Angel of Death (4 page)

“Feel free with my whisky by all means,” Ferguson told him.

“Oh I will, Brigadier, and me knowing you to be the decent old stick that you are.”

“Drop the stage Irishman act, boy, we’ve got work to do. Now go over everything in detail again.”

“I suppose the strangest thing was the mystery motorcyclist,” Dillon said as he finished.

“No mystery there,” Ferguson told him. “January 30 have claimed responsibility for the whole thing. Someone phoned the
Belfast Telegraph
. It’s already on all the TV news programs.”

“The dogs,” Dillon said. “But how would they have known about the meet?”

“Never mind that now, we’ve more important things to consider. It’s Beirut for you, my lad, and you, Chief Inspector.”

“Not the easiest of places to operate in,” Dillon said.

“As I recall, you managed it with perfect ease during the more unsavory part of your career.”

“True. I also sank some PLO boats in the harbor for the Israelis, and the PLO have long memories. Anyway, what would our excuse be for being there?”

“The United Nations Humanitarian Division will do nicely. Irish and English delegates. You’ll have to use aliases, naturally.”

“And where will we stay?” Hannah asked.

“Me darling, there is only one decent hotel to stay these days in Beirut,” Dillon told her. “Especially if you’re a foreigner and want a drink at the bar. It’s the place Daley told me Francis Callaghan was staying. The Al Bustan. It overlooks the city near Deirelkalaa and the Roman ruins. You’ll find it very cultural.”

“Do you think Quinn will be there too?” she asked.

“Very convenient if he is.” He turned to Ferguson. “You’ll be able to arrange hardware for me?”

“No problem. I’ve got an excellent contact. Man called Walid Khasan.”

“Arab, I presume, not Christian.” Dillon turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Lots of Christians in Beirut.”

“Yes, Walid Khasan is a Muslim. His mother was French. The kind of man I like to deal with, Dillon. He’s only interested in the money.”

“Aren’t we all, Brigadier, aren’t we all.” Dillon smiled. “So let’s get down to it and work out how we’re going to handle this thing.”

It was just after eleven at the Europa Hotel when Grace Browning and Tom Curry finished late supper in the dining room and went into the bar. It was quite deserted, and the barman, watching television, came round to serve them.

“What can I get you, Miss Browning?”

“Brandy, I think, two brandies.”

He went away and Tom Curry said, “You were splendid tonight.”

She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her. “To which performance are you alluding?”

He shook his head. “That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Another performance.” He nodded. “I’ve never really seen it before, but I think I do now. On stage or before the camera, it’s fantasy, but roaring up to Garth Dock on that bike — that was real.”

“And in those few moments of action, I live more, feel more, and with an intensity that just can’t be imagined.”

“You really are an extraordinary person,” he said.

The barman, pouring the drinks, called, “I’ve just seen the late-night news flash. A real bloodbath. Three men shot dead at Garth Dock and three more not far away at some warehouse. January 30 has claimed. That’s Bloody Sunday, so the dead men must be Loyalists. The Prods will want to retaliate for that.”

Grace said, “Dillon certainly doesn’t take prisoners.”

“You can say that again.”

The barman brought the brandies and served them with a flourish. “There you go.” He shook his head. “Terrible, all this killing. I mean, what kind of people want to do that kind of thing?” and he walked away.

Grace Browning turned to Curry, a slight smile on her face, and toasted him. “Well?” she said.

If it began anywhere, it began with Tom Curry, who was professor of Political Philosophy at London University, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and had in his time been a visiting professor at both Yale and Harvard. He was also a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

Born in 1949 in Dublin into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family, his father, a surgeon, had died of cancer when Curry was five, leaving the boy and his mother in comfortable circumstances. A fierce, proud, arrogant woman whose father had fought under Michael Collins in the original Irish Troubles, she had been raised to blame everyone for the mess Ireland had been left in after the English had partitioned the country and left. She blamed the Free State Government as much as the IRA.

Like many wealthy young women of intellect at that period, she saw Communism as the only answer, and as part of her brilliant son’s education taught him that there was only one true faith, the doctrine according to Karl Marx.

In 1966 at seventeen, Curry went to Trinity College, Cambridge, to study Political Philosophy, where he met Rupert Lang, an apparently effete aristocrat who never took anything seriously, except Tom Curry, for the bond was instant and for a lifetime and they enjoyed a homosexual relationship which lasted throughout their period at university.

They went their separate ways, of course — Lang to Sandhurst and the Army, following the family tradition, and Curry to the University of Moscow to research for a Ph.D. on aspects of modern politics, where he was promptly recruited by the GRU.

They gave him the usual training in weaponry, how to handle himself in the field and so on, but told him that he would be regarded as a sleeper once back in England, someone to be called on when needed, no more than that.

On 30 of January, 1972, Rupert Lang, having transferred from the Grenadier Guards, was serving as a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment in Londonderry in Northern Ireland, a day that would be long remembered as Bloody Sunday. By the time the paratroopers had stopped firing, thirteen people lay dead and there were many wounded, including Rupert Lang, who took a bullet in the arm, whether from his own side or the IRA he could never be sure. On sick leave in London he had lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and was totally delighted when he went into the bar to find his old friend sitting in a window seat enjoying a quiet drink.

“You old bastard, how marvelous,” Lang said. “I thought you were in Russia?”

“Oh. I’m back now at Trinity putting the thesis together.” Curry nodded at Lang’s arm. “Why the sling?”

Lang had always been aware of his friend’s politics, and he shrugged. “I don’t expect you’ll want to speak to me. Bloody Sunday. I stopped a bullet.”

“You were there?” Curry called to the barman for two Bushmills. “How bad was it?”

“Terrible. Not soldiering, not the way I thought it would be.” Lang accepted his whisky from the barman and raised his glass. “Anyway, to you, old sport. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”

“That goes double.” Curry toasted him back. “What are you going to do?”

Lang smiled. “You could always read me like a book. Yes, I’m finished with the Army as a career. Not straightaway. My Captaincy’s coming up and I want to keep the old man happy.”

“I see he’s a Minister at the Home Office now.”

“Yes, but his health isn’t good. I think he’ll stand down at the next election, which will leave a vacancy for one of the safest Conservative seats in the country.”

Curry said, “You’re going to go into Parliament?”

“Why not? I’ve all the money in the world so I don’t need to work, and I’ll walk into the seat if the old man steps down. What do you think?”

“Bloody marvelous.” Curry stood up. “Let’s have a bite to eat and you can tell me all about Bloody Sunday and your Irish exploits.”

“Terrible business,” Lang said as they walked through. “All hell going on at Army Intelligence HQ at Lisburn. I heard the Prime Minister is going through the roof.”

“How interesting,” Curry said as they sat down. “Tell me more.”

Curry’s control was a thirty-five-year-old GRU Major named Yuri Belov, who was supposed to be a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Curry met him in a booth at a pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and the Soviet Embassy. Belov enjoyed London and had no great urge to be posted back to Moscow, which meant that he liked to look good to his superiors back there. Curry’s version of Bloody Sunday and his account of the sensory deprivation methods used to break IRA prisoners at Army headquarters at Lisburn was just the sort of stuff Belov wanted to hear.

“Excellent, Tom,” he said when Curry was finished. “Of course your friend has no idea you’ve been pumping him dry?”

“Absolutely not,” Curry said. “He knew what my politics were when we were at Cambridge, but he’s an English aristocrat. Couldn’t care less.” Curry lit a cigarette. “And he’s my best friend, Yuri. Let’s get that clear.”

“Of course, Tom, I understand. However, anything further you can learn from him would always be useful.”

“He intends to leave the Army soon,” Curry said. “His father’s a Minister of the Home Office. I think Rupert will step in when the old man leaves.”

“Really?” Yuri Belov smiled. “A Member of Parliament. Now that
is
interesting.”

“Yes, well while we’re discussing what’s interesting,” Curry said, “what about me? This is the first time we’ve spoken in nine months, and I’m the one who’s come to you. I’d like to see a little action.”

“Patience,” Belov said. “That’s what being a sleeper is. It’s about waiting, sometimes for many years until the time comes when you are needed.”

“A bloody boring prospect.”

“Yes, well spying usually is most of the time, and after all, you’ve got your work.” Belov stood up. “Hope to see you again soon, Tom.”

But he didn’t and it was to be fourteen years before they met again. Belov was transferred back home, Tom Curry went to America, Harvard for five years, Yale for four, before returning to Cambridge where he became a Fellow of Trinity College.

Rupert Lang’s father died in office and Lang promptly left the Army and put himself forward for the seat in Parliament, winning with a record majority. He and Curry were as close as ever. Lang often spent vacations with him during the American period and Curry always stayed, when in London, at Lang’s beautiful town house in Dean Court close to Westminster Abbey and within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament.

In 1985 Curry became a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University and visiting Professor at Queen’s University, Belfast. His mother had been dead for some time, but he had his friendship with Lang, his work and the fact that due to his academic standing, he had been invited to sit on a number of important Government Committees. The arrangement made with Yuri Belov was so long ago that it might never have happened. Then one day, out of the blue, he received a telephone call at his office at the university.

Belov had put on a little weight and there was a scar on his left cheek. Otherwise he had changed little: the same sort of Savile Row suit, the same genial smile. They sat in a booth in the pub opposite Kensington Park Gardens and shared half a bottle of Sancerre.

The Russian toasted Curry. “Good to see you, Tom.”

“And you. What about the scar?”

“Afghanistan. A dreadful place. You know those tribesmen skinned our men when they caught them.”

“But you’re back now?”

“Yes, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Embassy, but you must treat me with respect.” He grinned. “I am now a full Colonel in the GRU and Head of Station here in London. You, by the way, have been promoted to Major.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” Curry said. “Except sit on my arse for years.”

“You will, Tom, you will. All these Government posts you hold, particularly on the Northern Ireland Committee, and your friend, Lang? He’s doing well. A Government Whip? That’s very important, isn’t it, and I hear Mrs. Thatcher likes him.”

“Don’t set too much store by that. Rupert doesn’t take life too seriously.”

“He still isn’t aware of your connection with us?”

“Not a hint,” Curry told him. “I prefer it that way. Now what do you want?”

“From now on full and intimate details of all those Committee meetings, especially Irish affairs and anything to do with the activities of our Arab friends and their fundamentalist groups. All over London these days. The English are far too liberal in letting them in.”

“Anything else?”

“Not for the moment.” Belov stood up. “You’re too valuable to waste on small things, Tom. Your day will come, believe me. Just be patient.” He took out his wallet and passed over a slip of paper. “Emergency numbers if you need me, Embassy and home. I’ve a cottage in a mews just up the road. I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.

It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lane was at the Commons making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.

“Belov here,” the Colonel said. “I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.”

Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year, although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information. It was raining hard outside, so he found an old Burberry trench coat, a trilby hat, and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the curb and Belov leaned out.

“Over here, Tom.”

Curry climbed in beside him. “What’s so important?”

Belov pulled out from the curb. “I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.”

“Who is this Arab?”

“A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.”