Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

Walking through the rain beneath the single umbrella Dillon had, Hannah said, “What did you think, sir?”

“Very impressive.”

“And you, Dillon?” She turned to him.

“I’ve lived my life day by day for the past twenty-five years,” he said. “I’ve a habit of expecting the worst.”

“Bastard!” she said.

At the bottom of the steps leading up to the Gulfstream, Keogh turned to Ferguson and shook hands. “An interesting experience, Brigadier. If I can ever do you a favor.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Keogh took Hannah’s hand. “Chief Inspector.” He turned to Dillon. “You know you haven’t said much since Drumgoole. Come on, Dillon, one Irishman to another.”

“I was thinking what a terrible pity it was that there wasn’t a press photographer present when she fired at you and you turned your back and protected those little girls. God, they’d have elected you President.” Dillon sighed. “And nobody will ever know.”

“I’ll know.” Patrick Keogh grinned. “Goodbye, my friend,” and he went up the steps.

They stood in the shelter of the hangar and watched the Gulfstream lift into the gray sky. Hare turned to Ferguson. “What about this Grace Browning?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about her,” Ferguson said. “Instinct tells me she’ll be on her way back to my patch.”

“And what then?”

“An interesting point,” Ferguson said. “She’s dead, remember, drowned in the River Thames after an unfortunate accident.”

“But she isn’t,” Hare said. “What happens when she surfaces?”

“She won’t,” Ferguson said. “Not in the way you mean. You see, she’s not quite on her own yet, Chief Superintendent. I do have a source I can go to. Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it, believe me.” He shook hands. “Thanks for your help.”

“Just do me one favor,” Hare said. “Don’t come back for a while. I don’t think I could stand the excitement.”

Ferguson laughed, then turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Come on, you two,” he said to Dillon and Hannah, put up his umbrella, and walked toward the Lear jet.

The Conquest landed at Coldwater just before darkness fell. Inside the hangar, Carson killed the engines, got out of the pilot’s seat, dropped the Airstair door, and went down. Grace Browning slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the suitcase, and followed.

He was lighting a cigarette and paused in the entrance to look out at the desolate landscape and the rain. When he turned there was a different look on his face, hard, calculating.

“I said I thought I knew you and now I remember. I saw you in a film on television.”

“Really?” she said. “So what?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but whatever it is it’s worth more than I’ve been paid. I had a look in your suitcase while you were away. I found that two thousand pounds. I’ve taken it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said calmly.

“You can suit yourself.”

“Oh, I will.”

She reached into her shoulder bag, took out the Beretta, and shot him twice in the heart. Carson fell back against the tail of the Conquest, bounced off, and fell on his back. He was already dead when she leaned down, felt inside his flying jacket, and found the two bundles of ten-pound notes. Her mad money . She frowned at the thought. Is that what I am? She put the money in her shoulder bag, picked up the suitcase, went out and rolled the hangar door shut, then she walked to her Mini car, got in, and drove away.

The Lear Jet had already landed at Gatwick and as the Daimler drove down into London, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the phone. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein sat there listening and finally Ferguson put the phone down.

“And what did the great man have to say?” Dillon asked.

“Damn glad things worked out for Keogh as they did, but he’s horrified that the Browning woman is out there like a loose cannon. Wants to make sure we do something about her.”

“But what can we do, sir?” Hannah asked.

Ferguson smiled. “I think it’s time I spoke to Yuri Belov,” and he leaned back in his seat.

Grace Browning drove into a motorway service area just before reaching the outskirts of London. She sat there in the car in the rain for a while feeling very tired, drained of all emotion. Finally she got out and made her way through the parked cars to the cafe.

There was a newsstand by the shop just inside the entrance, copies of the latest edition of the Evening Standard stacked there, and Rupert Lang’s face stared out at her. She took a copy, went into the cafe and got a coffee, then went and sat at a corner table and looked at the paper.

It was all there, his career in the Army, his presence at Bloody Sunday, his subsequent years in politics, and then the tragic accident. There was a smaller photo of Tom Curry, a discreet mention of the fact they had lived together for many years. The circumstances of Curry’s unfortunate death were treated fully and the inference was plain.

She turned the page automatically and saw a standard theatrical photo of herself. The article was brief and to the point. While going home from the King’s Head on her motorcycle the police had attempted to stop her from speeding. For some reason she had refused to stop and after a furious chase had gone over the edge of a wharf in Wapping. River Police were still looking for her body.

“Very clever, Ferguson,” she said softly, drank some of the coffee, and turned back to the front page.

Rupert was in uniform in the photo and wore the red beret of the Parachute Regiment and two medals, one for the Irish campaign and the Military Cross. He was standing outside Buckingham Palace and the photo had obviously been taken after being decorated by the Queen. He looked handsome and rather devil-may-care.

“Dear Rupert,” she said. “I never really understood why you did it. Not any of it.”

The article said that his body would be on view for friends who wished to pay their last respects at an undertaker’s named Seaton and Sons in Great George Street by the Treasury. The burial service would be at St. Margaret’s, Westminster, at three in the afternoon. She thought about it and smiled to herself. She had to say good-bye to Rupert, that was obvious, but first there was one last thing to do. She went and got some change at the counter and found a telephone.

Belov, in his office at the Embassy, picked up the phone and recognized her voice instantly. He was excited and nervous.

“Where are you?”

“Motorway service station just outside London.”

“What happened? There’s been nothing on the news. Did you get him?”

“Oh, I got him all right, Yuri, twice in the back, only he was wearing a Kevlar jacket.”

“My God!”

“They were all there, Ferguson, Dillon, Bernstein, but I got away with no trouble.”

“And flew back with Carson.”

“Yes, but there was a slight problem there. He recognized me, then stole a couple of thousand pounds I had in my case.”

Belov’s heart sank. “And you killed him?”

“He didn’t leave me much choice, did he? I left him on his back beside his plane in the hangar.”

“You kill everybody, Grace, and so easily,” Belov told her.

“You helped create me, Yuri, an Angel of Death was what you wanted and that’s what you got. Anyway, what will you do now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Personally I don’t see that you have a choice,” she said. “If you go back to Moscow they’ll shoot you in some cellar. Isn’t that the usual reward for failure handed out by your people? I’d make my peace with Ferguson if I were you. He’ll look after you, Yuri. You’re too valuable to waste.”