by Sam Christer
So far, he’s come across the remains of a granite quarry, scattered farm buildings, a small camp site, a couple of dozen holiday cottages and that’s about it.
To many people Lundy would be hell, but not him. The peace and seclusion bring a spiritual satisfaction he’s not felt outside of the seminary.
As well as the Giants’ Graves where skeletons up to eight feet tall were said to be found, Old Dan listed other places with rich historical or religious connections. They come with exotic names, like Needle’s Eye, Devil’s Slide and Shutter Point, but for now he’s making do with a rain-lashed walk along the low stone walls of Beacon Hill Cemetery. Like many graveyards, it’s been built on the highest available peak, the point ancients thought closest to the gods and the heavens.
Bronty takes a slow look around. He gazes out over the sodden green pastures to the endless miles of surrounding waves. Somewhere out there is the confluence of the Bristol Channel and the Celtic Sea, a mixing of great waters and stirring of untold myths and legends.
As the minutes pass, he becomes aware that all that separates him and his homeland in America is water. He looks around and remembers the ferryman’s remarks that to ancient Celts this must have looked like the end of the world.
The rain stops. Grey clouds shift. Shafts of sunlight warm his face. There’s a glorious wind-free silence. Then comes the sound of screaming birds, flapping high and wheeling across the brightening sky. He makes a visor out of his hand and picks out herring gulls, starlings and blackbirds.
He lowers his gaze to the glistening grass and spots the graves. Four isolated standing stones you wouldn’t give a second glance if you didn’t know their history.
He walks closer.
The severely weathered pillars remind him of the Celtic crosses that adorn Cornish and Welsh churchyards. He struggles to read the inscriptions. On one, he makes out the letters OPTIMI, which is similar to the Latin male name Optimus. Another looks like RESTEVTAE or RESGEVT, which could be the female name Resteuta or Resgeuta. The third and fourth are even harder to discern. One looks like POTIT, or it could be PO TIT and the other IGERNI, TIGERNI. He wonders if it was originally Tigernus.
‘If only the dead could tell their tales.’
Bronty turns to see a redheaded woman in a yellow anorak and black waterproofs studying him. ‘I’m Geraldine Brummer.’ She puts out a hand. ‘And I’m guessing you’re Mr Tomlinson, from the National Trust?’
‘No. No I’m not.’ Bronty shakes her hand anyway. ‘Jon Bronty. I’m – err – just an American visiting the island.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake. I’m from Natural England. We manage the marine conservation and I’ve come out for the diving.’
‘I guess if you’re a diver then the rain doesn’t bother you.’
‘Actually, I love the rain. Makes me feel more alive.’
Bronty’s phone rings. ‘Excuse me for a minute?’
‘Sure.’ She smiles understandingly. ‘You’re lucky to get a signal.’
He smiles back and turns away to take the call. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Eleonora. Can you speak?’
‘Hang on.’ He walks away from the woman. ‘Go on.’
‘Mitzi’s children have been abducted.’
‘What?’
‘They were taken from their aunt’s home in San Mateo. I’ll go into everything afterwards. Right now, I need you to give me a full brief on her case, everything you and she found and anything you think might help us.’
128
CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES
Mitzi almost loses it when Myrddin appears barely a yard from here. ‘Hellfire, Mervin, where did you come from? You shouldn’t go creeping around like that.’
The old man approaches her, his face full of kindness. ‘I have come to give you strength.’
‘Excuse me?’
He takes both of her hands before she can back away. Holds them as intensely as he holds her stare.
She feels a strange sensation in her fingers. It rises into her arms and chest like a deep bass note. Mitzi tries to remove her hands from his, but they’re locked there, as heavy and immovable as her feet were in the garden. A deep warmth spreads through her.
‘Close your eyes for me.’
Normally a guy would get a crack for a line like that, but Mitzi doesn’t feel as though she can stop herself doing as he asks.
‘Slip back in time. Think of the moment you gave birth to your daughters. Remember how in your weakest physical time you created the greatest of all things. Remember their first breaths and cries. How they felt when you held them. How you felt, when you kissed their faces and touched their skin. Remember that magic.’
Myrddin takes her hands and places them behind her back as though they are cuffed together. ‘See your children. See them as newborns entering the light of the earth for the first time, being carried towards you, about to be placed in your arms for the first time.’
Mitzi wants to speak but she can’t. Her mind is flooded with the exaltation of motherhood.
He puts his leathery hands on her shoulders. ‘Kneel.’
Her legs bend and the cold, hard floor touches her knees.
‘The ground gives you strength. It renews you, absorbs your fears and from it you grow.’ He pushes a little harder on her shoulders. ‘Lie.’
Mitzi slumps the rest of the way, conscious now of the floor, of the cold against her side and face.
‘The ground gives you energy and protection. It feeds you when there is no food and hides you when there is nowhere for you to be hidden. Those looking at you will see only your physical form. Your spirit will be below ground, protected and nourished like the roots of a thousand-year-old tree.’
Mitzi feels like she’s having an out-of-body experience. She knows she’s being subjected to some form of hypnotism but at the same time it feels so empowering she has no urge to fight it.
‘When you get up you will be strong. So strong that no man alive will ever be able to cut you down. When you stand and hear your name, you will not remember that you spoke to me or even recall that I was here. But when the time comes, when you are bound or pained, you will remember your power. Now unclasp your hands. Feel the ground. Thank it for becoming your friend. Kneel on it and worship it. Stand proudly upon it, as the greatest tree in a forest stands, and then open your eyes.’
129
LUNDY
A white flag with the red cross of St George flutters against the blue-grey rain-soaked sky. Beneath the square stone tower upon which it stands is St Helena’s church and at the foot of it, the forlorn figure of Jon Bronty.
The former priest has just finished briefing Eleonora and is trying to get through to Mitzi. All his calls are tripping to her voicemail. An economical recording tells him for the third time, ‘It’s Mitzi; leave a message and a number and I’ll get back to you, thanks.’
‘Hi, it’s Bronty. I just heard the news. I’m so terribly sorry. I’m going to finish up here and get back to the mainland as quickly as possible, but I don’t think the next ferry is until tomorrow. I wish you much strength and I shall pray for you and your girls.’
He hangs up and slips inside the church to deliver on his promise.
The church is much grander and more impressive than the grey slate and harsh stone exterior had hinted at. The warm red brick of the interior and old dark wood pews feel familiar and welcoming to him.
There’s a quaint chancel with a transept vestry to one side, Purbeck marble colonnettes with alabaster carvings depicting the Last Supper. In front of him is a large lectern carved from wood in the shape of an eagle, an old stone pulpit and square baptism font. A modest red-clothed altar stands near a stained-glass centre window depicting the crucifixion. He walks over and kneels before the god he walked out on. It wasn’t a loss of faith in the Supreme Being that saw him quit, but a lack of belief in himself and his worthiness to wear the cloth.
He prays that Mitzi’s children will be safe and quickly reun
ited with their mother, that the experiences will leave none of them scarred and that she and all her family will have the strength and belief to get through the ordeal without any lasting damage.
It’s a lot to ask for.
He opens his eyes, looks up at the gleaming brass crucifix on the red altar cloth and feels at home. The church. The island. The people. Everything feels right to him. He could live here. This tiny land, of apparently so little, offers so much more than people can easily see.
As he gets to his feet and turns around to leave, he sees Geraldine Brummer praying quietly at the back. For a moment, he realizes he came to Lundy with a head full of questions and he’s going to leave with answers – but maybe not the ones he was looking for.
130
CAERGWYN CASTLE, WALES
Owain returns with his wife and Lance Beaucoup. To his surprise, Mitzi is stood trance-like by the far window.
‘Lieutenant.’ He raises his voice to get her attention. ‘This is my wife, Jennifer, and my colleague Lance.’
She comes alive. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’ She takes Lady Gwyn’s hand. ‘Mitzi Fallon.’
Jennifer adds a reassuring hand to the one being shaken by the detective. ‘You must be worried sick; let’s sit together and talk awhile.’
Owain drifts towards the door as his wife comforts Mitzi. ‘Please forgive me; I have a call in the office that I have to take.’
The ambassador returns to his study where George Dalton is on the phone, talking to Gareth Madoc in New York.
‘Owain is here,’ says the consul. ‘I’ll put you on speakerphone.’
The ambassador sits in his desk chair. ‘Gareth.’
Madoc comes straight to the point. ‘Khalid Korshidi has just met with Ali bin al-Shibh.’
‘Bin al-Shibh in America?’ Owain instantly pictures the man tipped to lead al-Qaeda one day. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘He mentioned the CIA black site that he was held at en route to Guantanamo. The voice and facial match we’ve run came back with one hundred per cent confirmation.’
‘A creature like this doesn’t crawl out from under the rocks unless there’s a major target.’
‘Three targets,’ says Lance. ‘Hence the code word Trinity. He’s running Yousef Mousavi and Nabil in the US and no doubt someone else, someplace else.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘No. He only mentioned the US, but he confirmed dates.’
Owain hopes he’s wrong, ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Timings?’
‘No. We didn’t get that lucky.’
‘Any sense of whether they are fixed for the same day, same hour, or consecutive days?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Damn.’ He tries to look beyond his frustration. ‘What’s Korshidi’s role?’
‘He’s a bigger player than we thought. Part of the smart new regime that al-Zawahiri constructed post-bin Laden. Seems he’s handling all the publicity because right now he’s unfurling banners and is preparing to shoot a video message with al-Shibh.’
‘Can we intercept the upload?’
‘Better than that. We have eyes and ears in the room – we’ll be able to see it being recorded.’
Owain gives Dalton a look that shows how impressed he is. ‘We’re going to have to share this intel with the Americans. I suspect Mardrid’s money is behind all this. As soon as you have the tape and some more solid information I’ll contact Ron Briars at the NIA and give him the heads-up.’
‘Understood.’ Madoc focuses on the video feed fizzing into life on a monitor at his desk. ‘Looks like we’re in “go mode” here. I’ll get back to you shortly.’
The line drops.
Owain kills the speakerphone and turns to Dalton. ‘Three separate attacks, all within the next twenty-four hours. What do you think?’
‘Unusual but not impossible. Did you see the matrix of VIP movements that the Watch Team put together for you?’
‘I did.’ The ambassador pulls it up on his computer screen. ‘I spent much of the early hours of this morning looking at it and narrowing it down.’
The consul gives his opinion. ‘The most obvious hit seems to be the new Pope. The pontiff has long been a moving target for all manner of groups and individuals, but with no ultimate success.’
Gwyn remembers Paul VI almost being stabbed by a Bolivian artist, John Paul II being shot in St Peter’s Square and Benedict, the last Pope, being attacked during Mass on Christmas Eve. ‘I see your point, George, but you know as well as I do that papal security is so tight that tomorrow when the Holy Father visits Wales he will undoubtedly be the most protected man on the planet.’
‘Maybe they’ll go for the old Pope and the new one?’
‘That’s a terrifying thought.’ Owain pictures the security inside the Vatican. ‘Benedict is well protected in retirement by the Swiss Guard, but I shall talk to them and flag the possibility.’
Dalton’s thoughts have moved on. ‘What about the US president? He’s always a target.’
Owain remembers the matrix. ‘He is in New York tomorrow at a fundraising concert for those affected by floods and hurricanes. Give me a third target.’
‘God’s banker,’ says Dalton. ‘Marco Ponti. The newly appointed CEO of the Vatican Bank will be holding his first board meeting with a committee of cardinals in Rome. Compared to the Popes and the president, he’s a soft target, but high-profile enough to be on a hit list.’
Owain pulls a face. ‘Why kill the Vatican banker and two Popes? The statement that all Christians are evil isn’t enhanced by shooting a banker. Nor, come to think of it, does the US president fit into a true religious trilogy.’
He’s about to re-examine the Watch Team’s list when the study door opens and his wife walks in.
Jennifer sees he is worried and is sorry that she has to add to it. ‘The policewoman – she’s taking another call from the kidnappers.’
131
Mitzi leans over a desk, pen in hand, notepad just below it. ‘I’m listening.’
The voice on the other end of the phone is the one she’s heard before. Male. Deep in tone. Electronically slowed down and distorted. ‘Do you have the files?’
There’s no hesitation in her answer. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Be in Borough High Street, Southwark by seven. Come alone. And be in no doubt: we will know if anyone is with you.’
Owain and his wife enter the room as she scribbles down the instruction. ‘I need to speak to my girls.’
There’s the sound of the phone being put down. Movement away from the receiver.
‘Mom, I’m all right.’
The sweet pain of hearing Jade’s voice sucks the air from Mitzi’s lungs.
‘They haven’t hurt me. I’m all right, Mom.’
‘Baby, it’s all going to be okay.’ She feels tears sting her eyes. ‘Honey —’
There’s a click and the kidnapper is back on the line. ‘Be there and have your phone on, or it will be the last time you’ll hear her.’
‘Amber.’ Mitzi shouts the name out. ‘I talk to Amber, or there’s no deal.’
A distorted laugh rolls down the line. ‘You don’t say what happens.’
Mitzi digs deep, finds the courage she’s looking for and cuts the kidnapper off.
She feels herself shake.
An antique clock ticks twice in the heavy silence. Mitzi realizes she’s holding her breath and lets out a long sigh.
The phone rings.
She answers in a split-second. ‘Fallon.’
A young girl’s scream can be heard. It’s long and piercing. The cry isn’t of someone frightened. It’s of pain. Mitzi’s eyes tear up as the scream becomes muffled. It’s followed by the sound of someone being dragged away. Then, the noise of a chair being knocked over.
‘M–om,’ Amber’s voice fills the line. It’s broken, weak, barely audible. ‘They’ve c–ut me – Mommy!’
The phone goes dea
d.
Mitzi feels the world sway. Her stomach turns. She grabs the waste paper basket beside the desk and throws up.
Jennifer rushes to her side. Owain pours a glass of water for Mitzi and gives it to his wife. He stands back and waits until the American has composed herself, then he pulls a chair up close. ‘Are you okay?’
Mitzi takes a tissue from Jennifer. ‘I’m sorry for the mess.’
‘No reason to apologize. We have to talk about what to do now, how to respond to them.’
‘I know.’ She wipes her eyes and nose.
‘I presume you intend to give up the memory stick. Do you have it with you, or is it somewhere else?’
‘It’s with me. Very much with me.’
‘What do you mean “very much”?’
‘It was small enough for me to do what drug mules do. I swallowed it. They want the stick, they’re going to have to take me as well.’
132
NEW YORK
Ali bin al-Shibh bears more than a passing resemblance to the late Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, his hero. He’s every inch as tall and equally thin. His facial features are so similar that there is speculation that the thirty-five-year-old is one of the terrorist’s twenty-plus children.
As he stands in Khalid Korshidi’s back room and wraps a white turban around his head, he looks exactly as he intends to – a chilling reincarnation of al-Qaeda’s founder.
‘I am ready,’ he announces with a final adjustment of the headpiece.
‘Please, take the seat.’ Korshidi guides the bearded leader to a stool in front of a cloudy backdrop of male faces, what the terror group calls ‘The Martyr’s Wall’. It includes bin Laden, his former number two Saeed al-Shihri and renowned propagandist Samir Khan, who was killed in a US drone strike.
‘I’ll only be a moment.’ Korshidi adjusts small portable lights and returns to the digital camera he’s mounted on a tripod. He puts on a pair of headphones, lifts the sound level a little and hits a button. ‘The camera is recording.’