Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“And Belov, sir?” Hannah asked.

“No problem, Chief Inspector. Just leave him to me.”

Fog rolled across the river, rain drifting in, and something washed in through the shadows by St. James’s Stairs. Grace Browning surfaced and hauled herself up a ladder onto a wharf. Her leathers were wet and she unzipped the jacket and tossed it into the river, then turned and ran along the deserted waterfront, a shadowy figure moving from one patch of light to the next.

She reached Dock Street within ten minutes, scrabbled behind the old dustbins and found her plastic bag under the sack. There was no one about and she stood under a street lamp bracketed to the wall above, stripped off her pumps, the leather pants, and soaking tee shirt. She stood there quite naked for a moment, toweling her hair and body, then pulled on the tracksuit and trainers. She put the raincoat on, took the two black shoes from the bag, each with a thousand pounds inside, and put them in the raincoat pockets. Then she started to walk.

Fifteen minutes later, she reached the multi-storey car park next to Wapping Underground Station. When she went down into the basement it was a place of shadows, cold and damp, but her Mini car was waiting in the yellow area. She opened the car, got inside, found the keys under the mat, then she found a comb, put her hair into some sort of order, and tied it back. A few moments later she drove out of the car park, turned into the main road, and was on her way.

In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the red phone, giving him an account of the night’s proceedings.

When the Brigadier was finished, the Prime Minister said, “I don’t want to sound callous, but a rather satisfactory end to the whole saga. Lang, Curry, and now this Browning woman, all gone. Only Belov left, and I’m sure you’ll sort him. I presume you’ll have no difficulty in treating her unfortunate death as accidental?”

“You may rely on it, Prime Minister.”

“Good. All good fortune in Ireland tomorrow.”

The Prime Minister put down the phone.

At that precise moment in time, Grace Browning was coming out of a motorway service restaurant on the outskirts of London, a bacon sandwich and two coffees inside her. She felt warm again, the chill of the River Thames long gone. She got behind the wheel of the Mini, pulled out onto the motorway, and started on the next stage of her journey to Coldwater.

It was just after one o’clock in the morning when Grace Browning reached Coldwater village, passed the George and Dragon and the village green, and found the sign a quarter of a mile farther on that pointed the way to the airfield. She turned down the narrow lane, then pulled in on the grass verge and switched off her lights.

She found a small torch in the glove compartment, got out and proceeded on foot, the final caution, but she had to be sure. She paused on the edge of the runway. There was a light on a bracket above the hangar door where she and Tom had inspected the Conquest, and there was another in the Nissen hut.

She waited for a moment, then, keeping to the shadows, crossed to the hangar and worked her way to the Nissen hut. When she peered through the window, she saw Carson sitting at the table, an enamel mug in one hand, a chart spread in front of him. Satisfied, she turned back across the runway and returned to the car.

She switched on the lights, started the engine, and set off across the runway. When she reached the Nissen hut she turned off the engine and sat there waiting. The door opened and Carson appeared.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” she said. She got out of the car and looked across at him.

“You’re early. Where’s your friend?”

“Change of plan. He won’t be coming. I thought I’d get here early in case of weather problems.”

“You’d better come in then.”

It was warm in the hut, so warm that she could smell the heat from the stove on which an old coffee pot stood.

“The coffee’s fresh. Help yourself if you like.” He wasn’t wearing the flying jacket, only the black overalls, and his beard seemed more tangled than ever. He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She found a spare mug, poured coffee into it, and crossed to the table. The chart was the one covering Ireland to the Galway coast.

“Checking our route?”

“For about the fifth time. I never leave anything to chance. I’ve been flying a long time, and that’s why I’m still here.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’d definitely like to be at Kilbeg by eleven. I’ve spoken to Colonel Belov within the last few hours and the car will be in place.”

“We’ll have to leave no later than seven then.”

“Fine by me.” She sipped some coffee. “Where are my cases?”

“On the bed in the next room.”

“Did you open them?”

“Of course not.” He tried to sound indignant. “Not my business. I’m not interested in what you’re up to. Like I said, I’m an in-and-out man. I’m getting paid well over the odds for this one, and that’s all that interests me.”

He was lying, she knew that, but she nodded calmly and sipped some more coffee. “Good. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

“You do that.” As she went to open the door to the other room he said, “You know, it’s funny, but I seem to know you from somewhere.”

She turned and shook her head. “Not possible, Mr. Carson. You see, I’d have remembered you,” and she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Curry’s case with the priest’s cassock was not needed now and she pushed it under the bed. She examined the other, placing the nun’s habit on the bed, taking out the AK-47 and Beretta, removing the clips, then reloading them. There were two spare clips for each and a capacious shoulder bag in soft black leather. She took the two thousand pounds from her raincoat pockets and put them in the bottom of the suitcase under the nun’s habit, placed the AK-47, its butt folded, in the shoulder bag, then dropped the bag back in the suitcase.

She put the suitcase against the wall, then took off the raincoat and lay on the bed in her tracksuit, her right hand on the Beretta beside her. The light was so dim that she left it on. In any case, she didn’t want total darkness in case she saw him again, that shadowy figure with the arm raised and the gun. In spite of herself, her eyes closed and after a while she slept fitfully.

And across the Atlantic at Andrews Air Force Base, a black sedan drove across the tarmac and pulled up beside the waiting Gulfstream. It was three o’clock in the morning in England, but with a five-hour time difference, only ten at night in America. Patrick Keogh was quite alone except for an Air Force driver, and the base commander got out and opened the door for him.

“Nice and private, this plane, Senator, as requested, but the crew are Air Force.” There were three of them, all wearing rather anonymous navy-blue airline uniforms. “Captains Harris and Ford take care of the flying and Sergeant Black takes care of you.”

Keogh shook hands with all three and turned to the base commander. “Many thanks.”

“Your luggage is on board and you’re cleared for immediate take-off, Senator.” The base commander saluted. “Good luck, sir.”

Keogh went up the steps into the luxurious interior of the Gulfstream, found himself a seat, and strapped in.

Sergeant Black checked him out. “I’ve got full meal facilities, Senator. I believe your wife suggested the menu. Anytime you like once we’re airborne, just say the word.”

“Sounds good to me,” Keogh said.