in Belfast. The first and second weeks in November.”

He paused. “Go on,” Ferguson said.

“The killing of those two IRA men that January 30 claimed credit for took place during the first week of the run.” He turned. “Hannah?”

She said, “Professor Tom Curry was there for four days covering the time in question, and also Rupert Lang. He was there for two days, but one of them was the day in question.”

“Dear God!” Ferguson said.

“More bad news,” Hannah Bernstein told him. “According to the record, Lang is licensed to carry a handgun when in Northern Ireland.”

“And the weapon?”

“A Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum. We’d need to check the rounds it’s fired.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said. “But there’s increasingly little doubt about what we’d find.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“One slight clue,” Dillon told him. “It seems Curry came from Dublin. There was a history of Irish nationalism in the family, but his mother became a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.”

“All right, that might explain Curry, but the Browning woman, one of our finest actresses, and Rupert Lang.”

“There is one link, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said. “A violent one. When she was twelve her parents were murdered in a street robbery in Washington. She was present. Saw it all.”

“Good Lord.”

“After that she came to London and lived with her aunt in the house she presently occupies in Cheyne Walk.”

“And Rupert Lang isn’t just Mr. Savile Row,” Dillon said. “He was at Bloody Sunday with One Para, wounded, killed at least three times, according to his Army record, and was awarded a Military Cross for undercover work.”

Ferguson sighed and turned to Hannah. “Is it still a circumstantial case, Chief Inspector?”

“Oh yes, sir, but a strong one.”

He nodded. “I can see that, but I’ll have to speak to the Prime Minister.”

“And Lang, sir?”

“We’ll see. Leave it to me.”

At around the same time, Grace Browning and Tom Curry, driving down from London into Kent, found a sign to Coldwater. The village wasn’t much, a line of cottages on either side of the road, a village green, a pond, a small inn called The George and Dragon. They carried on through and found another sign a quarter of a mile farther on that indicated Cold-water airfield to the right.

They found it at the end of a narrow lane, a couple of old hangars, a control tower, and a single tarmac runway that was crumbling badly. There was an old Land-Rover parked outside a Nissen hut. They parked beside it, and as they got out the door opened and a man emerged.

He was of medium height, obviously in his late forties, with a graying beard and tangled hair. He wore black flying overalls and an old American Air Force flying jacket.

“Mr. Carson?” Curry asked.

“That’s me.”

“Don’t let’s bother with names.”

Carson didn’t offer to shake hands. “Colonel Belov said you’d be around. Better come in.”

Curry opened the boot of his car and took out two suitcases and followed him into the Nissen hut, Grace behind him. Inside, he put the cases down and looked around. There was a stove for heating, a desk, charts pinned to the wall.

“You know the flight’s planned for Sunday?” Curry asked.

“That’s right.” Carson unrolled a flying chart across his desk. It covered Ireland across to the Galway coast. “I’ve found an old flying strip about ten miles from this Drumgoole place. Here at Kilbeg.”

“Do you envisage any problems with the flight?” Grace asked him.

“Only with the weather. Ireland’s a sod. Too much rain. Flight time to County Clare could be anything between three and four hours, depending on the wind. I can’t do anything about that. You’re stuck with what you get on the day.”

“In view of what you say, if we want to be at Drumgoole by noon we’ll need an early start,” Curry said.

“I’d say seven to seven-thirty in the morning to be on the safe side,” Carson said.