Angel of Death. Jack Higgins
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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.’