Confessional - Devlin 03 (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  Pope John Paul put the report down and looked up. He spoke in excellent Italian, only a trace of his Polish native tongue coming through. 'You received this when?'

  'The first report from the Secretariat in Dublin came three hours ago, then the news from London a little later. I have spoken personally to the British Home Secretary who has given me every assurance for your safety and referred me to Brigadier Ferguson, mentioned in the report as being directly responsible.'

  'But are you worried?'

  'Holiness, it is almost impossible to prevent a lone assassin from reaching his target, especially if he does not care about his own safety and this man Cussane has proved his abilities on too many occasions in the past.'

  'Father Cussane.' His Holiness got up and paced to the window. 'Killer he may have been, may still be, but priest he is and God, my friend, will not allow him to forget that.'

  The Father General looked into that rough hewn face, the face that might have belonged to any one of a thousand ordinary working men. It was touched with a strange simplicity, a certainty. As had happened on other occasions the Father General, for all his intellectual authority, wilted before it.

  'You will go to England, Holiness?'

  'To Canterbury, my friend, where Blessed Thomas Beckett died for God's sake.'

  The Father General reached to kiss the ring on the extended hand. 'Then your Holiness will excuse me. There is much to do.'

  He went out. John Paul stood at the window for a while, then crossed the room, opened a small door and entered his private chapel. He knelt at the altar, hands clasped, a certain fear in his heart as he remembered the assassin's bullet that had almost ended his life, the months of pain. But he pushed that away from him and concentrated on all that was important: his prayers for the immortal soul of Father Harry Cussane and for all sinners everywhere, whose actions only cut them off from the infinite blessing of God's love.

  Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Devlin and Fox. 'That was the Director General. His Holiness has been informed in full about Cussane and the threat he poses. It makes no difference.'

  'Well, it wouldn't, would it?' Devlin said. 'You're talking about a man who worked for years in the Polish underground against the Nazis.'

  'All right,' Ferguson said. 'Point taken. Anyway, you'd better get kitted out. Take him along to the Directorate, Harry. Grade A Security Pass. Not just another piece of plastic with your photo on it,' he said to Devlin. 'Very few people have this particular one. It'll get you in anywhere.'

  He moved to his desk and Devlin said, 'Will it entitle me to a gun? A Walther wouldn't come amiss. I'm one of nature's pessimists, as you know.'

  'Out of favour with most of our people since that idiot tried to shoot Princess Anne and her bodyguard's Walther jammed. Revolvers never do. Take my advice.'

  He picked up some papers and they went into the study and got their coats. 'I still prefer a Walther,' Devlin said.

  'One thing's for sure,' Fox said. 'Whatever it is, it had better not jam, not if you're facing Harry Cussane,' and he opened the door and they went out to the lift.

  Harry Cussane had a plan of sorts. He knew the end in view on Saturday at Canterbury, but that left the best part of three days and three nights, in which he had to hide out. Danny Malone had mentioned a number of people in the criminal world who provided the right kind of help at a price. Plenty in London of course or Leeds or Manchester, but the Mungo brothers and their farm in Galloway had particularly interested him. It was the remoteness which appealed. The last place anyone would look for him would be Scotland and yet the British Airways shuttle from Glasgow to London took only an hour and a quarter.

  Time to fill, that was the thing. No need to be in Canterbury until the last moment. Nothing to organize. That amused him, sitting there in the bus speeding up the motorway to Carlisle. One could imagine the preparation at Canterbury Cathedral, every possible entry point guarded, police marksmen everywhere, probably even the SAS in plain clothes dispersed in the crowd. And all for nothing. It was like chess, as he used to tell Devlin, the world's worst player. It wasn't the present move that counted. It was the final move. It was rather like a stage magician. You believed what he did with his right hand, but it was what he did with his left that was important.

  He slept for quite a while and, when he awakened, there was the sea shining in the afternoon light on his left. He leaned over and spoke to the old woman in front of him. 'Where are we?'

  'Just past Annan.' She had a thick Glasgow accent. 'Dumfries next. Are you a Catholic?'

  'I'm afraid so,' he said warily. The Scottish Lowlands had always been traditionally Protestant.

  'That's lovely. I'm Catholic myself. Glasgow-Irish, Father.' She took his hand and kissed it. 'Bless me, Father. You're from the old country.'

  'I am indeed.'

  He thought she might prove a nuisance, but strangely enough, she simply turned her head and settled back in her seat. Outside, the sky was very dark and it started to rain, thunder rumbling ominously and soon the rain had increased into a monsoon-like force that drummed loudly on the roof of the bus. They stopped in Dumfries to drop two passengers and then moved on through streets washed clean of people, out into the country again.

  Not long now. No more than fifteen miles to his dropping-off point at Dunhill. From there, a few miles on a side road to a hamlet called Larwick and the Mungos' place, a mile or two outside Larwick in the hills.

  The driver had been speaking into the mike on his car radio and now he switched over to the coach's loudspeaker system. 'Attention, ladies and gentlemen. I'm afraid we've got trouble up ahead just before Dunhill. Bad flooding on the road. A lot of vehicles already stuck in it.'

  The old woman in front of Cussane called, 'What are we supposed to do? Sit in the bus all night?'

  'We'll be in Corbridge in a few minutes. Not much of a place, but there's a milk stop there on the railway line. They're making arrangements to stop the next train for Glasgow.'

  'Three times the fare on the railway,' the old woman called.

  'The company pays,' the driver told her cheerfully. 'Don't worry, love.'

  'Will the train stop at Dunhill?' Cussane asked.

  'Perhaps. I'm not sure. We'll have to see.'

  Lag's Luck, they called it in prison circles. Danny Malone had told him that. No matter how well you planned, it was always something totally unforeseeable that caused the problem. No point in wasting energy in dwelling on that. The thing to do was examine alternatives.

  A white sign, Corbridge etched on it in black, appeared on the left and then the first houses loomed out of the heavy rain. There was a general store, a newsagents, the tiny railway station opposite. The driver turned the coach into the forecourt.

  'Best wait in here while I check things out.' He jumped down and went into the railway station.

  The rain poured down relentlessly. There was a gap between the pub and the general store, beams stretching between to shore them up. Obviously the building which had stood there had just been demolished. A small crowd had gathered. Cussane watched idly, reached for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and found it empty. He hesitated, then picked up his bag, got off the coach and ran across the road to the newsagents. He asked the young woman standing in the entrance for a couple of packs of cigarettes and an ordnance survey map of the area if she had it. She did.

  'What's going on?' Cussane asked.

  'They've been pulling down the old grain store for a week now. Everything was fine until this rain started. They've got trouble in the cellars. A roof fall or something.'

  They moved out into the entrance again and watched. At that moment, a police car appeared from the other end of the village and pulled in. There was only one occupant, a large heavily-built man who wore a navy-blue anorak with sergeant's stripes on it. He forced his way through the crowd and disappeared.

  The young woman said, 'The cavalry's arrived.'

  'Isn't he from round here?' Cussane asked.


  'No police station in Corbridge. He's from Dunhill. Sergeant Brodie - Lachlan Brodie.' The tone of her voice was enough.

  'Not popular?' Cussane asked.

  'Lachlan's the kind who likes nothing better than finding three drunks together at the same time on a Saturday night to beat up. He's built like the rock of ages and likes to prove it. You wouldn't be Catholic, by any chance?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'To Lachlan, that means antichrist. He's the kind of Baptist who thinks music is a sin. A lay preacher as well.'

  A workman came through the crowd in helmet and orange safety jacket. His face was streaked with mud and water. He leaned against the wall, 'It's a sod down there.'

  'That bad?' the woman said.

  'One of my men is trapped. A wall collapsed. We're doing our best, but there isn't much room to work in and the water's rising.' He frowned and said to Cussane, 'You wouldn't be Catholic by any chance?'

  'Yes.'

  The man grabbed his arm. 'My name's Hardy. I'm the foreman. The man down there is as Glaswegian as me, but Italian. Gino Tisini. He thinks he's going to die. Begged me to get him a priest. Will you come, Father?'

  'But of course,' Cussane said without hesitation, and handed his bag to the woman. 'Would you look after that for me?'

  'Certainly, Father.'

  He followed Hardy through the crowd and down into the excavation. There was a gaping hole, cellar steps descending. Brodie, the police sergeant, was holding people back. Hardy started down and as Cussane followed, Brodie caught his arm. 'What's this?'

  'Let him by,' Hardy called. 'He's a priest.'

  The hostility was immediate in Brodie's eyes, the dislike plain. It was an old song to Cussane, Belfast all over again. 'I don't know you,' Brodie said.

  'My name's Fallon. I came in on the bus on the way to Glasgow,' Cussane told him calmly.

  He took the policeman's wrist, loosening the grip on his arm, and Brodie winced at the strength of it as Cussane pushed him to one side and went down the steps. He was knee-deep in water at once and ducked under a low roof and followed Hardy into what must have been a narrow passageway. There was a certain amount of light from an extension lamp and it illuminated a chaos of jumbled masonry and planking. There was a narrow aperture and as they reached it, two men stumbled out, both soaked to the skin and obviously at exhaustion point.

  'It's no good,' one of them said. 'His head will be under the water in a matter of minutes.'

  Hardy brushed past and Cussane went after them. Gino Tisini's white face loomed out of the darkness as they crouched to go forward. Cussane put out a hand to steady himself and a plank fell and several bricks.

  'Watch it!' Hardy said. 'The whole thing could go like a house of cards.'

  There was the constant gurgle of water as it poured in. Tisini managed a ghastly smile. 'Come to hear my confession, Father? It would take a year and a day.'

  'We haven't got that long. Let's get you out,' Cussane said.

  There seemed to be a sudden extra flow of water; it washed over Tisini's face and he panicked. Cussane moved behind him, supporting the man's head above the water, crouching over him protectively.

  Hardy felt under the water. 'There's a lot moved here,' he said. 'That's where the inflow of water helps. There's just one beam pinning him down now, but it leads into the wall. If I put any kind of force on it, it could bring the lot in on us.'

  'If you don't, he drowns within the next couple of minutes,' Cussane said.

  'You could be in trouble too, Father.'

  'And you,' Cussane said, 'so get on with it.'

  'Father!' Tisini cried. 'In the name of God, absolve me!'

  Cussane said in a firm clear voice, 'May Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you and I, by His authority, absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and the Son and of the Holy Spirit.' He nodded to Hardy. 'Now!'

  The foreman took a breath and dipped under the surface, his hands gripping the edges of the beam. His shoulders seemed to swell, he came up out of the water, the beam with him and Tisini screamed and floated free in Cussane's hands. The wall started to bulge. Hardy pulled Tisini up and dragged him towards the entrance, Cussane pushing from the rear as the walls crumbled around them. He put an arm up to protect his head and shoulders, was aware that they were at the steps now, willing hands reaching down to help, and then a brick struck him a glancing blow on the head. He tried to go up the steps, fell on his knees, and there was only darkness.

  12

  HE CAME AWAKE SLOWLY to find the young woman from the shop crouching over him. He was lying on a rug in front of a coal fire and she was wiping his face.

  'Easy,' she said. 'You'll be fine. Remember me? I'm Moira McGregor. You're in my shop.'

  'What about the Italian and that fellow Hardy?'

  'They're upstairs. We've sent for a doctor.'

  He was still confused and found it difficult to think straight. 'My bag?' he said slowly. 'Where is it?'

  The big policeman, Brodie, loomed over them. 'Back in the land of the living, are we?' There was an edge to his voice. An unpleasantness. 'Worth a couple of dozen candles to the Virgin, I suppose.'

  He went out. Moira McGregor smiled at Cussane. 'Take no notice. You saved that man's life, you and Hardy. I'll get you a cup of tea.'

  She went into the kitchen and found Brodie standing by the table. 'I could do with a touch of something stronger myself,' he said.

  She took a bottle of Scotch and a glass from a cupboard and put them on the table without a word. He reached for a chair and pulled it forward, not noticing Cussane's bag which fell to the floor. The top being unzipped, several items tumbled out, a couple of shirts and the pyx and the violet stole amongst them.

  'This his bag?' Brodie asked.

  She turned from the stove, a kettle in her hand. 'That's right.'

  He dropped to one knee, stuffing the items back into the bag and frowned. 'What's this?'

  By some mischance, the false bottom of the bag had become dislodged in the fall. The first thing Brodie discovered was an English passport and he opened it. 'He told me his name was Fallon.'

  'So?' Moira said.

  'Then how come he has a passport in the name of Father Sean Daly? Good likeness too.' His hand groped further and came up, holding the Stechkin. 'God Almighty!'

  Moira McGregor felt sick. 'What does it mean?'

  'We'll soon find out.'

  Brodie went back into the other room and put the bag down on a chair. Cussane lay quietly, eyes closed. Brodie knelt down beside him, took out a pair of handcuffs and, very gently, eased one bracelet over Cussane's left wrist. Cussane opened his eyes and Brodie seized the other wrist and snapped the steel cuff in place. He pulled the priest to his feet, then shoved him down into a chair.

  'What's all this then?' Brodie had the false base up completely now and sifted through the contents. 'Three handguns, assorted passports and a sizeable sum in cash. Bloody fine priest you are. What's it all about?'

  'You are the policeman, not me,' Cussane said.

  Brodie cuffed him on the side of the head. 'Manners, my little man. I can see I'm going to have to chastise you.'

  Watching from the door, Moira McGregor said, 'Don't do that.'

  Brodie smiled contemptuously. 'Women - all the same. Fancy him, do you, just because he played the hero?'

  He went out. She said to Cussane desperately, 'Who are you?'

  He smiled. 'I wouldn't bother your head about that. I could manage a cigarette, though, before bully-boy gets back.'

  Brodie had been a policeman for twenty years after five years in the military police. Twenty undistinguished years. He was a sour and cruel man whose only real authority was the uniform, and his religion had the same purpose as the uniform, to give him a spurious authority. He could have rung headquarters in Dumfries, but there was something special about this, he felt it in his bones, so instead, he rang police headquarters in Glasgow.

  Glasgow had received photo and f
ull details on Harry Cussane only one hour previously. The case was marked Priority One with immediate referal to Group Four in London. Brodie's telephone call was transferred at once to Special Branch. Within two minutes he found himself talking to a Chief Inspector Trent.

  'Tell me all about it again,' Trent told him. Brodie did so. When he was finished, Trent said, 'I don't know how much time you've got in, but you've just made the biggest collar of your career. This man's called Cussane. A real IRA heavy. You say the passengers on the bus he was on are being transferred to the train?'

  'That's right, sir. Flooding on the road. This is only a milk stop, but they're going to stop the Glasgow express.'

  'When is it due?'

  'About ten minutes, sir.'

  'Get on it, Brodie, and bring Chummy with you. We'll meet you in Glasgow.'

  Brodie put down the phone, choking with excitement, then he went into the sitting room.

  Brodie walked Cussane along the platform, one hand on his arm, the other clutching Cussane's bag. People turned to watch curiously as the priest passed, wrists handcuffed in front of him. They reached the guards van at the rear of the train, the guard standing on the platform beside the open door.

  'What's this?'

  'Special prisoner for Glasgow.' Brodie pushed Cussane inside. There were some mailbags in the corner and he shoved him down on to them. 'Now you stay quiet like a good boy.'