He smiled and went out, leaving Curry more excited than he’d been in years.
It was perhaps a year later on a wet October evening that Curry received a phone call at the Dean Court town house. Lane was at the Commons making sure in his capacity as a Whip that as many Conservative MPs as possible were available to vote on a bill crucial to the Government.
“Belov here,” the Colonel said. “I must see you at once. Most urgent. I’ll pick you up at the entrance to Dean Square.”
Curry didn’t argue. He’d seen Belov only twice in the previous year, although in that time he had passed on a continuous stream of information. It was raining hard outside, so he found an old Burberry trench coat, a trilby hat, and black umbrella and let himself out of the front door. He stood by the entrance to the garden in Dean Square and within ten minutes a small Renault car coasted in to the curb and Belov leaned out.
“Over here, Tom.”
Curry climbed in beside him. “What’s so important?”
Belov pulled out from the curb. “I’m supposed to meet an Arab tonight in about thirty minutes from now at a place on the river in Wapping.”
“Who is this Arab?”
“A man called Ali Hamid, who has apparently fallen out with a fundamentalist group called Wind of Allah. They gave us a lot of trouble in Afghanistan. This man is offering full documentation on their European operation. The meeting place is called Butler ’s Wharf. You’ll be at the river end at seven. You give him that briefcase on the rear seat, fifty thousand dollars. He’ll give you a briefcase in return.”
“Can you be sure all this is kosher?” Curry asked.
“The tip came from a colleague, Colonel Boris Ashimov of the KGB, Head of Station here in London.”
“Why doesn’t he handle this himself? Why this gift to you?”
“Strictly speaking it’s none of their business. Division of labor. The Arabs are a GRU matter and I can’t go myself for the simplest of reasons. I’m hosting an Embassy Cultural evening at the Savoy. I’m due there in thirty minutes. Notice the black tie.”
“Very capitalistic,” Curry told him. “Shame on you. All right, I’ll do it.”
He reached for the briefcase and Belov pulled in at the curb. “You can get a cab from here. I’ll be in touch.”
Curry got out and watched the Renault drive away, then he put up his umbrella and moved along the pavement.
It was no more than thirty-minutes later that a cab dropped him in Wapping. The rain was very heavy now, no one about. He found Butler ’s Wharf with no difficulty, walked to the end, and stood by an old-fashioned street lamp, the umbrella up against the rain, which poured down relentlessly. There was the faintest of footfalls behind him.
The Arab wore a black reefer coat of the kind used by seamen and a tweed cap. His brown face was gaunt, his eyes pinpricks as if he was on something. Curry felt a certain alarm.
“Ali Hamid?”
“Who are you?” the man asked in a hoarse voice.
“Colonel Belov sent me.”
“But he was to come himself.” Hamid laughed in a strange way. “It was all arranged. It was Belov I was paid to kill, but instead you are here.” He laughed again and there was a kind of foam on his mouth. “ Unfortunate.”
His hand came out of his right pocket holding a silenced Beretta automatic pistol and Curry swung the briefcase, knocking the Arab’s arm to one side and closing with him. He grabbed the man’s wrist, the gun between them, was aware of it going off, a kind of punch in his left arm. Strangely, it gave him even more strength and he struggled harder, aware of the Beretta discharging twice, Hamid dropping it and falling back, clutching his stomach. He lay there, under the lamp, legs kicking, then went very still.
Curry crouched and felt for a pulse, but Hamid was dead, eyes staring. Curry stood and examined his arm. There was a scorched hole in the Burberry and blood seeping through. There wasn’t too much pain, although he suspected that would come later. He eased off the Burberry, tied a handkerchief awkwardly around the arm over his jacket sleeve, then pulled the raincoat on again. He picked up the Beretta, opened the briefcase, and slipped it inside.
He retrieved his umbrella and stood looking down at Hamid. A lot to be explained, but no time for that now. He had to get moving. Surprising how calm he felt as he hurried along the wharf. Hardly sensible to take a taxi. It was going to be a long walk to the town house in Dean Close and how in the hell was he going to explain this to Rupert? He turned into Wapping High Street and hurried along the pavement, aware of the pain now in his arm.
Rupert Lang, returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes earlier, was pouring a large Scotch in the drawing room when the front doorbell sounded. He swallowed some of the whisky, put down his glass, and went into the hall. When he opened the door, Curry, almost out on his feet, fell into his arms.
“Tom, what is it?”
“Quite simple, old lad. I’ve been shot. Get me into the kitchen before I bleed all over your best carpet.”
Lang got an arm round him, helped him into the kitchen, and eased him into a chair. Curry tried to get his Burberry off and Lang helped him.
“Dear God, Tom, your sleeve’s soaked in blood.”
“Yes, well it would be.”
Lang reached for a towel and wrapped it around the arm. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No you won’t, old lad. I’ve just killed a man.”
Lang, on his way to the door, stopped and turned. “You’ve what?”
“Arab terrorist called Ali Hamid tried to kill me, that’s when I stopped the bullet. Took a couple himself in the struggle. I left him on Butler ’s Wharf in the rain. It’s all right. No one saw me and I didn’t get a cab on the way back. Long bloody walk, I can tell you.” Curry managed a smile. “A large whisky and a cigarette would help.”
Lang went out and returned with a glass and a bottle of Scotch. He poured, handed the glass over, and found a packet of cigarettes. As he gave Curry a light, he said, “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Tom Curry said, “We’ve been friends a long time.”
“Best of friends,” Rupert Lang said.
“No one’s known me better than you, old lad, and I’ve always been honest. You know my politics.”
“Of course I do,” Lang said. “Comes the revolution you’ll take me out and have me shot, with great regret, of course.”
“Just one thing I never told you.”
“And what’s that?”
Curry swallowed the Scotch and held out the glass for another. “Let’s see, you were a Captain in One Para when you retired?”
“That’s right.” Lang poured more whisky.
“Well the thing is, old lad, I outrank you. I’m a Major in Russian Military Intelligence, the GRU.”
Lang paused in pouring, then carefully replaced the cap on the bottle. “You old bastard.” He was smiling, suddenly excited. “How long has this been going on?”
“Ever since Moscow. That’s when they recruited me.”
“Shades of Philby, Burgess, and Maclean.”
Lang put the bottle down and lit a cigarette himself. He paced around the kitchen, full of energy. “Tell me everything, Tom, not only what happened tonight. Everything.”
When Curry finished talking, he tried to stand up. “So you see, much better if I get out of here.”
Lang pushed him down. “Don’t play silly bastards with me, although I must say you have done. My God, all that stuff from the Northern Ireland Office going to our Russian friends. Dammit, Tom, I sat on one of those Committees with you.”
“I know, isn’t it terrible?” Curry said.
“You say Belov’s at the Savoy?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. I’m going to ring him up. He can sort this mess out for you. After all, it’s his kind of business.”
He reached for the kitchen phone. Curry said, “For God’s sake, old lad, you can’t afford to get involved. Just let me go. I shouldn’t have come back here. Only a guest, after all.” It was as if he was losing consciousness. “Not your affair.”