Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“Yes, in the film you killed more than efficiently,” Belov said. “As I recall, the police nicknamed you Dark Angel.”

“My one contribution to the script. One of my great-grandmothers on my father’s side was Jewish. As a child I recall the stories she told me. Judaism teaches that God is the master of life and death, but he employs angels as his messengers.”

“So there was an Angel of Death?” Curry said.

“When God inflicted the ten plagues on the people of Egypt, in Exodus, the Jews were instructed to put blood on either side of the door post so the Angel of Death would pass over them. To this day that’s why Passover is celebrated.”

“An interesting legend,” Belov said.

“In Hebrew the Angel of Death is Malach Ha-Mavet. In the old days the word was used to frighten children. The film people, when I suggested it, thought it too melodramatic and came up with Dark Angel.”

“Interesting.” Belov nodded. “The revenge concept.”

“Revenge gets you nowhere. Let’s stop fencing, gentlemen. We all know pretty much all there is to know about each other. If at some time I’d caught up with and killed the man who murdered my parents, it wouldn’t have brought them back.”

“But it might have afforded a certain satisfaction,” Rupert told her.

“True.”

“I mean, things happened in a hurry back there in Belfast, but you didn’t regret shooting that swine, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact it rather exorcised a ghost in my machine. I sleep better.”

There was a long pause and rain rattled the windows. Belov said, “Do I take it you are prepared to join us, Grace?”

“Yes, I think so, but on my terms. You and Tom have a political commitment and I understand that, but it means nothing to me.” She ran a hand over Lang’s hair. “Rupert can’t take life seriously. He bores easily, likes the excitement. I relate to that more.”

“In what way?” Curry asked.

“My father’s family believed they were kin to the Victorian poet Robert Browning. There’s a line in one of his poems. Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things . I can relate to that. It’s like a performance, if you like, and performance is what my life is about.”

“Exactly,” Belov said. “But always fantasy, always except for that alley in Belfast. That was real and earnest, razor-sharp. I should imagine that afterwards on reflection it must have seemed like one of your finest performances.”

“Very perceptive, Colonel, but one stipulation. If I don’t like the sound of something, I don’t do it.”

“But of course, my dear.” He smiled at the other two and raised his glass. They all followed suit. “To us, my friends, to January 30.”

Back in London, she was free for most of March. She went to Ian McNab’s gym three times a week and bought herself a BMW motorcycle, which she used to explore parts of the city she’d never been. Toward the end of the month she was asked to do Hedda Gabler at the National and started five weeks of intensive rehearsals. It was in the third week that Curry asked if they could all meet and she invited them to Cheyne Walk.

As Grace handed round coffee, Belov said, “I’m having problems with the KGB here in London, not that they call themselves that since the breakup of things in Russia. The latest title is Federal Service of Counter Espionage. At the moment, the London Station is being run by a Major Silsev. Here’s his photo.” He passed it across. “A crook of the first water, involved with the Russian Mafia. Illegal trading in weapons, various currency rackets, drugs – particularly drugs.”

She examined the photo and passed it to Lang. “He looks mean.”

“He is.” He passed her another photo. “Frank Sharp, one of the most notorious gang bosses in the East End of London, intends a deal with him at the moment. If Sharp meets his terms, Silsev will bring in heroin with a street value in excess of a hundred million pounds.”

“Why should you mind? I didn’t think you were in the business of doing good,” Grace said.

“I take your point. In my own defense, I hate drugs, and people who trade in them disgust me, but the feud between my people of the GRU and the KGB, or whatever name they choose to call themselves, is of prime importance. The kind of money Silsev would make from this deal would give them too much power.”

“I see.”

“My sources at the Embassy tell me that Silsev and Sharp are to meet tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock at the Karl Marx Memorial in Highgate Cemetery.”

“I know where that is. I’ve been there.”

“It’s face-to-face stuff, no one else allowed, so Sharp won’t have his minders with him.”

There was a short silence. Grace Browning turned to the others. Curry’s face was pale and even Rupert Lang looked grave.

“Moment of truth, my friends,” she said and turned back to Belov. “How do you want it done?”

It was raining hard when the Mercedes Limousine drew up by the main gates of Highgate Cemetery shortly before four o’clock on the following afternoon.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform at the wheel said, “Sure you don’t want me to come, guv?”

“No need, Bert, this guy’s kosher. Too much in it for him not to be. Give me the umbrella. I won’t be long.”

He got out of the car, a large, fleshy man of fifty in a dark blue overcoat, put the umbrella up, and went in through the gates. Dusk was already falling and what with the rain, the cemetery was deserted. He followed the path through a jumble of graves, monuments, and marble angels. There were trees here and there and it was all rather overgrown. Sharp didn’t mind. He’d always liked the place, had always liked cemeteries if it came to that. Up ahead was the monument with the huge head, Karl Marx.

Sharp stood looking up at it, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “Commie bastard,” he said softly.

Major Silsev stepped round from the other side. He was small, eyes close set, wore a trilby hat and raincoat, and like Sharp held an umbrella.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Sharp.”

“Yes, here I bleeding well am,” Sharp told him. “Wet and cold and I don’t like all this cloak and dagger stuff so let’s get on with it.”

At that moment an engine roared into life, and as they turned a motorcycle emerged from a clump of trees and came toward them, the rider wearing black helmet and leathers.

“What the hell?” Sharp cried as it skidded to a halt.

Silsev turned to run, but Grace pulled the Beretta from the front of her leather jacket and shot him in the back.

“Bastard!” Sharp cried and his hand came out of his overcoat pocket clutching a revolver. Before he could raise it, she shot him between the eyes and he went down. Silsev was still twitching. As she moved past, she leaned over and finished him with a head shot.

A few moments later she emerged through the main gate, a dark and anonymous figure as she drove past the Mercedes, where Bert sat behind the wheel reading the Standard .

She moved through the evening traffic of Highgate Road into Kentish Town and then to Camden, finally turning into a yard in a side street near Camden Lock. There was a large truck, the rear door open, a ramp sloping up inside. As she ran the motorcycle up and put it on its stand, Curry, behind her, closed the yard gate.

He didn’t say a word, simply stood waiting while she stripped off the leathers and helmet, revealing jeans and a tee shirt underneath. He opened a hold-all bag he was carrying and offered her a nylon anorak and a baseball cap and she put them on quickly.

“Right, let’s get out of here.” Curry closed the truck door and opened the gates. “Belov’s people will clear up.”