Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“He’ll offer, I’m sure of it, but not yet.”

“But if you’re shipped back to Moscow as a failure, wouldn’t that be rather unpleasant?”

“But I won’t be a failure if you succeed in shooting Patrick Keogh.” Belov laughed. “Of course, if you fail, I can always do a deal with Ferguson then.”

She laughed back at him. “That’s my Yuri.”

“But tell me,” he said, “what’s your plan?”

“It’s really quite simple. I’m going to die.”

“Good God!” he said. “Tell me.”

So she did.

She found a large plastic bag in the kitchen and put in it an old navy-blue tracksuit, a light raincoat, some trainers, and a pair of black leather, flat-heeled shoes. She went to her safe, opened it, and took out two bundles of ten-pound notes, a thousand pounds in each. She placed a bundle in each of the black shoes, thought about things for a while, then rolled up a kitchen towel and added that also.

When she left the house fifteen minutes later, she wore an old Burberry and carried an umbrella against the rain. She turned along the pavement to where she had parked her red Mini, opened it, and got in.

Hannah, parked farther along on the other side of the road, watched all this with interest, following her as Grace Browning pulled out into the heavy traffic, driving toward Westminster, skirting the Tower of London until she reached Wapping High Street, finally parking close to a department store. There was room a couple of cars behind and Hannah pulled in and switched off her engine.

Grace got out the plastic bag, locked her car, then paused to put money into the parking meter. She turned and made for the main entrance of the department store and went inside. Hannah went after her, but when she went into the store, it was crowded with shoppers and no way of knowing which department her quarry had gone to, and there was also the chance that if she went walk-about looking for her she might miss Grace leaving. She decided to take a chance and returned to her car.

Grace Browning at that moment was visiting the toilet and rest room at the bottom of a short flight of steps at the rear of the building. There was a door which said Staff Only. She’d used it once out of curiosity and had discovered that it led into an alley at the side of the store. She hurried along to the end and came out onto the waterfront.

She walked quickly to an area of decaying warehouses, St. James’s Stairs, not too far away. She knew this place well, had once done an episode for a television thriller here. There was a narrow alley called Dock Street, nothing but boarded-up windows and several old dustbins. She was taking a chance, but there was a risk in everything now. She pushed the plastic bag down behind the dustbins, pulled a dirty old sack over it, turned, and hurried back.

She was entering the staff door at the department store five minutes after exiting from it, went up the stairs, walked to an area displaying bedding and towels, chose a couple of towels at random, paid for them, and waited while the assistant packed them into a white plastic bag similar to the one she had entered the store with.

Hannah saw her at once as she came out of the entrance and walked to her Mini. Grace opened the door, tossed the plastic bag in the rear, and slid behind the wheel. If she was being followed, she’d fooled them nicely, she was certain of that, and she pulled into the traffic, followed by Hannah.

A little while later she approached Wapping Underground Station and turned into the multi-story car park that was close by. She drove into the basement and pulled up at the car valeting service. Hannah followed, taking a vacant parking spot, and watched.

Grace smiled at the young black man in overalls who came out of the office. “A wash and wax would be fine. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. When do you want it?”

“The fact is I’m doing a show tonight and I might be late. Ten o’clock, something like that.”

“We close at seven.”

“Couldn’t you leave the keys under the mat for me?”

“Well we aren’t supposed to do that, lady.”

She opened her purse. “How much will it be?”

“Twenty pounds.”

“That’s fine.” She handed him a twenty-pound note and gave him her most dazzling smile as she also produced a five-pound note. “Perhaps you’d make an exception. I’d really be very grateful.”

He smiled. “I could never resist a beautiful woman. You’ll find it over there on that yellow section.”

“Bless you,” she said, turned and walked down the ramp, passing Hannah, who watched her go, then pulled out and followed.

Grace walked along the pavement until she saw an approaching black cab. She hailed it and got inside. Hannah followed and fifteen minutes later found herself once again in Cheyne Walk, where Grace paid off her taxi driver and went inside.

Hannah called in to the office and spoke to Ferguson. “She took a drive to Wapping High Street, did some shopping at a department store, then she left her car with a valeting service next to Wapping Underground Station and caught a taxi home.”

“As I told you, Chief Inspector, there was no need for surveillance. She’ll be there tonight, I’m sure of it. However, if it gives you peace of mind to stay and keep watch, do so. Dillon and I will see you at the theatre. I must go now. I’m due at Downing Street.”

Simon Carter was already seated in the Prime Minister’s study when Ferguson was shown in.

“Ah, there you are, Brigadier. We’ve just been discussing those two extraordinary deaths. Fill us in as much as you can.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

Ferguson described in detail the events in Devon which had led to Rupert Lang’s death. He also told them as much as he knew about Tom Curry’s suicide.

“Strange,” Carter said when he’d finished. “That remark Rupert Lang made about another Bloody Sunday. What in hell was that supposed to mean? Is Keogh at risk? Is that the reference to a Sunday? Do you think there is a threat of some sort?”

“ Was a threat,” Ferguson said. “Certainly there is no threat now. Two dead, Belov trapped in the Soviet Embassy.”

“And the woman?” Carter demanded.

“We’ll pick her up after her show tonight. My Chief Inspector is on her tail. She isn’t going anywhere.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “I wish we could keep this whole damn thing under wraps. My God, a Minister of the Crown a traitor.” He smiled ruefully. “And I’m not just thinking of the welfare of the Conservative Party, though there would be those who think so.”

“We’ll have to see, Prime Minister, but there is a legal difficulty. Many murders have been committed by January 30, and we know now that Grace Browning was responsible for a number of them. Rather difficult to get round that.”

“God help us all then,” the Prime Minister said.

It was about six forty-five when Grace Browning appeared from the side of the house in Cheyne Walk on the BMW. She sat astride it wearing her usual black leathers and adjusted her helmet so that anyone watching could be sure it was her, then she rode away and Hannah pulled out and followed her.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the King’s Head. Grace Browning parked the BMW and got off. Hannah pulled up and watched her take off her helmet and enter. When she was satisfied that Grace was safely in, she found a parking space herself.

She saw Ferguson ’s Daimler with his chauffeur at the wheel a few vehicles away, crossed the pavement and went into the King’s Head, which was crowded as usual just before a show started. Ferguson and Dillon were at the far end of the bar and Dillon called to her.

As she approached he said, “Jesus, woman, a fine boring day you’ve given yourself.”