The printer kept working. “Rupert Lang coming through now,” Hannah said.
“Good God, he doesn’t need to,” Ferguson told her. “It says here that Curry and Lang have been living together for years at Lang’s house in Dean Close. That’s within walking distance of Westminster. Homosexual relationship since they were at Cambridge together.”
“Yes, but look further down,” Hannah said. “It’s Curry’s academic record that’s interesting. He’s worked at Yale, Harvard, is a professor at London, but look at that, sir. He’s a visiting professor at Queen’s University, Belfast, three or four days a month.”
“How interesting.” Ferguson was all business now. “We know Curry was in Belfast when you and Dillon were handling the Sons of Ulster business, Chief Inspector.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Those two Provisional IRA foot soldiers in the alley that January 30 claimed the other year. It would be interesting to know if Professor Curry was in Belfast then.”
“It would be interesting to know if Rupert Lang was,” Dillon put in.
“Easy enough to find out,” Ferguson said.
“It also raises an interesting point about the famous Beretta January 30 used in all of their killings except the Sons of Ulster thing,” Dillon said. “The fact that a weapon used in London could have turned up in Belfast, security restrictions into Ulster being so tough. I suggested to Hannah that the explanation might be that the owner of the Beretta might have a permit to carry.”
“That would certainly apply to a Minister of the Crown, but we can check on that soon enough.” Ferguson frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Something’s just occurred to me. Those two KGB Head of Stations getting knocked off. Apparently, since the changes in Russia in the last few years, the long-standing feud with the GRU and the KGB has intensified. There could be a connection there with Belov. I’ll look into it.”
“I’ll phone Queen’s University and check if the date of the killing of those two IRA men coincided with Curry being there,” Hannah said. “And I’ll get a rundown on the times Lang’s visited Belfast from the Northern Ireland Office.”
“What about you, Dillon?” Ferguson demanded.
“Oh, I’ll just ring Grace Browning’s agent.”
Ferguson, in the act of reaching for the phone, stopped. “Why?”
“It was a woman who saved me in the Sons of Ulster affair, it was a woman who killed Liam Bell, someone in my opinion giving a rather excellent performance as a Pakistani woman. I’d like to remind you that she was performing in Belfast when I had my meeting with the Sons of Ulster and I did see her at the champagne bar at the Dorchester with Curry, Lang, and Belov.”
“No, that really would be too much,” Ferguson said. “What are you going to do?”
“Find out from her agent if she’s performed in Belfast before the time Hannah and I were there. I’ll also have a look at the files. Check her background.”
“Do that.”
Dillon paused in the doorway and turned to Hannah. “Remember the other night when we were talking about synchronicity and you asked me if there were any other coincidences I wanted to check?”
“Yes. You said there was, but for the life of you, you couldn’t think what it was.”
“I finally discovered. The night in Belfast when our mystery woman saved me and then raised her arm in salute. I’d seen Grace Browning’s picture on a theatre poster at the Europa. After the same woman didn’t shoot me and gave me that identical salute in the cemetery at Vance Gardens, I walked up to the King’s Head in Upper Street and saw Grace Browning’s face on a theatre poster.”
There was silence. Ferguson said, “That’s pretty slim evidence, Dillon. Circumstantial to say the least.”
“I know, Brigadier, but it’s what Carl Jung meant by synchronicity,” and Dillon went into the other office.
Within an hour he and Hannah were back at Ferguson ’s desk.
“Well, what have we got?” he demanded.
Hannah turned to Dillon. “You start.”
“Right,” Dillon said. “In October ninety-one, Grace Browning did a short run at the Minerva in Chichester of Brendan Behan’s The Hostage. The company was asked to do a two-week run of the play at the Lyric Theatre in Belfast. The first and second weeks in November.”
He paused. “Go on,” Ferguson said.
“The killing of those two IRA men that January 30 claimed credit for took place during the first week of the run.” He turned. “Hannah?”
She said, “Professor Tom Curry was there for four days covering the time in question, and also Rupert Lang. He was there for two days, but one of them was the day in question.”
“Dear God!” Ferguson said.
“More bad news,” Hannah Bernstein told him. “According to the record, Lang is licensed to carry a handgun when in Northern Ireland.”
“And the weapon?”
“A Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum. We’d need to check the rounds it’s fired.”
“Of course,” Ferguson said. “But there’s increasingly little doubt about what we’d find.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“One slight clue,” Dillon told him. “It seems Curry came from Dublin. There was a history of Irish nationalism in the family, but his mother became a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.”
“All right, that might explain Curry, but the Browning woman, one of our finest actresses, and Rupert Lang.”
“There is one link, sir,” Hannah Bernstein said. “A violent one. When she was twelve her parents were murdered in a street robbery in Washington. She was present. Saw it all.”
“Good Lord.”
“After that she came to London and lived with her aunt in the house she presently occupies in Cheyne Walk.”
“And Rupert Lang isn’t just Mr. Savile Row,” Dillon said. “He was at Bloody Sunday with One Para, wounded, killed at least three times, according to his Army record, and was awarded a Military Cross for undercover work.”
Ferguson sighed and turned to Hannah. “Is it still a circumstantial case, Chief Inspector?”
“Oh yes, sir, but a strong one.”
He nodded. “I can see that, but I’ll have to speak to the Prime Minister.”
“And Lang, sir?”
“We’ll see. Leave it to me.”
At around the same time, Grace Browning and Tom Curry, driving down from London into Kent, found a sign to Coldwater. The village wasn’t much, a line of cottages on either side of the road, a village green, a pond, a small inn called The George and Dragon. They carried on through and found another sign a quarter of a mile farther on that indicated Cold-water airfield to the right.
They found it at the end of a narrow lane, a couple of old hangars, a control tower, and a single tarmac runway that was crumbling badly. There was an old Land-Rover parked outside a Nissen hut. They parked beside it, and as they got out the door opened and a man emerged.
He was of medium height, obviously in his late forties, with a graying beard and tangled hair. He wore black flying overalls and an old American Air Force flying jacket.
“Mr. Carson?” Curry asked.
“That’s me.”
“Don’t let’s bother with names.”
Carson didn’t offer to shake hands. “Colonel Belov said you’d be around. Better come in.”
Curry opened the boot of his car and took out two suitcases and followed him into the Nissen hut, Grace behind him. Inside, he put the cases down and looked around. There was a stove for heating, a desk, charts pinned to the wall.
“You know the flight’s planned for Sunday?” Curry asked.
“That’s right.” Carson unrolled a flying chart across his desk. It covered Ireland across to the Galway coast. “I’ve found an old flying strip about ten miles from this Drumgoole place. Here at Kilbeg.”
“Do you envisage any problems with the flight?” Grace asked him.