He sat there thinking about it, then went and poured a Scotch. Finally he picked up the phone and called Dean Close. Curry answered at once.
“I’ve just heard they’re flying in tomorrow,” Rupert told him. “ Ferguson, Bernstein, and Dillon.”
“How did you find out?”
“The pilot rang me. Said he’d been told I was expecting them.”
“Strange, that. Ferguson must have known the pilot might do that.”
“Of course he did. Maybe he wants to give me a chance to do the decent thing and put a bullet through my head. Honor of the Regiment and all that.”
“For God’s sake, Rupert.” There was panic in Curry’s voice.
“Don’t worry, old sport, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. I’ll hear what he has to say. I want to know how close they are to the rest of you, if at all.”
“And the Beretta? What will you say when he asks for it?”
“Found it had been stolen from my desk. I panicked, shocked by the appalling suggestions made at that meeting with the PM, so I cleared off down here to think.”
“Rather weak, old lad.”
“Of course it is.” Lang laughed out loud. “You know that and so does Ferguson, but let’s see what he comes up with. You’d better phone Yuri at the Embassy and bring him up to date.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good night, old sport.”
Lang put the phone down, reached for his glass, and sat staring into the fire while he stroked the wolfhound’s head.
The weather was wretched the following morning when the Daimler turned into the entrance of the small airfield in Surrey and pulled up on the concrete apron. The doors of one of the hangars stood open and they saw the Navajo standing inside, the pilot beside it talking to an engineer in overalls. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah got out and ran through the rain.
“Brigadier Ferguson? Alan Smith,” the pilot said. He nodded out at the curtain of rain. “Not too good.”
“Are you saying we can’t go?”
“It’s up to you. Could be rough.”
“My friend here is a pilot.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “What’s your opinion?”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” Dillon smiled and gave Smith his hand. “Sean Dillon. I’ve got a commercial license, so it will comfort you to know that if you have a heart attack I can take over.”
Smith laughed. “All right then, if you folks are game, so am I. Let’s climb aboard and get on with it.”
It was raining steadily in Devon as Rupert Lang rode one of the Montesa dirt bikes along the track above the forest, Danger running alongside. Lang wore riding breeches and boots and an old paratrooper’s camouflaged smock. Instead of a helmet he wore a tweed cap.
He paused beside a low wall. There were sheep over there, crowding round Sam Lee the shepherd, and Danger went over the wall and ran to them, barking. Sam Lee struck out at him with his shepherd’s crook.
“Damn your eyes, Lee, I’ve told you before,” Lang called. “Do that again and I’ll break that thing over your head.”
“It’s the sheep, Mr. Lang, he won’t leave them alone.”
“Damn the sheep!” Lang paused, looking up into the rain, aware of the sound of an aircraft in the distance. He whistled to the dog. “Come on, boy,” started the Montesa, and rode away.
When the Range Rover entered the courtyard at Lang Place Rupert was standing at the front door, still wearing the old cap and the paratrooper’s smock, a curiously debonair figure.
“Ah, there you are, Ferguson, right on time.”
“Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, my personal assistant, and Sean Dillon.”
“Your personal hit man.” Lang smiled at Dillon. “We probably traded shots back there in Derry in the old days.”
“And isn’t that a fact?” Dillon told him.
Lang turned to Hannah. “And what have they brought you along for, Chief Inspector? To read me my rights, make an arrest?”
“If necessary, sir.”
“Well it isn’t, I assure you. Stupid mistake, the whole thing, but come in out of the rain and I’ll explain.”
He led the way into the drawing room where Danger, lying in front of the fire, got up. “Down, boy.” Lang stroked him cheerfully. “Not a bit of harm in him, believe me. Soft as a brush. I’ve got a bottle of Bollinger on ice and Mrs. Farne will serve a light lunch in the conservatory before you go back.”
“Don’t you mean we, sir?” Hannah said.
“A trifle premature, I would have said. Would you mind doing the honors, Dillon? It’s stuffy in here.” He went and opened the French windows to the terrace. “That’s better.”
Dillon uncorked the champagne and poured. Hannah said, “Not for me.”
“On duty, Chief Inspector?” Lang smiled, looking immensely attractive, and held a glass out to her and in spite of herself she took it. “Now what shall we drink to?”
“Why not January 30?” Ferguson said.
“Oh dear, there you go again, Brigadier. I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. As for the Beretta, well unfortunately it’s been stolen from my desk at the House…”
Ferguson held up a hand and took one of the chairs by the fire. “I’d sit down if I were you.” He turned to Hannah. “Chief Inspector, in the matter of Mr. Rupert Lang’s involvement in the terrorist group we know as January 30, make your case.”
Land sprawled in a chair listening, a slight smile on his face, one hand stroking Danger’s head, the other holding his glass of champagne. When she was finished, he stood up and went and recharged his glass.
“Anyone else?” he asked, holding up the bottle. “No?”
“A convincing case, you must agree, Lang,” Ferguson said.
“Total fantasy, the lot of it. Tom Curry and I have lived together for years and quite openly, that’s the connection there. Colonel Yuri Belov is someone I’ve met casually on the Embassy party circuit, as I’m sure many Members of Parliament have. Grace Browning is a dear friend to both Tom Curry and myself. To attempt to tie us all in together as members of this January 30 group quite frankly beggars belief.”
“High melodrama, the whole thing, I grant you that,” Ferguson told him.
“And totally circumstantial. I mean, come on, Ferguson. I’m in Belfast on Government business, Tom has a few days at Queen’s, and Grace Browning happens to be performing at the Lyric Theatre, and when a couple of IRA louts end up dead in an alley, you accuse the three of us.”
“I accuse January 30,” Ferguson said, “who claimed those killings. After all, there’s the business of Dillon and the Sons of Ulster. Only Dillon himself, Chief Inspector Bernstein, Simon Carter, myself, the Prime Minister, and you knew about that, and the same circumstance applied in the unfortunate killing of Liam Bell.” He shook his head. “Simple process of elimination, Lang. In both cases you had to be the leak.”
Lang stood there, the slight fixed smile on his face. “Any good barrister could demolish that argument at an Old Bailey trial in five minutes flat. You see, Ferguson, the only link to the January 30 killings is the Beretta. Now you say it’s my Beretta, but as that has unfortunately been stolen, we’ll never know, will we? Of course, I’m sorry I panicked and cleared off after finding the gun was missing. Naturally I’ll offer the PM my resignation.”
It was Dillon who broke the log jam. “Jesus, me ould son, but you’ve got a tongue on you.” He went to the table and took the bottle of Bollinger from the bucket. “Is it all right if I help myself?”
“Be my guest, old sport.”
Dillon filled his glass. “Why did you do it, that’s what interests me. I mean, Belov I understand. He’s a pro working for his own side, and Curry is obviously your typical British middle-class wealthy liberal nut case who wants to make the world safe for Communism. Have I left anything out?”