Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter. Jack Higgins
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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