Free Angel of Death by Jack Higgins Page A

cramped little dressing room with two young girls acting as assistant stage managers. He glanced in and found her putting on 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, working their way through a third or fourth course, she said, “It’s lovely to see you, but to what do I owe the honor?”
    “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, 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 name?”
    “Danger.” Lang fondled its ears.
    “Bring the bags, George,” he called and took her up the steps, an arm about her waist. “Tell me, can you ride a motorcycle?”
    “One thing I’ve never tried.”
    “Oh, you’ll take to it like a duck to water. I have a couple of Montesa dirt bikes. Spanish job. Go anywhere. Good if you’ve got sheep in the high country. I’ll show you tomorrow.”
     
     
    They had an excellent dinner, although very simple, all prepared by George Farne’s wife, steak, new potatoes, salad, and some sort of cream tart. Afterwards, Lang opened the French windows and they stood on the terrace with brandies, listening to the silence.
    “Do you only have the Farnes working here?” she asked.
    “That’s right. George’s Dad worked for my father, so he’s known this place as long as I have. He and his wife caretake. He brings in local help when he needs it.”
    “What a heavenly existence,” she said.
    “Don’t be an idiot,” Tom Curry told her. “You’d be screaming your head off