“Of course, but that doesn’t help me. I’ve got to get out of it.”
“Where will you go, Rupert?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps to Devon. To Lang Place.”
“They’ll catch up eventually.”
“Yes, it’s the end of something, you don’t need to tell me that. It’s so bloody frustrating not knowing what Ferguson is up to. Is it just me and the damn Beretta, or is more going on? Have other connections been made? If so, they’ll work their way round to all of us, I suppose.”
“Don’t worry, Rupert, take care of yourself and good luck. They can’t touch me if I go to the Embassy.”
Belov put the phone down, went to his bedroom, and packed a bag with a few essentials. He left the cottage, went to his car parked at the curb, and got in. Ten minutes later he drove into the diplomatic safety of the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens.
Land stopped at a phone box and rang his house in Dean Close. The ringing seemed to go on forever before Tom Curry answered.
“Thank God,” Rupert Lang said.
He told Curry what had happened. When he was finished his friend said, “What will you do?”
“I’ll go to Lang Place and think things out. I’ll use the usual air-taxi people. I’ll be there tonight. It’s you I’m worried about, old sport. They didn’t mention Yuri or you or Grace, but Ferguson ’s a downy old bird. It’ll only be a matter of time.”
“Don’t worry, old lad,” Curry said. “We’ll manage.” Suddenly he was choking with emotion. “Take care, Rupert,” and then he said the words that were always so difficult for one man to another. “I love you.”
He put down the phone, then picked it up again and dialed Grace Browning. When she answered he said, “Just listen.”
She didn’t feel afraid, more excited than anything else. When he was finished she said, “So what now?”
“It could be a while before they make connections, and as regards the Ardmore House meeting, Rupert wasn’t supposed to know anything.”
“Sit tight, is that it?”
“I honestly think so. They can’t touch Yuri if he stays in the Embassy. Diplomatic immunity. They don’t have, can’t have, any reason to move against you or me. I’ll be around tonight as usual at the King’s Head and take you to supper.”
“Look forward to it.”
She put down the phone and turned to the window and her head spun for a moment; she saw the shadow of a man, gun raised, but when she took a deep breath it went away.
It was late in the afternoon when Rupert Lang arrived at the small air-taxi firm in Surrey he habitually used for flights to Devon. His usual pilot, a young man called Alan Smith, greeted him as he got out of the car.
“All ready to go, Mr. Lang?”
“Good,” Rupert said. “Let’s get moving.”
Ten minutes later the Navajo Chieftain lifted off the runway. He opened the bar box and poured a double Scotch into a plastic cup.
“Here’s to you, old sport.” He toasted himself. “I think Bloody Sunday has finally caught up with you.”
At the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson was at his desk at six o’clock that evening when Hannah Bernstein came in with Dillon.
“Our inquiries finally showed that he frequently flies down to his house in Devon, sir, Lang Place.”
“He uses an air-taxi firm in Surrey. We’ve checked and he flew down there during the late afternoon in a Navajo Chieftain. The pilot has not yet returned.”
“I see.” Ferguson looked out at the gathering gloom. “Too late to do anything now. We’ll fly down in the morning. Use the same firm. He won’t be going anywhere and he knows it. Make the booking, Chief Inspector.”
“Do you want the Okehampton police involved, sir?”
“No. Just tell the air-taxi people to arrange to have a car waiting to take us to Lang Place. Tell them we’re expected.”
“And the Browning woman, sir?” Hannah asked. “And Curry?”
“Oh, he’ll have tipped them off and Belov. Unless I’m mistaken, our Russian friend will have headed straight for sanctuary at the Soviet Embassy, but to a certain extent they’re in the dark. All they know for certain is that I asked for Lang’s Beretta to see if it had any connection with the January 30 killings. He knew it damn well had, which is why he did a runner, but there was no mention of any connection with the others. They may even be banking on the fact that there is no connection.”
“Well all I can say is that if it was me, I’d smell a very large rat,” Dillon said.
“Yes, very probably.”
“Shall I have Curry and the Browning woman put under surveillance, then?” Hannah Bernstein asked.
“From the facts you’ve put before me of this young woman’s life and background, I’ve formed certain opinions about her,” Ferguson said. “Something went very obviously wrong in her head a long time ago. Possibly the trauma of her parents being murdered in Washington. A hell of a thing for a child to see. I suspect there may be more to it than that. We’ll probably never know the whole truth.”
“But what if they decide to run, sir?” Hannah asked.
“Why should they? Lang and Curry lived together. What does that prove? They were friendly with Grace Browning. So what? Yuri Belov exchanged pleasantries with them at a drinks party. He also probably spoke to at least fifty people. Now your fine police mind knows that everything about this case is circumstantial.”
“Except for Lang’s Beretta. Once that’s tested, it’s curtains for him and he knows it,” she said.
“And if he disposes of it, where’s your evidence then?” Dillon asked. “Another thing. Even under interrogation, would he be likely to shop his friends? He doesn’t seem the sort to me.”
“I agree,” Ferguson said. “The blunt truth is we know what these people are and what they have done. Proving it will be another matter. In my opinion they’ll sit tight for the moment and await developments.”
“So no surveillance?” Hannah said.
“She won’t be going anywhere and neither will Curry. She’s got a show to give. Last performance to-morrow night. She wouldn’t walk out on that, would she, Dillon?” He smiled. “Why not see if you can get us some tickets, Chief Inspector?”
Hannah gave Dillon a lift home and it was six-thirty as they drove out of the Ministry of Defence car park.
Dillon checked his watch. “She’ll be leaving for the theatre soon. Let’s drive past her house.”
“Have you something in mind?”
“Not really, just idle curiosity.”
It was raining slightly as they turned along Cheyne Walk and slowed as they approached the house. “Shall I stop?” Hannah asked.
“Just for a minute.”
At that moment she emerged from the side entrance on her BMW motorcycle. She wore black leathers and a dark helmet. She paused, legs astride, and pushed up the dark visor and checked the traffic. In the light of the street lamp they saw her face clearly. She pulled the visor down and rode away.
“My God!” Hannah breathed. “The final proof.”
“So it would seem,” Dillon said. “So it would seem.”
Rupert Lang was sitting by the fire in the drawing room at Lang Place, Danger lying in front of the fire, when the phone rang. It was the Navajo pilot, Alan Smith, calling from Surrey.
“That you, Mr. Lang? Alan Smith here. About the flight in the morning.”
“Which flight would that be?” Lang asked.
“A Brigadier Ferguson, a lady, a Miss Bernstein, who made the booking, and a man called Dillon. She said you were expecting them.”
“Ah, yes,” Lang said. “What time will you drop in?”
“Nine-thirty start. A little wind forecast, but we should do it in an hour. They asked for a taxi.”
“No need. I’ll have George Farne pick them up in the Range Rover. Thanks, Alan, and good night.”