Angel of Death (27 page)

“Jesus!” the sergeant said. “Why did she do that?”

“Because, as you said, sergeant, it was a dead end, no way out,” Charles Ferguson told him. “Better call in the River Police and all the usual services, we’ll leave it in your hands.” He turned to Hannah and Dillon. “One person who won’t be too displeased at this outcome will be the Prime Minister,” he said as they walked to the cars. “Lang, Curry, and now the woman, all dead. Easy to say none of it ever happened. Rupert Lang can have an honorable funeral as befits a Minister of the Crown.”

“And Belov, sir?” Hannah asked.

“No problem, Chief Inspector. Just leave him to me.”

Fog rolled across the river, rain drifting in, and something washed in through the shadows by St. James’s Stairs. Grace Browning surfaced and hauled herself up a ladder onto a wharf. Her leathers were wet and she unzipped the jacket and tossed it into the river, then turned and ran along the deserted waterfront, a shadowy figure moving from one patch of light to the next.

She reached Dock Street within ten minutes, scrabbled behind the old dustbins and found her plastic bag under the sack. There was no one about and she stood under a street lamp bracketed to the wall above, stripped off her pumps, the leather pants, and soaking tee shirt. She stood there quite naked for a moment, toweling her hair and body, then pulled on the tracksuit and trainers. She put the raincoat on, took the two black shoes from the bag, each with a thousand pounds inside, and put them in the raincoat pockets. Then she started to walk.

Fifteen minutes later, she reached the multi-storey car park next to Wapping Underground Station. When she went down into the basement it was a place of shadows, cold and damp, but her Mini car was waiting in the yellow area. She opened the car, got inside, found the keys under the mat, then she found a comb, put her hair into some sort of order, and tied it back. A few moments later she drove out of the car park, turned into the main road, and was on her way.

In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the red phone, giving him an account of the night’s proceedings.

When the Brigadier was finished, the Prime Minister said, “I don’t want to sound callous, but a rather satisfactory end to the whole saga. Lang, Curry, and now this Browning woman, all gone. Only Belov left, and I’m sure you’ll sort him. I presume you’ll have no difficulty in treating her unfortunate death as accidental?”

“You may rely on it, Prime Minister.”

“Good. All good fortune in Ireland tomorrow.”

The Prime Minister put down the phone.

At that precise moment in time, Grace Browning was coming out of a motorway service restaurant on the outskirts of London, a bacon sandwich and two coffees inside her. She felt warm again, the chill of the River Thames long gone. She got behind the wheel of the Mini, pulled out onto the motorway, and started on the next stage of her journey to Coldwater.

It was just after one o’clock in the morning when Grace Browning reached Coldwater village, passed the George and Dragon and the village green, and found the sign a quarter of a mile farther on that pointed the way to the airfield. She turned down the narrow lane, then pulled in on the grass verge and switched off her lights.

She found a small torch in the glove compartment, got out and proceeded on foot, the final caution, but she had to be sure. She paused on the edge of the runway. There was a light on a bracket above the hangar door where she and Tom had inspected the Conquest, and there was another in the Nissen hut.

She waited for a moment, then, keeping to the shadows, crossed to the hangar and worked her way to the Nissen hut. When she peered through the window, she saw Carson sitting at the table, an enamel mug in one hand, a chart spread in front of him. Satisfied, she turned back across the runway and returned to the car.

She switched on the lights, started the engine, and set off across the runway. When she reached the Nissen hut she turned off the engine and sat there waiting. The door opened and Carson appeared.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” she said. She got out of the car and looked across at him.

“You’re early. Where’s your friend?”

“Change of plan. He won’t be coming. I thought I’d get here early in case of weather problems.”

“You’d better come in then.”

It was warm in the hut, so warm that she could smell the heat from the stove on which an old coffee pot stood.

“The coffee’s fresh. Help yourself if you like.” He wasn’t wearing the flying jacket, only the black overalls, and his beard seemed more tangled than ever. He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She found a spare mug, poured coffee into it, and crossed to the table. The chart was the one covering Ireland to the Galway coast.

“Checking our route?”

“For about the fifth time. I never leave anything to chance. I’ve been flying a long time, and that’s why I’m still here.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’d definitely like to be at Kilbeg by eleven. I’ve spoken to Colonel Belov within the last few hours and the car will be in place.”

“We’ll have to leave no later than seven then.”

“Fine by me.” She sipped some coffee. “Where are my cases?”

“On the bed in the next room.”

“Did you open them?”

“Of course not.” He tried to sound indignant. “Not my business. I’m not interested in what you’re up to. Like I said, I’m an in-and-out man. I’m getting paid well over the odds for this one, and that’s all that interests me.”

He was lying, she knew that, but she nodded calmly and sipped some more coffee. “Good. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

“You do that.” As she went to open the door to the other room he said, “You know, it’s funny, but I seem to know you from somewhere.”

She turned and shook her head. “Not possible, Mr. Carson. You see, I’d have remembered you,” and she went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Curry’s case with the priest’s cassock was not needed now and she pushed it under the bed. She examined the other, placing the nun’s habit on the bed, taking out the AK-47 and Beretta, removing the clips, then reloading them. There were two spare clips for each and a capacious shoulder bag in soft black leather. She took the two thousand pounds from her raincoat pockets and put them in the bottom of the suitcase under the nun’s habit, placed the AK-47, its butt folded, in the shoulder bag, then dropped the bag back in the suitcase.

She put the suitcase against the wall, then took off the raincoat and lay on the bed in her tracksuit, her right hand on the Beretta beside her. The light was so dim that she left it on. In any case, she didn’t want total darkness in case she saw him again, that shadowy figure with the arm raised and the gun. In spite of herself, her eyes closed and after a while she slept fitfully.

And across the Atlantic at Andrews Air Force Base, a black sedan drove across the tarmac and pulled up beside the waiting Gulfstream. It was three o’clock in the morning in England, but with a five-hour time difference, only ten at night in America. Patrick Keogh was quite alone except for an Air Force driver, and the base commander got out and opened the door for him.

“Nice and private, this plane, Senator, as requested, but the crew are Air Force.” There were three of them, all wearing rather anonymous navy-blue airline uniforms. “Captains Harris and Ford take care of the flying and Sergeant Black takes care of you.”

Keogh shook hands with all three and turned to the base commander. “Many thanks.”

“Your luggage is on board and you’re cleared for immediate take-off, Senator.” The base commander saluted. “Good luck, sir.”

Keogh went up the steps into the luxurious interior of the Gulfstream, found himself a seat, and strapped in.

Sergeant Black checked him out. “I’ve got full meal facilities, Senator. I believe your wife suggested the menu. Anytime you like once we’re airborne, just say the word.”

“Sounds good to me,” Keogh said.

The engines had already fired and Black went and strapped in himself. A few moments later, the Gulfstream roared down the runway, lifted off, and started to climb.

Grace came awake with a start and stared up at the ceiling. A gray light filtered in and rain pattered against the pane. She realized she could smell cooking, got up and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. She put the Beretta in one of her tracksuit pockets, moved to the door and opened it.

Carson had a frying pan on the stove, and he turned and smiled. “Eggs and bacon. Best I can do, but you’ll need something inside you.”

She was surprised to find that she felt hungry and checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. She opened the door and looked outside at the relentless rain.

“It looks rough. Will there be a problem?”

“Not really,” he told her and dished out the bacon and eggs on two metal plates. “A bit bumpy to start, but we’ll soon climb above it. There’s bread and butter there and tea in the pot. Help yourself.”

At about the same time, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein arrived in Cavendish Square and were admitted to Ferguson’s flat by Kim, who vanished at once into the kitchen. Ferguson appeared from his bedroom fastening a Guards tie.

“Ah, there you are. Have you had breakfast?”

Hannah glanced at Dillon. “Hardly, sir, we knew you were anxious for an early start.”

“Very conscientious of you, Chief Inspector. We’ll beat the traffic to Gatwick. Time enough to have breakfast at one of the airport cafes.”

“Jesus, but you’re a thoughtful man, Brigadier,” Dillon said.

“Aren’t I? Which is why I told Kim to make us a nice pot of tea.” At that moment the Ghurka came in with a tray. “There you are,” Ferguson said. “Help yourselves while I finish dressing,” and he went out.

It was soon after that the Cessna Conquest roared along the runway at Coldwater and lifted into the rain. Carson was sitting in the pilot’s seat, a chart spread on the right-hand seat. Grace sat in a seat at the rear of the cabin, her suitcase wedged between two seats on the other side.

She looked out of the window and saw only rain and heavy cloud. The plane rocked from side to side and was buffeted by a crosswind as they turned and climbed. After a while they broke out through the cloud, but there was no sunshine, only a great vault of gray.

The buffeting had stopped now and they seemed to have leveled out. “Curtain up,” she said softly. “First act.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.

At precisely nine o’clock the Lear Jet lifted off at Gatwick and started to climb. Ferguson sat on the right of the gangway, Hannah Bernstein on his left. Dillon sat opposite her facing them.

The phone rang and Hannah Bernstein answered it. She listened, then said, “Thank you,” and put it down.

“What was that?” Ferguson said.

“The Yard. The River Police have recovered Grace Browning’s BMW but not her.”

“Oh, she’ll come up eventually,” Ferguson said, “and we’ll have a lovely funeral, half of show business crying into their hankies.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that
is
rather callous,” Hannah told him.

“That’s as may be.”

“As for me, I’d be happier if I’d seen her laid out on the slab,” Dillon said. “It’s my superstitious nature.”

“Now that
is
being melodramatic,” Ferguson told him. “Go and do something useful. From what the pilot tells me the weather at Shannon isn’t marvelous. Go and check with him. You’re the flyer.”

Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and Ferguson took a
Times
from the pile of newspapers he’d purchased at Gatwick and opened it.

After a while he said, “Here we go. Coroner’s inquest on Rupert Lang today.”

“Shouldn’t Dillon have been there, sir?”

“I got an exclusion order from the Home Office. Defense of the Realm and all that, so the Coroner has agreed to accept Dillon’s written statement. I wrote it myself. Rather good. Dillon was acting as a security guard, Lang suggested they go for a ride on the motorcycles, and it went tragically wrong.”

“What about the shepherd, Sam Lee?”

“All that lout can say is what he saw. They were riding along the track and Lang lost control and went through the gate. Funeral is tomorrow. St. Margaret’s, Westminster.”

“I should think that will be quite a turnout,” Hannah said.

“Good God, yes. They’ll all be there. The PM and the Cabinet, Leader of the Opposition, not to mention officers from the Grenadiers and the Parachute Regiment. After all, he
was
a hero,” Ferguson said. “MC and all that, brave officer. They’ll see him out in style.”

“He must be laughing his head off,” she said.

“Yes, he always was a cynical bastard.”

Dillon came back and slid into his seat. “Low cloud and turbulence at Shannon and heavy rain that’s expected to last most of the day.”

“Any problems?” Ferguson asked.

“Not with the two lads up there in the cockpit flying this thing. They flew Tornadoes in the Gulf War. Twenty trips each to Baghdad.”

“That’s all right then.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “We’ll have some tea, and just to stay politically correct and on the right side of Miss Wonderful here, I’ll make it.”

The conquest came out of cloud at approximately a thousand feet and saw the coast of Ireland ahead, County Waterford to be precise. Carson went lower, approaching the coastline at five hundred feet over a turbulent sea. And then, as Grace looked out, they were across, green fields below, hedgerows and farmhouses. A few miles inland and he started to climb until they were enveloped in cloud. She unbuckled her belt and went forward and tapped him on the shoulder and he pulled down his earphones.

“Any problems?” she asked.

“None so far, but there are headwinds from now on.”