Angel of Death (24 page)

“My God!” Hannah breathed. “The final proof.”

“So it would seem,” Dillon said. “So it would seem.”

Rupert Lang was sitting by the fire in the drawing room at Lang Place, Danger lying in front of the fire, when the phone rang. It was the Navajo pilot, Alan Smith, calling from Surrey.

“That you, Mr. Lang? Alan Smith here. About the flight in the morning.”

“Which flight would that be?” Lang asked.

“A Brigadier Ferguson, a lady, a Miss Bernstein, who made the booking, and a man called Dillon. She said you were expecting them.”

“Ah, yes,” Lang said. “What time will you drop in?”

“Nine-thirty start. A little wind forecast, but we should do it in an hour. They asked for a taxi.”

“No need. I’ll have George Farne pick them up in the Range Rover. Thanks, Alan, and good night.”

He sat there thinking about it, then went and poured a Scotch. Finally he picked up the phone and called Dean Close. Curry answered at once.

“I’ve just heard they’re flying in tomorrow,” Rupert told him. “Ferguson, Bernstein, and Dillon.”

“How did you find out?”

“The pilot rang me. Said he’d been told I was expecting them.”

“Strange, that. Ferguson must have known the pilot might do that.”

“Of course he did. Maybe he wants to give me a chance to do the decent thing and put a bullet through my head. Honor of the Regiment and all that.”

“For God’s sake, Rupert.” There was panic in Curry’s voice.

“Don’t worry, old sport, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. I’ll hear what he has to say. I want to know how close they are to the rest of you, if at all.”

“And the Beretta? What will you say when he asks for it?”

“Found it had been stolen from my desk. I panicked, shocked by the appalling suggestions made at that meeting with the PM, so I cleared off down here to think.”

“Rather weak, old lad.”

“Of course it is.” Lang laughed out loud. “You know that and so does Ferguson, but let’s see what he comes up with. You’d better phone Yuri at the Embassy and bring him up to date.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good night, old sport.”

Lang put the phone down, reached for his glass, and sat staring into the fire while he stroked the wolfhound’s head.

The weather was wretched the following morning when the Daimler turned into the entrance of the small airfield in Surrey and pulled up on the concrete apron. The doors of one of the hangars stood open and they saw the Navajo standing inside, the pilot beside it talking to an engineer in overalls. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah got out and ran through the rain.

“Brigadier Ferguson? Alan Smith,” the pilot said. He nodded out at the curtain of rain. “Not too good.”

“Are you saying we can’t go?”

“It’s up to you. Could be rough.”

“My friend here is a pilot.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “What’s your opinion?”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” Dillon smiled and gave Smith his hand. “Sean Dillon. I’ve got a commercial license, so it will comfort you to know that if you have a heart attack I can take over.”

Smith laughed. “All right then, if you folks are game, so am I. Let’s climb aboard and get on with it.”

It was raining steadily in Devon as Rupert Lang rode one of the Montesa dirt bikes along the track above the forest, Danger running alongside. Lang wore riding breeches and boots and an old paratrooper’s camouflaged smock. Instead of a helmet he wore a tweed cap.

He paused beside a low wall. There were sheep over there, crowding round Sam Lee the shepherd, and Danger went over the wall and ran to them, barking. Sam Lee struck out at him with his shepherd’s crook.

“Damn your eyes, Lee, I’ve told you before,” Lang called. “Do that again and I’ll break that thing over your head.”

“It’s the sheep, Mr. Lang, he won’t leave them alone.”

“Damn the sheep!” Lang paused, looking up into the rain, aware of the sound of an aircraft in the distance. He whistled to the dog. “Come on, boy,” started the Montesa, and rode away.

When the Range Rover entered the courtyard at Lang Place Rupert was standing at the front door, still wearing the old cap and the paratrooper’s smock, a curiously debonair figure.

“Ah, there you are, Ferguson, right on time.”

“Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my personal assistant, and Sean Dillon.”

“Your personal hit man.” Lang smiled at Dillon. “We probably traded shots back there in Derry in the old days.”

“And isn’t that a fact?” Dillon told him.

Lang turned to Hannah. “And what have they brought you along for, Chief Inspector? To read me my rights, make an arrest?”

“If necessary, sir.”

“Well it isn’t, I assure you. Stupid mistake, the whole thing, but come in out of the rain and I’ll explain.”

He led the way into the drawing room where Danger, lying in front of the fire, got up. “Down, boy.” Lang stroked him cheerfully. “Not a bit of harm in him, believe me. Soft as a brush. I’ve got a bottle of Bollinger on ice and Mrs. Farne will serve a light lunch in the conservatory before you go back.”

“Don’t you mean we, sir?” Hannah said.

“A trifle premature, I would have said. Would you mind doing the honors, Dillon? It’s stuffy in here.” He went and opened the French windows to the terrace. “That’s better.”

Dillon uncorked the champagne and poured. Hannah said, “Not for me.”

“On duty, Chief Inspector?” Lang smiled, looking immensely attractive, and held a glass out to her and in spite of herself she took it. “Now what shall we drink to?”

“Why not January 30?” Ferguson said.

“Oh dear, there you go again, Brigadier. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. As for the Beretta, well unfortunately it’s been stolen from my desk at the House . . .”

Ferguson held up a hand and took one of the chairs by the fire. “I’d sit down if I were you.” He turned to Hannah. “Chief Inspector, in the matter of Mr. Rupert Lang’s involvement in the terrorist group we know as January 30, make your case.”

Land sprawled in a chair listening, a slight smile on his face, one hand stroking Danger’s head, the other holding his glass of champagne. When she was finished, he stood up and went and recharged his glass.

“Anyone else?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “No?”

“A convincing case, you must agree, Lang,” Ferguson said.

“Total fantasy, the lot of it. Tom Curry and I have lived together for years and quite openly, that’s the connection there. Colonel Yuri Belov is someone I’ve met casually on the Embassy party circuit, as I’m sure many Members of Parliament have. Grace Browning is a dear friend to both Tom Curry and myself. To attempt to tie us all in together as members of this January 30 group quite frankly beggars belief.”

“High melodrama, the whole thing, I grant you that,” Ferguson told him.

“And totally circumstantial. I mean, come on, Ferguson. I’m in Belfast on Government business, Tom has a few days at Queen’s, and Grace Browning happens to be performing at the Lyric Theatre, and when a couple of IRA louts end up dead in an alley, you accuse the three of us.”

“I accuse January 30,” Ferguson said, “who claimed those killings. After all, there’s the business of Dillon and the Sons of Ulster. Only Dillon himself, Chief Inspector Bernstein, Simon Carter, myself, the Prime Minister, and you knew about that, and the same circumstance applied in the unfortunate killing of Liam Bell.” He shook his head. “Simple process of elimination, Lang. In both cases you had to be the leak.”

Lang stood there, the slight fixed smile on his face. “Any good barrister could demolish that argument at an Old Bailey trial in five minutes flat. You see, Ferguson, the only link to the January 30 killings is the Beretta. Now you say it’s
my
Beretta, but as that has unfortunately been stolen, we’ll never know, will we? Of course, I’m sorry I panicked and cleared off after finding the gun was missing. Naturally I’ll offer the PM my resignation.”

It was Dillon who broke the log jam. “Jesus, me ould son, but you’ve got a tongue on you.” He went to the table and took the bottle of Bollinger from the bucket. “Is it all right if I help myself?”

“Be my guest, old sport.”

Dillon filled his glass. “Why did you do it, that’s what interests me. I mean, Belov I understand. He’s a pro working for his own side, and Curry is obviously your typical British middle-class wealthy liberal nut case who wants to make the world safe for Communism. Have I left anything out?”

“He’s Irish, actually,” Lang said.

“As for the girl, I’ve formed the opinion she’s touched in the head,” Dillon told him. “But that’s another story.” He looked up at the portrait of the Earl of Drury over the fireplace. “Ancestor of yours, from the look of his face. A grand arrogant bastard who walked over everybody. He probably laid his riding crop over the shoulders of his servants and made all the maids have sex with him.”

Lang’s face was pale. “Take care, Dillon.”

“You’d rather be him, is that it? Modern life too boring? All the money in the world and all you could find to do was play at politics and then January 30 came along. I don’t know how, but it came along.” There was that wolfish look on Lang’s face now. Dillon said, “I’d like to know one thing. Did Grace Browning make all the hits or did you share?”

“You go to hell,” Lang told him.

Ferguson stood up. “I believe there is enough evidence to take you into custody, Lang. You’ll come back to London with us.” He turned to Hannah. “Read him his rights, and for the moment charge him with treason.”

“Nobody’s taking me anywhere,” Lang said and snapped his fingers. “Stand, boy.” Danger was on his feet instantly, a rumble like distant thunder deep in his throat. “He’ll tear your arm off, Ferguson, if I tell him to.”

“Is that a fact?” Dillon said and whistled, a strange eerie sound that seemed to come from another place. “Now then, Danger boy.” He held out a hand. The wolfhound wriggled close, reached up and licked the hand.

“Good God!” Lang said.

“A man who was once my friend taught me that trick,” Dillon said.

“Ah, well, it just goes to show you can’t rely on anything in this wicked old world,” Rupert Lang said and took a Browning from inside the pocket of his smock. “Except one of these, of course. Sorry, Ferguson, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He backed out of the window and was gone, the dog running after him. Dillon took out his Walther and ran onto the terrace, pausing to get his bearings. There was no sign of Lang and then the roaring of an engine and he rode out of the barn on the Montesa, skidded out through the main gate, and took the track up to the moor.

Dillon ran across to the Range Rover and in the same moment saw the other Montesa on its stand inside the barn.

He turned and called to Ferguson and Hannah, who had emerged onto the terrace. “There’s another bike. I’m going after him. I’ll call you on my Cellnet phone, Hannah.”

A moment later, he roared out of the barn, turned through the gates, and went after Lang, who was high up on the track now, the wolfhound chasing him.

Dillon’s tweed suit was soaked within minutes, water spraying everywhere from the rough track, and the rain dashed in his face, half-blinding him. For some reason he seemed to be gaining, and when he went over a rise after coming up through the trees he saw Lang no more than a hundred yards in front, Danger running alongside, keeping pace with him with apparent ease.

And yet it was the wolfhound in the end that was Lang’s undoing, for as they reached the crest of the track, high above the forest, three sheep came over the drystone wall. Danger, ahead of the motorcycle at that point, crossed in front to snap at the sheep. Lang swerved to avoid him.

At that point there was a wooden five bar gate. He smashed through it, careered down a grass slope, and plunged over a ledge of rock, still astride the Montesa and, amazingly, the dog leapt after him.

Dillon left his bike by the smashed gate, slithered down the slope, and looked over. Lang lay there with the Montesa on top of him and the wolfhound was crawling toward him, dragging its hind legs. Dillon moved to one side where the grass sloped again and went down.

He got both his hands to the Montesa, lifted it up, and tossed it to one side. There was blood on one side of Lang’s face. Dillon leaned down to lift him and Lang cried out in agony.

“My bloody back’s broken, Dillon. Christ, I can feel the bone sticking out.”

“I’ll get help, I have a phone.” Dillon got his Cellnet out and dialed Hannah’s number.

She was with him in seconds. “Are you okay, Dillon?”

“There’s been a bad accident. Lang’s crashed and broken his back. You’d better get onto the police at Okehampton. We’ll need an ambulance or a helicopter if there is one. I’m high on the track above the forest.”

“I’ll get straight onto it.”

Dillon turned to Lang and Danger whimpered in pain, trying to drag himself to his master. Lang turned his head. “There’s a good boy.” He tried to reach the dog with a hand and groaned. “My God, his rear legs, Dillon, the bones are jutting out.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Finish him for me, Dillon, do the decent thing. Can’t bear to see him suffer.”

Dillon took out his silenced Walther. Danger looked up at him, eyes filled with pain. “There’s a boy,” Dillon said, stroking his head, and shot him.

Dillon crouched beside Lang, lit a cigarette, and put it to his lips. Lang coughed and said weakly, “What a way to go. What a stupid bloody way to go.”

“Someone will be here soon,” Dillon said. “One of the advantages of the Cellnet phone system. Instant communication.”

“Not instant enough. I’m dying, Dillon.”

“Maybe not. Just hang in there.”

“What for? A show trial.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve always been so bored, Dillon, had everything and had nothing, if you follow. Ireland disgusted me, so I left the Army for silly political games, and then things happened, all by chance, wonderful, exciting things. Nothing was ever so exciting.”