Angel of Death (5 page)

“Can you be sure all this is kosher?” Curry asked.

“The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.”

“Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?”

“Strictly speaking it’s none of their business. Division of labor. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.”

“Very capitalistic,” Curry told him. “Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.”

He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the curb. “You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.”

Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.

It was no more than thirty-minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, no one about. He found Butler’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end, and stood by an old-fashioned street lamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him.

The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.

“Ali Hamid?”

“Who are you?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.

“Colonel Belov sent me.”

“But he was to come himself.” Hamid laughed in a strange way. “It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.” He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. “ Unfortunate.”

His hand came out of his right pocket holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.

Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain, although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve, then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase, and slipped it inside.

He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. A lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in the hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.

Rupert Lang, returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes earlier, was pouring a large Scotch in the drawing room when the front doorbell sounded. He swallowed some of the whisky, put down his glass, and went into the hall. When he opened the door, Curry, almost out on his feet, fell into his arms.

“Tom, what is it?”

“Quite simple, old lad. I’ve been shot. Get me into the kitchen before I bleed all over your best carpet.”

Lang got an arm round him, helped him into the kitchen, and eased him into a chair. Curry tried to get his Burberry off and Lang helped him.

“Dear God, Tom, your sleeve’s soaked in blood.”

“Yes, well it would be.”

Lang reached for a towel and wrapped it around the arm. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No you won’t, old lad. I’ve just killed a man.”

Lang, on his way to the door, stopped and turned. “You’ve what?”

“Arab terrorist called Ali Hamid tried to kill me, that’s when I stopped the bullet. Took a couple himself in the struggle. I left him on Butler’s Wharf in the rain. It’s all right. No one saw me and I didn’t get a cab on the way back. Long bloody walk, I can tell you.” Curry managed a smile. “A large whisky and a cigarette would help.”

Lang went out and returned with a glass and a bottle of Scotch. He poured, handed the glass over, and found a packet of cigarettes. As he gave Curry a light, he said, “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

Tom Curry said, “We’ve been friends a long time.”

“Best of friends,” Rupert Lang said.

“No one’s known me better than you, old lad, and I’ve always been honest. You know my politics.”

“Of course I do,” Lang said. “Comes the revolution you’ll take me out and have me shot, with great regret, of course.”

“Just one thing I never told you.”

“And what’s that?”

Curry swallowed the Scotch and held out the glass for another. “Let’s see, you were a Captain in One Para when you retired?”

“That’s right.” Lang poured more whisky.

“Well the thing is, old lad, I outrank you. I’m a Major in Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU.”

Lang paused in pouring, then carefully replaced the cap on the bottle. “You old bastard.” He was smiling, suddenly excited. “How long has this been going on?”

“Ever since Moscow. That’s when they recruited me.”

“Shades of Philby, Burgess, and Maclean.”

Lang put the bottle down and lit a cigarette himself. He paced around the kitchen, full of energy. “Tell me everything, Tom, not only what happened tonight. Everything.”

When Curry finished talking, he tried to stand up. “So you see, much better if I get out of here.”

Lang pushed him down. “Don’t play silly bastards with me, although I must say you have done. My God, all that stuff from the Northern Ireland Office going to our Russian friends. Dammit, Tom, I sat on one of those Committees with you.”

“I know, isn’t it terrible?” Curry said.

“You say Belov’s at the Savoy?”

“That’s right.”

“Good. I’m going to ring him up. He can sort this mess out for you. After all, it’s his kind of business.”

He reached for the kitchen phone. Curry said, “For God’s sake, old lad, you can’t afford to get involved. Just let me go. I shouldn’t have come back here. Only a guest, after all.” It was as if he was losing consciousness. “Not your affair.”

“Oh yes it is.” Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling now. He ran a hand over Curry’s head. “Rest easy, Tom, I’ll handle it.”

He rang through to the Savoy and asked that Colonel Yuri Belov come to the phone urgently.

Rose House Nursing Home was a discreet establishment in Holland Park. It had once been the town mansion of some turn-of-the-century millionaire and stood in two acres of gardens behind high walls. In a lounge area on the second floor, Belov and Rupert Lang drank coffee and waited. Finally a door opened and a small cheerful Indian walked in in green surgical robes.

“This is Dr. Joel Gupta, the principal of this establishment,” Belov said to Lang. “How is he, Joel?”

“Very lucky. The Beretta fires 9-millimeter Parabellum. At close quarters, enough to take a man’s arm off. It only chipped the bone, passed through flesh. He’ll be fine, but I want him in for a week.”

“When can we see him?” Belov asked.

“He’s woozy right now. Give him half an hour, then five minutes only. I’ll see you later.”

Gupta went out. Lang said, “He seems on your side.”

“I knew him in Afghanistan,” Belov said. “Helped him come to England. Don’t get the wrong impression. He helps me out on the odd occasion. Most of the time he specializes in drug addiction. Does fine work.”

“So what went wrong tonight?” Lang asked.

“My dear man, do you really want to get into this any more than you have to?”

“I’m already up to my ears,” Lang said. “And Tom Curry is the best friend I have in the world.”

“But you’re in the Government.”

“So?”

“And Curry, like me, is a committed Communist. We believe that we are right and you are wrong.”

“But I often am,” Lang told him. “I’m sure you’ll lead me to the guillotine when the moment arrives, but I take friendship seriously, so what about Tom? What went wrong?”

“Colonel Boris Ashimov went wrong. He’s Head of Station at the London Embassy for the KGB. As you know, GRU is Military Intelligence and we have our differences. I hadn’t realized how deep they were until tonight.”

“He set you up?” Rupert Lang said.

“So it would appear. If it hadn’t been for the Savoy affair, I’d have gone personally.”

“But instead, poor old Tom takes the bullet.” Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling. His eyes glittered, there was a wolfish look to his face. “I took a bullet myself once. Not nice.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “One Para. Bloody Sunday. You were a Lieutenant then.”

Just then a nurse appeared. “He’s surfaced. You can go in now if you like.”

Curry managed a weak smile. “Still here, am I?”

“For a long time yet,” Rupert Lang told him.

Curry turned to Belov. “What went wrong, Yuri?”

“It would appear Ashimov set me up. Ali Hamid was supposed to knock me off. Unfortunately I sent you. For you, that is, not for me. However, we must cover the trail as much as possible, give an explanation for Hamid’s death. He’s a known terrorist. Both Scotland Yard and MI5 will find that out soon enough.”

“What would you suggest?” Lang asked.

“Someone should claim credit for his death.” Belov nodded. “That would take care of things nicely.”

“Like the Provisional IRA?” Curry demanded.

“No, something new, something to confuse them all.”

“You mean an entirely new terrorist group?” Rupert Lang asked.

“Why not?” Belov smiled. “Bloody Sunday, wasn’t that January 30, 1972? What if I put a call through to the
Times
claiming credit for Hamid’s killing on behalf of January 30? That would certainly give the anti-terrorist units at every level something to chew on.”

“Rather like that Greek group we read about,” Lang said. “November 17. Yes, I like it. Should muddy the waters nicely.”

“Of course,” Belov said. “You see, Mr. Lang, because of the cause I serve and Tom here, chaos is my main interest in life. Fear, uncertainty, and chaos. I want to create as much of all these things as possible in the Western world. Then gradually the cracks begin to show and finally the system breaks down. Ireland, for example. We don’t take sides, but we do actively help to keep the whole rotten mess going. A civil war, a descent into madness, and then our friends, and there are many in Ireland, take over.”

“Another Cuba, only in Britain’s backyard,” Lang said. “Interesting.”

“I’ve been very frank,” Belov said. “But it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“Very little in this life does, old sport.”

“Fine. I’ll take care of this January 30 thing then.”

It was Curry who said, “And who takes care of Ashimov? He’s got to kill you now, Yuri, no choice.”

“Yes, someone should sort that bastard out.”

Rupert Lang opened the briefcase beside the bed and took out the Beretta. He said to Belov, “Fifty thousand dollars in there. I believe it’s yours. I’ll keep the Beretta. Just tell me where and when.”

There was a moment’s silence and Curry said, “You can’t be serious.”

Lang smiled that strange wolfish smile again. “I killed three people on Bloody Sunday, Tom, and two others elsewhere during my service in Ulster. Never told you that. Secrets, you see, just like you.” He turned to Belov. “Another job for January 30. First this Arab, then the Station Head of the KGB in London? That should really make the Security Services squirm, and I should know. I’m on half the Committees.”

He killed Colonel Boris Ashimov with absurd simplicity a week later on a rainy morning in Kensington Gardens. Belov had timed it for him. Every morning at ten, Ashimov walked in the gardens whatever the weather. On that particular Thursday it was raining heavily. Rupert Lang, enjoying a coffee in a café opposite Kensington Park Gardens, was not expecting Ashimov to appear. But the man carrying an umbrella over his head filled the description Belov had given him. Ashimov turned into the Bayswater Road and entered the gardens. Lang got to his feet and went after him.

He followed him along the path, keeping well back, his own umbrella raised. There was no one about. They reached a clump of trees at the center of the gardens, and Lang quickened his pace.

“Excuse me.”

Ashimov turned. “What do you want?”

“You, actually,” Rupert Lang said, and shot him twice in the heart, the silenced Beretta making only a slight coughing sound. He leaned down and put another bullet between Ashimov’s eyes, then put the Beretta in his raincoat pocket, moved rapidly across the gardens to Queen’s Gate, crossed to the Albert Hall, and walked on for a good half mile before hailing a cab and telling the driver to take him to Westminster.

He lit a cigarette and sat back, shaking with excitement. He had never felt like this in his life before, not even in the Paras in Ireland. Every sense felt keener, even the colors when he looked out at the passing streets seemed sharper. But the excitement, the damned excitement!

He closed his eyes. “My God, old sport, what’s happening to you?” he murmured.

He arrived at the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Commons, went through the Central Lobby to his office, and got rid of his umbrella and raincoat and put the Beretta in his safe, then went down to the entrance to the House and passed the bar. There was a debate taking place on some social services issue. He took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. When he looked up he saw Tom Curry seated in the front row of the Strangers’ Gallery, his left arm in a sling. Lang nodded up to him, folded his arms, and leaned back.

Half an hour later the
London Times
news desk received a brief message by telephone in which January 30 claimed credit for the assassination of Colonel Boris Ashimov.