Angel of Death Read Free Page A

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