Angel of Death. Jack Higgins

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