Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

Some people consider the House of Commons to be the best club in London, with its numerous restaurants and bars. Most people’s favorite is the terrace, and it was to this the Prime Minister led the way, passing through the Central Lobby, acknowledging many people on the way.

The terrace itself was quite busy, plenty of people around, mostly with a glass in one hand. There was Westminster Bridge on the left, Albert Embankment on the other side of the river. They leaned on the parapet and the Prime Minister waved a waiter away.

“A rotten business, Brigadier. I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do it?”

Ferguson found a cigarette and lit it. “You could say the same thing about Philby, Maclean, Blunt.” He shrugged. “I can’t give you an answer, sir.”

“It certainly won’t do the Conservative Party any good.” John Major smiled. “Sorry, Brigadier, politics is not your consideration in this matter.”

“No, but I sympathize, sir. Not your fault, but you get the flak.”

“One of the privileges of rank, Brigadier.”

At that moment, Rupert Lang appeared on the terrace, paused, then saw them. He hurried across, smiling. “Prime Minister. I got your message.” He nodded to Ferguson. “Brigadier.” He turned back to the Prime Minister. “You said it was urgent.”

John Major turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”

Ferguson said, “Mr. Lang, as a Minister of the Crown you have a permit to carry a handgun when visiting Northern Ireland. The weapon, I understand, is a Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum.”

Lang knew, knew at once what this meant, but smiled. “That’s right.”

“I’d like to examine it, sir.”

“May I ask why?”

“To see if it is the weapon which has been responsible for the deaths of at least ten people, assassinations claimed by a terrorist group known as January 30.”

There was a long pause and then Lang said, “This is nonsense.”

“Rupert,” the Prime Minister said. “For God’s sake. It’s over.”

Rupert Lang stood there, staring at him, and suddenly smiled and turned to Ferguson. “What is it you want, Brigadier?”

“The Beretta, Mr. Lang.”

“Yes, of course, I’ll get it. It’s in my office desk.”

At that moment a crowd of Japanese tourists came onto the terrace. Lang turned and plunged into them, disappearing through the entrance on the far side before Ferguson or the Prime Minister could do a thing.

There are dozens of exits to the House of Parliament and Rupert Lang, an expert in all of them, was in his car in one of the underground car parks and driving away within five minutes of leaving Ferguson and the Prime Minister.

Belov was in his mews cottage off the Bayswater Road when he got Lang’s call.

“My dear Rupert, how are you?”

“Not good, Yuri, I’ve been rumbled.”

“Calm yourself, Rupert, and explain,” Belov said.

Lang went through exactly what had happened on the terrace with Ferguson and the Prime Minister. When he was finished he said, “There was no mention of you or Tom or Grace, just the Beretta.” He laughed. “I licensed it because I was entitled to, you know that, Yuri, but once they’ve tested it, fired a couple of rounds, I’ve had it.”

“Where is it?”

“I gave it to Grace. She wanted it for Sunday.”

“I see.”

“I’ve been thinking, Yuri. Perhaps Ferguson has made something of my connection with the Prime Minister’s special security committee, but there’s one thing they don’t know. That we know that the IRA meeting at Ardmore is to take place on Sunday afternoon.”

“You’re right,” Belov said. “Let’s make sure that stays that way. You see, my friend, if the Prime Minister and Ferguson think you don’t know, the whole thing will go ahead as normal. No need to give Keogh any anxieties.”

“Of course, but that doesn’t help me. I’ve got to get out of it.”

“Where will you go, Rupert?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps to Devon. To Lang Place.”

“They’ll catch up eventually.”

“Yes, it’s the end of something, you don’t need to tell me that. It’s so bloody frustrating not knowing what Ferguson is up to. Is it just me and the damn Beretta, or is more going on? Have other connections been made? If so, they’ll work their way round to all of us, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, Rupert, take care of yourself and good luck. They can’t touch me if I go to the Embassy.”

Belov put the phone down, went to his bedroom, and packed a bag with a few essentials. He left the cottage, went to his car parked at the curb, and got in. Ten minutes later he drove into the diplomatic safety of the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.

Land stopped at a phone box and rang his house in Dean Close. The ringing seemed to go on forever before Tom Curry answered.

“Thank God,” Rupert Lang said.

He told Curry what had happened. When he was finished his friend said, “What will you do?”

“I’ll go to Lang Place and think things out. I’ll use the usual air-taxi people. I’ll be there tonight. It’s you I’m worried about, old sport. They didn’t mention Yuri or you or Grace, but Ferguson ’s a downy old bird. It’ll only be a matter of time.”

“Don’t worry, old lad,” Curry said. “We’ll manage.” Suddenly he was choking with emotion. “Take care, Rupert,” and then he said the words that were always so difficult for one man to another. “I love you.”

He put down the phone, then picked it up again and dialed Grace Browning. When she answered he said, “Just listen.”

She didn’t feel afraid, more excited than anything else. When he was finished she said, “So what now?”

“It could be a while before they make connections, and as regards the Ardmore House meeting, Rupert wasn’t supposed to know anything.”

“Sit tight, is that it?”

“I honestly think so. They can’t touch Yuri if he stays in the Embassy. Diplomatic immunity. They don’t have, can’t have, any reason to move against you or me. I’ll be around tonight as usual at the King’s Head and take you to supper.”

“Look forward to it.”

She put down the phone and turned to the window and her head spun for a moment; she saw the shadow of a man, gun raised, but when she took a deep breath it went away.

It was late in the afternoon when Rupert Lang arrived at the small air-taxi firm in Surrey he habitually used for flights to Devon. His usual pilot, a young man called Alan Smith, greeted him as he got out of the car.

“All ready to go, Mr. Lang?”

“Good,” Rupert said. “Let’s get moving.”

Ten minutes later the Navajo Chieftain lifted off the runway. He opened the bar box and poured a double Scotch into a plastic cup.

“Here’s to you, old sport.” He toasted himself. “I think Bloody Sunday has finally caught up with you.”

At the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson was at his desk at six o’clock that evening when Hannah Bernstein came in with Dillon.

“Our inquiries finally showed that he frequently flies down to his house in Devon, sir, Lang Place.”

“He uses an air-taxi firm in Surrey. We’ve checked and he flew down there during the late afternoon in a Navajo Chieftain. The pilot has not yet returned.”

“I see.” Ferguson looked out at the gathering gloom. “Too late to do anything now. We’ll fly down in the morning. Use the same firm. He won’t be going anywhere and he knows it. Make the booking, Chief Inspector.”

“Do you want the Okehampton police involved, sir?”

“No. Just tell the air-taxi people to arrange to have a car waiting to take us to Lang Place. Tell them we’re expected.”

“And the Browning woman, sir?” Hannah asked. “And Curry?”