by Jack Higgins
"Oh, I've tried that, Father, saying, 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.' "
There was a moment of silence, then Murphy turned full face, trying to peer through the grille. "Who are you?"
"God bless you, Father, but isn't that breaking the rules? Still, I'll let it go for once and put you out of your misery. Sean Dillon, as ever was. Thirty years since you last saw me. I was nineteen, and you were the man the police asked to break the news that my father was dead, killed accidently while on a trip to Belfast. You told me he was a casualty of war."
"Sean," Murphy's voice quavered. "I can't believe it. What can I say?"
"I think you said it all thirty years ago when you urged me to pray, particularly the special one on a prayer card you gave me, the prayer I've just quoted to you."
"Yes, I recollect now." The voice was unsteady. "A wonderful prayer to the Virgin Mary."
"I remember you saying it would be a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Which made sense, as the prayer is directed at we who are ourselves alone, and 'ourselves alone' in Irish is Sinn Fein. So it had a definite political twist to it, urging a nineteen-year-old boy whose father had ended up dead on a pavement in the Falls Road to get angry, clear off to Belfast, and join the Provos to fight for the Glorious Cause. Now, aren't you proud of me?"
The door to Dillon's half of the confessional box was yanked open, and the woman in the green smock was there, blazingly angry. "Come out of there," she shouted, and grabbed at him. Behind her, Billy moved in to pull her off.
"You got good and loud, Sean. Only her and me in the place, and we heard most of what you said."
She pulled away from Billy and glared at Dillon. "Get out of here before I call the police."
Billy produced his warrant card. "Don't waste your breath. MI5, and he's got one, too."
The other door opened, and Murphy came out, an imposing figure at six feet, with the silver hair, dressed in a full black cassock, an alb, violet stole draped over his shoulder.
"Leave it, Caitlin, this is Sean Dillon. As a boy of nineteen, I had to tell him his father was murdered by British soldiers in Ulster. He left for Belfast for his father's funeral and never returned. There were rumors that he had cast in his lot with the Provisional IRA. If so, I can't see that it in any way concerns me. As to the prayer card that I gave him as a comfort, it may be found on the Internet, if you look carefully, Sean, and has been available to all since Easter 1916. We have a Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge where the card is readily available." He put a hand on Dillon's left shoulder. "You are deeply troubled, Sean, that is so obvious. Your dear father worked and did so much for the church in his spare time. The lectern in beechwood by the high altar was his work. If I can help you in any way, I am here."
"Not right now," Dillon said. "But before I go, the score for dead cardholders right now is four: Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry in New York, Jack Flynn on Long Island."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Murphy looked shocked.
"Don't listen to him, he's lost his wits entirely." Caitlin moved close to Dillon and slapped his face. "Get out."
"My, but you're the hard woman. Come on, Billy, let's go." Billy opened the great door, and Dillon turned, and Murphy and Caitlin were standing close, he with his head inclined while she whispered to him.
Dillon called, "If you know anybody named Cochran, tell him we found his wallet, and the prayer card, too. God bless all here."
And Caitlin Daly snapped completely. "Get out, you bastard." Her voice echoed around the church, and Dillon followed Billy to the Cooper, and they drove away.
"Do you think there's anything doing?" Billy asked.
"Oh, yes," Dillon said. "However bizarre it sounds, I think there's something going on there."
"If that's so, don't you think you've given a lot away?"
"I intended to. Back to Holland Park, Billy," and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about it.
At the sacristy, Caitlin Daly leaned against the door and fumbled in her shoulder bag, pushed aside a Belgian Leon.25 semi-automatic pistol, produced an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number. It was answered at once, a man's voice, the slightest tinge of a Yorkshire accent.
"Caitlin?"
"Just listen," she said. "We've got trouble." She quickly told him what had taken place. "What are we going to do?"
"How did Murphy take it?"
"How do you expect? He's too good for this bloody world. All he feels is pity for Dillon."
"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Leave it with me, I'll handle it somehow." The church was very quiet now when she returned, and Murphy knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, and she sat in a front pew and waited. When he stood up and walked to her, she said, "You've been praying for Dillon, haven't you?"
"Of course. So sad, that business of his father's death in Belfast all those years ago. His life has so obviously been a hard and bitter one. What else can I do but pray for him?"
She stifled her anger with difficulty. "Sometimes, Monsignor, I think you're much too forgiving. But take my arm, and we'll go back to the presbytery for tea."
He did as he was told, and as they walked away he said, "Poor boy, he seems completely unhinged."
4
A little earlier, Miller and his sister had been on their way to Dover Street. Since becoming aware that her dearly loved brother was a man of dark secrets, Monica had also learned that anything he told her, however dangerous and extreme, was very probably true. For an academic like her, there was an undeniable thrill to it all, especially her involvement with Sean Dillon. When Miller picked her up at her rooms in Cambridge, she was already packed and waiting for him, and he filled her in on everything, as he knew it, right up to that moment.
Her reaction to the event in Central Park was highly practical. "Well, all I can say is, thank God you were carrying."
He grinned. "I see you've picked up the slang of our dark trade already."
"I don't have any option, not with you and Sean round. I've checked on George Dunkley, by the way, and he's doing fine. Thank God."
They were halfway to London when Roper called him and filled him in about Belsize Park and what was to happen.
"What about Sean?"
Roper said, "He went to see what he could dig up in Kilburn, took Billy with him."
"Is something wrong?" Monica asked him when he hung up.
"You could say that." He told her about the intruder at Belsize Park. "So this guy Cochran got away but lost his wallet, and they found another copy of that prayer card. We might as well call in at Holland Park instead of going straight to the house. They'll be finalizing the Gulfstream's departure from Farley this evening, and then there's Sean. God knows what he's getting up to in Kilburn, but, knowing him, it's bound to be interesting." He leaned over and said to Fox, "Change of plan, Arthur, as you've just heard."
"As you say, Major."
"Poor Svetlana," Monica said. "That beautiful house and all those lovely antiques and paintings. It's going to break her heart."
"I appreciate that, but it's not going to be forever, and she's got Katya to support her. And they'll be safe, that's the important thing. Whoever we're up against, they're pretty nasty."
"And Alexander?"
"Maybe in America he can get back to writing. Another War and Peace perhaps?"
"Which he's perfectly capable of producing," she said primly, and the Mercedes, approaching the Holland Park safe house, pulled up at the security gates and waited for them to open. They found Roper in the computer room and Ferguson on his phone. He waved to them, then walked out, still talking.
Roper said, "He's been on and off the phone all afternoon. Half a dozen times with Clancy, but everything is set now. We pick them up at Belsize Park at seven. It'll take forty minutes to get to Farley Field, and they're all off by eight."
"Where are they heading?" Miller ask
ed.
"Andrews Air Force Base, where they'll refuel, and then move on to another base in Florida, and then proceed by helicopter to the island."
Monica went and kissed him and ruffled his hair. "You look tired, love."
"I always do, these days, it's my new look. Sorry about Dunkley, there seem to be bad people out there. Are you okay?"
"A few bruises here and there. It could have been worse."
"I suppose so. At least with Kurbsky and the ladies out of it, we'll have a level playing field, and we can just concentrate on discovering who these people are."
Maggie Hall appeared from the kitchen, face beaming. "And how are you, Lady Monica? It's real nice to see you again. Mr. Dillon will be smiling, I know that. Can I get you some tea? I know you've been traveling."
Ferguson loomed up behind her. "We'll all have tea, my dear, and some of those delicious chocolate biscuits that you seem to have an inexhaustible supply of."
"You can have anything you want, General."
She departed, and Ferguson held Monica for a moment and kissed her cheek. "Sorry about having to drag you away from Cambridge like this, but it's for your own good, I'm afraid. Has it been made plain to you what we're up against?"
"It's been made plain to me what's happened. The behavior of the wretch who drove his truck into me was proof enough of what we're up against."
"You're armed, I trust?" Ferguson asked.
She opened her shoulder bag and produced a Colt.25. "As provided by Roper when I first signed up."
"Hollow-point cartridges at all times. We are really going to war, my dear."
He turned to Roper. "Any sign of Dillon and Billy?"
"Not yet. I'll call them, if you like."
"No need," Ferguson said. "Here's the tea."
Maggie put her tray on the table and poured tea for everyone and distributed biscuits, smiling and cheerful, and made Ferguson, Roper, and Miller all laugh, too. Monica thought how strange it was that these men she had come to know so well, including the brother she had never really known properly until now, these men who were so civilized and jolly, were all in the death business, had all killed people.
She felt slightly unreal for a moment, and Roper, with that ravaged face, glanced at her and stopped smiling. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, fine. I'll have a drink, if you don't mind. Long journey, and I'm tired."
She moved to the drinks cabinet, found a shot glass, opened a bottle of whiskey, filled the glass, and swallowed. It went straight to her head, releasing some lightness in her, and, as she turned, Dillon entered, along with Billy.
He had a paleness to him, the eyes dark, a look that she had never seen before. This man she had got to know well enough to love was suddenly a stranger, and she knew something must have happened.
He came and put a hand around her waist and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "It's good to see you, girl. I'd like to kill that bastard in the truck for what he did to you."
She ran her hand up and down his arm a couple of times. "It could have been worse, he could have succeeded. George is knocked about a bit, but he'll get over it." She looked at him searchingly. "You're angry, I think?"
"You could put it that way."
"Then tell us about it," Ferguson said.
"Billy and I went hunting, first of all in Camden in search of Cochran. Turns out that address has been a brickfield since last year, waiting for a housing project. A helpful Indian storekeeper in the next street told me he remembered the address well because there used to be a lodging house there."
"I already checked on the computer," said Roper. "It only threw up two Matthew Cochrans, one a chemist at the School of Oriental Medicine and the other a headmaster at a high school in Bayswater."
"So another false name," Ferguson said. "What else is new. What about Kilburn? Did you discover anything useful?"
"I think you could say that."
"For God's sake, Dillon," Billy exploded. "Get it off your chest." He turned to the others. "That priest you found, Roper, near Pool's address…"
Roper nodded. "Monsignor James Murphy."
"Dillon knew him. When he was nineteen and his dad was killed in Belfast, it was Murphy the police asked to break the news to him, which he did right there in Holy Name church, and he gave him one of the prayer cards."
There was a kind of stillness, and Monica took a step closer and reached for Dillon's hand. "Sean?"
Ferguson said, "Dillon, I don't think you've been completely straight with us on all this."
"That's nonsense. The card first reared its ugly head hidden in Frank Barry's wallet. I found it and showed it to Harry immediately. I also explained its significance, isn't that true, Harry?"
Miller nodded gravely. "Yes, I admit it is, but what you didn't mention was your personal experience with the card."
"Because I'd had the wind knocked out of my sails, Harry. It was a bad memory of a terrible night in the life of a nineteen-year-old boy all those years ago in Kilburn. So I got on with the business in New York and tried to push the bad memory away for a while, and then things started to happen. I left Kilburn forever when I went to Belfast for my father's funeral. Frankly, I've always avoided it, and I'd no idea that Murphy was still at Holy Name."
"Well, one thing's for sure, he'll remember your return," Billy said.
"What happened?" Ferguson asked.
"I got angry and, you might say, I let rip, at least that's what Billy would tell you, because he heard. But it was all on purpose. I figured a little acting job was called for. So if you'll all take your seats and Roper turns on his recorder, we'll begin."
It took no more than twenty minutes, and when they were finished Roper switched off and Ferguson said, "Extraordinary. I find particularly interesting the remark Murphy made to you when he gave you the card. That it would be a comfort for all victims of a great cause. It certainly indicates where his political sympathies lay then, and no doubt still do."
Miller put in, "But it's hardly illegal. So it influenced an impressionable youth, which was what Dillon was then, and now he's angry about it. Most people would say so what?" He turned to his sister.
"Come on, Monica, as an archaeologist, you constantly have to analyze the past based on very little. What have you got to say?"
"It's seems simple to me. So far, four people are dead and various others have been put in harm's way, and the one constant has been that prayer card."
"Which first turned up in Frank Barry's wallet at the Plaza Hotel," Miller said.
"No, Harry," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, it first turned up on that evening in 1979 when Father James Murphy gave it to Sean. He's the one we have to look at next."
"I absolutely agree." Ferguson turned to Roper.
"I'll get right on to it."
Monica said to Miller, "I'd like to go to Dover Street now, Harry, and settle in. Is that all right with you? We could see Kurbsky, Svetlana, and Katya off later."
"A good idea."
She brushed Dillon's cheek with a kiss and went out, followed by her brother. Billy decided to pay a visit to the Dark Man, and Ferguson retired to his office. It was suddenly quiet, only a low hum from the equipment.
Roper said, "You're too wound up, Sean. Relax, go and have a sauna."
"It wasn't good," Dillon said. "I was surprised how violent I felt towards him and that bloody woman. I don't know a thing about her except what the old lady next door to Pool's house in Green Street said about her. A hard bitch, I know that having met her, but the old woman described her as a kind of Mother Teresa."
"Well, we'll see who's right, so off you go, and leave it to Uncle Roper."
Dillon returned to the computer room, hair damp but looking refreshed, wearing an open-necked black shirt, black bomber jacket, and black velvet jeans.
"Not bad," Roper told him. "But it's time you saw the barber."
"Never mind that." Dillon poured two whiskeys and handed one over. "What have you got for me?"
"Good God." Dillon was genuinely astonished. "I'd never have believed it. She's a handsome woman."
"I agree with you, her picture's coming up now from an identity card. There she is. At least she doesn't look like a prison warden. To summarize, her mother, Mary Ryan, was born in Derry in 1934, she trained as a nurse, married a Patrick Daly when she was twenty-five. Caitlin, her only child, was born in 1959. In 1969, with the civil rights business, there was serious marching in Northern Ireland. The Dalys were in a mixed housing area, and armed men in hoods broke in one night and shot Patrick Daly dead in front of the mother and Caitlin, who was ten at the time. The family had friends in London, so they fled to Kilburn."
Dillon looked grim. "Not good, not good at all."
"Her mother-a trained nurse, remember-got a job at the Cromwell Road Hospital, and they lodged in Kilburn with a cousin, who was a widow. As Caitlin is a year older than you, I wonder if you ever knew each other?"
"I came to Kilburn later than that, when I was twelve, but I can't recall a Daly. What did she do then?"
"Went to St. Mary's College, London, to train as a teacher. Member of the students' union, president of Fairness for Ireland Committee, left-wing activist, vice president of the Civil Rights Committee, third-class honors degree in English, teaching certificate."
"Spent too much time marching," Dillon observed.
"Teacher in various Catholic schools. Then, in 1984, her mother packed it in as a nursing sister and took the job of housekeeper at the church, and they moved in together, and so continued until the old lady died last year."
"And Caitlin is still there, still teaching it would seem, and still without a man."
"Not true. She's got one, in a way. Listen to Murphy's story and her position is explained, but not in the way you might think. I'll roll his file round and read it, particularly 1979."
"The year my father was killed."
"Can you remember the date?"
"Of course I can. November thirteen. How could I forget that?"