by Jack Higgins
'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 behaviour 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 expansive 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 Stechkin, 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 Stechkin 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 Stechkin swung up and Susan Calder stumbled in through the door, falling to her knees, skirt riding up, the Walther levelled 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 Stechkin.
Susan stayed on her knees, lowering the Walther to the floor, watching as the Pontiff gently took the Stechkin 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.
EPILOGUE
IT WAS SIX O'CLOCK on a grey morning, the sky swollen with rain, when Susan Calder turned her mini car in through the gate of St Joseph's Catholic Cemetery, Highgate. It was a poor sort of place with lots of Gothic monuments from an obviously more prosperous past, but now, everything overgrown, nothing but decay.
She was not in uniform and wore a dark headscarf, blue-belted coat and leather boots. She pulled in at the superintendent's lodge and found Devlin standing beside a taxi. He was wearing his usual dark Burberry and black felt hat and his right arm was in a black sling. She got out of the car and he came to meet her.
'Sorry I'm late. The traffic,' she said. 'Have they started?'
'Yes.' He smiled ironically. 'I think Harry would have appreciated this. Like a bad set for a second rate movie. Even the rain makes it another cliche,' he said, as it started to fall in heavy drops.
He told the taxi driver to wait and he and the girl went along the path between gravestones. 'Not much of a place,' she said.
'They had to tuck him away somewhere.' He took out a cigarette with his good hand and lit it. 'Ferguson and the Home Office people felt you should have had some sort of gallantry award.'
'A medal?' There was genuine distaste on he
r face. 'They can keep it, He had to be stopped, but that doesn't mean I liked doing it.'
'They've decided against it anyway. It would be too public; require an explanation and they can't have that. So much for Harry wanting to leave the KGB with the blame.'
They came to the grave and paused some distance away under a tree. There were two gravediggers, a priest, a woman in a black coat and a girl.
'Tanya Voroninova?' Susan asked.
'Yes, and the girl is Morag Finlay,' Devlin said. 'The three women in Harry Cussane's life, together now to see him planted. First, the one he so greatly wronged as a child, then the child he saved at great inconvenience to himself. I find that ironic. Harry the redemptionist.'
'And then there's me,' she said. 'His executioner and I never even met him.'
'Only the once,' Devlin said. 'And that was enough. Strange - the most important people in his life were women and in the end they were the death of him.'
The priest sprinkled the grave and the coffin with Holy Water and incensed them. Morag started to cry and Tanya Voroninova put an arm around her as the priest's voice rose in prayer.
Lord Jesus Christ, Saviour of the world, we commend your servant to you and pray for him.
'Poor Harry,' Devlin said. 'Final curtain and he still didn't get a full house.'
He took her arm and they turned and walked away through the rain.
A Biography of Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.