Angel of Death. Jack Higgins
before they met again. Belov was transferred back home, and Tom Curry went to America – Harvard for five years, Yale for four – before returning to Cambridge where he became a Fellow of Trinity College.
Rupert Lang’s father died in office and Lang promptly left the Army and put himself forward for the seat in Parliament, winning with a record majority. He and Curry were as close as ever. Lang often spent vacations with him during the American period and Curry always stayed, when in London, at Lang’s beautiful town house in Dean Court, close to Westminster Abbey and within walking distance of the Houses of Parliament.
In 1985 Curry became a Professor of Political Philosophy at London University and visiting Professor at Queen’s University, Belfast. His mother had been dead for some time, but he had his friendship with Lang, his work and the fact that due to his academic standing, he had been invited to sit on a number of important government committees. The arrangement made with Yuri Belov was so long ago that it might never have happened. Then one day, out of the blue, he received a telephone call at his office at the university.
Belov had put on a little weight and there was a scar on his left cheek. Otherwise he had changed little: the same sort of Savile Row suit, the same genial smile. They sat in a booth in the pub opposite Kensington Palace Gardens and shared half a bottle of Sancerre.
The Russian toasted Curry. ‘Good to see you, Tom.’
‘And you. What about the scar?’
‘Afghanistan. A dreadful place. You know, those tribesmen skinned our men when they caught them.’
‘But you’re back now?’
‘Yes, Senior Cultural Attaché at the Embassy, but you must treat me with respect.’ He grinned. ‘I am now a full colonel in the GRU and Head of Station here in London. You, by the way, have been promoted to major.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ Curry said. ‘Except sit on my arse for years.’
‘You will, Tom, you will. With all these government posts you hold, particularly on the Northern Ireland Committee, and your friend, Lang. He’s doing well. A Government Whip? That’s very important, isn’t it, and I hear Mrs Thatcher likes him.’
‘Don’t set too much store by that. Rupert doesn’t take life too seriously.’
‘He still isn’t aware of your connection with us?’
‘Not a hint,’ Curry told him. ‘I prefer it that way. Now, what do you want?’
‘From now on, full and intimate details of all those committee meetings, especially Irish affairs and anything to do with the activities of our Arab friends and their fundamentalist groups. They’re all over London these days. The English are far too liberal in letting them in.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Not for the moment.’ Belov stood up. ‘You’re too valuable to waste on small things, Tom. Your day will come, believe me. Just be patient.’ He took out his wallet and passed over a slip of paper. ‘Emergency numbers if you need me, Embassy and home. I’ve a cottage in a mews just up the road. I’ll be in touch.’
He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.
It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lang was at the Commons, making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.
‘Belov here,’ the Colonel said. ‘I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.’
Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information.
It was raining hard outside so he found an old Burberry trenchcoat, a trilby hat and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the kerb and Belov leaned out.
‘Over here, Tom.’
Curry climbed in beside him. ‘What’s so important?’
Belov pulled out from the kerb. ‘I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.’
‘Who is this Arab?’
‘A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.’
‘Can you be sure all this is kosher?’ Curry asked.
‘The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.’
‘Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s none of their business. Division of labour. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.’
‘Very capitalistic,’ Curry told him. ‘Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.’
He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the kerb. ‘You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.’
Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.
It was no more than thirty minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, and there was no one about. He found Butler’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end and stood by an old-fashioned streetlamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him
The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.
‘Ali Hamid?’
‘Who are you?’ the man asked in a hoarse voice.
‘Colonel Belov sent me.’
‘But he was to come himself.’ Hamid laughed in a strange way. ‘It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.’ He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. ‘Unfortunate.’
His hand came out of his right pocket, holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol, and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.
Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood was seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase and slipped it inside.
He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. There was a lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.
Rupert