LITMIR.BIZ

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swallowed the Scotch and held out the glass for another. ‘Let’s see, you were a captain in 1 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 stopped 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, but 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.’

      ‘Oh, yes it is.’ Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling now. He ran a hand over Curry’s head. ‘Rest easy, Tom, I’ll handle it.’

      He rang through to the Savoy and asked that Colonel Yuri Belov come to the phone urgently.

      Rose House Nursing Home was a discreet establishment in Holland Park. It had once been the town mansion of some turn-of-the-century millionaire and stood discreetly in two acres of gardens behind high walls. In a lounge area on the second floor, Belov and Rupert Lang drank coffee and waited. Finally a door opened and a small cheerful Indian walked in, clad in green surgical robes.

      ‘This is Dr Joel Gupta, the principal of this establishment,’ Belov said to Lang. ‘How is he, Joel?’

      ‘Very lucky. The Beretta fires 9-millimetre Parabellum. At close quarters, it’s enough to take a man’s arm off. This time it only chipped the bone and passed through flesh. He’ll be fine, but I want him in for a week.’

      ‘When can we see him?’ Belov asked.

      ‘He’s woozy right now. Give him half an hour, then five minutes only. I’ll see you later.’

      Gupta went out. Lang said. ‘He seems to be on your side.’

      ‘I knew him in Afghanistan,’ Belov said. ‘Helped him come to England. Don’t get the wrong impression. He helps me out on the odd occasion, but most of the time he specializes in drug addiction. He does fine work.’

      ‘So what went wrong tonight?’ Lang asked.

      ‘My dear man, do you really want to get into this any more than you have to?’

      ‘I’m already up to my ears,’ Lang said. ‘And Tom Curry is the best friend I have in the world.’

      ‘But you’re in the Government.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘And Curry, like me, is a committed Communist. We believe that we are right and you are wrong.’

      ‘But I often am,’ Lang told him. ‘I’m sure you’ll lead me to the guillotine when the moment arrives, but I take friendship seriously, so what about Tom? What went wrong?’

      ‘Colonel Boris Ashimov went wrong. He’s Head of Station at the London Embassy for the KGB. As you know, GRU is Military Intelligence and we have our differences. I hadn’t realized how deep they were until tonight.’

      ‘He set you up?’

      ‘So it would appear. If it hadn’t been for the Savoy affair I’d have gone personally.’

      ‘But instead, poor old Torn takes the bullet.’ Rupert Lang wasn’t smiling. His eyes glittered, and there was a wolfish look to his face. ‘I took a bullet myself once. Not nice.’

      ‘Of course,’ Belov said. ‘1 Para. Bloody Sunday. You were a lieutenant then.’

      Just then a nurse appeared. ‘He’s surfaced. You can go in now if you like.’

      Curry managed a weak smile. ‘Still here, am I?’

      ‘For a long time yet,’ Rupert Lang told him.

      Curry turned to Belov. ‘What went wrong, Yuri?’

      ‘It would appear Ashimov set me up. Ali Hamid was supposed to knock me off. Unfortunately I sent you – unfortunate for you, that is, not for me. However, we must cover the trail as much as possible, give an explanation for Hamid’s death. He’s a known terrorist. Both Scotland Yard and MI5 will find that out soon enough.’

      ‘What would you suggest?’ Lang asked.

      ‘Someone should claim credit for his death,’ Belov nodded. ‘That would take care of things nicely.’

      ‘Like the Provisional IRA?’ Curry demanded.

      ‘No, something new, something to confuse them all.’

      ‘You mean an entirely new terrorist group?’ Lang asked.

      ‘Why not?’ Belov smiled. ‘Bloody Sunday, wasn’t that 30 January 1973? What if I put a call through to The Times claiming credit for Hamid’s killing on behalf of January 30? That would certainly give the anti-terrorist units at every level something to chew on.’

      ‘Rather like that Greek group we read about,’ Lang said. ‘November 17. Yes, I like it. Should muddy the waters nicely.’

      ‘Of course,’ Belov said. ‘You see, Mr Lang, because of the cause I serve, chaos is my main interest in life. Fear, uncertainty and chaos. I want to create as much of all these things as possible in the Western world. Then gradually the cracks begin to show and finally the system breaks down. Take Ireland, for example. We don’t take sides, but we do actively help to keep the whole rotten mess going. A civil war, a descent into madness and then our friends, and there are many in Ireland, take over.’

      ‘Another Cuba, only in Britain’s backyard,’ Lang said. ‘Interesting.’

      ‘I’ve been very frank,’ Belov said. ‘But it doesn’t seem to bother you.’

      ‘Very little in this life does, old sport.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll take care of this January 30 thing then.’

      It was Curry who said, ‘And who takes care of Ashimov? He’s got to kill you now, Yuri, no choice.’

      ‘Yes, someone should sort that bastard out.’ Rupert Lang opened the briefcase beside the bed and took out the Beretta. He said to Belov, ‘Fifty thousand dollars in there. I believe it’s yours. I’ll keep the Beretta. Just tell me where and when.’

      There was a moment’s silence and then Curry said, ‘You can’t be serious.’

      Lang smiled that strange wolfish smile again. ‘I killed three people on Bloody Sunday, Tom, and two others elsewhere during my service in Ulster. Never told you that. Secrets, you see, just like you.’ He turned to Belov. ‘Another job for January 30. First this Arab, then the Station Head of the KGB in London. That should really make the Security Services squirm and I should know, I’m

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