“Only with the weather. Ireland ’s a sod. Too much rain. Flight time to County Clare could be anything between three and four hours, depending on the wind. I can’t do anything about that. You’re stuck with what you get on the day.”
“In view of what you say, if we want to be at Drumgoole by noon we’ll need an early start,” Curry said.
“I’d say seven to seven-thirty in the morning to be on the safe side,” Carson said.
“Fine.” Curry nodded. “We’ll be here.”
“And the return?” Carson asked.
“Let’s say we’ll be back with you by two o’clock,” Curry told him.
“That’s good. I don’t want to hang about.”
Grace said, “Could we see the plane?”
“Sure. This way.”
It had started to rain as they crossed to the hangars. She said, “It’s a strange place, this.”
“RAF feeder station during the Second World War. Everything falling apart now.”
He rolled back one of the hangar doors and led the way in. There were two planes in there, one single engined, the other a twin.
“The single is an Archer, the twin is a Cessna Conquest. That’s what we’ll be using.”
“Fine,” Grace said.
They turned and went out and he closed the door. When they reached their car Tom Curry said, “We’ll be here at the crack of dawn on Sunday. Let’s hope we have a good day.”
“I don’t care what kind of day you have,” Carson told him. “I’m getting more than well paid, so I mind my own business. I’m an in-and-out man, that’s all I’m interested in.”
“We’ll be seeing you then,” Grace told him.
He frowned slightly. “Do I know you from somewhere? You seem familiar.”
“I don’t think so,” she said and got in the car.
Curry opened the door. “The two suitcases aren’t locked, so you don’t need to break into them. Look after them until Sunday.”
He got behind the wheel and drove away. Carson watched them go and then went back into the Nissen hut. He lit a cigarette and stood looking down at the suitcases. Finally he shrugged and put them on the desk. When he opened the first one he found a priest’s cassock and clerical collar. The second one contained a nun’s habit. Underneath there was an AK-47 and a Beretta automatic.
He shivered and closed the cases quickly. None of his business, any of it. He didn’t want to know, much better that way, and he put the cases on the floor against the wall.
In the study at Downing Street the Prime Minister sat grim-faced as he listened to what Ferguson had to say.
“So there it is, Prime Minister. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“You were right, of course, to advise me to keep quiet about Sunday’s meeting at Ardmore House,” the Prime Minister said. “If there is any truth in what you say, if Rupert Lang is connected with January 30, the consequences could have been grave.”
“I must point out, Prime Minister, that even if January 30 knew of the meeting, it doesn’t necessarily mean they would have made an attempt on Senator Keogh’s life. Their general motive has been obscure to say the least.”
“True, but you’ve made a more than circumstantial case against Lang and the others, as far as I am concerned.”
“I’m afraid the word circumstantial is apt, Prime Minister. They can tough it out, the Browning woman and Professor Curry.”
“And Lang?”
“Well there is a point there. The Beretta. Once in our hands we can prove that it is the weapon that killed so many people. He has no way of avoiding that.”
“Then let us confront him,” the Prime Minister said. “Bear with me, Brigadier.” He lifted the phone. “Find out where Mr. Rupert Lang, Under Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, is at the present time.”
He put the phone down. Ferguson said, “Are you sure you want to do it this way, Prime Minister?”
“Absolutely. He has not only betrayed his country and his colleagues, he has betrayed me as his party leader.” The phone rang and he lifted it and listened. “Thank you.” He replaced the phone and stood up. “He’s at the House, Brigadier. I intend to see him there and I’d like you to accompany me.”
Some people consider the House of Commons to be the best club in London, with its numerous restaurants and bars. Most people’s favorite is the terrace, and it was to this the Prime Minister led the way, passing through the Central Lobby, acknowledging many people on the way.
The terrace itself was quite busy, plenty of people around, mostly with a glass in one hand. There was Westminster Bridge on the left, Albert Embankment on the other side of the river. They leaned on the parapet and the Prime Minister waved a waiter away.
“A rotten business, Brigadier. I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do it?”
Ferguson found a cigarette and lit it. “You could say the same thing about Philby, Maclean, Blunt.” He shrugged. “I can’t give you an answer, sir.”
“It certainly won’t do the Conservative Party any good.” John Major smiled. “Sorry, Brigadier, politics is not your consideration in this matter.”
“No, but I sympathize, sir. Not your fault, but you get the flak.”
“One of the privileges of rank, Brigadier.”
At that moment, Rupert Lang appeared on the terrace, paused, then saw them. He hurried across, smiling. “Prime Minister. I got your message.” He nodded to Ferguson. “Brigadier.” He turned back to the Prime Minister. “You said it was urgent.”
John Major turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”
Ferguson said, “Mr. Lang, as a Minister of the Crown you have a permit to carry a handgun when visiting Northern Ireland. The weapon, I understand, is a Beretta 9-millimeter Parabellum.”
Lang knew, knew at once what this meant, but smiled. “That’s right.”
“I’d like to examine it, sir.”
“May I ask why?”
“To see if it is the weapon which has been responsible for the deaths of at least ten people, assassinations claimed by a terrorist group known as January 30.”
There was a long pause and then Lang said, “This is nonsense.”
“Rupert,” the Prime Minister said. “For God’s sake. It’s over.”
Rupert Lang stood there, staring at him, and suddenly smiled and turned to Ferguson. “What is it you want, Brigadier?”
“The Beretta, Mr. Lang.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll get it. It’s in my office desk.”
At that moment a crowd of Japanese tourists came onto the terrace. Lang turned and plunged into them, disappearing through the entrance on the far side before Ferguson or the Prime Minister could do a thing.
There are dozens of exits to the House of Parliament and Rupert Lang, an expert in all of them, was in his car in one of the underground car parks and driving away within five minutes of leaving Ferguson and the Prime Minister.
THIRTEEN
Belov was in his mews cottage off the Bayswater Road when he got Lang’s call.
“My dear Rupert, how are you?”
“Not good, Yuri, I’ve been rumbled.”
“Calm yourself, Rupert, and explain,” Belov said.
Lang went through exactly what had happened on the terrace with Ferguson and the Prime Minister. When he was finished he said, “There was no mention of you or Tom or Grace, just the Beretta.” He laughed. “I licensed it because I was entitled to, you know that, Yuri, but once they’ve tested it, fired a couple of rounds, I’ve had it.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to Grace. She wanted it for Sunday.”
“I see.”
“I’ve been thinking, Yuri. Perhaps Ferguson has made something of my connection with the Prime Minister’s special security committee, but there’s one thing they don’t know. That we know that the IRA meeting at Ardmore is to take place on Sunday afternoon.”
“You’re right,” Belov said. “Let’s make sure that stays that way. You see, my friend, if the Prime Minister and Ferguson think you don’t know, the whole thing will go ahead as normal. No need to give Keogh any anxieties.”