“It is Daniel Alonso.”
“Oh,” she said in a lesser tone. “What do you want?”
“I need to speak to you. It is important.”
“You keep saying that,” she sighed. “But I’ve got nothing to say to you. Why don’t you just take your fucking car and clear off out of my street. Stop following me, and stop fucking well bugging me.”
“I understand your anger,” he said apologetically, “but I really think we should talk. If you give me five minutes and you still feel the same, I promise that I will leave you alone.”
Stella thought for a moment. “Fine,” she said. “If it means getting rid of you, then come up.” She buzzed him in.
“Thank you,” he said as he walked into the flat.
“You’ve got five minutes,” she said bluntly.
“Might we sit down?” he asked.
“Knock yourself out.”
Alonso sat down. She didn’t offer him a drink.
“I’ve come to offer you my help,” he said.
“And what makes you think I need your help?” she asked.
“I am part of a powerful organization. We have people in high places all over the world. We can arrange almost anything. We can help your boyfriend.”
“What do you mean, you can help my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Stratton, that is who I mean.”
“He’s dead,” said Stella. “I’ve told you before. I don’t believe all the rubbish you filled me with the other day.”
Alonso leant forward and looked her in the eye. “Ms Jones,” he said. “I am not stupid. I know very well he is alive, and so do you. Do not think for one minute that I do not know what happened earlier. I spent the whole day following your biker friend and what I thought was you. But when he returned to the same service station I got a closer look at his companion and realized that I had been duped. You are obviously hiding something, and I suspect it is a visit with Stratton.”
“Wow!” said Stella. “You’ve certainly got a fertile imagination.”
“It is not my imagination,” said Alonso. “I would be willing to bet that he is staying at the hotel.”
“What a load of rubbish!” she said. “The clock’s ticking Mr Alonso.”
“Listen to me,” he persisted. “I am here to help you. We can arrange for Stratton to disappear safely. We can get him into any country he wishes to go. We can help him hide the sacred knowledge. That is what we want also. We are all on the same side.”
Stella looked at her watch. “Look, I really wish I knew what you were talking about, but I don’t. You’re time’s just about up.”
“Don’t do this Ms Jones. You are all in great danger. The Church will soon be onto you, and then it will be disaster – not just for you, but for the whole world.”
Stella glanced at her watch again and counted down. “…three, two, one…Time’s up Alonso. I suggest you leave before I call the police. And if I see your car outside again I’ll have it towed away.”
Alonso got up and reached inside his coat. “I am sorry it has come to this,” he said, and pulled out an automatic pistol.
Stella sat stock still. The colour drained from her face.
“Now,” said Alonso. “Let us start again. Where is Stratton?”
Chapter 61
“What’s going on?!” squealed a voice.
Jennings lurched upwards with a start. His heart thumped briefly, then, realizing it was only the TV, he relaxed and shook the fuzz from his head.
The clock flashed 20.15. He’d been asleep for just over half an hour.
He turned the sound down, reached for a glass of water, and took a long drink. His mouth was hangover dry. After moistening his palate he took a shower to shake off the clamminess of a hectic day.
Refreshed and clean he sat on the edge of the bed in his tracksuit and dialled Stella’s mobile. There was no answer so he tried the landline. Still no joy. It appeared that for the moment fate was keeping them apart. He wondered whether he should make a visit to the flat. After all, she had asked for his help. Perhaps she couldn’t get to a phone? He shook his head and told himself not to be so paranoid. Yet a lingering doubt remained.
His thoughts turned to Appleby. It was nearly an hour since he’d gone to fetch his notes. Jennings wasn’t particularly bothered at not having received them, but after Appleby’s fervid insistence, he was curious as to why he hadn’t brought them along. Perhaps he’d knocked on the door when Jennings was asleep. But if he had, Jennings was sure that he would have come in and woken him.
Overwhelmed by a sudden desire to see whether his partner had in fact uncovered a conspiracy, and his tiredness having disappeared, he trotted up the long corridor to Appleby’s room. Apart from the odd rumble of a stereo the passageway was strangely silent.
He reached the door and gave a quick rap. There was no answer.
He knocked again, louder. Still, no answer.
Putting his ear to the door he heard the faint sound of the television. He tried the handle and let himself in. There was no sign of his friend.
He walked over to the desk and filed through the papers that lay on top. It was mainly printouts from Internet bookmaking accounts, and nothing that looked incriminating. He shrugged and made to leave.
As he turned his heart seized. Sticking out of the bathroom was the tip of a sole. He stepped quickly over and pushed the door open. Underneath him, with a knife in his back, was Appleby. Drying blood stained his grey Armani jacket. Jennings stooped down and checked his pulse out of habit. But there was no need – he was clearly dead.
Jennings gazed at the body, unable to register the scene.
“What’s going on here?” said a voice.
Jennings looked up to see Stone staring down at him harshly. Davis was by his side.
“He’s dead,” said Jennings.
“I can see that,” said Stone. “What happened? Did you two have an argument or something?”
“What?!” said Jennings incredulously. “What do you mean?”
“You know what he means Jennings,” said Davis. “Why did you do it? I thought you two were friends.”
Jennings stared at his colleagues blankly, unable to comprehend what they were suggesting.
“Come on mate,” said Davis extending his hand. “You’d better come with us.”
In the midst of the fog a light switched on in Jennings’ head. Everything suddenly became clear. He had to get out of there. He took Davis’ hand.
“Good lad,” said Davis. “You know it makes sense.”
Before Davis could help him to his feet, Jennings pulled him to the floor. He then placed a vicious sweeping kick at Stone’s ankles and sent him crashing. Springing to his feet he fled like a frightened animal, launching himself down the corridor and leaping down the stairs.
On the floor below he slowed briefly as he passed the evening shift. “Hi guys,” he said casually. “Just off for a bite to eat.”
They nodded in acknowledgement. Their radios crackled to life.
Jennings’ heart lurched.
He approached the next flight of steps calmly, and when out of sight hurried on down to the ground floor. Stopping only to check the way was clear, he speed-walked to the front door, opened it quickly, and breezed past the policeman on guard. In the house he could hear shouting. He started to sprint.
“Oi! You!” barked the policeman.
Jennings didn’t look back.
Chapter 62
“I told you before, Stratton’s dead,” said Stella defiantly. She stared determinedly at Alonso, hoping that she could bluff him down.
He raised his gun and readied himself for a backhand lash to her head. Stella raised her arms in defence. The blow came down hard, Alonso expertly avoiding her barricade and connecting with her temple.
“Now, again, where is Stratton?” ordered Alonso.
Stella held her head tenderly. “HE…IS…DEAD!” she punctuated loudly.
Alo
nso raised his gun again. But before he could inflict another wound, he was stopped by the sound of the door bursting open.
“Drop it!” commanded a voice.
Alonso looked across to see Pat Cronin standing in the doorway, gun in hand.
“I said, drop it,” he repeated firmly.
Alonso didn’t flinch. “I suggest you put your gun down Father,” he said. “We do not want an incident, do we?”
Stella looked round in bewilderment.
“It’s alright Stella,” said Cronin. “I’ve got him covered. He won’t do you any harm.”
“It is not me who wants to do her harm,” said Alonso, “it is you who wishes that.” He looked at Stella pleadingly. “I am sorry for scaring you, but please – do not trust this man. He is dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Just drop the gun,” said Cronin. “Or I’ll shoot you. You’ve got five seconds. Four…three…two…”
“Okay, okay,” said Alonso. He slowly lowered his weapon and placed it on the floor.
“Right then,” said Cronin. “Up against the wall.”
While Cronin dealt with Alonso Stella picked the gun off the floor. “Okay Father,” she said. “I think you should drop your weapon too.”
Cronin turned round to face her. “Listen Stella,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”
Stella pointed the gun limply with her left hand, the right still nursing her head. “I don’t care at the moment. Just drop it, or I’ll shoot you in the kneecap. And don’t think I won’t. I’ve had enough of your lies.”
“Okay, okay,” said Cronin, letting his pistol fall to the floor. “Just make sure you don’t take your eyes off him.”
“I won’t be taking my eyes off either of you…Now, the pair of you sit down on the sofa and keep your hands up.”
The two priests did as they were told.
Grabbing a pile of tissues for her bleeding skull she sat down in her chair and trained the gun between her two hostages. Her head started to spin, and her vision began to distort. She shook herself to stay upright, clinging onto consciousness with pasty knuckles. But it was all too much. Her eyes clouded over and she slumped forward. The gun clattered to the floor.
Chapter 63
The heavy black gates that bar the end of Downing Street were installed in 1989 at the request of Margaret Thatcher as protection against the IRA. Before that the public could walk up and down as they pleased. Jennings cursed the ‘Iron Lady’ for being such a pussy. Twenty yards ahead of him a car had just exited, and his escape route was closing rapidly. Once the gates were shut he was finished.
With an effort born of survival, that surprised even himself, he upped his pace to Olympic standard and hurled his body through the ever-decreasing gap. He felt a mighty crush on his shoulders, but somehow managed to drag himself through, the huge portals clipping his heel as they slammed together.
There was pandemonium behind, with many shouts of “open the gates!”. He ignored it and headed right onto Parliament Street, the adrenalin keeping him tireless and swift.
At the end of the road he came to a junction. He had a choice: either head for the river, or try and lose himself in the backstreets. He quickly decided that there was no point trying to hide – they would find him in an instant. His only option was to keep going towards Westminster Bridge.
The traffic on Bridge Street was light and he skipped easily through to the opposite side of the road, where Parliament loomed above. Amidst the hum of the city the sound of sirens began to break through, growing closer with every second. He hurtled onward, crashing through pedestrians like a supercharged bowling ball.
He reached the Embankment with the sirens almost upon him. Left, right, or over the bridge? Whichever way he turned he was sure to be caught. There was only one other option open to him, and it was almost as suicidal as giving himself up.
Without stopping to think he veered right towards the side of the bridge, oblivious to the hollering of his pursuers and the bullets pinging off the concrete. Then, with one last lunge, he launched himself into the air, soaring over the barrier and arcing awkwardly into the icy grip of the water below. The world fell silent and black.
Chapter 64
“Stella,” said a familiar soft voice. “Stella.”
She opened her eyes and found herself staring up at Father Cronin. At first he appeared as a blurred outline. But then, as she blinked her way back into the room, his features became more defined until she had a clear view of his bright eyes and soft smile.
“Are you okay,” he said.
“Yeah, I think so,” she whispered. “My head hurts though.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Cronin. “There’s a nasty gash in it. I’ve cleaned it up as best I can though. I think we ought to get you to a hospital and get you checked out.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Just help me up.”
The first thing she noticed as she got to her feet was Alonso, gagged and bound on the sofa. “You managed to overpower him then,” she said.
“Just about,” said Cronin modestly. “Why don’t you sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
When he returned with her drink, Stella pointed to Alonso and said, “That’s a very professional job, are you sure you’re a priest?”
“Yes, I am a priest. But I also did five years in the special forces.”
Stella looked at him with a new fascination, wondering who exactly he was, and whether she could trust him. “So, Father, if that’s what you are, what the hell’s going on?”
“Good question,” said Cronin. “It’s a bit of a long story. Although I expect you know a lot of it.”
Stella sipped at her water. “All I know is that you’ve been lying to me from the first moment we met. It was no accident that you bumped into me outside the supermarket was it?”
“No,” confessed Cronin. “It wasn’t.”
“So, come on then, tell me who you are and what you want.”
“First of all I need to get rid of prying ears,” said Cronin, picking up Alonso and slinging him into a fireman’s lift. “Is there anywhere we can put him that’s out of earshot?”
“Just dump him in the bedroom for the moment,” she said, pointing. “It’s just round the corner.”
While Cronin removed Alonso Stella reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and breathed in heavily. The pain in her head was subsiding and she was gradually recovering her faculties. The blackout and Cronin’s subsequent kindness had blunted her anger, but as her mind returned so did her mistrust. Whatever he said, she was determined to keep him at arms length.
“That’s better,” said Cronin, re-entering the room. “Now we can talk freely.”
“Can we?” Stella grunted. “What makes you think I’m going to believe a word you say?”
“Nothing,” said Cronin. “And I don’t blame you, but just hear me out and then make your own decision. Remember, I could have tied you up as well if I’d wanted – or killed you.”
“True,” said Stella. “But that doesn’t mean a thing, you might just want to get me on side.”
“Fair enough. But let me explain before you make your mind up.”
“Go on then,” she said, blowing out a petulant puff of smoke. “Give me your blarney.”
Cronin chuckled and began. “My name is Patrick Cronin and I am in fact a priest. I was in the army for seven years, five of those with the SAS. I left and decided that a change of career was in order—”
“Some change of career,” interrupted Stella.
“Yes it was. During my years in the forces I cut myself off from the reality of what I was doing. I’m not sure I should have been there in the first place. It was one of those things – I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, so I ended up in the army. At first I enjoyed it – it gave me a sense of purpose and direction, and I was extremely good at my job – but then, when I was continually being dispatched to kill, I found myself questioning the whole thing…
“Anyway, I’m rambling. Let’s get back to the point. I left the army and drifted around for a bit trying my hand at various things, then out of the blue I got a call from a colleague who said there was some work I might be interested in. There was a man of importance looking for somebody with my particular skills. I told him I wasn’t interested in security work or being a mercenary, but he said it was nothing like that and arranged for me to meet him.
“I turned up at the Ritz for a meeting expecting to be greeted by some rich sheik or one of the Russian ‘oligarchs’, but instead I found myself shaking hands with a Cardinal. His name was Miguel Desayer.”
“A cardinal?” said Stella. “I bet that threw you.”
“Yes it did,” said Cronin. “And what he told me threw me even more. He explained that he was looking for an assistant to help him with some research, and that I fitted his requirements. I explained that my forte was more in tactical manoeuvres, but he ignored the comment. He produced a dossier and said that he knew all about me. He had everything in there, right from nursery school onwards. I couldn’t believe it.
“He told me more about myself than even I knew. He said he had been drawn to me because I was a disillusioned Catholic. I told him that there was no point trying to convert me back, and he replied by telling me he didn’t want to. In fact he wanted the opposite.”
“So, let me get this straight,” said Stella. “He wanted to rally you against Catholicism?”
“Effectively, yes,” said Cronin. “Desayer’s story was quite amazing to me. His parents were killed at an early age and he was brought up in an orphanage. He and his friend Abdullah were set apart from the other children by one of the carers, a man named Gabriel. He looked after them well, and educated them far beyond their impecunious surroundings. The day they were to leave he called them into his study and let them into a great secret. He told them a story about Jesus surviving the crucifixion and how he had left a legacy to mankind—”
“The box!” exclaimed Stella, unable to help herself. “The symbols!”
Fear of the Fathers Page 22