by Jack Higgins
'Does that mean I pose a problem for you?' Devlin asked her.
'Not at all, sir. I just wanted you to know,' she said crisply and turned into the main road and drove down towards the river.
Cussane and Morag stood in the quiet street on the edge of Wapping and watched the freightliner turn the corner and disappear.
'Poor Earl Jackson,' Cussane said. 'I bet he can't get away fast enough. What's your grandma's address?'
'Cork Street Wharf. It's five or six years since I was there. I'm afraid I can't remember the way.'
'We'll find it.'
They walked down towards the river which seemed the obvious thing to do. His arm was hurting again and he had a headache, but he made no sign of any of this to the girl. When they came to a grocery shop on a corner, she went in to make enquiries.
She came out quickly. 'It's not far. It's only a couple of streets away.'
They walked to the corner and there was the river and a hundred yards further on, a sign on the wall saying Cork Street Wharf.
Cussane said, 'All right, off you go. I'll stay back out of the way, just in case she has visitors.'
'I shan't be long.'
She hurried off down the street and Cussane stepped back through a broken door into a hard half-filled with rubble and waited. He could smell the river. Not many boats now though. This had once been the greatest port in the world, now it was a graveyard of rusting cranes pointing into the sky like primeval monsters. He felt lousy and when he lit a cigarette, his hand shook. There was the sound of running steps and Morag appeared. 'She isn't there. I spoke to the next door neighbour.'
'Where is she?'
'With a touring show. A fairground show. She's in Maidstone this week.'
And Maidstone was only Thirty miles from Canterbury. There was an inevitability to things and Cussane said, 'We'd better get going then.'
'You'll take me?'
'Why not?' and he turned and led the way along the street.
He found what he was looking for within twenty minutes, a pay and display parking lot.
'Why is this so important?' she demanded.
'Because people pay in advance for however many hours of parking they want and stick the ticket on the windscreen. A wonderful aid to car thieves. You can tell just how long you've got before the car is missed.'
She scouted around. 'There's one here says six hours.'
'And what time was it booked in?' He checked and took out his pocket knife. 'That'll do. Four hours to go. Dark then anyway.'
He worked on the quarter-light with the knife, forced it and unlocked the door, then he reached under the dashboard and pulled the wires down.
'You've done this before,' she said.
'That's true.' The engine roared into life. 'Okay,' he said, 'Let's get out of here,' and as she scrambled into the passenger seat, he drove away.
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 motor-cyclist 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.'