At that moment, the car ahead stopped. Automatically, Patrick stalled his own engine. The empty street filled with the sound of wind, sudden and desolate. Up ahead, the lights went out.
The Sierra had parked in front of a level crossing over the main Sligo railway line. The area round the crossing was lit by two street lamps, one on either side of the street. Patrick could see three men get out of the car. Makonnen, the smallest of the group, was in the middle, his arms pinned by the others.
Patrick opened the glove compartment and reached in. The gun felt cold and unfamiliar, like an old friend from whom one has grown distant after many years. He took it out, gripping it tightly, like a small animal he had brought to bay and conquered. It was a Heckler and Koch P7M8, his old handgun from Beirut.
He preferred it to the Brownings and Berettas he had previously used: he found it light, compact, and extremely accurate. It was permanently fitted with 310 Target Illuminator.
He stepped out of the car and was almost bowled over by a sudden blast. But the wind was an advantage: it would drown his footsteps, making it easier for him to get close to his quarry without being detected. From their behaviour, he was certain they had no idea they were being followed.
He saw them pass the level crossing, then vanish into shadows. Quickly, he made up the distance. For a moment he thought he had lost them. Then he saw the bridge. Immediately after the level crossing, the bridge took the road over the canal.
This was Long John Binns’s old waterway, a disastrous eighteenth-century rival to the Grand Canal in the south of the city. Its glories were long gone. Weeds and rushes grew tangled in its waters; its banks served for lovers’ walks and children’s races. Tonight, darkness lay stretched across it like a fine, unpatterned carpet. No lights flickered on its wind-tossed water. No night-birds skimmed above the towpath in search of prey.
He caught sight of them as they crossed the bridge and stepped onto the rough stone towpath. Patrick was much closer to them now. He could hear Makonnen arguing with his captors, his voice desperate and afraid. Patrick had no doubt why they had brought him here.
They did not go far. Patrick watched as the man on Makonnen’s right forced the priest to his knees, in a posture of prayer. He crept closer, concealed by bushes. Makonnen’s voice came to him with sudden clarity, brought to him on a gust of wind that blew across the canal. It was a prayer, though Patrick did not know the language. Yards away, an old lamp cast a soft yellow glow down the path, too little to read by, but enough to show Patrick what was happening. He fumbled beneath the barrel of his H & R and switched on the illuminator.
Makonnen finished his prayer and crossed himself. The man on his right raised the silenced pistol to his temple. Patrick was already targeted, the illuminator’s powerful laser beam dropping a sharp red dot on the killer’s cheek. He squeezed the cocking mechanism and pulled lightly on the trigger in a smoothly practised movement. The shot echoed across the open fields and was swallowed up in silence. A second later, there was a sound of splashing as the dead man plunged twenty feet down into the canal.
The second man spun round, one hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun, his eyes scanning the area from which he thought the shot had come. Patrick did not reveal himself. ‘Drop the gun,’ he shouted. The man tensed, as though about to run. We have you in our sights,’ Patrick added, shifting the odds. ‘Throw the gun down and put your hands on top of your head.’
Without warning, the man swung himself sideways out of Patrick’s line of fire, taking Makonnen with him. When he came up again, he held the trembling priest in front, his pistol hard against his head.
‘If you so much as fucking look at me,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll give the church another martyr!’
Patrick beaded him with the laser, but he did not dare fire: the mere reflex of death would be enough to blow Makonnen’s head off.
‘I want you out here,’ shouted the gunman. ‘Now! All of you! I want to see you!’
Patrick stood, keeping the pistol trained on his target.
‘There’s just myself,’ he said. He could sense the gunman’s uncertainty.
‘Don’t fuck with me!’ the man screamed. He was frightened and wound up, and Patrick knew the pressure on that trigger was already half a pound too much. He had seen more than one gun fired accidentally under stress.
‘I’m not screwing you,’ Patrick replied, shouting to make himself heard over the wind. ‘I’m alone. There’s no one else with me.’
‘Get rid of your gun!’ The man tightened his grip round the priest’s neck, pulling him closer to him. ‘I said, get rid of your fucking gun!’
‘You know I can’t do that. If I drop the gun, you still have the priest. You can still shoot him. Now, get this clear: he’s all I want. I’m not interested in you. Let him go and you walk out of this. Kill him and you’re a dead man. You can walk away from here or you can float, like your friend. It’s your choice.’
Tm giving the fucking orders here! I’m saying who walks out of this and who doesn’t. Whoever you are, just put your gun in your pocket and get the fuck out of here. Don’t get mixed up in this. You’re out of your depth. Do you understand? You’re in deep water.’
All this time, Makonnen had been mumbling prayers in a frightened voice, Hail Marys in a mixture of Latin, Italian, and Amharic - a babel of invocations to ward off the inevitable darkness. Suddenly, his voice broke off in mid-prayer and he began to turn his head, slowly, against the pressure of his captor’s arm, until his face looked directly at the gun, the barrel sleek and cold against his forehead, right between his eyes.
‘Now!’ he whispered. ‘Kill me now, quickly, while I’m ready. Hurry, do it for the love of God!’
Patrick saw the man hesitate.
‘No!’ he shouted.
The man struck Makonnen hard across the face with the end of the silencer, then swung the gun around, aiming at Patrick. He fired twice in quick succession: silent shots, wide of their mark.
Patrick’s bullet struck him in the teeth, an imperfect shot, but mortal. His head jerked back, his finger clenched the trigger, firing wild shots into the indifferent wind. Makonnen leapt away, leaving him to topple sideways into the canal. The dark waters broke and formed again. A ripple surged outwards from the point of impact and was erased by the wind. The silence that fell was absolute.
EIGHTEEN
Milk-white light filtered through long curtains, simple, without form or substance. He had once thought the Holy Spirit must be like that: simple, dove-white, light spun from light, the Word made luminosity. Out of habit, his eyes travelled up to the wall above his head. It was bare: no red light, no crucifix.
Father Makonnen could not remember coming here: the bed in which he lay, the room, the plain rust-coloured carpet, all were unfamiliar. His head was aching, and it hurt to open his eyes. He turned away from the light and pulled the bedclothes over his head. Sleep returned.
He dreamed he was in a tomb. His body lay cold and anointed on a marble slab. On the wall someone had painted the outline of a fish in red. Around him, hooded figures chanted a litany in a language he had never heard. Candles flickered like gemstones in the dark. Echoes moved across the walls like shoals of fish twisting and turning beneath the tide.
Suddenly the voices fell silent. The candles were extinguished. There was the sound of a rock being rolled into place, a heavy rock. He could hear sounds of hammering, metal upon stone, orchestral almost. Then the hammering fell silent and he was utterly alone. And at that moment, in the darkness, in the silence, he heard someone moving.
His eyes opened and he was in the strange room again. He turned and squinted at the light from the window. In his head, he could still hear the sound of hammering.
Suddenly, memories of the night before flooded back with appalling intensity: Balzarin’s dead face, white and uncomprehending; Diotavelli gunned down in his arrogance, his nightgown bright and angry with sudden blood. He relived the chase through the house and ground
s, the wind that tore his flesh, the capture, the drive to the canal. But after that all was blank, as though someone had dipped a sponge in water and wiped it across his brain.
He threw the bedclothes aside and stood up. He had been sleeping in his underclothes, something he never did. His outer garments lay draped across a wooden chair.
Crossing to the window, he drew back the curtain. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he looked across green fields to a steel-blue lake. Wooded hills girdled the shore, and above a serried tracery of leafless trees rose a pointed tower of dull grey stone. In the water, the pale images of clouds moved slowly on the breeze like white smoke.
What was this place? Who had brought him here? He dressed quickly and made his way to the door. A small landing led onto a flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. Through an open door on his right he could see a wash-hand basin and part of a bath. The next door was closed. He opened it and found another bedroom, much like the one in which he had woken.
Coming out onto the landing again, he heard the sound of voices talking quietly below. Cautiously, he started down the stairs. A flagged passage led to an open door and a smell of fresh coffee.
He paused in the doorway. A man and a woman sat facing each other across a scrubbed pine table on which lay a heap of papers. He recognized the American, Canavan, but the woman was a stranger. Canavan looked up and caught sight of him. He smiled and pushed back his chair, standing.
‘Father Makonnen. I hope you’ve slept well. How are you feeling?’
‘I ... I’m feeling a little confused. Last night ... I can’t remember very well. Where am I? What are you doing here?’
‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. I guess you could do with a coffee and maybe something to eat. Oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t been introduced. This is ... my friend Ruth Ehlers, from the American Embassy. She knows who you are already. This is Ruth’s house, or her weekend cottage, I should say.’
The priest remained standing. Yesterday’s events were crumpled and blurred in his head.
‘I don’t remember coming here,’ he said. ‘I was ... I remember going to the canal. Two men ... drove me there. Then ...’
‘Come and sit down. You’ll feel better when you’ve had some coffee. How would you like it?’
Canavan took his arm and guided him to a chair.
‘I... Black, please. With a little sugar.’
He sat down. Deprived of the conventions of the seminary or the nunciature, his world was coming apart. He still had not said his morning prayers.
‘Coming up. What about some breakfast? We’ve got mushrooms - Ruth picked them this morning. There’s wholemeal bread from Bewley’s, plenty of real Irish butter, black cherry jam.’
‘Just the coffee, please. You said “breakfast” -what time is it?’
‘Well, perhaps “breakfast” isn’t really the right word. “Lunch” would be more appropriate. It’s just after twelve o’clock.’
‘How long have I been asleep?’
“We got here just after five. You were still pretty agitated. Ruth gave you a couple of sleeping tablets.’
‘I see.’ Makonnen paused and looked round the room. It was clean and bright, with tall windows that looked out on the lake. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘where is “here”?’
Patrick glanced out of the window.
‘Don’t you recognize it?’
‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.’
The woman spoke for the first time. She was beautiful, he thought, but troubled by something. He had been trained to resist beauty, but not distress, and he found himself unwillingly drawn to her by it. She wore a soft dress of European manufacture, without the gilding he had come to expect in American women. Even his African eye, calibrated more to the nuances of poverty than style, could sense how finely her limbs were habituated to well-cut garments.
‘This is Glendalough,’ she said. As she spoke, she raised one hand nervously to her cheek, and he noticed how her fingernails had been chewed. What was making her so ill at ease? ‘The valley houses an old monastic city founded by Saint Kevin in the sixth century. That’s the round tower you can see just above the trees. It used to be the belfry. And a place to hide when the Vikings came burning down everything in sight. There are ruins all round it. You’ll see it all later.’
The priest nodded. He had heard of the place and often planned to visit it. There were close links between the early monks of Ireland and those of his own church.
He turned to Patrick, who had just finished pouring coffee into his cup.
What is going on, Mr Canavan? Why have I been brought here?’
He was not angry, just frightened, torn from everything familiar.
‘We were hoping you would provide some answers to your first question yourself, Father. As for why we brought you here, surely you know your life is in danger?’
‘Danger. Yes, I understand.’ Again he could hear footsteps pounding after him in the dark. He had to force himself not to look round. ‘I remember... what happened in the nunciature, then being taken to the canal. But everything after that is a blank. You must know what happened.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to know.’
Patrick paused. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.
While he ate, Patrick told him all he knew, and in turn prompted him to explain the events that had led up to his capture at the gate of the nunciature -Balzarin’s death, the phone call to Fazzini, the arrival of the gunmen.
When the priest finished, Ruth poured more coffee for everyone. Back in his chair, Patrick indicated the papers strewn across the table.
‘So these don’t include the papers De Faoite sent to Balzarin?’
‘No. I took those to Fazzini in person. These are all from the nuncio’s safe, except for that mauve file, which I found on his desk.’
‘The one he was reading when he killed himself?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
There was a pause.
‘Have you looked at these papers, Father?’ The question was put by the woman.
‘Only at one of the folders of photographs.’
‘I see. We haven’t gone through those yet. We thought you might help us identify some of the people in them.’
Makonnen sighed. As the coffee cleared his head,
he began to understand just how deep had grown the waters in which he was swimming.
‘Please, can you tell me what this is all about? I want to know. I am willing to help you, but I must know what is happening.’
Ruth looked at Patrick, then back at Makonnen.
‘Father,’ she started, ‘I have to insist. Whatever Mr Canavan or I tell you must remain absolutely confidential. You must swear not to reveal it to anyone else without our permission. Do you understand?’
The priest shook his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you must know that is impossible. I am a priest. I have taken sacred vows. Under my vow of obedience, I would be obliged to reveal any information I possessed to those set in authority over me.’
Patrick leaned over the table. Something in his manner told Makonnen that he and the woman were lovers. But he sensed an awkwardness between them, like an electric charge that was constantly ready to flare up.
‘Forget it, Ruth,’ said Patrick. ‘We can trust him.’ He turned to the priest. ‘All we’re asking, Father, is that you be discreet. Your vows do not require you to volunteer information, do they?’
For the first time, Makonnen smiled.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘they do not.’
Patrick leaned back.
‘Then I think we can begin.’
NINETEEN
Patrick went first. He spoke carefully, as though conscious that he had to forge a bond, a sense of trust between himself and the priest. The fact that he had saved Makonnen’s life and gunned down the two men who had threatened it was meaningless. For all Makonnen knew, he had fallen among fresh thieves, sub
tler and more well-meaning than the first, but thieves and killers for all that. Good Samaritans are not supposed to carry guns.
‘Father Makonnen,’ he began, ‘I think we may assume that, by now, Cardinal Fazzini has been alerted to the fact of your disappearance. He will not know how you came to make your getaway, and I imagine it will be some time before he learns what happened to the men he sent to kill you. In the meantime, he has to deal with some awkward details, the most embarrassing of which is likely to be Diotavelli’s body. Ruth will find out what she can through the American embassy, but it’s unlikely to be very much.
‘One thing is certain. If you return to the nunciature or the Vatican, you’re as good as dead. That you are in essence ignorant of Fazzini’s machinations is of no concern to him. You know too much, and you must be silenced. If it is any consolation, that applies to me as much as it does to you.’
Makonnen remembered Fazzini’s request for Canavan’s address.
‘They asked me where you lived. I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Did ... Did anyone try to ... ?’
‘Why do you think we’re here?’
The priest leaned forward.
What if I go to someone else in the Vatican, someone I can trust?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘Not until we know more about what’s going on and who is involved. You’re a marked man in every way. But in principle, yes: we shall need access to the Vatican, and for that we shall need your help.’
‘Please,’ Makonnen pleaded, ‘what is this all about?’
Patrick betrayed hesitation for the first time.
‘The simple answer to that question is that we don’t know.’
‘When you visited the nuncio yesterday, you said that a national intelligence bureau was involved in this. I assume you meant yourselves, the CIA.’
Patrick smiled.
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