Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter. Jack Higgins

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      JACK HIGGINS

      SEAN DILLON 3-BOOK COLLECTION 2:

      Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President's Daughter

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Drink with the Devil

       The President’s Daughter

       Keep Reading

       About the Author

       Also by the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      

      JACK HIGGINS

      ANGEL OF DEATH

       Epigraph

      Between two groups of men that want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy except force…. It seems to me that every society rests on the death of men.

      Oliver Wendell Holmes

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       LONDON DEVON LONDON 1994

       12

       13

       14

       KENT DRUMGOOLE ABBEY ARDMORE HOUSE LONDON 1994

       15

       16

       BELFAST LONDON 1994

       1

      A cold wind blew in from Belfast Lough, driving rain across the city. Sean Dillon moved along a narrow street between tall warehouses, relics of the Victorian era, mostly boarded up now. He stood on the corner, a small man, no more than five feet five, wearing a trenchcoat and an old rain hat.

      He was on the waterfront now. There were ships out there at anchor, their riding lights moving up and down for there was a heavy swell driving into the docks. There was a sound of gunfire in the distance. He glanced in the general direction, lit a cigarette in cupped hands and moved on.

      There was an air of desolation to the whole area. Examples of the devastation caused by twenty-five years of war everywhere and his feet crunched over broken glass. He found what he was looking for five minutes later, a warehouse with a peeling sign on the wall that said Murphy & Son – Import & Export. There were large double doors with a small Judas gate for easy access. It opened with a slight creak and he stepped inside.

      It was a place of shadows, empty except for an old Ford van and a jumble of packing cases. There was an office at the far end with glass walls, one or two panes broken, and a dim light shone there. Dillon removed his rain hat and ran a hand nervously over his hair which he’d dyed

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