Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“All right.” He poured two Bushmills and gave her one. “What about the Sergeant-Major?” she asked.

“Thought you very promising. He has a gym in Soho. He’d like to see you there when you can manage.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’m having the Navajo take him back to Gatwick tomorrow. It will return late afternoon. Bring Tom and Yuri Belov back with him.”

“That should be interesting.”

The wolfhound dozed in front of the fire. “He’s lovely,” she said. “Why do you call him Danger?”

“Well he can be pretty ruthless when roused!”

There was a portrait of a Regency buck over the fireplace. He wore a tailcoat, light buskins, and top boots. He bore an extraordinary resemblance to Lang.

“Who is that?” she said.

“An ancestor of mine. He was a Rupert too. He was the Earl of Drury and a great friend of the Prince Regent. The title was lost in the eighteen sixties when the male line died out. I’m descended from the female side.”

“What a shame. You could have been Earl of Drury.”

“True.”

“He looks very arrogant and there’s a restlessness to him. I sense it in you, Rupert.”

“He killed two men in pistol duels. Once faced up to the Duke of Wellington, who shot him in the shoulder.”

“You’d rather have been him than you?” she said with sudden insight.

“Yes, why not? Action, color, excitement. I mean, life’s such a bore, politics a joke.”

“But what about when you were in the Army? That must have had its moments.”

“Not real soldiering, Ireland. A sordid bloody mess. Woman poured a chamberpot full of urine over me once from a bedroom window, but enough of that.”

Rupert poured more whisky and sat sprawled beside her, gazing into the fire. He took her hand. “This is nice.”

“Very pleasant,” she said.

“As I’m not into women and you don’t exactly go for men in that way, I’d say we have a perfect relationship.”

She kissed him on the cheek and snuggled close. “I love you, Rupert Lang.”

“I know,” he said. “Isn’t it a shame?”

The following morning she was on her own on the Montesa high above the forest, enjoying herself. Amazing how expert she had become in so short a time. She paused to have a cigarette, sitting astride the bike, and looked up at a gray sky that threatened rain. There was a droning in the distance and far away through a break in the clouds she saw the Navajo.

She finished the cigarette and took off, driving quite fast, following the track, then turning across the moor, bumping over tussocks and scattering a flock of sheep. She skidded to a halt, searching for a gap in the dry stone wall, and there was an angry shout. She turned, still astride the bike.

The man hurrying toward her wore an old tweed suit and cap and heavy boots. He looked about fifty with a brutal, unshaven face and carried a shepherd’s crook.

“And what in the hell is your game?” he demanded. “Frightening my sheep. You’ve run pounds off them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry, is it? You need seeing to, you do.”

He lunged with the crook, catching the front wheel. The bike toppled and went over. As she scrambled sideways her helmet came off and he paused, astonishment on his face.

“My God, a woman.” And then there was something else there. “Now what if I put you over my knee and give you a bloody good hiding?”

“Don’t be so stupid,” she said and reached down for her helmet.

He dropped his crook and grabbed her from behind. “You posh bitch. I’ll have to teach you some manners.”

She delivered a reverse elbow strike to his mouth and as he cried out and released her she swung round and drove her knee into his crotch, all exactly as Ian McNab had shown her. He lay on his back, knees up in agony, blood on his pulped mouth.

She looked down at him, conscious of a fierce exhilaration. “Here endeth the first lesson,” she said as she replaced her helmet, then picked up the Montesa, got astride it, and drove away.

Ten minutes later she drove into the garage at Lang Place, shoved the Montesa up on its stand beside the Range Rover, hung her helmet on a peg, and crossed the courtyard. Lang opened the front door.

“You looked pretty dashing as you shot into the courtyard, one boot trailing. You’ll be on the dirt track circuit next.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Come in the drawing room. Yuri and Tom have arrived.”

They were standing in front of the log fire in the great stone hearth. Tom Curry kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re looking very dramatic.”

“I’ve been having fun.”

Rupert said, “Yuri, I believe you two have met.”

“Last year at the Soviet Embassy,” she said. “When we did Three Sisters at the National.”

Belov was dressed for the country in a light brown thorn-proof suit. He looked fit and well and smiled with great charm and took her hand and kissed it.

“I saw you three times. I now believe with great regret that Chekhov can only be played at his best by the English. Your performance as Masha was fantastic.”

“Half-English in my case,” she said. “But my thanks for the compliment.”

“Mrs. Farne has prepared lunch in the conservatory,” Rupert said. “Do you want to change?”

“Five minutes.”

She went out. Lang opened a bottle of Bollinger and poured. “Her performance on the firing range has been superb, and Ian McNab was more than impressed with the way she took to his instruction. She’s to go to his gym when she’s back in town.”

“What did you tell McNab?” Belov asked.

“I said she’d had a close shave with a mugger and wanted to know how to take care of herself.”

Belov sipped some champagne. “Amazing, this whole business of acting. The ability to be the role. As Masha she was totally convincing as a Russian woman, and yet I saw her in a TV showing of that Hollywood movie she made where she shot several men quite convincingly.” He accepted a cigarette from Rupert. “Will she join us?”

“Oh yes, I think so,” Lang said.

At that moment Grace entered the room in jeans and sweater. She took the glass Lang offered her. “Tell me, Rupert, the sheep above the forest. Are they yours?”

“That’s right, why?”

“Oh, a rather unpleasant man was up there. Shabby, old tweed suit, shepherd’s crook. Took exception to me riding through the fields.”

“That would be Sam Lee.” Rupert wasn’t smiling now. “What happened?”

“When I stopped, he pushed the Montesa over, then he grabbed me from behind.”

“He what?” Lang’s face was suddenly bone white, his eyes blazing. “Did he harm you in any way?”

“Well the fact is I’m afraid I harmed him,” she said. “I tried something the Sergeant-Major showed me. Reverse elbow strike to the mouth, swivel, and put a knee to the crotch. When I last saw him he was in the fetal position on the ground.”

Lang laughed out loud. “Oh, my God, that’s bloody marvelous.” He shook his head. “I’ll have George deal with him. He’s out.”

“No,” she said. “He’ll behave better next time. Give him a chance, Rupert.” She smiled. “Shall we go in to lunch?”

They had cold salmon, a mixed salad and potatoes, and Lang opened another bottle of Bollinger. Rain drummed against the conservatory glass.

“Sorry about the weather,” he said. “That’s Dartmoor for you. Starts to improve from March into spring.”

“All the joys of country living,” Grace told him.

Curry saw to the coffee and Belov said, “I saw a late-night showing on television of a Hollywood film you made, Miss Browning.”

“Grace,” she said. “Please, and it was my only Hollywood film. I didn’t like it there. They had me wear a series of incredibly short skirts and I killed rather a lot of men. It was what’s known as a revenge movie in the trade.”