Angel of Death

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 1995

Copyright © Harry Patterson 1995

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Photography and illustration © Nik Keevil

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124823

Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007384693

Version: 2015-04-01

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

BELFAST LONDON 1994

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

LONDON BELFAST DEVON 1972–1992

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BEIRUT 1994

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

LONDON 1994

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

WASHINGTON LONDON WASHINGTON 1994

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

LONDON DEVON LONDON 1994

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

KENT DRUMGOOLE ABBEY ARDMORE HOUSE LONDON 1994

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Further Reading

About the Publisher

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

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 black. The dark moustache which he’d gummed into place on his upper lip completed the transformation.

He waited, still clutching the rain hat. It had to be the van – the only reason for it being there – so he wasn’t surprised when the rear door opened and a rather large man, a Colt automatic in one hand, emerged.

‘Slow and easy, my grand wee man,’ he said in the distinctive Belfast accent.

‘I say, old chap.’ Dillon showed every sign of alarm and raised his hands. ‘No problem, I trust? I’m here in good faith.’

‘Aren’t we all, Mr Friar,’ a voice called and Dillon saw Daley appear in the doorway of the office. ‘Is he clean, Jack?’

The big man ran his hands over Dillon and felt between his legs. ‘All clear here, Curtis.’

‘Bring him in.’

When Dillon entered the office, Daley was sitting in a chair behind the desk, a young man of twenty-five or so with an intense white face.

‘Curtis Daley, Mr Friar, and this is Jack Mullin. We have to be careful, you understand?’

‘Oh, perfectly, old chap.’ Dillon rolled his rain hat and slipped it into his raincoat pocket. ‘May I smoke?’

Daley tossed a packet of Gallaghers across. ‘Try an Irish cigarette. I’m surprised to find you’re English. Jobert & Company; now, that’s a French arms dealer. That’s why we chose him.’

Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘The arms business, especially at the level you wish to deal, isn’t exactly thriving in London these days. I’ve been in it for years ever since getting out of the Royal Artillery. I’ve worked as an agent for Monsieur Jobert all over the world.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Monsieur Jobert told me I’d be meeting your leader, Mr Quinn?’

‘Daniel? Why should he expect that? Any special reason?’