Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“Do what exactly?” Lang asked. “I mean, just because we arrived in that alley at an opportune moment and as a Minister of the Crown on service in Ulster I do have a permit to carry a weapon.”

“A silenced Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum,” she said. “In all the newspaper reports they constantly mention the fact that all January 30 hits have been committed with the same weapon.”

“Many people think of it as the best handgun in the world these days,” Lang said. “The American Army uses it – thousands of them around.”

She opened a drawer in the side table and took out a newspaper clipping. “This is the Belfast Telegraph report on the deaths of those two animals in Carrick Lane. They state that the credit for the killings claimed by January 30 is substantiated by the forensic tests on the rounds removed from the bodies indicating that they were killed by the same weapon used to assassinate the other victims, a Beretta 9 millimeter, silenced version.”

“Amazing what they can do these days,” Lang said. “The scientific people, I mean.”

Curry emptied his glass. “What are you going to do? Turn us in?”

“Don’t be stupid, Tom. I’d be turning myself in, however much a good lawyer tried to argue my case. No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that, but one thing I would like to know. Why do you do it?”

“For me it’s simple,” Curry said. “I’ve been a Marxist-Leninist since boyhood. It’s my faith, my religion if you like. I think the world needs to change.”

“And Communism is the answer?”

“Yes, but change comes out of chaos and anarchy, which is where we come in.”

“And you?” she said to Lang.

“Well life can be such a bloody bore. Helps to have a little excitement once in a while.”

“Rupert never takes anything seriously,” Curry told her.

Lang smiled. “All right, Father. She can play good women or bad, great queens, murderers, the worst harlot in the world. Now that’s really getting your rocks off.” He turned to Grace. “But it isn’t enough, is it, and never will be.”

“You bastard,” she said. “You clever, clever bastard.”

“But I’m right. You’d like to join in.”

She sat there looking at him and, for a moment, had a quick glimpse of that shadowy figure in Washington, gun raised high, and her stomach crawled with excitement.

It was two weeks later that Curry turned up at the Old Red Lion, a pub fringe theatre where she was doing her one-woman show for a week. She was sharing a cramped little dressing room with two young girls acting as assistant stage managers. He glanced in and found her putting on jeans.

“Hello, it’s me,” he said.

“Tom, how nice. How was I?”

“Dreadful.”

“Bastard,” she said.

“Only sometimes. Are you free for a Chinese?”

“Why not?”

An hour later, working their way through a third or fourth course, she said, “It’s lovely to see you, but to what do I owe the honor?”

“We saw that interview on you in the Stage . All about you having a month off after finishing this show until you start Macbeth for the Royal Shakespeare Company.”

“So?”

“There’s a Parliamentary break, so Rupert’s free and I have nothing on. The thing is, Rupert has this old hunting lodge in Devon, Lang Place. Been in his family for years. Moors, shooting, all that kind of stuff. On Dartmoor.”

“My dear Tom, the only time anybody bothers to go there for the shooting is August when the birds do their usual stupid thing, and deer culling is so rigid these days that it’s hardly worth the effort. So – what’s it all about?”

He paused while crispy duck and pancakes were served. “The shooting could be fun – all kinds of shooting. I know Rupert might seem your effete aristocrat, but he knows his stuff when it comes to weaponry.”

She nodded. “That does sound interesting. Anything else?”

He paused, looking at her, then sighed. “You’ve heard of Kim Philby, Burgess, Maclean?”

“Oh, yes – didn’t they all go to Cambridge too and work for Russia?”

“Yes, well they all had rank in the KGB. I’m a Major in the GRU. That’s Russian Military Intelligence. My boss would like to meet you.”

“And who might that be?”

“Colonel Yuri Belov.”

She started to laugh. “But I know him. When I did Chekhov’s Three Sisters last year the Soviet Embassy gave us a reception. He was chief cultural attaché or something.”

“Or something,” Curry said with an apologetic smile.

She laughed again. “All right. When do we leave?”

And she was glad she’d gone. Rupert had a twin-engined Navajo Chieftain pick them up from an airfield in Surrey, and the flight to an old World War Two RAF landing strip near Okehampton only took an hour. Here a man with a weather-beaten face was waiting for them. He introduced himself as George Farne and escorted them to a Range Rover.

After a half-hour drive through wonderful moorland scenery and forest, they reached a wooded valley and saw Lang Place. It appeared to be eighteenth century, with tall chimneys and an ornate garden behind high walls.

When they pulled up at the steps below the front door, Rupert Lang came out wearing jeans and a sweater, an Irish wolfhound at his heels. He came down the steps and took Grace’s hands.

“You look wonderful, as usual.”

“Well, you don’t look too bad yourself.” She kissed him on the cheek. “What’s the wolfhound’s name?”

“Danger.” Lang fondled its ears.

“Bring the bags, George,” he called and took her up the steps, an arm about her waist. “Tell me, can you ride a motorcycle?”

“One thing I’ve never tried.”

“Oh, you’ll take to it like a duck to water. I have a couple of Montesa dirt bikes. Spanish job. Go anywhere. Good if you’ve got sheep in the high country. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

They had an excellent dinner, although very simple, all prepared by George Farne’s wife, steak, new potatoes, salad, and some sort of cream tart. Afterwards, Lang opened the French windows and they stood on the terrace with brandies, listening to the silence.

“Do you only have the Farnes working here?” she asked.

“That’s right. George’s Dad worked for my father, so he’s known this place as long as I have. He and his wife caretake. He brings in local help when he needs it.”

“What a heavenly existence,” she said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tom Curry told her. “You’d be screaming your head off by the second week.”

“Philistine,” she said and turned to Lang. “What now -, Bridge?”

“Actually, I have a shooting range in the barn. I thought you might like to try your hand.”

For a moment, she stared at him and then she smiled. “Why not.”

When Lang switched on the lights in the barn they disclosed a very professional shooting range with a wall of sandbags at the rear fronted by six-foot cardboard replicas of charging soldiers. An assortment of weaponry was laid out on several trestle tables, hand guns, machine pistols, and rifles.

Curry lit a cigarette and stood watching. Lang picked the first pistol up. “Recognize this, our old friend the Beretta? This is how you load it.” He picked up an ammunition clip and rammed it in the butt. “Would you like to try?”

“Why not.”

He ejected the clip and handed her the Beretta. She loaded it for herself. “Good, now pull the slider and you’re in business, but don’t fire. Let me give you some ear muffs.” He adjusted them. “Good. Take aim, both eyes open, then squeeze gently.”

She did as she was told, hitting the target she aimed at in the shoulder, firing one round after the other, a widely dispersed pattern. He showed her how to discharge the magazine.