Angel Of Death Read online

  Carter said, “So we’re back to that little IRA swine?”

  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 Ira-quis.”

  “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.

  “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.

  TWO

  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 Soviet Embassy just up the road, a job which masked his true vocation as Colonel in charge of the London Station of the GRU, Soviet 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 Hezbolla 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 to-morrow 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 assoc
iate 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 said, “You have your associates in Belfast who could provide backup 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 Queens 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 Queens 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, Professor Tom Curry, at his office at Queens University and working his way through a mass of papers, cursed as his phone rang.

  “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.”

  She went to the lift and 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 program. 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 intrusions 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 nonvintage, 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…?”

  “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 color 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 9-millimeter 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, noticed the same machine keeping well back. It was only when he turned down toward 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 then 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, bringing up the Browning and firing 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 AK- 47. 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 curb. The big man, Jack Mullin, was standing by the Judas gate, peering insid
e. 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 toward 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, total panic on 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!” Daley said.

  “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 and shot him through the heart.

  “No, for God’s sake no!” Daley cried.

  “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 The 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 raised the Browning very quickly and shot him between the eyes, tumbling him back out of the chair, then he turned and walked away.