Angel of Death. Jack Higgins

       3

      If it began anywhere, it began with Tom Curry, Professor of Political Philosophy at London University, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge and who had in his time been a visiting professor at both Yale and Harvard. He was also a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

      Born in 1949 in Dublin into a Protestant Anglo-Irish family, his father, a surgeon, had died of cancer when Curry was five, leaving the boy and his mother in comfortable circumstances. A fierce, proud, arrogant woman whose father had fought under Michael Collins in the original Irish Troubles, she had been raised to blame everyone for the mess Ireland had been left in after the English had partitioned the country and left. She blamed the Free State Government as much as the IRA.

      Like many wealthy young women of intellect at that period, she saw Communism as the only answer, and as part of her brilliant son’s education taught him that there was only one true faith, the doctrine according to Karl Marx.

      In 1966 at seventeen Curry went to Trinity College, Cambridge to study Political Philosophy, where he met Rupert Lang, an apparently effete aristocrat who never took anything seriously, except Tom Curry, for the bond was instant and they enjoyed a homosexual relationship which lasted throughout their period at university.

      They went their separate ways, of course – Lang to Sandhurst and the Army following the family tradition, and Curry to the University of Moscow to research for a PhD on aspects of modern politics, where he was promptly recruited by the GRU.

      They gave him the usual training in weaponry, how to handle himself in the field and so on, but told him that he would be regarded as a sleeper once back in England, someone to be called on when needed, no more than that.

      On 30 January 1972, Rupert Lang, having transferred from the Grenadier Guards, was serving as a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment in Londonderry in Northern Ireland, a day that would be long remembered as Bloody Sunday. By the time the paratroopers had stopped firing, thirteen people lay dead and there were many wounded, including Rupert Lang, who took a bullet in the arm, whether from his own side or the IRA he could never be sure. On sick leave in London he had lunch at the Oxford and Cambridge Club and was totally delighted when he went into the bar to find his old friend sitting in a window seat, enjoying a quiet drink.

      ‘You old bastard, how marvellous,’ Lang said. ‘I thought you were in Russia?’

      ‘Oh. I’m back now at Trinity, putting the thesis together.’ Curry nodded at Lang’s arm. ‘Why the sling?’

      Lang had always been aware of his friend’s politics and now he shrugged. ‘I don’t expect you’ll want to speak to me. Bloody Sunday. I stopped a bullet.’

      ‘You were there?’ Curry called to the barman for two Bushmills. ‘How bad was it?’

      ‘Terrible. Not soldiering, not the way I thought it would be.’ Lang accepted his whiskey from the barman and raised his glass. ‘Anyway, to you, old sport. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.’

      ‘That goes double.’ Curry toasted him back. ‘What are you going to do?’

      Lang smiled. ‘You could always read me like a book. Yes, I’m finished with the Army as a career. Not straight away, though. My captaincy’s coming up and I want to keep the old man happy.’

      ‘I see he’s a Minister at the Home Office now.’

      ‘Yes, but his health isn’t good. I think he’ll stand down at the next election, which will leave a vacancy for one of the safest Conservative seats in the country.’

      Curry said, ‘You’re going to go into Parliament?’

      ‘Why not? I’ve all the money in the world, so I don’t need to work, and I’ll walk into the seat if the old man steps down. What do you think?’

      ‘Bloody marvellous.’ Curry stood up. ‘Let’s have a bite to eat and you can tell me all about Bloody Sunday and your Irish exploits.’

      ‘Terrible business,’ Lang said as they walked through to the dining room. ‘All hell’s going on at Army Intelligence HQ at Lisburn. I heard the Prime Minister is going through the roof.’

      ‘How interesting,’ Curry said as they sat down. ‘Tell me more.’

      Curry’s control was a 35-year-old GRU major named Yuri Belov, who was supposed to be a cultural attaché at the Soviet Embassy. Curry met him in a booth at a pub opposite Kensington Palace Gardens and the Soviet Embassy. Belov enjoyed London and had no great urge to be posted back to Moscow, which meant that he liked to look good to his superiors back there. Curry’s version of Bloody Sunday and his account of the sensory deprivation methods used to break IRA prisoners at Army headquarters at Lisburn was just the sort of stuff Belov wanted to hear.

      ‘Excellent, Tom,’ he said when Curry was finished. ‘Of course your friend has no idea you’ve been pumping him dry?’

      ‘Absolutely not,’ Curry said. ‘He knew what my politics were when we were at Cambridge, but he’s an English aristocrat. Couldn’t care less.’ Curry lit a cigarette. ‘And he’s my best friend, Yuri, let’s get that clear.’

      ‘Of course, Tom, I understand. However, anything further you can learn from him would always be useful.’

      ‘He intends to leave the Army soon,’ Curry said. ‘His father’s a Minister of the Home Office. I think Rupert will step in when the old man leaves.’

      ‘Really?’ Yuri Belov smiled. ‘A Member of Parliament. Now that is interesting.’

      ‘Yes, well, while we’re discussing what’s interesting,’ Curry said, ‘what about me? This is the first time we’ve spoken in nine months and I’m the one who’s come to you. I’d like to see a little action.’

      ‘Patience,’ Belov said. ‘That’s what being a sleeper is. It’s about waiting, sometimes for many years until the time comes when you are needed.’

      ‘A bloody boring prospect.’

      ‘Yes,