Angel of Death

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 1995

Copyright © Harry Patterson 1995

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Photography and illustration © Nik Keevil

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124823

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007384693

Version: 2015-04-01

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

BELFAST LONDON 1994

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

LONDON BELFAST DEVON 1972–1992

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BEIRUT 1994

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

LONDON 1994

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

WASHINGTON LONDON WASHINGTON 1994

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

LONDON DEVON LONDON 1994

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

KENT DRUMGOOLE ABBEY ARDMORE HOUSE LONDON 1994

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Further Reading

About the Publisher

Epigraph

Between two groups of men that want to

make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no

remedy except force.… It seems to me that

every society rests on the death of men.

Oliver Wendell Holmes

BELFAST

1

A cold wind blew in from Belfast Lough, driving rain across the city. Sean Dillon moved along a narrow street between tall warehouses, relics of the Victorian era, mostly boarded up now. He stood on the corner, a small man, no more than five feet five, wearing a trenchcoat and an old rain hat.

He was on the waterfront now. There were ships out there at anchor, their riding lights moving up and down for there was a heavy swell driving into the docks. There was a sound of gunfire in the distance. He glanced in the general direction, lit a cigarette in cupped hands and moved on.

There was an air of desolation to the whole area. Examples of the devastation caused by twenty-five years of war everywhere and his feet crunched over broken glass. He found what he was looking for five minutes later, a warehouse with a peeling sign on the wall that said Murphy & Son – Import & Export. There were large double doors with a small Judas gate for easy access. It opened with a slight creak and he stepped inside.

It was a place of shadows, empty except for an old Ford van and a jumble of packing cases. There was an office at the far end with glass walls, one or two panes broken, and a dim light shone there. Dillon removed his rain hat and ran a hand nervously over his hair, which he’d dyed black. The dark moustache which he’d gummed into place on his upper lip completed the transformation.

He waited, still clutching the rain hat. It had to be the van – the only reason for it being there – so he wasn’t surprised when the rear door opened and a rather large man, a Colt automatic in one hand, emerged.

‘Slow and easy, my grand wee man,’ he said in the distinctive Belfast accent.

‘I say, old chap.’ Dillon showed every sign of alarm and raised his hands. ‘No problem, I trust? I’m here in good faith.’

‘Aren’t we all, Mr Friar,’ a voice called and Dillon saw Daley appear in the doorway of the office. ‘Is he clean, Jack?’

The big man ran his hands over Dillon and felt between his legs. ‘All clear here, Curtis.’

‘Bring him in.’

When Dillon entered the office, Daley was sitting in a chair behind the desk, a young man of twenty-five or so with an intense white face.

‘Curtis Daley, Mr Friar, and this is Jack Mullin. We have to be careful, you understand?’

‘Oh, perfectly, old chap.’ Dillon rolled his rain hat and slipped it into his raincoat pocket. ‘May I smoke?’

Daley tossed a packet of Gallaghers across. ‘Try an Irish cigarette. I’m surprised to find you’re English. Jobert & Company; now, that’s a French arms dealer. That’s why we chose him.’

Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘The arms business, especially at the level you wish to deal, isn’t exactly thriving in London these days. I’ve been in it for years ever since getting out of the Royal Artillery. I’ve worked as an agent for Monsieur Jobert all over the world.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Monsieur Jobert told me I’d be meeting your leader, Mr Quinn?’

‘Daniel? Why should he expect that? Any special reason?’

‘Not really,’ Dillon said hurriedly. ‘I did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry, nineteen eighty-two. Mr Quinn was quite famous.’

‘Notorious, you mean,’ Daley said. ‘Everyone after him. The police, the Army and the bloody IRA.’

‘Yes, that does rather sum it up,’ Dillon said.

‘Loyal to the Crown, that’s what we Protestants are, Mr Friar,’ Daley said, genuine anger in his voice. ‘And what does it get us? A boot up the arse, interference from America and a British Government that prefers to sell us out to damn Fenians like Gerry Adams.’

‘I can appreciate your point of view.’ Dillon managed to sound slightly alarmed.

‘That’s why we call our group Sons of Ulster. We stand here or die here, no other route, and the sooner the British Government and the IRA realize that the better. Now, what can Jobert offer?’

‘Naturally I’ve put nothing on paper,’ Dillon said, ‘but in view of the kind of money we’re talking about a first consignment could be two hundred AK47s in prime condition, fifty AKMs, a dozen general-purpose machine guns. Brownings. Not new, but in good order.’

‘Ammunition?’

‘No problem.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We had a consignment of Stinger missiles delivered to our Marseilles warehouse recently. Jobert says he could manage six, but that, of course, would be extra.’

Daley sat there frowning, and tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, ‘You’re at the Europa?’

‘Where else in Belfast, old chap?’

‘Right. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Will I be meeting Mr Quinn?’

‘I can’t say. I’ll let you know.’ He turned to Mullin. ‘Send him on his way, Jack.’

Mullin took Dillon back to the entrance and as he opened the Judas gate there was a hollow booming sound in the distance.

‘What was that?’ Dillon said nervously.

‘Only a bomb, nothing to get alarmed about, my wee man. Did you wet your pants, then?’

He laughed as Dillon stepped outside, was still laughing as he closed the door. Dillon paused on the corner. The first thing he did was peel away the moustache above his lip, then he removed the rain hat from his pocket, unrolled it and took out a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson revolver which he slipped into his waistband against the small of his back.

He put the hat on as the rain increased. ‘Amateurs,’ he said softly. ‘What can you do with them?’ and he walked rapidly away.

At that moment Daley was ringing a Dublin number. A woman answered. ‘Scott’s Hotel.’

‘Mr Brown.’

A moment later Daniel Quinn came on the line. ‘Yes?’

‘Curtis here. I’m glad I caught you. I thought you might be on the way to Amsterdam tonight.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Jobert sent a man called Friar. English. Ex-army officer. He offered to meet all requirements, including some Stingers if you want them.’

‘That’s good. What was he like, this Friar?’

‘Second-rate English public school type. Black hair and moustache. Frightened to death. Said he thought he was meeting you.’

‘Why should he think that?’

‘Jobert told him he would. Apparently he did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry in eighty-two. Said you were quite famous.’

There was a moment’s pause, then Quinn said, ‘Take him out, Curtis. I smell stinking fish here.’

‘But why?’

‘Sure, I was in Londonderry in eighty-two, only not as Daniel Quinn. I used the name Frank Kelly.’

‘Jesus!’ Daley said.

‘Take him out, Curtis, that’s an order. I’ll call you from Beirut.’

Dillon was staying at the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street by the railway station, the most bombed hotel in Belfast if not the world. He was still wearing the rain hat when he entered the suite.

The woman who sat reading a magazine was thirty years of age, wore a black trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses. She had short red hair. Her name was Hannah Bernstein and she was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.

She jumped up. ‘Everything work out?’

‘So far. Have you heard from Ferguson?’

‘Not yet. When do you make your move?’

‘Daley said he’d get back to me.’ He took off his hat. ‘I need a shower. I want to get rid of this hair dye.’

She made a face. ‘Yes, it’s just not you, Dillon.’

He took off his coat and jacket and made for the bathroom. At that moment the phone rang. He raised a hand – ‘Leave it to me,’ – and picked the phone up.

‘Barry Friar,’ he said, putting on the public school accent.

‘Daley. Mr Quinn will see you tomorrow night at six.’

‘Same place?’ Dillon asked.

‘No, drive from the Europa to Garth Dock. It’s close to where you were tonight. I know you have a hire car, so use that – and make sure you come alone. You’ll be picked up. Mr Quinn will be there.’

The phone went dead. Hannah Bernstein said, ‘Now what?’

‘Daley. The next meeting is tomorrow evening at six to meet Quinn. I’m to drive there alone.’

‘It worked,’ she said. ‘You were right.’

‘I usually am.’

‘Where’s the meeting?’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I tell you, you’ll tell Ferguson and he’ll have some SAS hit squad on my case. No go, Hannah.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be all right, girl dear. Go and do your bit with Ferguson and I’ll have a shower.’

‘Damn you, Dillon!’ But she knew better than to waste her breath in argument. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

He stripped and went into the bathroom, whistling cheerfully as he turned on the shower, stood under it and watched the black dye run from his hair.

In most places in the world by the early seventies, terrorism was a growing problem, especially in Britain because of the IRA and in spite of the activities of the Security Services and Scotland Yard. The Prime Minister of the day had decided drastic measures were needed and had set up an elite intelligence unit responsible to him alone and no one else.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception. He had served every Prime Minister in office and had no personal political allegiance. He usually operated from an office on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue, but when Hannah Bernstein rang him on the red phone, she was patched through to his flat in Cavendish Square.

‘Bernstein, Brigadier. Dillon made contact.’

‘With Quinn?’

‘No, Curtis Daley. Dillon has a meeting tomorrow night at six. He won’t tell me where. Says he doesn’t want you sending the heavy brigade in. He has to drive there alone.’

‘Awkward sod,’ Ferguson said. ‘Will Quinn be there?’

‘So it seems, sir.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Catching him is the name of the game, Chief Inspector. Some of these Loyalist groups are now as big a threat as the IRA. Quinn is certainly the most dangerous leader to be found amongst their rather numerous factions. Sons of Ulster.’ He grunted. ‘I mean, my mother was Irish, but why do they have to be so damned theatrical?’

‘Dillon always says it’s the rain.’

‘He would, wouldn’t he? Everything’s a joke.’

‘So what do you want me to do, sir?’

‘You do nothing, Chief Inspector. Dillon wants to do things his own way as usual, get close enough to Quinn to put a bullet between his eyes. Let him get on with it, but I won’t have you in the line of fire. You provide back-up at the Europa only. If he pulls this thing off tomorrow night, get him straight to Aldergrove airport. I’ll have the Lear jet waiting to fly you to Gatwick.’

‘Very well, sir.’

‘I’ll have to go. I’ve got my weekly meeting with the Prime Minister at Downing Street in an hour.’

Hannah Bernstein checked her make-up and hair, then left her room and took the lift downstairs. She went into the bar, but there was no sign of Dillon so she sat at a corner table. He came in a few minutes later wearing a roll-neck sweater, Donegal tweed jacket and dark slacks, his hair, washed clean of the black dye now, so fair as to be almost white.

‘Half a bottle of Krug,’ he called to the barman and joined her, taking out an old silver case and lighting a cigarette.

‘Still determined to take a few years off your life,’ she said.

‘You never give up, do you, sweetheart.’ His voice was Humphrey Bogart to perfection. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine.’

‘Damn you!’ she laughed as the waiter brought the Krug and opened it.

‘You could have a Guinness instead. After all, you’re in Ireland.’

‘No, I’ll force a little champagne down.’

‘Good for you. Did you speak to Ferguson?’

‘Oh, yes. I brought him right up to date.’

‘And?’

‘You can go to hell in your own way. If it works, the Lear will be waiting at Aldergrove and I get you straight out.’

‘Good.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to us. Are you free for dinner?’

‘I can’t think of anything else to do.’

At that moment he noticed a poster by the bar. ‘Good God, Grace Browning.’ He went over to inspect it and turned to the barman. ‘Is it still playing?’ he asked, reverting to his English accent.

‘Last night tomorrow, sir.’

‘Could you get me a couple of tickets for tonight’s performance?’

‘I think so, but you’ll have to be sharp. Curtain up in forty minutes. Mind you, the Lyric isn’t too far.’

‘Good man. Ring the box office for me.’

‘I will, Mr Friar.’

Dillon went back to Hannah. ‘There you go, girl dear, Grace Browning’s one-woman show. Shakespeare’s Heroines. She’s brilliant.’

‘I know. I’ve seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, don’t you ever get confused? One minute sounding like you’ve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?’

‘Ah, you’re forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea. Ibsen, that was.’

‘You’ve mentioned it several times since I’ve known you, Dillon.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.’

Ferguson’s Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.

John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. ‘Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. I’ve asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.’

‘I have met Mr Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.’

‘Yes, fine record. I know you don’t care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services don’t care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Minister’s private army.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Try and get along, if only for my sake.’ There was a knock at the door and two men entered. ‘Ah, come in, gentlemen,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I believe you all know each other.’

‘Hello, Ferguson,’ Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow-white hair.

Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.

‘Nice to see you again, Brigadier.’

‘And you.’

‘Good. Sit down and let’s get started,’ the Prime Minister said.

They worked their way through a variety of intelligence matters for some forty minutes with particular reference to terrorist groups of various kinds and the new menace of Arab fundamentalism in London.

The Prime Minister said, ‘I’m sure everyone tries, but look at this group January 30. How many have they killed in the last few years, Mr Carter?’

‘Ten that we know of, Prime Minister, but there’s a particular difficulty. Other groups have specific aims and targets. January 30 kill everybody. KGB, a CIA man, IRA both here and in Belfast. Even a notorious East End gangster.’

‘All with the same weapon,’ Ferguson put in.

‘Could that indicate just one individual?’

‘It could, but I doubt it,’ Carter said. ‘And the name is no help. January 30 was the date of Bloody Sunday, but they kill, amongst others, members of the IRA.’

‘A puzzle,’ the Prime Minister said, ‘which brings me to the Downing Street Declaration.’ He spoke about the Government’s discussions with Sinn Fein and the efforts, so far unsuccessful, to achieve a ceasefire.

It was Rupert Lang who said, ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have as many problems with the Protestant factions from now on, Prime Minister.’

‘True,’ Carter said. ‘They’re killing just as many as the IRA.’

‘Can we do anything about that?’ the Prime Minister queried. He turned to Ferguson. ‘Brigadier?’

Ferguson shrugged. ‘Yes, I’m conscious of the Protestant Loyalist problem.’

‘Yes, but are your people doing anything about it?’ Carter said with some malice.

Ferguson was nettled. ‘Actually I’ve got Dillon taking care of something rather special in that direction at this precise moment in time.’

‘So we’re back to that little IRA swine?’ Carter said.

Rupert Lang frowned. ‘Dillon? Who’s he?’

Ferguson hesitated. ‘Go on, tell him,’ the Prime Minister said, ‘but this is top secret, Rupert.’

‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

‘Sean Dillon was born in Belfast and went to school in London when his father came to work here,’ Ferguson said. ‘He had a remarkable talent for acting and a flair for languages. He went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for a year and then joined the National Theatre.’

‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Lang said.

‘You wouldn’t. Dillon’s father went back to Belfast on a visit and got caught in the middle of a firefight. He was shot dead by paratroops. Dillon joined the IRA and never looked back. He became the most feared enforcer they had.’

‘Then what?’

‘He became disenchanted with the glorious cause and switched to the international scene. Worked for everybody. Not only the PLO, but the Israelis.’

‘For money, I presume?’

‘Oh yes. He was behind the mortar attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War. That was for the Iraqis.’

‘Good God!’

Carter broke in. ‘And he employs this man.’

‘He also flew drugs into Bosnia, medical supplies for children. The Serbs held him under death sentence. I did a deal with them and him. He came to me, slate wiped clean.’

‘Good heavens,’ Lang said faintly.

‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘He’s been more than useful, Rupert. Saved the Royal Family from a dreadful scandal involving the Duke of Windsor’s involvement with the Nazis. Then there was a rather tricky business involving Hong Kong, but never mind that. What’s he up to now, Brigadier?’

Ferguson hesitated. ‘Actually he’s in Belfast.’

‘Doing what?’ Ferguson hesitated again and the Prime Minister said impatiently, ‘Come on, man, if you can tell anyone, you can tell us.’

‘All right,’ Ferguson said. ‘The Deputy Director wanted to know what we’re doing about Protestant terrorism. As you know there are numerous factions. One of the worst call themselves the Sons of Ulster. Their leader is undoubtedly the most dangerous man on the Loyalist side of things. Daniel Quinn. He’s killed many times, soldiers as well as IRA.’

‘And dares to use the word Loyalist,’ Carter said. ‘Yes, I know about Quinn.’

‘The trouble is that he isn’t just another thug,’ Ferguson replied. ‘He’s astute, cunning and a first-class organizer. Dillon has been staying at the Europa under the name of Barry Friar with my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein. He posed as an arms dealer for a Paris outfit and met with Quinn’s right-hand man, Curtis Daley, tonight.’

‘I know that name too,’ Carter said.

‘What’s the point of all this?’ the Prime Minister asked.

‘To draw Quinn into the open and deal with him,’ Ferguson said.

‘You mean shoot him?’

‘That is correct, Prime Minister. Dillon has a meeting with Quinn tomorrow at six. All he would tell Chief Inspector Bernstein was that he was to drive there alone. Wouldn’t say where because he knew she’d tell me and thought I might send in the heavy brigade.’

‘Arrogant bastard,’ Carter commented.

‘Perhaps.’ The Prime Minister nodded. ‘But he does seem to get results.’ He closed the file in front of him. ‘You’ll keep me informed, Brigadier.’ He stood up. ‘Good night, gentlemen.’

As Ferguson went to his Daimler outside Number Ten, Carter paused on his way to his own car. ‘He’ll get you into trouble one of these days, Ferguson.’

‘Very probably,’ Ferguson said and turned to Lang. ‘Have you got a car or would you like a lift?’

‘No thanks, I feel like the exercise. I’ll walk.’

Lang went out through the security gates and walked along Whitehall. He stopped at the first phone box and made a call. After a while the phone was picked up at the other end.

‘Belov.’

‘Oh, good, Yuri. Glad I caught you at home. Rupert here. Something’s come up. I’ll be straight round.’

He put the phone down and hailed the first cab that came along.

2

Twenty minutes later he was ringing the bell of the small cottage in a mews off the Bayswater Road. The door was opened within moments and Belov stood there, dressed in a navy-blue pullover and slacks. A small, dark-haired man with a humorous mouth, he was in his late fifties. He motioned Lang inside.

‘Good to see you, Rupert.’

He led the way into a small sitting room, where a gas fire was burning cheerfully in the hearth.

‘This is nice,’ Lang said, ‘on a night like this.’

‘A Scotch would make it even better, yes?’

‘I should say so.’

Lang watched him get the drinks. Belov was Senior Cultural Attaché at the Russian Embassy just up the road, a job which masked his true vocation as Colonel in Charge of the London Station of the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence, the KGB’s great rivals. He handed Lang a glass.

‘Cheers, Rupert.’

‘How are you? Still having trouble with the KGB?’

‘They keep changing their name these days.’ Belov smiled. ‘Anyway, what was so important?’

‘I’ve just had one of my regular meetings with the Prime Minister, Simon Carter and Brigadier Charles Ferguson. Tell me, does the name Sean Dillon mean anything to you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Belov said. ‘Quite a character. He was very big in the IRA, then moved on to the international scene. I’ve the best of reasons for thinking he was behind the attack on Downing Street in ninety-one, then Brigadier Charles Ferguson got his hands on him.’ Belov smiled again. ‘You British really are devious bastards, Rupert. What’s it all about?’

So Lang told him, and when he was finished, Belov said, ‘I know all about Daniel Quinn. Believe me, my friend, if the Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration really do bring Sinn Fein and the IRA to the peace table, you are going to have serious problems with the Protestant factions.’

‘Well, that seems to be the general opinion and that’s why Dillon hopes to meet Quinn and eliminate him tomorrow night.’

‘Only one problem,’ Belov said. ‘My man at our Embassy in Dublin told me yesterday that Quinn is in Dublin en route for Beirut under the alias of Brown. An associate of his named Francis Callaghan went to Beirut last week.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘There is a KGB involvement, but I believe it’s a rather nefarious one. Some connection with gangsters from Moscow. What you call the Russian Mafia. I understand an Arab faction, the Party of God, are also involved. They make Hezbollah look like a primary school outing.’

‘But what could it be? Arms?’

‘Plenty of ways of getting arms these days. Something big, that’s all I know.’

‘All right,’ Lang said. ‘Let’s look at this thing. This man Daley has arranged a meeting for Dillon tomorrow to meet Quinn, only we know Quinn won’t be there. What does that tell you?’

‘That Dillon’s cover is blown. They intend to kill him, my friend.’

‘Is that what you think will happen?’

‘Dillon’s reputation goes before him. He’s the original survivor. In fact I would imagine he knows what he’s doing.’

‘Which means you think he’ll survive this meeting?’

‘Possibly, but more than that. Dillon is extremely astute. What he wants is Quinn. Now, if he expects skulduggery he will also expect not only to survive it but to come out of it knowing Quinn’s whereabouts.’

‘Beirut?’

‘Which is where Charles Ferguson will send him.’ Belov got up, reached for the bottle of Scotch and replenished the glasses. ‘And that would suit me. We of the GRU and the KGB don’t hit it off too well these days. They have a disturbing tendency to associate with the wrong people, the Moscow Mafia for example, which doesn’t sit well with me. I’d like to know what they’re up to with Quinn in Beirut; I’d like to know very much.’

‘Which means it would suit you to have Dillon on their case.’

‘Unquestionably.’

‘Then you’d better pray he survives this meeting tomorrow night.’

‘Exactly.’ Belov nodded. ‘A great inconvenience if he didn’t, but I get the impression you have thoughts on this?’

Lang countered, ‘You have your associates in Belfast who could provide back-up when necessary, equipment and so on?’

‘Of course. Why do you ask?’

‘Tom Curry is in Belfast at the moment, doing his monthly two or three days as a visiting professor at Queen’s University. By coincidence, Grace Browning has been there doing her one-woman show at the Lyric Theatre.’

‘How convenient.’

‘Isn’t it. Dillon could have an invisible support system, a phantom minder watching his back.’

‘My dear Rupert, what a splendid idea.’

‘Only one thing. If he’s to be followed from the hotel, they need to know what he looks like.’

‘No problem. I have his file at the Embassy. I can fax Tom Curry at his office at Queen’s tonight. He only needs to know it’s on its way.’

‘And I’ll take care of that.’ Rupert Lang raised his glass. ‘Cheers, old sport.’

Half an hour later Tom Curry, at his office at Queen’s University and working his way through a mass of papers, cursed as his phone went.

‘Curry here,’ he said angrily.

‘Rupert. Are you alone?’

‘Well, I would be, old lad, considering it’s ten o’clock at night. I’ve been hacking my way through exam papers, but what brings you on? I’ll be with you on Sunday evening.’

‘I know, but this is important, Tom. Very important, so listen well.’

About half an hour later Dillon and Hannah Bernstein returned to the Europa. They got their keys at the desk and she turned to him. ‘I really enjoyed that, Dillon, she was wonderful, but I’m tired. I think I’ll go straight up.’

‘Sleep well.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I think I’ll have a nightcap.’

He went into the Library Bar, which was reasonably busy, and ordered a Bushmills. A moment later Grace Browning walked in with a man in an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket and slacks. He looked in his forties, had brown hair and a pleasant, rather amiable face. They sat down at a corner table and were immediately approached by a woman who’d been to the show. Dillon recognized the programme. Grace Browning signed it with a pleasant smile which she managed to retain even when a number of other people did the same thing.

Finally, the intrusion stopped and the waiter took a half bottle of champagne over and uncorked it. Dillon swallowed his Bushmills, crossed the room and paused.

‘Not only a great actress, but a woman of taste and discernment, I see – Krug non-vintage, the best champagne in the world.’

She laughed. ‘Really?’

‘It’s the grape mix.’

She hesitated, then said, ‘This is my friend, Professor Tom Curry, and you are…?’

‘God save us, that doesn’t matter one damn bit. Our only connection is that like you I went to RADA and did the odd thing for the National.’ He laughed. ‘About a thousand years ago. I just wanted to say thank you. You were magnificent tonight.’

He walked out.

She said, ‘What a charmer.’

‘He’s that all right,’ Curry said. ‘Just have a look at the colour fax Belov sent me.’

He opened an envelope, took out a sheet and passed it across. Her eyes widened as she examined it. ‘Good God.’

‘Yes, staying here under the name of Friar, but in actuality Sean Dillon, a thoroughly dangerous man. Let me tell you about him, and more to the point, what we’re going to do.’

The following evening just after half-five Dillon stood at the window of his suite, drinking tea and looking out across the city. Rain was driving in and it was already dusk, lights gleaming out there. There was a knock on the door and he went and opened it.

Hannah Bernstein entered.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. The grand cup of tea they give you here.’

‘Can’t you ever take anything seriously?’

‘I could never see the point, girl dear.’ He opened a drawer, took out a 9mm Browning pistol with a silencer on the muzzle and slammed in a twenty-round magazine.

‘Dear God, Dillon, you really are going to war.’

‘Exactly.’

He slipped the Browning into the waistband of his slacks at the rear, pulled on a tweed jacket and his rain hat, took another twenty-round clip from the drawer and put it in his pocket. He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘We who are about to die salute you. A fella called Suetonius wrote that about two thousand years ago.’

‘You’re forgetting I went to Cambridge, Dillon. I could give you the quote in Latin.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and come back in one piece.’

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You mean you care? There’s still hope for me?’

She punched him in the chest. ‘Get out of here.’

He walked to the door, opened it and went out.

The rush-hour traffic was already in place as he turned out of the Europa car park and moved along Victoria Avenue. He expected to be followed, although monitored would be a better description. It was difficult, of course, with all those cars, but he’d seen the motorcyclist in the black helmet and leathers turn out of the car park quite close behind him, then noticed the same machine keeping well back. It was only when he turned down towards the waterfront through deserted streets of warehouses that he realized he was on his own. Ah, well, perhaps he’d been mistaken.

‘You sometimes are, old son,’ he said, and as he spoke a Rover saloon turned out of a side turning and followed him.

‘Here we go, then,’ Dillon said softly.

At that moment, a Toyota saloon emerged from a lane in front of him and blocked the way. Dillon braked to a halt. The man at the wheel of the Rover stayed where he was. The two men in the Toyota jumped out carrying Armalites.

‘Out, Friar, out!’ one of them shouted.

Dillon’s hand slipped under his coat and found the butt of the Browning. ‘Isn’t that you, Martin McGurk?’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘Jesus, and haven’t you got the wrong man? Remember me from Derry in the old days?’ He pulled off the rain hat to reveal his blond hair. ‘Dillon – Sean Dillon.’

McGurk looked stunned. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Oh, yes it can, old son,’ Dillon told him, brought up the Browning and fired through the open door, knocking McGurk on his back, then swinging and shooting the man beside him through the head.

The man at the wheel of the Rover pulled forward, drew a pistol and fired through the open passenger window, then put his head down and took off. Dillon fired twice at him, shattering the rear window, but the Rover turned the corner and was gone.

There was quiet, except for the steady splashing of the rain. Dillon walked round to the two men he had shot and examined them. They were both dead. There was a burst of Armalite fire from somewhere above. As he ducked, an engine roared and the motorcycle he had noticed earlier passed him, sliding sideways on the cobbles.

As it came to a halt, he saw the black-suited rider raise some sort of weapon. He recognized the distinctive muted crack of a silenced AK47. A man fell from a platform high up in a warehouse on the other side of the street and bounced on the pavement. The rider raised an arm in a kind of salute and rode off.

Dillon stood there for only a moment, then got in behind the wheel of his car and drove away, leaving the carnage behind him.

He parked near the warehouse with the sign Murphy & Son where he had first met Daley. As he turned the corner, he saw the Rover at the kerb. The big man, Jack Mullin, was standing by the Judas gate, peering inside. As Dillon watched, Mullin went into the warehouse.

Dillon followed, opening the gate cautiously, the Browning ready. He could hear Jack Mullin’s agitated voice. ‘He’s dead, Curtis, shot twice in the back.’

Dillon moved quickly towards the office, the door of which stood open. He was almost there when Mullin turned and saw him. ‘It’s Friar,’ he said and reached inside his coat.

Dillon shot him, knocking him back against the desk. He slumped to the floor and Daley got to his feet, panic written all over his face.

‘No Daniel Quinn,’ Dillon told him. ‘Naughty, that, and you made another mistake. It’s not Barry Friar, it’s Sean Dillon.’

‘Dear God!’ said Daley.

‘So let’s get down to business. Quinn – where is he?’

‘I can’t tell you that. It’s more than my life is worth.’

‘I see.’ Dillon nodded. ‘All right, I want you to watch something.’ He reached and pulled Mullin up a little. The big man moaned. ‘Are you watching?’ Dillon asked, then shot him through the heart.

‘No, for God’s sake, no!’ The panic was in Daley’s voice now.

‘You want to live, then? You’ll tell me where Quinn is?’

‘He’s on his way to Beirut,’ Daley gabbled. ‘Francis Callaghan’s been there for a while setting up a deal. Some Arab group called Party of God and the KGB are going to start supplying us.’

‘With arms?’

Daley shook his head. ‘Plutonium. Daniel says we’ll be able to cause the biggest bang Ireland’s ever seen. Really show those Fenian bastards we mean business.’

‘I see. And where does all this take place?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dillon raised the Browning and Daley screamed. ‘It’s the truth, I swear it. Daniel said he’d be in touch. All I know is Callaghan is staying at a hotel called Al Bustan.’

He was obviously telling the truth. Dillon said, ‘There, that wasn’t too hard, old son, was it?’

He aimed the Browning very quickly and shot Daley between the eyes, tumbling him back out of the chair, then he turned and walked away.

No more than a mile away from Garth Dock, where the shootings had taken place, the motorcycle turned into a narrow side street and entered a yard, driving straight into an open garage. Tom Curry closed and barred the gate to the street, then went into the garage. The black-clad rider pushed the motorcycle up on its stand, then turned and took off the helmet.

Grace Browning smiled, pale and excited. ‘Quite a night. A good job I was there.’

She unzipped her leather jacket and took out the AK47, butt folded.

‘What happened?’ Curry asked.

‘They’d set him up. Quite a man, our Mr Dillon. He killed two and shot up the second car. They had an extra man up on a platform with an Armalite. He tried to shoot Dillon; I shot him. End of story, so I cleared off.’

She was taking off the leathers as she spoke, revealing jeans and a jumper. She draped the leathers over the motorcycle.

‘Just leave everything’ Curry told her. ‘Belov’s people will clear up.’

‘You’ve got my bag?’

‘Sure.’ He handed her a holdall and she opened it and took out a light raincoat.

‘The car’s parked not too far away in the main road,’ he told her.

He opened the side gate and they left the yard.

‘Do we claim credit for January 30 on this?’ Curry asked.

‘Well, we’re entitled to one, so why not the lot? Somehow I don’t think Dillon and the Prime Minister’s private army would be happy to go public.’

‘Right. I’ll phone the news desk at the Belfast Telegraph.’

‘Good.’ She checked her watch. ‘Just after seven. We’ll have to hurry. Curtain up at eight.’

The Lear jet with two RAF pilots at the controls climbed steadily after lifting from Aldergrove, levelling off at thirty thousand feet. Hannah Bernstein sat on one side of the aisle, facing Dillon, who sat the other. He found the drawer containing the bar box and the thermos of hot water. He made coffee for her and tea for himself, then took a miniature of Scotch from the selection of drinks provided and poured it into his tea. He drank it slowly and lit a cigarette.

All this had been done in silence. Now he spoke. ‘You haven’t said much.’

‘It’s a lot to take in. Plutonium? Do they mean it?’

‘It’s been available on the black market in Russia for a while now. It was always only a matter of time before some terrorist group or other had a go.’

‘God help us all.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, how about you? Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘Who do you think it was on the motorcycle?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea, but they saved my bacon as we used to say in County Down.’

‘I wonder what gave you away?’

‘Oh, that was me. I told Daley I’d known of Quinn when he was on the run in Londonderry, but Quinn used an alias there. Frank Kelly. I wanted to draw their fire.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re quite mad. And what about this man, Mullin, and Curtis Daley? Did you have to kill them?’

‘It’s the business we’re in, girl dear. Twenty-five years of war.’

‘And for many of those years you fought for the IRA yourself.’

‘True. I wasn’t much more than a boy when my father was killed by British soldiers. Joining made sense to me then, but the years go by, Hannah, long weary years of slaughter, and to what end? That was then and this is now. Something clicked in my head one day. Put it any way you want.’ He found himself another miniature of Scotch. ‘As for Daley, three months ago he and Quinn stopped a truckload of Catholic roadworkers at Glasshill. Lined them up on the edge of a ditch, all twelve of them, and machine-gunned them.’

‘So it’s an eye for an eye?’

He smiled gently. ‘Straight out of the Old Testament. I’d have thought a nice Jewish girl like you would have approved.’ He reached for the phone. ‘And now I’d better report in on the secure line. Ferguson always likes to hear bad news as soon as possible.’

It was no more than an hour and a half later that Ferguson was ushered into the Prime Minister’s study at Downing Street. Simon Carter and Rupert Lang were already seated.

‘You used words like urgent and gravest national importance, Brigadier, so what have you got for us?’ John Major demanded.

Ferguson brought them up to date, in finest detail. When he was finished there was silence. It was Rupert Lang who spoke first.

‘How extraordinary that January 30 have claimed responsibility.’

‘Terrorist groups habitually claim credit for someone else’s hit,’ Ferguson said. ‘And there is the business of the gunman on the motorcycle.’

‘Yes, strange, that,’ Carter said. ‘And yet you had no backup whatsoever, did you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ferguson told him.

‘None of which is relevant now,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘The really important thing that Dillon has come up with is this possibility of the Sons of Ulster getting their hands on plutonium.’

‘With the greatest respect, Prime Minister,’ Simon Carter said, ‘having plutonium is one thing, producing some sort of nuclear device from it is quite another.’

‘Perhaps, but if you have the money and the right kind of connections anything is possible.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘You know as well as I that terrorist groups on the international circuit help each other out, and since the breakdown of things in Russia there’s plenty of the right kind of technical assistance available on the world market.’

There was another silence, broken only by the Prime Minister drumming on the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, ‘The Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration are achieving results and President Clinton is behind us fully. Twenty-five years of bloodshed, gentlemen. It’s time to stop.’

‘If I may be a devil’s advocate,’ Rupert Lang suggested, ‘that’s all very well for Sinn Fein and the IRA, but the Protestant Loyalist factions will feel they’ve been sold out.’

‘I know that, but they’ll have to make some sort of accommodation like everyone else.’

‘They’ll continue the fight, Prime Minister,’ Carter said gravely.

‘I accept that. We’ll just have to do our best to handle it. Machine guns by night are one thing, even the Semtex bomb, but not plutonium. That would add a totally new dimension.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Carter said.

The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. ‘So it would appear to be Beirut next stop for Dillon, Brigadier.’

‘So it would.’

‘If I recall the details on his file, Arabic is one of the numerous languages he speaks. He should feel quite at home there.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. Keep me posted, Brigadier.’

When Ferguson reached his Cavendish Square flat the door was opened by his manservant Kim, an ex-Gurkha corporal who had been with him for years.

‘Mr Dillon and the Chief Inspector have just arrived, Brigadier.’

Ferguson went into the elegant drawing room and found Hannah Bernstein sitting by the fire, drinking coffee. Dillon was helping himself to a Bushmills from the drinks tray on the sideboard.

‘Feel free with my whiskey by all means,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Oh I will, Brigadier, and me knowing you to be the decent old stick that you are.’

‘Drop the stage Irishman act, boy, we’ve got work to do. Now, let’s go over everything in detail again.’

‘I suppose the strangest thing was the mystery motorcyclist,’ Dillon said as he finished.

‘No mystery there,’ Ferguson told him. ‘January 30 have claimed responsibility for the whole thing. Someone phoned the Belfast Telegraph. It’s already on all the TV news programmes.’

‘The dogs,’ Dillon said. ‘But how would they have known about the meet?’

‘Never mind that now, we’ve more important things to consider. It’s Beirut for you, my lad, and you, Chief Inspector.’

‘Not the easiest of places to operate in,’ Dillon said.

‘As I recall, you managed it with perfect ease during the more unsavoury part of your career.’

‘True. I also sank some PLO boats in the harbour for the Israelis and the PLO have long memories. Anyway, what would our excuse be for being there?’

‘The United Nations Humanitarian Division will do nicely. Irish and English delegates. You’ll have to use aliases, naturally.’

‘And where will we stay?’ Hannah asked.

‘Me darling, there is only one decent hotel to stay these days in Beirut,’ Dillon told her. ‘Especially if you’re a foreigner and want a drink at the bar. It’s the place Daley told me Francis Callaghan was staying. The Al Bustan. It overlooks the city near Deir el Kalaa and the Roman ruins. You’ll find it very cultural.’

‘Do you think Quinn will be there, too?’ she asked.

‘Very convenient if he is.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘You’ll be able to arrange hardware for me?’

‘No problem. I’ve got an excellent contact. Man called Walid Khasan.’

‘Arab, I presume, not Christian.’ Dillon turned to Hannah Bernstein. ‘Lots of Christians in Beirut.’

‘Yes, Walid Khasan is a Muslim. His mother was French. The kind of man I like to deal with, Dillon. He’s only interested in the money.’

‘Aren’t we all, Brigadier, aren’t we all.’ Dillon smiled. ‘So let’s get down to it and work out how we’re going to handle this thing.’

It was just after eleven at the Europa Hotel when Grace Browning and Tom Curry finished their late supper in the dining room and went into the bar. It was quite deserted and the barman, watching television, came round to serve them.

‘What can I get you, Miss Browning?’

‘Brandy, I think, two brandies.’

He went away and Tom Curry said, ‘You were splendid tonight.’

She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her. ‘To which performance are you alluding?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Another performance.’ He nodded. ‘I’ve never really seen it before, but I think I do now. On stage or before the camera, it’s fantasy, but roaring up to Garth Dock on that bike – that was real.’

‘And in those few moments of action, I live more, feel more and with an intensity that just can’t be imagined.’

‘You really are an extraordinary person,’ he said.

The barman, pouring the drinks, called across, ‘I’ve just seen the late-night news flash. A real bloodbath. Three men shot dead at Garth Dock and three more not far away at some warehouse. January 30 has claimed. That’s Bloody Sunday, so the dead men must be Loyalists. The Prods will want to retaliate for that.’

Grace murmured, ‘Dillon certainly doesn’t take prisoners.’

‘You can say that again.’

The barman brought the brandies and served them with a flourish. ‘There you go.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible, all this killing. I mean, what kind of people want to do that kind of thing?’ and he walked away.

Grace Browning turned to Curry, a slight smile on her face, and toasted him. ‘Well?’ she said.

LONDON

3

If it began anywhere, it began with Tom Curry, Professor of Political Philosophy at London University, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge and who had in his time been a visiting professor at both Yale and Harvard. He was also a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

Born in 1949 in Dublin into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family, his father, a surgeon, had died of cancer when Curry was five, leaving the boy and his mother in comfortable circumstances. A fierce, proud, arrogant woman whose father had fought under Michael Collins in the original Irish Troubles, she had been raised to blame everyone for the mess Ireland had been left in after the English had partitioned the country and left. She blamed the Free State Government as much as the IRA.

Like many wealthy young women of intellect at that period, she saw Communism as the only answer, and as part of her brilliant son’s education taught him that there was only one true faith, the doctrine according to Karl Marx.

In 1966 at seventeen Curry went to Trinity College, Cambridge to study Political Philosophy, where he met Rupert Lang, an apparently effete aristocrat who never took anything seriously, except Tom Curry, for the bond was instant and they enjoyed a homosexual relationship which lasted throughout their period at university.

They went their separate ways, of course – Lang to Sandhurst and the Army following the family tradition, and Curry to the University of Moscow to research for a PhD on aspects of modern politics, where he was promptly recruited by the GRU.

They gave him the usual training in weaponry, how to handle himself in the field and so on, but told him that he would be regarded as a sleeper once back in England, someone to be called on when needed, no more than that.

On 30 January 1972, Rupert Lang, having transferred from the Grenadier Guards, was serving as a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment in Londonderry in Northern Ireland, a day that would be long remembered as Bloody Sunday. By the time the paratroopers had stopped firing, thirteen people lay dead and there were many wounded, including Rupert Lang, who took a bullet in the arm, whether from his own side or the IRA he could never be sure. On sick leave in London he had lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and was totally delighted when he went into the bar to find his old friend sitting in a window seat, enjoying a quiet drink.

‘You old bastard, how marvellous,’ Lang said. ‘I thought you were in Russia?’

‘Oh. I’m back now at Trinity, putting the thesis together.’ Curry nodded at Lang’s arm. ‘Why the sling?’

Lang had always been aware of his friend’s politics and now he shrugged. ‘I don’t expect you’ll want to speak to me. Bloody Sunday. I stopped a bullet.’

‘You were there?’ Curry called to the barman for two Bushmills. ‘How bad was it?’

‘Terrible. Not soldiering, not the way I thought it would be.’ Lang accepted his whiskey from the barman and raised his glass. ‘Anyway, to you, old sport. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.’

‘That goes double.’ Curry toasted him back. ‘What are you going to do?’

Lang smiled. ‘You could always read me like a book. Yes, I’m finished with the Army as a career. Not straight away, though. My captaincy’s coming up and I want to keep the old man happy.’

‘I see he’s a Minister at the Home Office now.’

‘Yes, but his health isn’t good. I think he’ll stand down at the next election, which will leave a vacancy for one of the safest Conservative seats in the country.’

Curry said, ‘You’re going to go into Parliament?’

‘Why not? I’ve all the money in the world, so I don’t need to work, and I’ll walk into the seat if the old man steps down. What do you think?’

‘Bloody marvellous.’ Curry stood up. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat and you can tell me all about Bloody Sunday and your Irish exploits.’

‘Terrible business,’ Lang said as they walked through to the dining room. ‘All hell’s going on at Army Intelligence HQ at Lisburn. I heard the Prime Minister is going through the roof.’

‘How interesting,’ Curry said as they sat down. ‘Tell me more.’

Curry’s control was a 35-year-old GRU major named Yuri Belov, who was supposed to be a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Curry met him in a booth at a pub opposite Kensington Palace Gardens and the Soviet Embassy. Belov enjoyed London and had no great urge to be posted back to Moscow, which meant that he liked to look good to his superiors back there. Curry’s version of Bloody Sunday and his account of the sensory deprivation methods used to break IRA prisoners at Army headquarters at Lisburn was just the sort of stuff Belov wanted to hear.

‘Excellent, Tom,’ he said when Curry was finished. ‘Of course your friend has no idea you’ve been pumping him dry?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Curry said. ‘He knew what my politics were when we were at Cambridge, but he’s an English aristocrat. Couldn’t care less.’ Curry lit a cigarette. ‘And he’s my best friend, Yuri, let’s get that clear.’

‘Of course, Tom, I understand. However, anything further you can learn from him would always be useful.’

‘He intends to leave the Army soon,’ Curry said. ‘His father’s a Minister of the Home Office. I think Rupert will step in when the old man leaves.’

‘Really?’ Yuri Belov smiled. ‘A Member of Parliament. Now that is interesting.’

‘Yes, well, while we’re discussing what’s interesting,’ Curry said, ‘what about me? This is the first time we’ve spoken in nine months and I’m the one who’s come to you. I’d like to see a little action.’

‘Patience,’ Belov said. ‘That’s what being a sleeper is. It’s about waiting, sometimes for many years until the time comes when you are needed.’

‘A bloody boring prospect.’

‘Yes, well, spying usually is, most of the time, and after all, you’ve got your work.’ Belov stood up. ‘Hope to see you again soon, Tom.’

But he didn’t and it was to be fourteen years before they met again. Belov was transferred back home, and Tom Curry went to America – Harvard for five years, Yale for four – before returning to Cambridge where he became a Fellow of Trinity College.

Rupert Lang’s father died in office and Lang promptly left the Army and put himself forward for the seat in Parliament, winning with a record majority. He and Curry were as close as ever. Lang often spent vacations with him during the American period and Curry always stayed, when in London, at Lang’s beautiful town house in Dean Court, close to Westminster Abbey and within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament.

In 1985 Curry became a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University and visiting Professor at Queen’s University, Belfast. His mother had been dead for some time, but he had his friendship with Lang, his work and the fact that due to his academic standing, he had been invited to sit on a number of important government committees. The arrangement made with Yuri Belov was so long ago that it might never have happened. Then one day, out of the blue, he received a telephone call at his office at the university.

Belov had put on a little weight and there was a scar on his left cheek. Otherwise he had changed little: the same sort of Savile Row suit, the same genial smile. They sat in a booth in the pub opposite Kensington Palace Gardens and shared half a bottle of Sancerre.

The Russian toasted Curry. ‘Good to see you, Tom.’

‘And you. What about the scar?’

‘Afghanistan. A dreadful place. You know, those tribesmen skinned our men when they caught them.’

‘But you’re back now?’

‘Yes, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Embassy, but you must treat me with respect.’ He grinned. ‘I am now a full colonel in the GRU and Head of Station here in London. You, by the way, have been promoted to major.’

‘But I haven’t done anything,’ Curry said. ‘Except sit on my arse for years.’

‘You will, Tom, you will. With all these government posts you hold, particularly on the Northern Ireland Committee, and your friend, Lang. He’s doing well. A Government Whip? That’s very important, isn’t it, and I hear Mrs Thatcher likes him.’

‘Don’t set too much store by that. Rupert doesn’t take life too seriously.’

‘He still isn’t aware of your connection with us?’

‘Not a hint,’ Curry told him. ‘I prefer it that way. Now, what do you want?’

‘From now on, full and intimate details of all those committee meetings, especially Irish affairs and anything to do with the activities of our Arab friends and their fundamentalist groups. They’re all over London these days. The English are far too liberal in letting them in.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Not for the moment.’ Belov stood up. ‘You’re too valuable to waste on small things, Tom. Your day will come, believe me. Just be patient.’ He took out his wallet and passed over a slip of paper. ‘Emergency numbers if you need me, Embassy and home. I’ve a cottage in a mews just up the road. I’ll be in touch.’

He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.

It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lang was at the Commons, making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.

‘Belov here,’ the Colonel said. ‘I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.’

Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information.

It was raining hard outside so he found an old Burberry trenchcoat, a trilby hat and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the kerb and Belov leaned out.

‘Over here, Tom.’

Curry climbed in beside him. ‘What’s so important?’

Belov pulled out from the kerb. ‘I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.’

‘Who is this Arab?’

‘A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.’

‘Can you be sure all this is kosher?’ Curry asked.

‘The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.’

‘Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s none of their business. Division of labour. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.’

‘Very capitalistic,’ Curry told him. ‘Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.’

He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the kerb. ‘You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.’

Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.

It was no more than thirty minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, and there was no one about. He found Butler’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end and stood by an old-fashioned streetlamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him

The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.

‘Ali Hamid?’

‘Who are you?’ the man asked in a hoarse voice.

‘Colonel Belov sent me.’

‘But he was to come himself.’ Hamid laughed in a strange way. ‘It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.’ He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. ‘Unfortunate.’

His hand came out of his right pocket, holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol, and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.

Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood was seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase and slipped it inside.

He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. There was a lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.

Rupert Lang, having returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes before, was pouring a large Scotch in the drawing room when the front doorbell sounded. He swallowed some of the whisky, put down his glass and went into the hall. When he opened the door, Curry, almost out on his feet, fell into his arms.

‘Tom, what is it?’

‘Quite simple, old lad, I’ve been shot. Get me into the kitchen before I bleed all over your best carpet.’

Lang got an arm round him, helped him into the kitchen and eased him into a chair. Curry tried to get his Burberry off and Lang went to his assistance.

‘Dear God, Tom, your sleeve’s soaked in blood.’

‘Yes, well, it would be.’

Lang reached for a towel and wrapped it around Curry’s arm. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’

‘No you won’t, old lad. I’ve just killed a man.’

Lang, on his way to the door, stopped and turned. ‘You’ve what?’

‘Arab terrorist called Ali Hamid tried to kill me, that’s when I stopped the bullet. Took a couple himself in the struggle. I left him on Butler’s Wharf in the rain. It’s all right. No one saw me and I didn’t get a cab on the way back. Long bloody walk, I can tell you.’ Curry managed a smile. ‘A large whisky and a cigarette would help.’

Lang went out and returned with a glass and a bottle of Scotch. He poured, handed the glass over and found a packet of cigarettes. As he gave Curry a light he said, ‘I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.’

‘We’ve been friends a long time,’ Tom said.

‘Best of friends,’ Rupert Lang said.

‘No one’s known me better than you, old lad, and I’ve always been honest. You know my politics.’

‘Of course I do,’ Lang said. ‘Come the revolution you’ll take me out and have me shot, with great regret, of course.’

‘Just one thing I never told you.’

‘And what’s that?’

Curry swallowed the Scotch and held out the glass for another. ‘Let’s see, you were a captain in 1 Para when you retired?’

‘That’s right.’ Lang poured more whisky.

‘Well, the thing is, old lad, I outrank you. I’m a major in Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU.’

Lang stopped pouring, then carefully replaced the cap on the bottle. ‘You old bastard.’ He was smiling, suddenly excited. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Ever since Moscow. That’s when they recruited me.’

‘Shades of Philby, Burgess and Maclean.’

Lang put the bottle down and lit a cigarette himself. He paced around the kitchen, full of energy. ‘Tell me everything, Tom, not only what happened tonight. Everything.’

When Curry finished talking, he tried to stand up. ‘So you see, much better if I get out of here.’

Lang pushed him down. ‘Don’t play silly bastards with me, although I must say you have done. My God, all that stuff from the Northern Ireland Office going to our Russian friends. Dammit Tom, I sat on one of those committees with you.’

‘I know, isn’t it terrible?’ Curry said.

‘You say Belov’s at the Savoy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Good. I’m going to ring him up. He can sort this mess out for you. After all, it’s his kind of business.’

He reached for the kitchen phone, but Curry said, ‘For God’s sake, old lad, you can’t afford to get involved. Just let me go. I shouldn’t have come back here. Only a guest, after all.’ It was as if he was losing consciousness. ‘Not your affair.’

‘Oh, yes it is.’ Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling now. He ran a hand over Curry’s head. ‘Rest easy, Tom, I’ll handle it.’

He rang through to the Savoy and asked that Colonel Yuri Belov come to the phone urgently.

Rose House Nursing Home was a discreet establishment in Holland Park. It had once been the town mansion of some turn-of-the-century millionaire and stood discreetly in two acres of gardens behind high walls. In a lounge area on the second floor, Belov and Rupert Lang drank coffee and waited. Finally a door opened and a small cheerful Indian walked in, clad in green surgical robes.

‘This is Dr Joel Gupta, the principal of this establishment,’ Belov said to Lang. ‘How is he, Joel?’

‘Very lucky. The Beretta fires 9-millimetre Parabellum. At close quarters, it’s enough to take a man’s arm off. This time it only chipped the bone and passed through flesh. He’ll be fine, but I want him in for a week.’

‘When can we see him?’ Belov asked.

‘He’s woozy right now. Give him half an hour, then five minutes only. I’ll see you later.’

Gupta went out. Lang said. ‘He seems to be on your side.’

‘I knew him in Afghanistan,’ Belov said. ‘Helped him come to England. Don’t get the wrong impression. He helps me out on the odd occasion, but most of the time he specializes in drug addiction. He does fine work.’

‘So what went wrong tonight?’ Lang asked.

‘My dear man, do you really want to get into this any more than you have to?’

‘I’m already up to my ears,’ Lang said. ‘And Tom Curry is the best friend I have in the world.’

‘But you’re in the Government.’

‘So?’

‘And Curry, like me, is a committed Communist. We believe that we are right and you are wrong.’

‘But I often am,’ Lang told him. ‘I’m sure you’ll lead me to the guillotine when the moment arrives, but I take friendship seriously, so what about Tom? What went wrong?’

‘Colonel Boris Ashimov went wrong. He’s Head of Station at the London Embassy for the KGB. As you know, GRU is Military Intelligence and we have our differences. I hadn’t realized how deep they were until tonight.’

‘He set you up?’

‘So it would appear. If it hadn’t been for the Savoy affair I’d have gone personally.’

‘But instead, poor old Torn takes the bullet.’ Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling. His eyes glittered, and there was a wolfish look to his face. ‘I took a bullet myself once. Not nice.’

‘Of course,’ Belov said. ‘1 Para. Bloody Sunday. You were a lieutenant then.’

Just then a nurse appeared. ‘He’s surfaced. You can go in now if you like.’

Curry managed a weak smile. ‘Still here, am I?’

‘For a long time yet,’ Rupert Lang told him.

Curry turned to Belov. ‘What went wrong, Yuri?’

‘It would appear Ashimov set me up. Ali Hamid was supposed to knock me off. Unfortunately I sent you – unfortunate for you, that is, not for me. However, we must cover the trail as much as possible, give an explanation for Hamid’s death. He’s a known terrorist. Both Scotland Yard and MI5 will find that out soon enough.’

‘What would you suggest?’ Lang asked.

‘Someone should claim credit for his death,’ Belov nodded. ‘That would take care of things nicely.’

‘Like the Provisional IRA?’ Curry demanded.

‘No, something new, something to confuse them all.’

‘You mean an entirely new terrorist group?’ Lang asked.

‘Why not?’ Belov smiled. ‘Bloody Sunday, wasn’t that 30 January 1973? What if I put a call through to The Times claiming credit for Hamid’s killing on behalf of January 30? That would certainly give the anti-terrorist units at every level something to chew on.’

‘Rather like that Greek group we read about,’ Lang said. ‘November 17. Yes, I like it. Should muddy the waters nicely.’

‘Of course,’ Belov said. ‘You see, Mr Lang, because of the cause I serve, chaos is my main interest in life. Fear, uncertainty and chaos. I want to create as much of all these things as possible in the Western world. Then gradually the cracks begin to show and finally the system breaks down. Take Ireland, for example. We don’t take sides, but we do actively help to keep the whole rotten mess going. A civil war, a descent into madness and then our friends, and there are many in Ireland, take over.’

‘Another Cuba, only in Britain’s backyard,’ Lang said. ‘Interesting.’

‘I’ve been very frank,’ Belov said. ‘But it doesn’t seem to bother you.’

‘Very little in this life does, old sport.’

‘Fine. I’ll take care of this January 30 thing then.’

It was Curry who said, ‘And who takes care of Ashimov? He’s got to kill you now, Yuri, no choice.’

‘Yes, someone should sort that bastard out.’ Rupert Lang opened the briefcase beside the bed and took out the Beretta. He said to Belov, ‘Fifty thousand dollars in there. I believe it’s yours. I’ll keep the Beretta. Just tell me where and when.’

There was a moment’s silence and then Curry said, ‘You can’t be serious.’

Lang smiled that strange wolfish smile again. ‘I killed three people on Bloody Sunday, Tom, and two others elsewhere during my service in Ulster. Never told you that. Secrets, you see, just like you.’ He turned to Belov. ‘Another job for January 30. First this Arab, then the Station Head of the KGB in London. That should really make the Security Services squirm and I should know, I’m on half the committees.’

He killed Colonel Boris Ashimov with absurd simplicity a week later on a rainy morning in Kensington Gardens. Belov had timed it for him. Every morning at ten Ashimov walked in the gardens, whatever the weather. On that particular Thursday it was raining heavily. Rupert Lang sat enjoying a coffee in a café opposite Kensington Palace Gardens, not expecting Ashimov to appear. But the man carrying an umbrella over his head fitted the description Belov had given him. Ashimov turned into the Bayswater Road and entered the gardens. Lang got to his feet and went after him.

He followed him along the path, keeping well back, his own umbrella raised. There was no one about. They reached a clump of trees at the centre of the gardens, and Lang quickened his pace.

‘Excuse me.’

Ashimov turned. ‘What do you want?’

‘You, actually,’ Rupert Lang said, and shot him twice in the heart, the silenced Beretta making only a slight coughing sound. He leaned down and put another bullet between Ashimov’s eyes then put the Beretta in his raincoat pocket, moved rapidly across the gardens to Queen’s Gate, crossed to the Albert Hall and walked on for a good half mile before hailing a cab and telling the driver to take him to Westminster.

He lit a cigarette and sat back, shaking with excitement. He had never felt like this in his life before, not even in the Paras in Ireland. Every sense felt keener, even the colours when he looked out at the passing streets seemed sharper. But the excitement, the damned excitement!

He closed his eyes. ‘My God, old sport, what’s happening to you?’ he murmured.

He arrived at the St Stephen’s entrance to the Commons, went through the Central Lobby to his office and got rid of his umbrella and raincoat and put the Beretta in his safe, then went down to the entrance to the House and passed the bar. There was a debate taking place on some social services issue. He took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. When he looked up he saw Tom Curry seated in the front row of the Strangers’ Gallery, his left arm in a sling. Lang nodded up to him, folded his arms and leaned back.

Half an hour later the Times newsdesk received a brief message by telephone in which January 30 claimed credit for the assassination of Colonel Boris Ashimov.

In the three years that followed, Curry maintained a steady flow of confidential information of every description, aided by Lang. They made only three hits during the period. Two of these took place at the same time – a couple of IRA bombers released from trial at the Old Bailey on a legal technicality. The two men proceeded on a drunken spree that lasted all day. It was Curry who charted their progress until midnight, then called in Lang, who killed them both as they sat, backs to the wall, in a drunken stupor in a Kilburn alley.

The third was a CIA field officer attached to the American Embassy’s London Station. He had been giving Belov considerable aggravation and, after the Berlin Wall came down, appeared to be far too friendly with the Russian’s latest rival, Mikhail Shimko, who had replaced Ashimov as Colonel in Charge of London Station KGB.

The CIA man was called Jackson, and by chance, his name came up at one of the joint intelligence working parties. News had come in that he was having a series of meetings at an address in Holland Park with members of a Ukrainian faction resident in London. Curry kept a watch at the appropriate times and noticed that Jackson always walked for a mile afterwards, following the same route through quiet streets to the main road where he would hail a taxi.

After the next meeting, Lang was waiting in a small Ford van – provided by Belov, of course – at an appropriate point on the route. As Jackson passed, Lang, wearing a knitted ski mask in black, stepped out and shot him once in the back, penetrating the heart. He finished him with a head shot, got in the van and drove away. He left the van in a builders’ yard in Bayswater, as instructed by Belov, and walked away, whistling softly to himself.

It was half an hour later that a young reporter on the newsdesk of the Times took the phone call claiming credit for the killing by January 30.

The British Government allowed the Americans to flood London temporarily with CIA agents intent on hunting down Jackson’s killer. As usual, they drew a complete blank. That the killings claimed by January 30 from Ali Hamid onwards had been the work of the same Beretta 9-millimetre was known to everyone, as was the significance of January 30. The Bloody Sunday connection should have indicated an Irish revolutionary connection, but even the IRA got nowhere in their investigations. In the end, the CIA presence was withdrawn.

British Army Intelligence, Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist department, MI5, all failed to make headway. Even the redoubtable Brigadier Charles Ferguson, head of the special intelligence unit responsible to the Prime Minister, could only report total failure to Downing Street.

It was in January 1990, following the collapse of the Communist-dominated government of East Germany, that Lang and Curry attended a cultural evening at the American Embassy. There were at least a hundred and fifty people there, including Belov, whom they found at the champagne bar. They took their glasses into an anteroom and found a corner table.

‘So, everything is falling apart for you people, Yuri,’ Lang said. ‘First the Wall comes tumbling down, now East Germany folds and a little bird tells me there’s a strong possibility that your Congress of People’s Deputies might soon abolish the Communist Party’s monopoly of power in Russia.’

Belov shrugged. ‘Disorder leads to strength. It’s inevitable. Take the German situation. West Germany is at present the most powerful country in Western Europe economically. The consequences of taking East Germany on board will be catastrophic in every way and particularly economically. The balance of power in Europe will once again be altered totally. Remember what I said a long time ago? Chaos is our business.’

‘I suppose you’re right when you come to think of it,’ Lang said.

Curry nodded. ‘Of course he is.’

‘I invariably am.’ Belov raised his glass. ‘To a new world, my friends, and to us. One never knows what’s round the corner.’

‘I know,’ Rupert Lang said. ‘That’s what makes it all so damned exciting.’

They touched glasses and drank.

4

Rupert Lang was more right than he knew. There was something round the corner, something profound and disturbing that was to affect all three of them, although it was not to take place until the Gulf War was over and done with. January, 1992 to be precise.

Grace Browning was born in Washington in 1965. Her father was a journalist on the Washington Post, her mother was English. When she was twelve tragedy struck, devastating her life. On the way home from a concert one night, her parents’ car was rammed into the kerb by an old limousine. The men inside were obviously on drugs. Afterwards, she remembered the shouting, the demands for money, her father opening the door to get out and then the shots, one of which penetrated the side window at the rear and killed her mother instantly.

Grace lay in the bottom of the car, frozen, terrified, glancing up only once to see the shape of a man, gun raised, shouting, ‘Go, go, go!’ and then the old limousine shot away.

She wasn’t even able to give the police a useful description, couldn’t even say whether they were white or black. All that mattered was that her father died the following morning and she was left alone.

Not quite alone, of course, for there was her mother’s sister, her Aunt Martha – Lady Hunt to be precise – a woman of considerable wealth, widowed young, who lived in some splendour in a fine town house in Cheyne Walk in London. She had received her niece with affection and firmness, for she was a tough, practical lady who believed you had to get on with it instead of sitting down and crying.

Grace was admitted to St Paul’s Girls’ School, one of the finest in London, where she soon proved to have a sharp intelligence. She was popular with everyone, teachers and pupils alike, and yet for her, it was a sort of performance. Inside she was one thing, herself, detached, cold; but on the surface she was charming, intelligent, warm. It was not surprising that she was something of a star in school drama circles.

Her social life, because of her aunt, was conducted at the highest level: Cannes and Nice in the summer, Barbados in the winter, always a ceaseless round of parties on the London scene. When she was sixteen, like most of the girls she knew, she attempted her first sexual encounter, a gauche 17-year-old public schoolboy. It was less than rewarding and as he climaxed, a strange thing happened. She seemed to see in her head the shadowy figure of the man who had killed her parents, gun raised.

When the time came for Grace to leave school, although her academic grades were good enough for Oxford or Cambridge, she had only one desire – to be a professional actor. Her aunt, being the sort of woman she was, supported her fully, stipulating only that Grace had to go for best. So Grace auditioned for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and they accepted her at once.

Her career there was outstanding. In the final play, Macbeth, she played Lady Macbeth, absurdly young and yet so brilliant that London theatrical agents clamoured to take her on board. She turned them all down and went to Chichester, the smallest of the two theatres, the Minerva, to play the lead in a revival of Anna Christie – so triumphantly that the play transferred to the London West End, the Theatre Royal at the Haymarket, where it ran for a year.

After that, she could have everything, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre, establishing herself in a series of great classic roles. She went to Hollywood only once to star in a classy and flashy revenge thriller in which she killed several men, but she turned down all subsequent film offers except for the occasional TV appearance and returned to the National Theatre.

Money, of course, was no problem. Aunt Martha saw to that and took great pride in her niece’s achievements. She was the one person Grace felt loved her and she loved her fiercely in return, dropping out of the theatre totally for the last, terrible year when leukaemia took its hold on the old woman.

Martha came home at the end to die in her own bed, in the room that overlooked the Thames. There was medical help in abundance, but Grace looked after her every need personally.

On the last evening it was raining, beating softly against the windows. She was holding her aunt’s hand and Martha, gaunt and wasted, opened her eyes and looked at her.

‘You’ll go back now, promise me, and show them all what real acting is about. It’s what you are, my love. Promise me.’

‘Of course,’ Grace said.

‘No sad tears, no mourning. A celebration to prove how worthwhile it’s been.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘I never told you, Grace, but your father always believed the family tradition that they were kin to Robert Browning.’

‘The poet?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes. There’s a line in one of his great poems. “Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things.” I don’t know why, but it seems to suit you perfectly.’

Her eyes closed and she died a few minutes later.

She was wealthy now, the house in Cheyne Walk was hers and the world of theatre was her oyster, but no one could control her, no one could hold her. Her wealth meant that she could do what she wanted. Her first role on her return was in Look Back in Anger with an obscure South Coast repertory company in a seaside town. The critics descended from London in droves and were ecstatic. After that she did a range of similar performances at various provincial theatres, finally returning to the National Theatre to do Turgenev’s A Month in the Country.

No long-term contracts, no ties. She had set a pattern. If a part interested her she would play it – even if it was for four weeks at some obscure civic theatre in the heart of Lancashire or some London fringe theatre venue such as the King’s Head or the Old Red Lion – and the audiences everywhere loved her.

Love in her own life was a different story. There were men, of course, when the mood came, but no one who ever moved her. In male circles in the theatre she was known as the Ice Queen. She knew this but it didn’t dismay her in the slightest, amused her if anything and her actor’s gift for analysis of a role told her that if anything, she had a certain contempt for men.

In October 1991, Grace performed in Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the Minerva Studio at Chichester, still her favourite theatre. It was a short run, but such was the interest in this most Irish of plays that the company was invited to the Lyric Theatre, Belfast, for a two-week run. Unfortunately, Grace was scheduled to start rehearsals at the National for A Winter’s Tale immediately after her stint at the Minerva, and so the director of The Hostage came to see her in some trepidation.

‘The Lyric, Belfast, would like us for two weeks. Of course, I’ll have to say no. I mean, you start rehearsing Monday at the National.’

‘Belfast?’ she said. ‘I’ve never been. I like the sound of that.’

‘But the National?’ he protested.

‘Oh, they can put things on the back burner for a couple of weeks.’ She smiled, that famous smile of hers that seemed to be for you alone. ‘Or get someone else.’

She indulged herself by staying at the Europa Hotel. She stood at the window of her suite and looked out at the rain driving in across the city, suddenly excited to be here, surely one of the most dangerous cities in the world. It was only four o’clock and she was not due at the Lyric until six-thirty. On impulse, she went downstairs.

At the main entrance, the head doorman smiled. ‘A taxi, Miss Browning?’

Posters advertising the play with her photo on them were on a stand close by.

She gave him her best smile. ‘No, I just need some fresh air and I like the rain.’

‘Plenty of that in Belfast, miss, better take this,’ and he put up an umbrella for her.

She started towards the bus station and the Protestant stronghold of Sandy Row, feeling suddenly cheerful as a bitter east wind blew in from Belfast Lough.

Tom Curry always stayed at the Europa during his monthly visits as visiting Professor at Queen’s University. He liked Belfast, the sense of danger, the thought that anything might happen. Sometimes his visits coincided with Rupert Lang’s, for Lang was now an extra Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office, which meant frequent visits to Ulster on Crown business, and this was one of them.

Lang arrived back at the Europa at five-thirty, went into the Library Bar and found Tom Curry seated at one end, reading the Belfast Telegraph, a Bushmills in front of him.

Curry glanced up. ‘Hello, old lad. Had a good day?’

‘It’s always bloody raining every time I come to Belfast.’ Lang nodded to the barman. ‘Same as my friend.’

‘You don’t like it much, do you?’ Curry said.

‘I went through hell here, Tom, back in seventy-three. Close to six hundred dead in one year. Bodies under the rubble for days, the stink of explosions. I can still smell it.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, old sport.’

Curry toasted him back. ‘As the Fenians say, may you die in Ireland.’

‘Thanks very much.’ Lang smiled. ‘Mind you, you can’t fault them on their attitude to culture here.’ He nodded towards the wall behind the bar, where Grace’s poster was displayed.

‘Grace Browning, yes. She’s wonderful. Strange choice of a play for Belfast, though, The Hostage. Very IRA.’

‘Nonsense,’ Lang said. ‘Behan showed the absurdity of the whole thing even though he was in the IRA himself.’

At that moment Grace Browning entered. As she unbuttoned her raincoat, a waiter hurried to take it. She walked to the bar and Rupert Lang said, ‘Good God, it’s Grace Browning.’

Hearing him, she turned and gave him that famous smile. ‘Hello.’

‘May I introduce myself?’ he asked.

She frowned slightly. ‘You know, I feel I’ve met you before.’

Curry laughed. ‘No, you’ve occasionally seen him on the television. Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office. Rupert Lang.’

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Tom Curry,’ Lang said. ‘He’s just a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University. Visiting Professor here at Queen’s once a month. Can we offer you a drink?’

‘Why not. A glass of white wine. Just one, I’ve got to give a performance.’

Lang gave the order to the barman. ‘We’ve seen you many times.’

‘Together?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he smiled. ‘Tom and I go back a long way. Cambridge.’

‘That’s nice.’ She sipped her wine. There was something about them. She sensed it. Something unusual. ‘Are you coming to the show tonight?’

‘Didn’t realize it was on,’ Curry said. ‘I’m only here for three days. Don’t suppose there are any tickets left.’

‘I’ll leave you two of my tickets at the box office,’ she said.

It was a challenge instantly taken up. ‘Oh, you’re on,’ Lang said. ‘Wonderful.’

She swallowed the rest of the wine. ‘Good. Now I’ll have to love you and leave you. Hope you enjoy it.’

As she left the bar, Curry turned to Lang and they toasted each other. ‘By the way,’ Curry said, ‘are you carrying?’

‘Of course I am,’ Lang told him. ‘If you think I’m going to walk the streets of Belfast without a pistol you’re crazy. As a Minister of the Crown I have my permit, Tom. No problems with security at the airports.’

‘The Beretta?’ Curry asked.

‘But of course. Lucky for us, I’d say.’

Curry shook his head. ‘It’s just a game to you, isn’t it? A wild, exciting game.’

‘Exactly, old sport, but then life can be such a bore. Now drink up and let’s go and get ready.’

Grace Browning was wonderful, no doubt about it, receiving a rapturous reception from the packed house at the end of the play. Curry and Lang went into the bar for a drink and debated whether to go backstage and see her.

It was Lang who said, ‘I think not, old sport. Probably lots of locals doing exactly that. We’ll go back to the Europa and have a nightcap at the bar. She may well look in.’

‘You like her, don’t you?’ Curry said.

‘So do you.’

Curry smiled. ‘Let’s get the car.’

On their way back to the hotel, Curry, who was driving, turned into a quiet road between several factories and warehouses, deserted at night. Lang put a hand on his arm as they passed a woman walking rapidly along the pavement, an umbrella up against the rain.

‘Good God, it’s her.’

‘The damned fool,’ Curry said. ‘She can’t walk around the back streets of Belfast like that on her own.’

‘Pull in to the kerb,’ Lang said. ‘I’ll get her.’

Curry did so. Lang opened the car door and saw two young men in bomber jackets run up behind Grace Browning and grab her. He heard her cry out, and then she was hustled into an alley.

Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.

They hustled her to the end of the alley, where there was a dead end, and a jumble of packing cases lay under an old streetlamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.

‘What do you want?’

‘English, is it?’ The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. ‘We don’t like the English.’

The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, ‘There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.’

He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.

‘Let me go, damn you!’ She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whiskey breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.

‘That’s enough,’ Rupert Lang called through the rain.

The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned, too, as Lang and Curry approached.

‘Just let her go,’ Curry said. ‘You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.’

‘You’d better keep out of this, friend,’ the man in the tweed cap told him. ‘This is Provisional IRA business.’

‘Really?’ Rupert Lang replied. ‘Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.’

They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one with the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.

At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways, sending her sprawling. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist, making him drop the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles towards Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.

She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him.

Rupert Lang said, ‘Give it to me.’

‘Is he dead?’ she asked in a calm voice.

‘If not, he soon will be.’ Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. ‘Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.’ He picked up the umbrella. ‘Yours, I think.’

Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hurried her away.

‘No police?’ she said.

‘This is Belfast,’ Curry told her. ‘Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?’

‘But were they?’ she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear seat.

‘Probably not, my dear,’ Rupert Lang said. ‘Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.’

‘Never mind,’ Curry told her. ‘They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.’

‘Especially if January 30 claims credit.’ Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. ‘Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.’ She accepted it, strangely calm. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

‘No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.’

‘Good,’ Curry said. ‘Then it’s a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.’

‘Oh, yes it did,’ she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.

When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on her arm, started towards the lifts.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’d like a nightcap.’

Lang frowned, then nodded. ‘Fine.’ He turned to Curry. ‘Better make the call, Tom.’ He led her into the Library Bar.

A few minutes later the phone rang on the desk of the night editor at the Belfast Telegraph. When he picked it up, a gruff voice said, ‘Carrick Lane, got that? You’ll find a couple of Provo bastards on their backs there. We won’t be sending flowers.’

‘Who is this?’ the night editor demanded.

‘January 30.’

The phone went dead. The night editor stared at it, frowning, then hurriedly dialled his emergency number to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Curry joined them in the bar at a corner table. They were drinking brandy and there was a glass for him.

Lang said, ‘You seem rather calm considering the circumstances.’

‘You mean why am I not crying and sobbing because I just killed a man?’ She shook her head. ‘He was a piece of filth. He deserved everything he got. I loathe people like that. When I was twelve I was driving back from a concert in Washington one night with my parents. We were attacked by armed thugs. My parents were killed.’

She sat staring down into her glass and Curry said gently, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You handled the gun surprisingly well,’ Lang said. ‘Have you had much training?’

She laughed. ‘One Hollywood movie, just one. I didn’t like it out there. There were a few scenes where I had to use a gun. They showed me how.’ She finished the brandy and raised the empty glass to the barman. ‘Three more.’ She smiled tightly. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we do seem to be rather tied in together, don’t we?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ Curry agreed.

She turned to Lang as the barman brought the brandies and waited until he’d gone. ‘You said in the car something about January 30 claiming credit. I’ve read about them. They’re some sort of terrorist group, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ Lang said. ‘Of course, in this sort of case, revolutionaries and so on, all sorts of groups like to claim credit. Very useful fact of life. We’re just making sure somebody does.’

‘I’ve already spoken to the night desk at the Belfast Telegraph,’ Curry said. ‘By tomorrow, you’ll find the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand of Ulster claiming credit, also. They’re Protestant Loyalist factions.’

‘But you’d prefer January 30 to get the credit?’ she said.

There was a moment of silence. It was Lang who said, ‘You’re a remarkably astute young woman. Is there a problem here?’

‘Not in the slightest. As I said, it would seem we’re tied together in this.’

‘Invisible bonds and all that.’

‘Exactly.’ She opened her handbag, took out a card and passed it to him. ‘That’s my address and phone number. Cheyne Walk. I’ll be back in London in twelve days. Perhaps we could meet?’

‘I think you can count on that.’

She stood up. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a matinee tomorrow.’

She walked out of the bar.

Curry said, ‘My God, what a woman.’

‘Yes, quite remarkable. You know, Tom, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

When she put out the light and pulled up the covers, Grace Browning lay there, strangely calm, staring up through the darkness, looking for him, the shadowy figure with the gun in his hand, but he seemed to have gone. She closed her eyes and slept.

It was four weeks later that Rupert Lang received a call from her in response to a message he had left on her answering phone a week earlier.

‘Sorry I haven’t called you before,’ she said. ‘But some friends had a problem at Cross Little Theatre in the Lake District. They had a week unexpectedly vacant. Someone let them down so I went up and did my one-woman show.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘No big deal. Shakespeare’s heroines – that sort of thing.’

‘Can we meet? Tom’s in town. I thought we could have dinner.’

‘That sounds fine. You could come here for drinks first. Six-thirty suit you?’

‘Smashing. We’ll look forward to it.’

At the Cheyne Walk house she opened the door to them herself. She wore a deceptively simple Armani trouser suit in black crepe and her black hair was tied at the back of the neck with a velvet bow.

Rupert Lang took her hands. ‘You look fabulous.’

‘That’s a bit over the top,’ she said.

‘Not at all.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Don’t you think she looks fabulous, Tom?’

Curry took her hand briefly. ‘Don’t mind Rupert. Extravagant in everything.’

They went through into a panelled drawing room. It was furnished in Victorian style – dark velvet drapes at the windows, a basket fire on the hearth, four paintings by Atkinson Grimshaw on the walls.

‘My goodness, they’re worth a bob or two,’ Curry said as he inspected them.

She took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and Rupert Lang moved in fast. ‘Allow me.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my aunt loved Grimshaw, loved everything Victorian in fact. Lady Hunt, Martha Hunt. She raised me from the age of twelve when my parents were killed. This house was her pride and joy.’

Rupert Lang poured the champagne. ‘I remember her husband, Sir George Hunt. Merchant banker in the city. My father used to do business with him.’

‘He died before I arrived,’ she said, ‘and Martha only the other year.’

‘I’m truly sorry.’

She went and opened the French windows. A cold, February night outside, a slight drizzle, some fog and some barge traffic, their red and green lights clear in the murk as they passed down river.

‘I love the Thames at night.’

‘Heart of the city,’ Lang said. ‘Lovely to see you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Now, what shall we drink to?’

‘Why not January 30?’ she said. ‘I read about that in the Belfast Telegraph. I also noticed, just as you said, that some Protestant terrorist organizations also claimed credit.’ She moved to the fire and sat down in a wing-backed chair. ‘And those two thugs were IRA after all. There were details of their military funerals.’

Lang and Curry sat on the long sofa opposite her. ‘That’s right,’ Curry said. ‘Irish tricolour on the coffin, black beret and gloves neatly arranged.’

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