Confessional

by Jack Higgins

  To Canterbury is where it's taking the mad bastard,' McGuiness said. 'And we can't help with that. It's up to British Intelligence to handle this one. Nothing more the IRA can do for them. Watch your back, Liam.'

  He rang off and Devlin sat there, frowning thoughtfully.

  He stood up. 'I'm going out for a little while,' he said to Tanya. 'Shan't be long,' and he went out through the French windows.

  The Customs at Blackpool were just as courteous as they had been at Ronaldsway. Cussane actually paused, smiling, and offered his bag as the stream of passengers moved through.

  'Anything to declare, Father?' the Customs officer asked.

  Cussane unzipped his bag. 'A bottle of Scotch and two hundred cigarettes.'

  The Customs officer grinned. 'You could have had a litre of wine as well. It isn't your day, Father.'

  'Obviously not.' Cussane zipped up his bag and moved on.

  He hesitated outside the entrance of the small airport. There were several taxi cabs waiting, but he decided to walk down to the main road instead. He had, after all, all the time in the world. There was a newsagents across the road and he crossed over and bought a paper. As he came out, a bus pulled in at the stop a few paces away. Its indicator said Morecambe, which he knew was another seaside resort some miles up the coast. On impulse, he ran forward and scrambled on board as it drew away.

  He purchased a ticket and went up on the top deck. It was really very pleasant and he felt calm and yet full of energy at the same time. He opened the newspaper and saw that the news from the South Atlantic was not good. HMS Coventry had been bombed and a Cunard container ship, the Atlantic Conveyor, had been hit by an Exocet missile. He lit a cigarette and settled down to read about it.

  When Devlin went into the ward at the hospice, Sister Anne Marie was at Danny Malone's bed. Devlin waited and she finally whispered something to the nurse, then turned and noticed him. 'And what do you want?'

  'To talk to Danny.'

  'He isn't really up to conversation this morning.'

  'It's very important.'

  She frowned in exasperation. 'It always is with you. All right. Ten minutes.' She started to walk away, then turned. 'Father Cussane didn't come in last night. Do you know why?'

  'No,' Devlin lied. 'I haven't seen him.' She walked away and he pulled a chair forward. 'Danny, how are you?'

  Malone opened his eyes and said hoarsely, 'Is it you, Liam? Father Cussane didn't come.'

  'Tell me, Danny, you talked to him of Sean Deegan of Ballywalter who handles the Isle of Man run, I understand.'

  Malone frowned. 'Sure, I talked to him about a lot of things.'

  'But mainly of IRA matters.'

  'Sure, and he was interested in me telling him how I managed things in the old days.'

  'Particularly across the water?' Devlin asked.

  'Yes. You know how long I lasted without getting caught, Liam. He wanted to know how I did it.' He frowned. 'What's the problem?'

  'You were always the strong one, Danny. Be strong now. He wasn't one of our own.'

  Malone's eyes widened. 'You're having me on, Liam.'

  'And Sean Deegan in hospital with a bullet in him and two good men dead?'

  Danny sat there, staring at him. 'Tell me.' So Devlin did. When he was finished, Danny Malone said softly, 'Bastard!'

  'Tell me what you can remember, Danny. Anything that particularly interested him.'

  Malone frowned, trying to think. 'Yes, the business of how I stayed ahead of Special Branch and those Intelligence boys for so long. I explained to him that I never used the IRA network when I was over there. Totally unreliable, you know that, Liam.'

  'True.'

  'I always used the underworld myself. Give me an honest crook any day of the week or a dishonest one if the price is right. I knew a lot of people like that.'

  'Tell me about them,' Devlin said.

  Cussane liked seaside towns, especially the ones that catered for the masses. Honest, working class people out for a good time. Lots of cafes, amusement arcades and fairgrounds and plenty of bracing air. Morecambe certainly had that. The dark waters of the bay were being whipped into whitecaps and on the far side he could see the mountains of the Lake District.

  He walked across the road. It was not the height of the season yet, but there were plenty of tourists about and he threaded his way through the narrow streets until he found his way to the bus station.

  It was possible to travel to most of the major provincial cities by high speed bus, mainly on the motorways. He consulted the timetables and found what he was looking for, a bus to Glasgow via Carlisle and Dumfries. It left in one hour. He booked a ticket and went in search of something to eat.

  Chapter Eleven

  GEORGI ROMANOV was senior attaché in charge of public relations at the Russian Embassy in London. He was a tall, amiable-looking man of fifty, secretly rather proud of his aristocratic name. He had worked for the KGB in London for eleven years now, and had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel the previous year. Ferguson liked him and he liked Ferguson. When Ferguson phoned him just after his final telephone conversation with Devlin and suggested a meeting, Romanov agreed at once.

  They met in Kensington Gardens by the Round Pond, a rendezvous so convenient to the Embassy that Romanov was able to walk. Ferguson sat on a bench reading The Times. Romanov joined him.

  'Hello, Georgi,' Ferguson said.

  'Charles. To what do I owe the honour?'

  'Straight talking, Georgi. This one is about as bad as it could be. What do you know about a KGB agent, code name Cuchulain, put in deep in Ireland a good twenty years ago?'

  'For once I can answer you with complete honesty,' Romanov said. 'Not a thing.'

  'Then listen and learn,' Ferguson told him.

  When he was finished, Romanov's face was grave. 'This really is bad.'

  'You're telling me. The important thing is this. This madman is somewhere in the country having boasted of his intention of shooting the Pope at Canterbury on Saturday and frankly, with his track record, we have to take him seriously. He isn't just another nutter.'

  'So what do you want me to do?'

  'Get in touch with Moscow at the highest level. I should imagine the last thing they want is the Pope dead, at the hands of someone who can be proved to be a KGB agent, especially after that botched attempt in Rome. Which is exactly what Cussane wants. Warn them that, on this one, we'll brook no interference. And if, by some wild chance, he gets in touch with you, Georgi, you tell me. We're going to get this bastard, make no mistake and he dies, Georgi. No nonsense about a trial or anything like that. There again, I'm sure that's what your people in Moscow will want to hear.'

  'I'm sure it is.' Romanov stood up. 'I'd better get back and send a signal.'

  'Take a tip from an old chum,' Ferguson told him. 'Make sure you go higher than Maslovsky.'

  In view of the importance of the matter, Ferguson had to go to the Director General, who in turn spoke to the Home Secretary. The result was a summons to Downing Street when Ferguson was half-way through his lunch. He rang for his car at once and was there within ten minutes. There was the usual small crowd at the end of the street behind barriers. The policeman on the door saluted. It was opened the moment Ferguson raised a hand to the knocker.

  There was a hum of activity inside, but then there would be with the Falklands affair beginning to hot up. He was surprised that she was seeing him personally. His guide led the way up the main staircase to the first floor and Ferguson followed. On the top floor, the young man knocked at a door and led the way in.

  'Brigadier Ferguson, Prime Minister.'

  She looked up from her desk, elegant as always in a grey tweed dress, blonde hair groomed to perfection, and laid down her pen. 'My time is limited, Brigadier. I'm sure you understand.'

  'I would have thought that an understatement, Ma'am.'

  'The Home Secretary has filled me in on the relevant facts. I simply want an assurance from you that you
will stop this man.'

  'I can give you that without the slightest hesitation, Prime Minister.'

  'If there was any kind of attempt on the Pope's life while he is here, even an unsuccessful one, the consequences in political terms would be disastrous for us.'

  'I understand.'

  'As head of Group Four, you have special powers, direct from me. Use them, Brigadier. If there is anything else you need, do not hesitate to ask.'

  'Prime Minister.'

  She picked up her pen and returned to work and Ferguson went out to find the young man waiting for him. As they went downstairs, it occurred to Ferguson, not for the first time in his career, that it was his own head that was on the block as much as Cussane's.

  In Moscow, Ivan Maslovsky received another summons to the office of the Minister for State Security, still occupied by Yuri Andropov, whom he found sitting at his desk considering a typed report.

  He passed it across. 'Read it, Comrade.'

  Maslovsky did so and his heart seemed to turn to stone. When he was finished he handed it back, hands shaking.

  'Your man, Maslovsky, is now at large in England, intent on assassinating the Pope, his sole idea apparently being to embarrass us seriously. And there is nothing we can do except sit back and hope that British Intelligence will be one hundred per cent efficient in this matter.'

  'Comrade, what can I say?'

  'Nothing, Maslovsky. This whole sorry affair was not only ill-advised. It was adventurism of the worst kind.' Andropov pressed a button on his desk, the door opened behind Maslovsky and two young KGB captains in uniform entered. 'You will vacate your office and hand over all official keys and files to the person I designate. You will then be taken to the Lubianka to await trial for crimes against the State.'

  The Lubianka, how many people had he sent there himself? Suddenly, Maslovsky found difficulty in breathing and there was a pain in both arms, his chest. He started to fall and clutched at the desk. Andropov jumped back in alarm and the two KGB officers rushed and grabbed Maslovsky's arms. He didn't bother to struggle, he had no strength, but he tried to speak as the pain got worse, tried to tell Andropov that there would be no cell in the Lubianka, no state trial. Strangely enough, the last thing he thought of was Tanya, his beloved Tanya seated at the piano playing his favourite piece, Debussy's La Mer. Then the music faded and there was only darkness.

  Ferguson had a meeting with the Home Secretary, the Commander of Ci3, Scotland Yard's anti-terrorist squad and the Director General of the Security Services. He was tired when he got back to the flat and found Devlin sitting by the fire reading The Times.

  'The Pope seems to be taking over from the Falklands at the moment,' Devlin said and folded the paper.

  'Yes, well that's as maybe,' Ferguson said. 'He can't go back fast enough for me. You should have been with me at this meeting I've just attended, Liam. Home Secretary himself, Scotland Yard, the Director, and you know what?' He warmed himself, back against the fire. 'They aren't taking it all that seriously.'

  'Cussane, you mean?'

  'Oh, don't get me wrong. They accept his existence, if you follow me. I showed them the record and his activities in Dublin during the past few days have been bad enough, God knows. Levin, Lubov, Cherny, two IRA gunmen. The man's a butcher.'

  'No,' Devlin said. 'I don't think so. To him, it's just part of the job. Something that has to be done. He gets it over with cleanly and expeditiously. He has frequently spared lives over the years. Tanya and myself were a case in point. He goes for the target, that's all.'

  'Don't remind me.' Ferguson shuddered, and then the door opened and Harry Fox came in.

  'Hello, sir. Liam. I believe things have been happening while I've been away.'

  'I think one could say that,' Ferguson told him. 'Did things go well in Paris?'

  'Yes, I saw Tony. He's in control.'

  'You can tell me later. I'd better fill you in on the latest events.'

  Which he did, as quickly as possible, Devlin occasionally making a point. When Ferguson was finished, Harry Fox said, 'What a man. Strange.' He shook his head.

  'What is?'

  'When I met him the other day, I rather liked him, sir.'

  'Not a difficult thing to do,' Devlin said.

  Ferguson frowned. 'Let's have no more of that kind of bloody nonsense.' The door opened and Kim entered with tea things on a tray and a plate of toasted crumpets. 'Excellent,' Ferguson said. 'I'm famished.'

  Fox said, 'What about Tanya Voroninova?'

  'I've fixed her up with a safe house for the moment.'

  'Which one, sir?'

  'The Chelsea Place

  apartment. The Directorate supplied a woman operative to stay with her till we get sorted.'

  He handed them each a cup of tea. 'So, what's the next move?' Devlin asked.

  'The Home Secretary and the Director, and I must say I agree with them, don't feel we should make too public an issue of this at the moment. The whole purpose of the Pope's visit is sweetness and light. A genuine attempt to help bring about the end of the war in the South Atlantic. Imagine how it would look on the front pages of the nationals. The first visit ever of a Pope to England and a mad-dog killer on the loose.'

  'And a priest to boot, sir.'

  'Yes, well we can discount that, especially as we know what he really is.'

  Devlin said, 'Discount nothing. Let me, as a not very good Catholic, fill you in on a few things. In the eyes of the Church, Harry Cussane was ordained priest at Vine Landing, Connecticut, twenty-one years ago and still is a priest. Haven't you read any Graham Greene lately?'

  'All right,' Ferguson said testily. 'Be that as it may, the Prime Minister doesn't see why we should give Cussane front-page publicity. It won't do any of us any good.'

  'It could catch him quickly, sir,' Fox said mildly.

  'Yes, well they all expect us to do that anyway. Special Branch in Dublin have lifted his prints for us at his cottage. They've gone into the Dublin computer which, as you know, is linked with the security services' computer at Lisburn which, in turn, is linked to our computer here and at Central Records, Scotland Yard.'

  'I didn't realize you had that kind of hook-up,' Devlin said.

  'Miracle of the micro-chip,' Ferguson said. 'Eleven million people in there. Criminal records, schooling, professions, sexual preferences. Personal habits. Where they buy their furniture.'

  'You've got to be joking.'

  'No. Caught one of your lot over here from Ulster last year because he always shopped at the Co-Op. Had an excellent cover, but couldn't change the habit of a lifetime. Cussane is in there now and not only his fingerprints but everything we know about him, and as most of the big provincial police forces have what we call visual display characteristics on their computer system, they can plug in to our central bank and punch out his photo.'

  'God Almighty!'

  'Actually, they can do the same with you. As regards Cussane, I've instructed them to insert a deliberately amended record. No mention of the KGB or anything like that. Poses as a priest, known connections with the IRA. Extremely violent - approach with care. You get the picture.'

  'Oh, I do.'

  'To that end, we're releasing his picture to the press and quoting very much the details I've just given you. Some evening papers will manage to get it out, but all the national newspapers will have it in tomorrow's editions.'

  'And you think that will be enough, sir?' Fox asked.

  'Very possibly. We'll have to wait and see, won't we? One thing is certain.' Ferguson walked to the window and glanced out. 'He's out there somewhere.'

  'And the thing is,' Devlin said, 'no one can do a damn thing about it till he surfaces.'

  'Exactly.' Ferguson went back to the tray and picked up the pot. 'This tea is really quite delicious. Anyone like another cup?'

  A little later that afternoon His Holiness Pope John Paul II sat at a desk in the small office adjacent to his bedchamber and examined the report which had just
been handed to him. The man who stood before him wore the plainest of black habits and in appearance might have been a simple priest. He was, in fact, Father General of the Society of Jesus, that most illustrious of all orders within the Catholic Church. The Jesuits were proud to be known as Soldiers of Christ and had been responsible, behind the scenes, for the Pope's security for centuries now. All of which explained why the Father General had hastened from his office at the Collegio di San Roberto Bellarmmo on the Via del Semmario to seek audience with His Holiness.

  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.