Angel of Death (30 page)

The Lear Jet had already landed at Gatwick and as the Daimler drove down into London, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the phone. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein sat there listening and finally Ferguson put the phone down.

“And what did the great man have to say?” Dillon asked.

“Damn glad things worked out for Keogh as they did, but he’s horrified that the Browning woman is out there like a loose cannon. Wants to make sure we do something about her.”

“But what can we do, sir?” Hannah asked.

Ferguson smiled. “I think it’s time I spoke to Yuri Belov,” and he leaned back in his seat.

Grace Browning drove into a motorway service area just before reaching the outskirts of London. She sat there in the car in the rain for a while feeling very tired, drained of all emotion. Finally she got out and made her way through the parked cars to the cafe.

There was a newsstand by the shop just inside the entrance, copies of the latest edition of the
Evening Standard
stacked there, and Rupert Lang’s face stared out at her. She took a copy, went into the cafe and got a coffee, then went and sat at a corner table and looked at the paper.

It was all there, his career in the Army, his presence at Bloody Sunday, his subsequent years in politics, and then the tragic accident. There was a smaller photo of Tom Curry, a discreet mention of the fact they had lived together for many years. The circumstances of Curry’s unfortunate death were treated fully and the inference was plain.

She turned the page automatically and saw a standard theatrical photo of herself. The article was brief and to the point. While going home from the King’s Head on her motorcycle the police had attempted to stop her from speeding. For some reason she had refused to stop and after a furious chase had gone over the edge of a wharf in Wapping. River Police were still looking for her body.

“Very clever, Ferguson,” she said softly, drank some of the coffee, and turned back to the front page.

Rupert was in uniform in the photo and wore the red beret of the Parachute Regiment and two medals, one for the Irish campaign and the Military Cross. He was standing outside Buckingham Palace and the photo had obviously been taken after being decorated by the Queen. He looked handsome and rather devil-may-care.

“Dear Rupert,” she said. “I never really understood why you did it. Not any of it.”

The article said that his body would be on view for friends who wished to pay their last respects at an undertaker’s named Seaton and Sons in Great George Street by the Treasury. The burial service would be at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, at three in the afternoon. She thought about it and smiled to herself. She had to say good-bye to Rupert, that was obvious, but first there was one last thing to do. She went and got some change at the counter and found a telephone.

Belov, in his office at the Embassy, picked up the phone and recognized her voice instantly. He was excited and nervous.

“Where are you?”

“Motorway service station just outside London.”

“What happened? There’s been nothing on the news. Did you get him?”

“Oh, I got him all right, Yuri, twice in the back, only he was wearing a Kevlar jacket.”

“My God!”

“They were all there, Ferguson, Dillon, Bernstein, but I got away with no trouble.”

“And flew back with Carson.”

“Yes, but there was a slight problem there. He recognized me, then stole a couple of thousand pounds I had in my case.”

Belov’s heart sank. “And you killed him?”

“He didn’t leave me much choice, did he? I left him on his back beside his plane in the hangar.”

“You kill everybody, Grace, and so easily,” Belov told her.

“You helped create me, Yuri, an Angel of Death was what you wanted and that’s what you got. Anyway, what will you do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Personally I don’t see that you have a choice,” she said. “If you go back to Moscow they’ll shoot you in some cellar. Isn’t that the usual reward for failure handed out by your people? I’d make my peace with Ferguson if I were you. He’ll look after you, Yuri. You’re too valuable to waste.”

“And you?” he asked. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll go and see Rupert. His body is on display at an undertaker’s in Westminster. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“But what happens then? Ferguson and Dillon now know you’re not at the bottom of the river. They’ll hunt you down. You’ve no place to go.”

“I know, Yuri, but I don’t care anymore. Take care of yourself.”

She hung up the phone, left the cafe, and walked to her car. A few moments later she was driving to London.

Yuri Belov sat there at his desk racked by conflicting emotions. She was right, of course. There was nothing back there in Moscow but a bullet, and the trouble was he actually preferred London now. He opened a deep drawer and took out a bottle of vodka and a glass. He filled it and poured the vodka down. At that moment his phone rang again.

“Colonel Yuri Belov? Charles Ferguson here. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped playing silly buggers? Senator Keogh is alive and well, Grace Browning is on the run.”

“Yes, I know all this,” Belov said. “She’s just spoken to me.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “Now that is interesting.”

“An extraordinary woman, but I now believe her to be truly mad,” Belov said.

“We can discuss that later. The point is, are you going to let your people ship you back to Moscow in disgrace? Not a very agreeable proposition. The crime rate there is worse than in New York now, bread queues, winter coming on and they’d very probably shoot you.”

“And what’s your alternative?”

“Come over to us. My dear chap, it would be the intelligence coup of my career to get my hands on someone like you. You’ll be well taken care of financially, we’ll find you a decent apartment, new identity.”

“Very tempting,” Belov said.

“And all you have to do is put on your coat and leave the Embassy now. Just walk out. You know the pub on the opposite side of Kensington Park Gardens?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I’ll expect you.”

Belov put down the phone and poured himself another vodka. He raised his glass in a toast. “To ideals,” he said softly. “But then one must have a practical approach to life.”

He swallowed the vodka, then went to get his coat, switched off his office light, and went out.

In the booth at the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens, Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein listened to Yuri Belov. The Russian finally finished.

“There it is,” he said.

Ferguson nodded. “So she said she was going to see Rupert? Well we know where that is. He’s lying in his coffin at Seaton and Sons, Undertakers, in Great George Street.”

“You actually think she’ll turn up, sir?” Hannah Bernstein asked.

“She’s nowhere else to go, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “By the way, you’d better get on to the Kent Constabulary. Tell them to check out this airfield at Coldwater.” He sighed. “Poor devils. They’re going to have another unsolved murder case on their patch.” He stood up and checked his watch. “ Seven-thirty on a nice dark, rainy London night with a touch of fog at the end of the street. It would take Dickens to do justice to it.”

Dillon said, “Are we going where I think we are?”

“Seaton and Sons, Great George Street,” Ferguson said. “I’ve always been fascinated by funeral parlors.”

Grace Browning pulled into another motorway service area as she reached London. She parked, took her suitcase, and went to the rest area for women. There was no one about and she went into a vacant stall, closed the door, and opened the suitcase. When she emerged five minutes later she was dressed as a nun again. She walked back to the car, put the case on the rear seat, and drove back onto the motorway, heading for Central London.

It was just after nine-thirty that she arrived at Great George Street in Westminster and found herself a vacant parking place at the side of the street. She sat there for a while, then reached for the black shoulder bag and opened it. She removed the AK-47 and put it in the suitcase, then she got out, the bag over her shoulder, and walked along the street, her umbrella up.

There was a uniformed policeman walking toward her and she paused and said in a soft Irish accent, “ Excuse me, officer, but I’m looking for an undertaker’s. Seaton and Sons. I believe it’s somewhere about here.”

His raincoat was wet, sparkling in the light from a street lamp. “Indeed it is, Sister. Just over the road on the right. You can see the light over the door.”

“Thank you,” she said and crossed the road. He watched her go, then turned and carried on.

She found the door, the name Seaton and Sons etched in acid on the glass, paused, then tried the handle and went in.

There was the all-pervading smell of flowers peculiar to funeral parlors. She walked forward and found a small glass office, an old white-haired man in a dark blue uniform dozing on a chair. She put her umbrella down and tapped on the window and he sat up with a start.

He got to his feet and opened the door. “I’m sorry, Sister, how can I help you?”

“Mr. Rupert Lang,” she said.

“Ah, yes, we put Mr. Lang in the main parlor. We’ve had visitors most of the afternoon. Let me show you.”

He led the way along a dark corridor, doors open, and inside she could see coffins banked with flowers.

“These are our normal chapels of rest,” he said. “But Mr. Lang being a special case, he was put in the main parlor. As I said, we’ve had a lot of visitors to see him. There were three gentlemen and a lady a little while ago, but they must have gone.”

He opened the door and led her into a large room. It was a place of shadows, just a little subdued lighting, flowers banked everywhere and the coffin at the far end on a plinth.

“I’ll leave you now, Sister.” He closed the door and went away.

She stood beside the coffin and looked down. Only Rupert Lang’s head and shoulders showed. He wore a navy-blue suit and a Guards tie. His face was very calm, not Rupert at all, more like a wax mask.

“My poor Rupert,” she said aloud. “I let you down, I’m afraid. It all went wrong,” and she leaned over the coffin and kissed the cold mouth.

There was a movement at the other end of the room and as she turned, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah Bernstein, and Yuri Belov moved out of the shadows.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Miss Browning,” Charles Ferguson said.

She looked at them and smiled. “So you made your choice, Yuri?”

“No option, Grace,” he told her.

“And now what?” She smiled again, at Hannah Bernstein this time. “Now you really do get a chance to read me my rights, Chief Inspector.”

“I’m afraid so,” Hannah said.

Grace Browning reached into her shoulder bag and took out the Beretta. She worked the slider and Hannah pulled a Walther from her bag and did the same.

“Please, Miss Browning, be sensible.”

It was Sean Dillon who took two paces toward her. “This isn’t Stage Six at MGM, Grace, it’s for real. It’s not a script any longer.”

“Oh, yes it is — it’s my script.”

Her hand came up and she took deliberate aim at him. Hannah Bernstein fired twice very fast and Grace Browning was thrown back against the plinth on which the coffin stood and slid to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Belov said and Dillon knelt beside her.

Hannah Bernstein stood there holding the gun at her side, totally shocked. “Is she dead?”

“With two in the heart she would be,” Dillon told her and picked up the Beretta. Suddenly there was a frown on his face. He examined the gun and worked the slider, then he held it up. “Empty.”

“It can’t be,” Hannah said.

“Her way out, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “She spoke to Colonel Belov, told him she intended to be here and knew he’d tell us. She’d nowhere else to go, you see.”

“Damn her!” Hannah Bernstein said. “Damn her! Damn her! Damn her for making me do that.”

Dillon went and took the Walther from her. He put an arm around her. “Hush, girl dear, it isn’t on you, this thing,” and he held her close.

Behind them Ferguson was using his Cellnet phone. He punched out the number and a calm, detached voice said, “Yes?”

“Ferguson. I have a disposal. Total priority and utmost discretion. Seaton and Sons, Great George Street. I’ll wait.”

“Twenty minutes, Brigadier.”

Ferguson put his phone away and turned. “All for the best. She’ll be picked up in twenty minutes. A few hours and she’ll be five or six pounds of gray ash.”

“But you can’t do that,” Hannah Bernstein said.

“Oh, yes I can,” Charles Ferguson said calmly. “As far as the papers and the media are concerned, her body was discovered downriver. There will be no problem with the inquest, I’ll see to that. She had no relatives, remember?”

“Terrible,” Hannah Bernstein said. “Terrible.”

“It’s the business we’re in,” Ferguson said and nodded to Dillon. “Take her home. Colonel Belov and I will wait here.”

It was Friday of that week that the Cortege wound its way through Highgate Cemetery. It stopped at the designated place and two members of the funeral firm involved carried the cask containing her ashes to the grave. It was raining heavily.

“Jesus,” Dillon said, “I’ve never seen so many umbrellas.”

“An impressive turnout,” Ferguson said. “Sir John Gielgud over there, Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson, Ian Richardson. The great and the good.”

They were standing well away from the throng, Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon. Hannah said, “Isn’t it extraordinary — all those people and not one of them knows the truth.”

The priest’s voice was faint through the rain. Dillon said, “Right to the end she always played to a full house, you have to give her that.” He put an arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “Come on, girl dear, let’s go,” and they walked away, Ferguson following.