Angel of Death. Jack Higgins

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.