Read Angel of Death for Free Online Page B

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.”
    “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 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 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-millimeter Parabellum. At close quarters, enough to take a man’s arm off. It only chipped the bone, passed