FIFTEEN

‘OF COURSE, it’s hardly surprising the Pope wants to come here, sir,’ Susan Calder said to Devlin. ‘This is the birthplace of English Christianity. It was St Augustine who founded the cathedral here in Saxon times.’

‘Is it now?’ They were standing in the magnificent Perpendicular nave of the cathedral, the pillars soaring to the vaulted ceiling high above them. The place was a hive of activity, workmen everywhere.

‘It’s certainly spectacular,’ Devlin said.

‘It was even bombed in nineteen-forty-two during the Canterbury blitz. The library was destroyed, but it’s been rebuilt. Up here in the north-west transept is where Saint Thomas Beckett was murdered by the three knights eight hundred years ago.’

‘I believe the Pope has a particular affinity for him,’ Devlin said.

‘Let’s have a look.’

They moved up the nave to the place of Beckett’s martyrdom all those years ago. The precise spot where he was traditionally believed to have fallen was marked by a small square stone. There was a strange atmosphere. Devlin shivered, suddenly cold.

‘The Sword’s Point,’ the girl said simply. ‘That’s what they call it.’

‘Yes, well they would, wouldn’t they? Come on, let’s get out of here. I could do with a smoke and I’ve seen enough.’

They went out through the south porch past the police guard. There was plenty of activity outside also, workmen working on stands and a considerable police presence. Devlin lit a cigarette and he and Susan Calder moved out on to the pavement.

‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘I mean, not even Cussane could expect to get in there tomorrow. You’ve seen the security.’

Devlin took out his wallet and produced the security card Ferguson had given him. ‘Have you seen one of these before?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Very special. Guaranteed to unlock all doors.’

‘So?’

‘Nobody has asked to see it. We were totally accepted when we walked in. Why? Because you are wearing police uniform. And don’t tell me that’s what you are. It isn’t the point.’

‘I see what you mean.’ She was troubled and it showed.

‘The best place to hide a tree is in a forest,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, there’ll be policemen all over the place and church dignitaries so what’s another policeman or priest.’

At that moment someone called his name, and they turned to see Ferguson walking towards them with a man in a dark overcoat. Ferguson wore a greatcoat of the kind favoured by Guards officers, and carried a smartly rolled umbrella.

‘Brigadier Ferguson,’ Devlin told the girl hastily.

‘There you are,’ the Brigadier said. ‘This your driver?’

‘WPC Calder, sir,’ she saluted smartly.

‘This is Superintendent Foster, attached to Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve been going over things with him. Seems pretty watertight to me.’

‘Even if your man gets as far as Canterbury, there’s no way he’ll get in the cathedral tomorrow,’ Foster said simply. ‘I’d stake my reputation on it.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t have to,’ Devlin told him.

Ferguson tugged at Foster’s sleeve impatiently. ‘Right, let’s get inside before the light fails. I’m staying here tonight myself, Devlin.

I’ll phone you at your hotel later.’

The two men walked up to the great door, a policeman opened it for them and they went inside. ‘Do you think he knows them?’ Devlin asked her gently.

‘God, I don’t know. You’ve got me wondering now, sir.’ She opened the door of the car for him. He got in and she slid behind the wheel and started the engine. ‘One thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Even if he did get in and did something, he’d never get out again.’

‘But that’s the whole point,’ Devlin said. ‘He doesn’t care what happens to him afterwards.’

‘God help us then.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it. Nothing we can do now, girl dear. We don’t control the game any more, it controls us, so get us to that hotel in your own good time and I’ll buy you the best dinner the place can offer. Did I tell you, by the way, that I have this terrible thing for women in uniform?’

As she turned out into the traffic she started to laugh.

The caravan was large and roomy and extremely well-furnished. The bedroom section was separate in its own small compartment, twin bunks.

When Cussane opened the door and peered in, Morag appeared to be sleeping.

He started to close the door and she called, ‘Harry?’

‘Yes?’ He moved back in. ‘What is it?’

‘Is Grandma still working?’

‘Yes.’

He sat on the edge of the bunk. He was in considerable pain now. It even hurt to breathe. Something was badly wrong, he knew that. She reached up to touch his face and he drew back a little.

She said, ‘Remember in Granda’s caravan that first day? I asked if you were frightened I might corrupt you.’

‘To be precise,’ he told her, ‘your actual words were: “Are you frightened I might corrupt you, Father?”

She went very still. ‘You are a priest then. A real priest? I think I always knew it.’

‘Go to sleep,’ he said.

She reached for his hand. ‘You wouldn’t leave without telling me?’

There was genuine fear in her voice. He said gently, ‘Now would I do a thing like that to you?’ He got up and opened the door. ‘Like I said, get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He lit a cigarette, opened the door and went out. The Maidstone fairground was a comparatively small affair, a number of sideshows, various stalls, bingo stands, several carousels. There were still a number of people around, noisy and good-humoured in spite of the late hour, music loud on the night air. At one end of the caravan was the Land Rover which towed it, at the other the red tent with the illuminated sign that said Gypsy Rose. As he watched, a young couple emerged, laughing. Cussane hesitated, then went in.

Brana Smith was at least seventy, a highly-coloured scarf drawing back the hair from the brown parchment face. She wore a shawl over her shoulders, a necklace of gold coins around her neck. The table she was seated at had a crystal ball on it.

‘You certainly look the part,’ he said.

‘That’s the general idea. The public like a gypsy to look like a gypsy. Put up the closed sign and give me a cigarette.’ He did as he was told, came back and sat opposite her like a client, the crystal between them. ‘Is Morag asleep?’

‘Yes.’ He took a deep breath to control his pain. ‘You must never let her go back to that camp, you understand me?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Her voice was dry and very calm. ‘We gypsies stick together and we pay our debts. I’ll put the word out and one day soon Murray pays for what he’s done, believe me.’

He nodded. ‘When you saw her picture in the paper today and read the circumstances, you must have been worried. Why didn’t you get in touch with the police?’

The police? You must be joking.’ She shrugged. ‘In any case, I knew she was coming and I knew she would be all right.’

‘Knew?’ Cussane said.

She rested a hand lightly on the crystal. ‘These are only the trappings, my friend. I have the gift as my mother did before me and hers before her.’

He nodded. ‘Morag told me. She read the Tarot cards for me, but she isn’t certain of her powers.’

‘Oh, she has the gift.’ The old woman nodded. ‘As yet unformed.’ She pushed a pack of cards to him. ‘Cut them, then hand them back to me with your left hand.’

He did as he was told and she cut them in turn. ‘The cards mean nothing without the gift. You understand this?’

He felt strangely light-headed. ‘Yes.’

‘Three cards, that will tell all.’ She turned the first. It was the Tower. ‘He has suffered through the forces of destiny,’ she said.

‘Others have controlled his life.’

‘Morag drew that card,’ he said. ‘She told me something like that.’

She turned the second card. It showed a young man suspended upside down from a wooden gibbet by his right ankle.

‘The Hanged Man. When he strives hardest, it is with his own shadow.

He is two people. Himself and yet not himself. Impossible now to go back to the wholeness of youth.’

‘Too late,’ he said. ‘Far too late.’

The third card showed Death in traditional form, his scythe mowing a crop of human bodies.

‘But whose?’ Cussane laughed a little too loud. ‘Death, I mean? Mine or perhaps somebody else’s?’

‘The card means far more than its superficial image implies. He comes

as a redeemer. In this man’s death lies the opportunity for rebirth.’

‘Yes, but for whom?’ Cussane demanded, leaning forward. The light reflected from the crystal seemed very bright.

She touched his forehead, damp with sweat. ‘You are ill.’

‘I’ll be all right. I need to lie down, that’s all.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll sleep for a while, if that’s all right with you, then I’ll leave before Morag wakes. That’s important. Do you understand me?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded. ‘I understand you very well.’

He went out into the cool night. Most people had gone home now, the stalls, the carousels were closing down. His forehead was burning. He went up the steps into the caravan and lay on the bench seat, looking up at the ceiling. Better to take the morphine now than in the morning.

He got up, rummaged in the bag and found an ampoule. The injection worked quite quickly and, after a while, he slept.

He came awake with a start, his head clear. It was morning, light coming in through the windows and the old woman was seated at the table smoking a cigarette and watching him. When he sat up, the pain was like a living thing. For a moment, he thought he was going to stop breathing.

She pushed a cup across to him. ‘Hot tea. Drink some.’

It tasted good, better than anything he had ever known, and he smiled and helped himself to a cigarette from her packet, hand shaking.

‘What time is it?’

‘Seven o’clock.’

‘And Morag’s still asleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll get going.’

She said gravely, ‘You’re ill, Father Harry Cussane. Very ill.’

He smiled gently. ‘You have the gift, so you would know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Things to get straight before I go. Morag’s position in all this. Have you got a pencil?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Take down this number.’ She did as she was told. ‘The man on the other end is called Ferguson - Brigadier Ferguson.’

‘Is he police?’

‘In a way. He’d dearly love to get his hands on me. If he isn’t there, they’ll know how to contact him wherever he is, which is probably Canterbury.’

‘Why there?’

‘Because I’m going to Canterbury to kill the Pope.’ He produced the Stechkin from his pocket. ‘With this.’

She seemed to grow small, to withdraw into herself. She believed him, of course, he could see that. ‘But why?’ she whispered. ‘He’s a good man.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ he said, ‘or at least were, at some time or other in our lives. The important thing is this. When I’ve gone, you phone Ferguson. Tell him I’m going to Canterbury Cathedral. You’ll also tell him I forced Morag to help me. Say she was frightened for her life.

Anything.’ He laughed. ‘Taking it all in all, that should cover it.’-

He picked up his bag and walked to the door. She said, ‘You’re dying, don’t you know that?’

‘Of course I do.’ He managed a smile. ‘You said that Death on the Tarot cards means redemption. In my death lies the opportunity for rebirth. That child’s in there. That’s all that’s important.’ He opened the bag, took out the bundle of fifty pound notes and tossed them on the table. ‘That’s for her. I won’t be needing it now.’

He went out. The door banged. She sat there listening, aware of the sound of the car starting up and moving away. She stayed like that for a long time, thinking about Harry Cussane himself. She had liked him more than most men she had known, but there was Death in his eyes, she had seen that at the first meeting. And there was Morag to consider.

There was a sound of movement next door where the girl slept - a faint stirring. Old Brana checked her watch. It was eight-thirty.

Making her decision, she got up, let herself out of the caravan quietly. Hurried across the fairground to the public phone box and dialled Ferguson’s number.

Devlin was having breakfast at the hotel in Canterbury with Susan Calder when he was called to the phone. He was back quite quickly.

‘That was Ferguson. Cussane’s turned up. Or at least his girl-friend has. Do you know Maidstone?’

‘Yes, sir. It can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen miles from here. Twenty at the most.’

‘Then let’s get moving,’ he said. There really isn’t much time for any of us now.’

In London, the Pope had left the Pro-Nunciature very early to visit more than 4000 religious: nuns, monks, and priests, Catholic and Anglican, at Digby Stuart Training College in London. Many of them were from enclosed orders. This was the first time they had gone into the outside world in many years. It was a highly emotional moment for all when they renewed their vows in the Holy Father’s presence. It was after that

that he left for Canterbury in the helicopter provided by British Caledonian Airways.

Stokely Hall was bounded by a high wall of red brick, a Victorian addition to the estate when the family still had money. The lodge beside the great iron gates was Victorian also, though the architect had done his best to make it resemble the early Tudor features of the main house. When Cussane drove by on the main road, there were two police cars at the gates and a police motorcyclist who had been trailing behind him for the past mile, turned in.

Cussane carried on down the road, the wall on his left, fringed by trees. When the gate was out of sight, he scanned the opposite side of the road and finally noticed a five-barred gate and a track leading into a wood. He drove across quickly, got out, opened the gate, then drove some little way into the trees. He went back to the gate, closed it and returned to the car.

He took off his raincoat, jacket and shirt, awkwardly because of his bad arm. The smell was immediately apparent, the sickly odour of decay.

He laughed foolishly and said softly, ‘Jesus, Harry, you’re falling apart.’

He got his black vest from the bag, his clerical collar and put them on. Finally, the cassock. It seemed a thousand years since he had rolled it up and put it in the bottom of the bag at Kilrea. He reloaded the Stechkin with a fresh clip, put it in one pocket, a spare clip in the other and got in the car as it started to drizzle. No more morphine. The pain would keep him sharp. He closed his eyes and vowed to stay in control.

Brana Smith sat at the table in the caravan, an arm around Morag, who was crying steadily.

‘Just tell me exactly what he said,’ Liam Devlin told her.

‘Grandma’ the girl started.

The old woman shook her head. ‘Hush, child.’ She turned to Devlin.

‘He told me he intended to shoot the Pope. Showed me the gun. Then he gave me the telephone number to ring in London. The man Ferguson.’

‘And what did he tell you to say?’

‘That he would be at Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Isn’t it enough?’

Devlin turned to Susan Calder standing at the door. ‘Right, we’d better get back.’

She opened the door. Brana Smith said, ‘What about Morag?’

‘That’s up to Ferguson.’ Devlin shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He started to go out and she said, ‘Mr Devlin?’ He turned. ‘He’s dying.’

‘Dying?’ Devlin said.

‘Yes, from a gunshot wound.’

He went out, ignoring the curious crowd of fairground workers, and got in the front passenger seat beside Susan. As she drove away, he called up Canterbury Police Headquarters on the car radio and asked to be patched through to Ferguson.

‘Nothing fresh here,’ he told the Brigadier. ‘The message was for you and quite plain. He intends to be at Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘Cheeky bastard!’ Ferguson said.

‘Another thing. He’s dying. It would seem sepsis must be setting in from the bullet he took at the Mungos’ farm.’

‘Your bullet?’

‘That’s right.’

Ferguson took a deep breath. ‘All right, get back here fast. The Pope should be here soon.’

Stokely Hall was one of the finest Tudor mansions in England and the Stokelys had been one of the handful of English aristocratic families to maintain its Catholicism after Henry VIII and the Reformation. The thing which distinguished Stokely was the family chapel, the chapel in the wood, reached by tunnel from the main house. It was regarded by most experts as being, in effect, the oldest Catholic church in England. The Pope had expressed a desire to pray there.

Cussane lay back in the passenger seat thinking it over. The pain was a living thing now, his face ice-cold and yet dripping sweat. He managed to find a cigarette and started to light it and then, in the distance, heard the sound of engines up above. He got out of the car and stood listening. A moment later, the blue and white painted helicopter passed overhead.

Susan Calder said, ‘You don’t look happy, sir.’

‘It was Liam last night. And I’m not happy. Cussane’s behavior doesn’t make sense.’

‘That was then, this is now. What’s worrying you?’

‘Harry Cussane, my good friend of more than twenty years. The best chess player I ever knew.’

‘And what was the most significant thing about him?’

‘That he was always three moves ahead. That he had the ability to make you concentrate on his right hand when what was really important was what he was doing with his left. In the present circumstances, what does that suggest to you?’

‘That he hasn’t any intention of going to Canterbury Cathedral.

That’s where the action is. That’s where everyone is waiting for him.’

‘So he strikes somewhere else. But how? Where’s the schedule?’

‘Back seat, sir.’

He found it and read it aloud. ‘Starts off at Digby Stuart College in London, then by helicopter to Canterbury.’ He frowned. ‘Wait a minute. He’s dropping in at some place called Stokely Hall to visit a Catholic chapel.’

‘We passed it on the way to Maidstone,’ she said. ‘About three miles from here. But that’s an unscheduled visit. It’s not been mentioned in any of the newspapers that I’ve seen and everything else has. How would Cussane know?’

‘He used to run the press office at the Catholic Secretariat in Dublin.’ Devlin slammed a fist into his thigh. ‘That’s it. Has to be.

Get your foot down hard and don’t stop for anything.’

‘What about Ferguson?’

He reached for the mike. ‘I’ll try and contact him, but it’s too late for him to do anything. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.

It’s up to us now.’

He took the Walther from his pocket, cocked it, then put the safety catch on as the car shot forward.

The road was clear when Cussane crossed it. He moved into the shelter of the trees and walked along the base of the wall. He came to an old iron gate, narrow and rusting, fixed firm in the wall and as he tested it, heard voices on the other side. He moved behind a tree and waited. Through the bars he could see a path and rhododendron bushes. A moment later, two nuns walked by.

He gave them time to pass, then went back to where the ground under the trees rose several feet bringing him almost level with the wall. He reached for a branch that stretched across. It would have been ridiculously easy if it had not been for his shoulder and arm. The pain was appalling, but he hoisted the skirts of his cassock to give him freedom of movement and swung across, pausing on top of the wall for only a moment before dropping to the ground.

He stayed on one knee, fighting for breath, then stood up and ran a hand over his hair. Then he hurried along the path, aware of the nuns’

voices up ahead, turned a corner by an old stone fountain and caught up with them. They turned in surprise. One of them was very old, the other younger.

‘Good morning, Sisters,’ he said briskly. ‘Isn’t it beautiful here?

I couldn’t resist taking a little walk.’

‘Neither could we, Father,’ the older one said.

They walked on side-by-side and emerged from the shrubbery on to an exParisive lawn. The helicopter was parked a hundred yards to the right,

the crew lounging beside it. There were several limousines in front of the house and two police cars. A couple of policemen crossed the lawn with an Alsatian guard dog on a lead. They passed Cussane and the two nuns without a word and continued down towards the shrubbery.

‘Are you from Canterbury, Father?’ the old nun enquired.

‘No, Sister?’ he paused.

‘Agatha - and this is Sister Anne.’

‘I’m with the Secretariat in Dublin. A wonderful thing to be invited over here to see His Holiness. I missed him during his Irish trip.’

Susan Calder turned in from the road at the front gate and Devlin showed his security pass as two policemen moved forward. ‘Has anyone passed through here in the last few minutes?’

‘No, sir,’ one officer said. ‘A hell of a lot of guests came before the helicopter arrived though.’

‘Move!’ Devlin said.

Susan went up the drive at some speed. ‘What do you think?’

‘He’s here!’ Devlin said. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’

‘Have you met His Holiness yet, Father?’ Sister Anne enquired.

‘No, I’ve only just arrived from Canterbury with a message for him.’

They were crossing the gravel drive now, past the policemen standing beside the cars, up the steps and past the two uniformed security guards and in through the great oak door. The hall was spacious, a central staircase lifting to a landing. Double doors stood open to the right, disclosing a large reception room filled with visitors, many of them church dignitaries.

Cussane and the two nuns walked towards it. ‘And where is this famous Stokely chapel?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen it.’

‘Oh, it’s so beautiful,’ Sister Agatha said. ‘So many years of prayer. The entrance is just down the hall, see where the Monsignor is standing?’

They paused at the door of the reception and Cussane said, ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment. I may be able to give my message to His Holiness before he joins the reception.’

‘We’ll wait for you, Father,’ Sister Agatha said. ‘I think we’d rather go in with you.’

‘Of course. I shan’t be long.’

Cussane went past the bottom of the stairs and moved into the corner of the hall where the Monsignor was standing, resplendent in scarlet and black. He was an old man with silver hair and spoke with an Italian accent.

‘What do you seek, Father?’

‘His Holiness.’

‘Impossible. He is at prayer.’

Cussane put a hand to the old man’s face, turned the handle of the door and forced him through. He closed the door behind him with a foot.

‘I’m truly sorry, Father.’ He chopped the old priest on the side of the neck and gently lowered him to the floor.

A long narrow tunnel stretched ahead of him, dimly lit, steps leading up to an oaken door at the end. The pain was terrible now, all consuming. But that no longer mattered. He fought for breath momentarily, then took the Stechkin from his pocket and went forward.

Susan Calder swung the car in at the bottom of the steps and as Devlin jumped out, she followed him. His security pass was already in his hand as a police sergeant moved forward.

‘Anything out of the way happened? Anyone unusual gone in?’

‘No, sir. Lots of visitors before the Pope arrived. Couple of nuns and a priest just went in.’

Devlin went up the steps on the run past the security guards, Susan Calder at his heels. He paused, taking in the scene, the reception on the right, the two nuns waiting by the door. A priest, the sergeant had said.

He approached Sisters Agatha and Anne. ‘You’ve just arrived, Sisters?’

Beyond them, the guests talked animatedly, waiters moving amongst them.

‘That’s right,’ Sister Agatha said.

‘Wasn’t there a priest with you?’

‘Oh, yes, the good father from Dublin.’

Devlin’s stomach went hollow. ‘Where is he?’

‘He had a message for His Holiness, a message from Canterbury, but I told him the Holy Father was in the chapel so he went to speak to the Monsignor on the door.’ Sister Agatha led the way across the hall and paused. ‘Oh, the Monsignor doesn’t seem to be there.’

Devlin was running and the Walther was in his hand as he flung open the door and tumbled over the Monsignor on the floor. He was aware of Susan Calder behind him, was even more aware of the priest in the black cassock mounting the steps at the end of the tunnel and reaching for the handle of the oak door.

‘Harry!’ Devlin called.

Cussane turned and fired without the slightest hesitation, the bullet slamming into Devlin’s right forearm, punching him back against the wall. Devlin dropped the Walther as he fell and Susan cried out and flattened herself against the wall.

Cussane stood there, the Stechkin extended in his right hand, but he did not fire. Instead, he smiled a ghastly smile.

‘Stay out of it, Liam,’ he called. ‘Last act!’ and he turned and opened the chapel door.

Devlin was sick, dizzy from shock. He reached for the Walther with his left hand, fumbled and dropped it as he tried to stand. He glared up at the girl.

‘Take it! Stop him! It’s up to you now!’

Susan Calder knew nothing of guns beyond a couple of hours of basic handling experience on her training course. She had fired a few rounds from a revolver on the range, that was all. Now, she picked up the Walther without hesitation and ran along the tunnel. Devlin got to his feet and went after her.

The chapel was a place of shadows hallowed by the centuries, the sanctuary lamp the only light. His Holiness Pope John Paul II knelt in his white robes before the simple altar. The sound of the silenced Stechkm, muffled by the door, had not alerted him, but the raised voices had. He was on his feet and turning as the door crashed open and Cussane entered.

He stood there, face damp with sweat, strangely medieval in the black cassock, the Stechkm against his thigh.

John Paul said calmly, ‘You are Father Harry Cussane.’

‘You are mistaken. I am Mikhail Kelly.’ Cussane laughed wildly.

‘Strolling player of sorts.’

‘You are Father Harry Cussane,’ John Paul said relentlessly. ‘Priest then, priest now, priest eternally. God will not let go.’

‘No!’ Cussane cried in a kind of agony. ‘I refuse it!’

The Stechkm swung up and Susan Calder stumbled in through the door, falling to her knees, skirt riding up, the Walther leveled in both hands. She shot him twice in the back, shattering his spine and Cussane cried out in agony and fell on his knees in front of the Pope. He stayed there for a moment then rolled on his back, still clutching the Stechkm.

Susan stayed on her knees, lowering the Walther to the floor, watching as the Pontiff gently took the Stechkm from Cussane’s hand.

She heard the Pope say in English, ‘I want you to make an act of contrition. Say after me: O my God who art infinitely good in thyself’

‘Oh my God,’ Harry Cussane said and died.

The Pope, on his knees, started to pray, hands clasped.

Behind Susan, Devlin crawled in and sat with his back against the wall, holding his wound, blood on his fingers. She dropped the gun and eased against him as if for warmth.

‘Does it always feel like this?’ she asked him harshly. ‘Dirty and ashamed?’

‘Join the club, girl dear,’ Liam Devlin said, and he put his good arm around her.