by D C Macey
The car disappeared from view as it passed under the courtyard’s entrance arch. A few moments later, it reappeared, following the dusty track up the slope. Then as it reached the top, it crossed the ridge and dropped out of sight. Sam guessed it was heading directly towards the car that had trailed him here earlier. He felt a pang of anxiety. How would it play out? He hoped the priests did not get into trouble but it was beyond his influence. Father Andreas clearly ran things his way.
‘I am not a fool, Sam. Have you a sign for me? Have you brought a message? Or do you have another motive? Are those men trailing you or serving you?’ The softness had gone from Father Andreas’ voice. This was clearly no game. He had a secret and was not simply going to give it up.
‘I have nothing for you. No message. But I do have a friend who might like to speak with you.’
‘Oh? Tell me of your friend then. Why might I want to speak with him? And why has he not come himself?’
Sam was about to answer when more sounds forced their way through the glass of the window. The Peugeot was racing back down the slope towards the archway. The engine was revving, horn sounding and a second car was following. A man was leaning out of the front passenger window of the following car, pointing towards the Peugeot. Neither Sam nor Father Andreas needed to wonder what was happening. A series of little flashes from the man’s hand made clear it held a gun and he was firing at the priests.
The Peugeot raced under the arch and into the courtyard, followed by the other car. Sam and Father Andreas moved closer to the window. In horror, they looked down towards the Peugeot; it had come to a halt directly below their window, in front of the steps leading up to the front doors. The priests got out and made for the steps as the pursuing car roared under the archway and into the courtyard. The driver did not brake, gunning the car hard across the open space as the passenger continued to fire towards the priests.
‘What are they doing? Are they madmen?’ Sam pressed up against the glass to get a closer view. ‘Come on, I must help your priests!’
‘No, we must act quickly to get you away, come with me,’ said Father Andreas.
Sam looked back towards Father Andreas. ‘No, I must go and help your people; you take cover where you will.’
‘That is not necessary, come with me.’
Action seen in the corner of his eye called Sam’s attention back to the courtyard and he felt a slight tightness in his stomach, that flash of tension that always came to him in the moment before action. The rearmost of the two priests had not quite made the steps when he was hit in the leg by a bullet. With a cry, he collapsed grasping at his leg.
The leading priest turned back in response to the cry for help, he stepped down from the steps and was about to bend to lift the wounded priest when he was shot in the chest. He stood transfixed, swaying gently in the burning sun. A dead man standing, the bullet had nicked the edge of his Aorta artery. The black of his vestments masked what little blood seeped out of his wound; inside, his lifeblood was pumping into his chest cavity and with each heartbeat, he weakened. The pursuing car rolled right over the downed priest, a tyre crushing his ribcage in the passing and he was dead before the rear wheels reached him.
The standing priest saw the car crush his friend, saw it racing on towards him, but he was beyond pain as the car smashed into his legs to throw him up high in the air like a rag doll. The car hit the bottom step and stalled. As the priest’s body landed on the bonnet, the attackers hurried out and rushed up the steps and into the building. In that instant, the silence returned to the courtyard, but there was no peace now.
Sam found himself hurrying along the first floor corridor behind Father Andreas whose wheelchair seemed to have developed quite a turn of speed. ‘Where are we going?’ said Sam.
‘Stick with me, it will be alright. I have a safe place. The others will deal with the intruders.’
‘I don’t think so. I should go and help.’
‘You should stay with me. Come on.’
Sam followed. He noticed the middle-aged priest who had earlier brought them water was standing beyond the stairwell, at the far end of the corridor; he held something in his hand. Sam was not sure what it was.
‘Up ahead is our place of safety, we just need to get past the stairwell,’ called Father Andreas. ‘Keep going. Nearly there.’ The middle-aged priest was beckoning them on, urging speed.
Just as they approached the stairwell, the two men from the car reached the top of the stairs. They immediately turned their attention and pistols towards Sam and Father Andreas.
‘Stop,’ shouted the first man, his gun pointing directly at Father Andreas’ chest.
‘No moving or you are both dead,’ shouted the second man, his gun trained on Sam.
Sam was still, he’d been in similar positions during his service days. He knew from the repeated peaking in the men’s voices that they were strung taut. Any false move would trigger a shooting spree and he and Father Andreas would be on the receiving end. ‘Stay still, Father Andreas, just sit tight,’ said Sam.
‘Good. Do as I say,’ said the first man, his voice steadying as he registered that his prisoners were acquiescing. His finger eased slightly on the trigger. ‘Now where is it?’
‘Where is what?’ said Father Andreas.
Sam noted the calm voice; the old priest was not being phased by the experience one bit.
‘Don’t get smart, you know what we want. Now hand it over.’
‘Okay,’ said Father Andreas. ‘But I keep what you want in the chapel. We will need to go there.’ He waved a hand, pointing beyond the stair towards the lift. ‘I’ll need to go down in that.’
‘We’ll all go together,’ said the first man. Then he suddenly staggered a pace towards Sam and Father Andreas; he coughed, it turned to a frightened little gasp and he looked down at his chest. A steel bolt had punched through his back and was sticking proudly out through his chest, dripping red. He dropped his pistol, carefully moved his hands to touch the bolt and looked up and over to the second man, puzzlement writ across his face.
In that instant, Sam knew what the middle-aged priest at the far end of the corridor had been holding: a crossbow. Conditioning, the product of long past training sessions, kicked in and Sam sprang into action. Brushing past the dying man, he lunged for the second man who was still trying to register what had happened.
Sam was on him before the man could refocus. They grappled; Sam grabbed the man’s pistol hand in an effort to ensure he could not aim again. It fired two, three times up and into the ceiling as the struggle continued. Sam was strong but the man was heavy and as they twisted at the top of the stair, Sam went down, his foot slipping in the pool of blood spreading from the skewered assailant’s body.
Sam was in trouble. On his back and upside down, feet still on the first floor landing but his head three steps lower on the staircase. All his efforts were focused on keeping control of his opponent’s pistol hand but Sam had cracked his head as he fell and the blood now streaming from his head wound was obstructing his already blurring vision as his mind started to spin. He was beginning to fade, knew he had only moments before he lost consciousness and the fight, but he had nothing more to give.
He saw his opponent’s big face loom closer, saw his dirty toothed smile. Even as he wilted, he smelt the bad breath, was furious with himself and was aware that the pistol hand was slowly turning, the muzzle coming to bear on him; he was losing consciousness, losing strength, losing the battle. He should have been able to take this man. As he blacked out, he saw a flash but heard no roar of a pistol’s discharge. He couldn’t understand. Then his assailant’s head seemed to roll away to one side, leaving his body behind, along with a spurting, jetting, fountain of red. The body immediately eased and relaxed on top of Sam.
In place of his assailant’s head, Sam could now see a long shimmering streak, a shining sword, and above that, peering down on him was the face of an angel. No, thought Sam, as he finally slipped into unc
onsciousness, the face of Father Christos.
CHAPTER 27 - THURSDAY 5th SEPTEMBER
Cassiter was not pleased. Yes, Parsol’s team had located Sam Cameron on Kefalonia and there was no doubt the operation had gone well, initially. From there it had gone rapidly downhill. Parsol’s men had reported following Cameron here and there, all very straight forward. A car journey into the countryside was reported. There then followed a vague message about his visiting some church or monastery, somewhere out of sight in the hills, set back from the road. No directions, no locations: what sort of training did these men get? Then a final message: they were being approached; they had been spotted, and were going on the offensive. Then there was nothing; complete silence since yesterday.
He listened to the messages again. Each listening just confirmed his view that it was always best to rely on his own people. Yes, he had made a link up with Parsol, but he still had more confidence in his own staff. He had already sent out several messages this morning. By tomorrow, he would have some of his own team members to hand, recalled from their various stations. He needed his people here and they were coming. Then he would go to Kefalonia himself to find out exactly what was going on.
• • •
Helen sat in the airport café, her cup of coffee gone cold in front of her. For what seemed the hundredth time she checked her messages. Nothing, Sam had been out of the loop for a full day.
His last text had mentioned a possible meeting, then nothing. She had phoned his hotel in Kefalonia; they seemed not to know where he was. Sam had not been in touch with Elaine or Grace either; he had simply dropped off the radar.
It had been good to visit Xavier and Angelo; both were on the road to recovery and each receiving the most attentive protection from the police. The old priest had been glad to see her and even from his sickbed seemed to worry over her like a protective uncle. Much as she hated a fuss, she had been delighted to take up his offer, made as soon as she explained Sam had gone missing in Kefalonia.
Xavier always seemed to come up trumps and, this time, even while in his sickbed, he had really pulled a rabbit out of the hat. She was sitting in the private lounge at Cagliari Airport. Xavier’s private plane was sitting on the runway ready to take her to Kefalonia, but only on condition that she allowed a couple of his parishioners to accompany her. An insurance, he had said. After introductions, the men had gone to collect travel bags. As soon as they returned, they would all board and the flight would take off.
The men were quiet, respectful but friendly towards her, and she knew they were as loyal and hard as the land that bred them. Perfect if you needed protection - and she was beginning to suspect she might.
She noticed an alcove set back from the main lounge; there she found a little prayer space and bowed her head, praying for a speedy journey. But most of all she prayed for Sam. Prayed and prayed again.
• • •
In Edinburgh, others were also turning to prayer - out of faith and also out of desperation. Elaine had finished transferring the last of the files from the church office’s filing cabinets into packing boxes. She had more boxes ready to be filled with the church’s hymnbooks and the pew bibles. Suddenly this was all very real.
She left the office and walked through the vestry; it was as she always liked it, thoroughly clean and tidy, but sadly, now very bare. She hurried on, pushing aside memories of what had happened here, and entered the nave, pulling the vestry door shut behind her.
In the quiet of the church, she selected a pew at the front, sat, bowed her head and prayed quietly, sliding into a period of quiet contemplation. She was worried for her friends, her daughter and herself. Amongst all that concern, she found she was worrying for the building too. She and John Dearly had invested so many years in it and it was to go, swept aside just like that. Elaine was unhappy, Helen had promised to do what she could, but what could she do? And in any case, events were taking Helen elsewhere just when she was needed most in Edinburgh. Their time was almost up. She prayed again for some salvation and then slowly straightened her head before standing, ready to face the next hurdle.
She did not have to wait. James Curry stood inside the front entrance to the church. He walked up the aisle towards her.
‘Elaine, good to see you. I’m sure you’ve been busy,’ said Curry. ‘How are things proceeding? All done?’
Elaine glanced around for a moment. ‘We’re keeping to your schedule, so I’m sure that will please you. But what about the service of thanksgiving for the church, we should have one.’
‘Yes, I have agreed to that. One or two procedural problems to iron out but we certainly don’t want to make a big thing of it, bearing in mind all the grizzly goings on here. A quiet exit is what’s required, don’t you agree?’
Elaine did not bother answering.
‘Now we will certainly want to hold it as soon as possible, but minimum fuss. The transaction is going ahead fast; we’ve had a very good offer in for the parish property.’ He gave a cold little smile. ‘One our Italian-American friends might describe as an offer we can’t refuse. As an elder you’ll have sight of the offer soon enough but let me tell you, off the record, the presbytery has really landed on its feet here. We have been offered double the independently assessed market value provided we expedite the sale. A remarkable sum, clearly we must move to clinch the deal. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity that has to be grabbed with both hands.’
Elaine’s heart sank at the news. There was no way back.
‘You see, my dear, it only goes to prove the decisions we reached under my guidance were for the best. I have had to push and pull at one or two committees to enable the sale without exposure to the market, but it’s so clear we would never receive such an offer on the open market that the General Trustees had to recognise it makes sense to proceed at once.
‘I’m going to leave you to sort out the details of a thanksgiving service. It will have to be next week; I think organising it will be a fitting last act by the parish elders. The question is who would you like to lead the service? Feel free to think of me, I’d be only too happy to oblige.’ He looked at Elaine expectantly.
‘I haven’t given it a moment’s thought,’ she said. ‘I will sound out the other elders; we are having a meeting this evening. I’ll see what they think.’
‘Good. I’ll leave it with you then. I’m sure you’ll pull it all together. Though, and of course I have no say in the matter, it might be politic to avoid involving Helen Johnson. After all, she is something of a newcomer - no real history within the parish. And she has a nasty habit of rubbing people up the wrong way. Well, I know the presbytery can rely on you to do the right thing, my dear. I leave it entirely in your hands now. Must dash.’
Elaine did not walk down the aisle with him. She stood and glared at his back. Yes, she thought, leave it in my hands but rest assured, Helen will be there.
Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes and spilled out to roll down her cheeks. Alone in the church she loved, Elaine made no attempt to stop them. She sat down in a pew and bent forward seemingly in prayer. But this was grief. It was her place, she had married her husband here; her daughter had been christened here. It was here she had said a last goodbye to her husband. Her life revolved around the church and that man was just throwing it all away.
• • •
Helen stepped out of the hire car. She thanked the Sardinian who held it open for her and then made straight for the hotel reception. He followed her in while the second guard drove round to park the car in the hotel’s tiny rear car park.
After booking all three of them into adjacent rooms, she asked for access to Sam’s. The teenage girl on reception couldn’t help but promised to arrange for her grandfather, the owner, to speak to her as soon as he got back. Helen left for her own room to freshen up. The flight had been smooth and far less stressful than the normal flying experience. She laughed to herself; she’d need to keep in with Xavier. This was the way to travel, for sure.
A little while later, cleaned up and relaxed, she was scanning her messages in the hope that Sam might have resurfaced when there was a light knock on her door. She called out at once. ‘Door’s unlocked. Come on in.’
She had expected to see one of the Sardinian men making a periodic check on her. With Sam having gone missing, they clearly did not intend to have to report to Xavier that she had been lost too. Instead, it was an old lady; she walked slowly into the room, her stick tapping out a steady pace across the marbled floor tiles. Behind her came the teenage girl who had served them at reception earlier. She carried a tray, laid with teapot, cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug. The old lady waved the girl towards a table where she placed the tray and then left the room after directing a little smile towards Helen.
Helen watched the old lady select a chair and sit, settling herself comfortably before glancing up to make eye contact.
‘Now, Miss Johnson, Helen. May I call you Helen?’ The old lady looked down at the tray in front of her. ‘Shall I pour?’
For a moment Helen stood, transfixed, who was this old lady? Clearly, she did not present any sort of physical threat. But what was the reason for her just barging into the room? Pulling herself into the moment, she stepped across the room, close to where the old lady sat. ‘I’m sorry, but who are you? Why are you in my room?’
‘Do sit down, Helen. I can’t speak with you towering over me; I’ll get a crick in my neck.’ The old lady’s voice was gentle, educated, disarming.
Helen sat, mostly because she realised it was the only way the woman sitting in front of her was going to explain herself and a little because she actually saw something to like in the old lady, for all her brass neck.
‘Who are you?’
