‘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 was 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. There was 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 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, having returned from Parliament only fifteen minutes before, 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 went to his assistance.
‘Dear God, Tom, your sleeve’s soaked in blood.’
‘Yes, well, it would be.’
Lang reached for a towel and wrapped it around Curry’s 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.’
‘We’ve been friends a long time,’ Tom said.
‘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. ‘Come 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 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
