Angel of Death

‘Damn you!’ she laughed as the waiter brought the Krug and opened it.

‘You could have a Guinness instead. After all, you’re in Ireland.’

‘No, I’ll force a little champagne down.’

‘Good for you. Did you speak to Ferguson?’

‘Oh, yes. I brought him right up to date.’

‘And?’

‘You can go to hell in your own way. If it works, the Lear will be waiting at Aldergrove and I get you straight out.’

‘Good.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to us. Are you free for dinner?’

‘I can’t think of anything else to do.’

At that moment he noticed a poster by the bar. ‘Good God, Grace Browning.’ He went over to inspect it and turned to the barman. ‘Is it still playing?’ he asked, reverting to his English accent.

‘Last night tomorrow, sir.’

‘Could you get me a couple of tickets for tonight’s performance?’

‘I think so, but you’ll have to be sharp. Curtain up in forty minutes. Mind you, the Lyric isn’t too far.’

‘Good man. Ring the box office for me.’

‘I will, Mr Friar.’

Dillon went back to Hannah. ‘There you go, girl dear, Grace Browning’s one-woman show. Shakespeare’s Heroines. She’s brilliant.’

‘I know. I’ve seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, don’t you ever get confused? One minute sounding like you’ve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?’

‘Ah, you’re forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea. Ibsen, that was.’

‘You’ve mentioned it several times since I’ve known you, Dillon.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.’

Ferguson’s Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.

John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. ‘Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. I’ve asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.’

‘I have met Mr Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.’

‘Yes, fine record. I know you don’t care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services don’t care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Minister’s private army.’

‘So I believe.’

‘Try and get along, if only for my sake.’ There was a knock at the door and two men entered. ‘Ah, come in, gentlemen,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I believe you all know each other.’

‘Hello, Ferguson,’ Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow-white hair.

Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.

‘Nice to see you again, Brigadier.’

‘And 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.’