LITMIR.BIZ

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said.

      ‘Perhaps not. I was the one who made sure with both of them.’

      ‘I killed him,’ she insisted. ‘I know it and so do you.’

      ‘Has it been a problem coming to terms with it?’ Curry asked.

      ‘Not really. Looking back it seems to have been like a performance in a play or film and it merges into all my other performances.’ She shook her head. ‘Heaven knows what a psychiatrist would make of that, and anyway, those men were scum.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Lang said. ‘There was, as the courts put it, reasonable cause.’

      ‘A good point,’ she said. ‘I got all the press cuttings on January 30. There was Ali Hamid, an Arab terrorist, a KGB colonel called Ashimov, two IRA bombers some silly judge released, an American here in London reputed to be a CIA agent and now our two friends in Belfast. I’d say the one weak link would be the American.’

      ‘I see,’ Curry said. ‘You accept the killing of the KGB colonel, but the CIA man is a different proposition.’

      ‘I see the logic in what you’re saying. I suppose it’s a question of your point of view.’ She finished her champagne and put the glass down on a side table. ‘Of course it didn’t take the authorities long to work out that January 30 was the date of Bloody Sunday in Londonderry – and you were there, Mr Lang. Interesting coincidence.’

      ‘Rupert,’ he said. ‘Please. Yes, I was there along with a couple of thousand soldiers and large numbers of IRA supporters.’

      There was a long silence. She opened a silver cigarette box and took one out. Lang gave her a light and she blew out a feather of smoke. ‘Why do you do it?’

      ‘Do what exactly?’ Lang asked. ‘I mean just because we arrived in that alley at an opportune moment, and as a Minister of the Crown on service in Ulster, I do have a permit to carry a weapon.’

      ‘A silenced Beretta 9-millimetre Parabellum,’ she said. ‘In all the newspaper reports they constantly mention the fact that all January 30 hits have been committed with the same weapon.’

      ‘Many people think of it as the best handgun in the world these days,’ Lang said. ‘The American Army uses it – there are thousands of them around.’

      She opened a drawer in the side table and took out a newspaper clipping. ‘This is the Belfast Telegraph report on the deaths of those two animals in Carrick Lane. They state that the credit for the killings claimed by January 30 is substantiated by the forensic tests on the rounds removed from the bodies, which indicated that they were killed by the same weapon used to assassinate the other victims, a Beretta 9-millimetre, silenced version.’

      ‘Amazing what they can do these days,’ Lang said. ‘The scientific people, I mean.’

      Curry emptied his glass. ‘What are you going to do? Turn us in?’

      ‘Don’t be stupid, Tom. I’d be turning myself in, however much a good lawyer tried to argue my case. No, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that, but there is one thing I would like to know. Why do you do it?’

      ‘For me it’s simple,’ Curry said. ‘I’ve been a Marxist-Leninist since boyhood. It’s my faith, my religion if you like. I think the world needs to change.’

      ‘And Communism is the answer?’

      ‘Yes, but change comes out of chaos and anarchy, which is where we come in.’

      ‘And you?’ she said to Lang.

      ‘Well, life can be such a bloody bore. Helps to have a little excitement once in a while.’

      ‘Rupert never takes anything seriously,’ Curry told her.

      Lang smiled. ‘All right, father. She can play good women or bad, great queens, murderers, the worst harlot in the world. Now that’s really getting your rocks off.’ He turned to Grace. ‘But it isn’t enough, is it, and never will be.’

      ‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘You clever, clever bastard.’

      ‘But I’m right. You’d like to join in.’

      She sat there, looking at him and for a moment had a quick glimpse of that shadowy figure in Washington, gun raised high, and her stomach crawled with excitement.

      Two weeks later Curry turned up at the Old Red Lion, a pub fringe theatre where she was doing her one-woman show for a week. She was sharing a cramped little dressing room with two young girls acting as assistant stage managers. He glanced in and found her changing into her jeans.

      ‘Hello, it’s me,’ he said.

      ‘Tom, how nice. How was I?’

      ‘Dreadful.’

      ‘Bastard,’ she said.

      ‘Only sometimes. Are you free for a Chinese?’

      ‘Why not?’

      An hour later, as they worked their way through a third or fourth course, she said, ‘It’s lovely to see you, but to what do I owe the honour?’

      ‘We saw that interview on you in the Stage. All about you having a month off after finishing this show until you start Macbeth for the Royal Shakespeare Company.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘There’s a parliamentary break, so Rupert’s free, and I have nothing on. The thing is, Rupert has this old hunting lodge in Devon – Lang Place. Been in his family for years. Moors, shooting, all that kind of stuff. On Dartmoor.’

      ‘My dear Tom, the only time anybody bothers to go there for the shooting is August when the birds do their usual stupid thing, and deer culling is so rigid these days that it’s hardly worth the effort. So – what’s it all about?’

      He paused while crispy duck and pancakes were served. ‘The shooting could be fun – all kinds of shooting. I know Rupert might seem your effete aristocrat, but he knows his stuff when it comes to weaponry.’

      She nodded. ‘That does sound interesting. Anything else?’

      He paused again, looking at her, then sighed. ‘You’ve heard of Kim Philby, Burgess, Maclean?’

      ‘Oh, yes – didn’t they all go to Cambridge, too, and work for Russia?’

      ‘Yes, well, they all had rank in the KGB. I’m a major in the GRU. That’s Russian Military Intelligence. My boss would like to meet you.’

      ‘And who might that be?’

      ‘Colonel Yuri Belov.’

      She started to laugh. ‘But I know him. When I did Chekhov’s Three Sisters last year the Soviet Embassy gave us a reception. He was chief cultural attaché or something.’

      ‘Or something,’ Curry said with an apologetic smile.

      She laughed again. ‘All right. When do we leave?’

      And she was glad she’d gone. Rupert had a twin-engined Navajo Chieftain pick them up from an airfield in Surrey, and the flight to an old World War Two RAF landing strip near Okehampton only took an hour. Here a man with a weather-beaten face was waiting for them. He introduced himself as George Farne and escorted them to a Range Rover.

      After a half-hour drive through wonderful moorland scenery and forest they reached a wooded valley and saw Lang Place. It appeared to be eighteenth century, with tall chimneys and an ornate garden behind high walls.

      When they pulled up at the steps below the front door, Rupert Lang came out wearing jeans and a sweater, an Irish wolfhound at his heels. He came down the steps and took Grace’s hands.

      ‘You look wonderful, as usual.’

      ‘Well, you don’t look too bad yourself.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘What’s the wolfhound’s

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