As she drew closer, she could see the side chapel it was tucked into was dedicated in gothic letters to Saint Patrick.
The dark recess was dominated by a high ornate altar bristling with oversize candlesticks. Above it hung an overbearing triptych featuring a golden painting of the grey-bearded patron saint of Ireland, dressed as a bishop. To the right was a bank of guttering candles, lit by the faithful hoping for intercession.
She remembered how Professor Duffy, one of her palaeography tutors at Harvard, always enjoyed telling incredulous Irish-American freshmen that Saint Patrick was not remotely Irish, but actually from England. They listened in horror as he explained Saint Patrick’s connection to Ireland only came when he had the misfortune to be kidnapped by Irish raiders and carried off as a slave to their green wet and windy island.
It had opened her eyes to the myths surrounding the thousands of saints—many of which she discovered were shockingly inaccurate. Like when, years later, working in Jordan, she had discovered that Saint George, the bombastic patron saint of England, had never even set foot in the continent of Europe, let alone England. Born and brought up in Palestine, he never travelled further west then Turkey, where he was decapitated.
Looking around, she could see that people were still milling about after the mass. To avoid drawing attention to herself, she dropped some coins into the rusty metal box bolted loosely under the rickety candle rack, and stood in line to light a candle.
When the side chapel had cleared, she was finally able to approach the pietà.
It was a luxurious statue, carved from a block of creamy-grey marble. As she had expected, it was a classic arrangement. Mary sat, grief-stricken, cradling Jesus’ broken body—her face hidden, her neck bent in sorrow.
By contrast, Jesus’ face was rendered in fine detail. Gazing at it, she questioned, as she often did, why artists insisted on depicting him as a lanky well-muscled long-haired and bearded northern European. She wondered how western history might have been different if religious art had been more ethnically accurate. It would have shown him as a small olive-skinned short-haired and clean-shaven man—more identifiable with the faces on the streets of the Middle East than Scandinavia.
As she neared the pietà, she could see a long list of names inscribed on the wall behind the statue. Across the top it read: ‘DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI’, which she immediately recognized as the famous line, ‘It is sweet and noble to die for your country’.
On the black-and-white-checked marble floor were inlaid the words ‘CONSUMMATUM EST’, Jesus’ traditional dying words, ‘It is done’. Beside the lettering, she spotted the years ‘1914’ and ‘1919’ marbled into the floor, and realized that for the second time that morning she was looking at a memorial to the fallen of the First World War.
She had long ago realized that England was a country where the war dead were everywhere. The losses England had suffered in the conflicts of the twentieth century were still a defining part of the country’s national identity.
Focusing back on the pietà, she knew the KGB’s infamous dead letter box had been somewhere around the statue, but as she examined it critically, taking in the folds of carved fabric and the angles of the bodies, she could not see any obvious places to hide or retrieve anything. There were no cavities on the front or sides, and it was physically impossible to reach behind the statue, as it was set too far back from the protective iron railing.
Nevertheless, she was sure she had not made a mistake. This had to be where Prince had left the information for the katsa.
Stumped, she took a step back, and looked at it afresh.
What was she missing?
That’s when she saw them—a pair of monumental pillars standing to the left of the pietà.
Looking around the church, she could see each of the many side chapels had a similar pair of pillars, flanking its entrance off the main nave. They were colossal structural columns, hewn and polished out of dark-veined marble, supporting the vast ceiling arches that covered each side chapel.
Was that it?
Was that what Prince meant?
She had been assuming that ‘BETWEEN THE PILLARS’ had been referring to the church’s architecture in general. But perhaps Prince had meant exactly what she had written. Maybe the drop she had arranged with the katsa was not behind the pietà itself, but was quite literally ‘BETWEEN THE PILLARS’ next to the statue.
As far as Ava could see, it was the only place that anything could be hidden.
She moved closer, her eyes fixed on the pair of columns.
As she neared them, she could make out to her relief that they were spaced far enough apart for someone to reach an arm into the gloom between them.
Even though their square stone bases almost touched, there was a narrow gap running between them, and another to the rear between their bases and the wall. Either space was easily large enough to hide something small.
She needed to move quickly—to find whatever was hidden there, and get back to Ferguson. Whoever had murdered Prince was still on the loose. Until she knew who it was, and why they had targeted Prince, she had to assume she and Ferguson were also on the list.
But as she took the last few steps to the pillars, she could see a major problem developping.
A twenty-something man in a fawn corduroy jacket was talking to a stocky black-cassocked priest with an incongruous shock of scruffy blond hair. The man had pulled a small book from his pocket, and was pointing out a passage to the priest. The two were deep in discussion. And they had moved to stand directly in front of the pillars.
There was nothing she could do. They were blocking any chance she had of searching around the base of the pillars.
Whatever conversation the two men were having was too hushed for Ava to hear, but as the visitor in the corduroy jacket flicked to a different page and pointed to another section of text, it was clear he was asking the priest for an explanation about something.
She watched for a few moments, hoping they would finish or move on, but it soon became clear the two men were settling in for a long discussion.
She was going to have to do something.
Glancing directly across the nave to the north side of the building, she could see another priest standing in one of the side chapels opposite her.
With the germ of an idea forming, she made straight for him, briskly crossing the forty paces of the nave and heading into the candle-cluttered chapel prominently dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.
The waxy-skinned priest there was now placing a scarf-like stole around his neck, leaving it to hang down in front of him. It was an intense violet, slightly dulled with age, and heavily embroidered in gold threads with crosses and Chi Rho motifs.
As she approached, he moved towards the doors of an ornate mahogany confessional box set against the chapel’s dark west wall. The cubicle was covered with intricate carvings, and topped with a large wooden dome that reminded her of illuminated medieval manuscript images of Jerusalem’s churches.
There was a small carved doorway in its front for the priest to enter. But unlike in many films, where the earnest heroine sat in the darkened box, separated from the priest by a thin wooden lattice, pouring out her guilt into the shadows, here there was no second door.
Instead, the box was flanked either side by lumpy faded floral floor cushions—so parishioners could kneel on the ground and speak to the priest through the dark wooden grilles cut into the box’s sides.
Confession here was clearly very public.
Ava shuddered. Despite the beauty of the woodwork, it looked like an instrument of humiliation.
Arriving in front of the priest, she was still thinking quickly.
“Excuse me, Father,” she started, guessing that was how to address a priest here. “Are you hearing confessions now?” She had no idea whether priests heard confession in the middle of the afternoon. But it was worth a try.
He nodded. “For the next thirty minutes.” He indi
cated for her to kneel on one of the floor cushions.
She pointed to the priest with the scruffy blond hair over by the pietà statue. “Can I have him?”
“Father Xavier?” he asked, glancing across at his colleague.
He was the only other priest in the building, so she nodded.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” He sounded put out. “I’m on duty.” He pointed to the name stenciled in gold letters above the cubicle’s doorway: F. BLOUNT. “I assure you, I know how to hear a confession.” He indicated again for her to kneel. “I’ve done it once or twice before, you know.”
She carried on, aware she needed to be quick. “Father Xavier knows my situation. I spoke to him last time … .” Her voice trailed off. She had no idea if she was allowed to pick a priest for confession.
“It doesn’t work that way.” He was sounding irritated. “Any priest can hear confession. It’s all the same to God.”
“I’d feel more comfortable speaking with him,” she continued. “It’ll save going over things again.”
He was clearly not used to being questioned. “If you want to say confession, I’m the duty priest.”
She could see she would have to force the issue. “Then I’m sorry for having troubled you,” she did her best to sound sincere. “I’ll just see Father David at Saint Rose’s this evening. He knows me.”
The priest looked exasperated. “Do you have the faintest idea how many confessions we hear in a week?” He glared at her. “I’m sure your situation is very interesting, but with no offence intended, I doubt very much Father Xavier remembers you.” His expression left her in no doubt just how much this conversation was annoying him. “Please.” He indicated the cushion again.
As she began to walk away, she could sense his indignation following her.
She had not gone more than a few paces when she heard the sigh of exasperation.
“Very well,” he called after her. “There’s no need to go anywhere else.” He sounded as if all was far from well. He plainly did not like changes to routine. But she assumed it did not look good turning people away. “Please wait here.”
She watched as he headed across the near-empty nave towards the twin pillars by the pietà. She could see him interrupt Father Xavier, and explain the situation to him, pointing across to her.
Aware time was short, she darted quickly under the arch leading east into the next side chapel, and walked swiftly down through the remaining chapels to the far end of the church.
Moving as fast as she could without attracting attention, she crossed the hard marble floor in front of the high altar to get back to the south side.
Glancing to her left as she passed the elaborate sanctuary, she noticed two oversize gold seven-branched Menorah candleholders flanking the high altar—each glittering from the guttering candle burning on its central spike.
Seeing them there, she felt a hot flush of anger at the reminder of her failure.
As she arrived back at the south aisle of the church again, she ducked into the row of side chapels and archways that would lead her back up to the pietà from the other side.
Hurrying along the interconnecting corridor, she noted that this section of the church was distinctly more feminine.
She first entered a luxurious chapel to the Blessed Virgin, complete with a regal statue of Mary atop a towering altar, her body swathed in a cape of real woven gold. Striding through without stopping, she passed into a chapel dominated by a painting of Saint Mary Magdalene.
Having the two chapels side by side struck her as presenting a neatly simplistic view of women—the faithful mother and the sensual courtesan. But she knew that the archetypes they represented—maternal and erotic love, life, and death—ran deep in the human psyche, and featured prominently in many religions. As a curious teenager, she had been amazed to learn that in ancient Greece and Rome, sacred prostitution was an ordinary part of religious life.
Sex and religion were no strangers. Even the Bible mentioned male and female prostitutes serving in King Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem.
She hurried on.
Arriving back in front of the twin pillars, she could see that the young man in the fawn jacket had moved off, and the two priests were now over by the confessional box. Father Xavier was kissing the heavy violet scarf that had been around the other priest’s neck, and putting it on.
Aware this was now her chance, she dropped to her knees on the hard floor, and thrust her hand deep into the gap between the square stone bases of the two shiny pillars,
It felt gritty, as if it had not been cleaned in a long time.
Reaching the end, she had to stretch right around the pillar in order to brush her fingers along a similar void running behind the columns. She tried her left arm first, sweeping her fingers along the dusty space behind the right-hand pillar.
She was crouching low, relying on the array of heavy pews filling the nave to keep her hidden from the two priests on the other side of the church. But she knew they would quickly spot her if they looked closely.
She continued to grope for whatever it was Prince had left.
An envelope?
A package?
But she could not feel anything.
It was empty. There was nothing there.
She felt along the dusty gap again.
Still nothing.
Turning, she pulled her left arm out and tried with her right, this time behind the left pillar.
She could see the two priests looking about with an air of bewilderment—wondering where she had gone.
It would not be long before they noticed her.
She focused all her efforts in concentrating on what she could feel in the darkness behind the pillar. Extending her index finger, she ran it carefully along the tight space between the pillar’s base and the wall.
Again, there was nothing except more grit and grime.
She began to wonder if she had made an error, but quickly dismissed the idea. She could not have made a mistake a second time. The dead letter box interpretation of Prince’s message made complete sense.
It must be here.
She pushed out of her mind the idea the Mossad agent may already have cleared the box, or that a cleaner had moved whatever had been there. Or even the possibility that some espionage obsessive had found it while visiting the church on a Cold War pilgrimage.
She felt around again, willing something to be there. She desperately needed whatever Prince had left.
She had no other leads.
She glanced over at the confessional again. The priests had seen her, and were now heading back across the church towards the pietà. Father Xavier looked pleasantly bemused beneath his mop of blond hair. The other was scowling deeply.
Desperately, she leant in further, jamming her shoulder harder into the narrow gap between the pillars. Prince had been tall, with long limbs, so her reach would have been long,
She stretched her arm as far as she could, stabbing in the dark with her fingertips.
Finally, she felt her middle finger brush against something smooth. It was not cold like the stone of the pillar base, and felt more regular.
The priests were now in the middle of the nave, only ten yards away.
She tried to pull the object towards her, but it was just too far out of reach.
Wincing with pain, she rammed her shoulder harder into the space between the pillars, and straightened her arm to extend her reach another few fractions of an inch.
She raked at the object with her nail, feeling beads of perspiration beginning to break out with the strain.
Hooking it with her middle finger, she tried to slide it toward her. But she could not get a grip on it.
Glancing up anxiously, she could see the priests getting closer. It would only be moments before they were upon her.
Just as it seemed as if the object would never move, she suddenly felt it slide a fraction closer to her.
Concentrating for all she was wort
h, she got a nail under it, and managed to sandwich it between her index and middle fingers.
Pinching it tightly, and blocking out the pain in her shoulder, she quickly pulled her arm back and looked with elation at what was in her hand.
She recognized the small rectangle of millimetre-thick black plastic immediately. It had no maker’s name on it, but the nine tiny silver teeth on its underside were unmistakable, as was its one diagonally clipped edge.
An SD memory card.
The storage device was so small and thin she could easily have missed it.
Shoving it deep into her coat pocket, she stood up and ran quickly to the exit, just as the priests arrived back at the pietà.
As she pushed through the double doors and out into the noisy world of London cars and taxis, she threw a glance back into the calm candle-lit church one last time to see the bewildered priests staring after her with incomprehension.
——————— ◆ ———————
85
10b St James’s Gardens
Piccadilly
London SW1
England
The United Kingdom
Arriving home clutching the slim plastic SD card as if it was one of the Crown Jewels, Ava found Ferguson at the dining table, hunched over his laptop.
She waved the data card at him in triumph. “Special delivery for Mossad.”
He smiled with amazement as he stood up, “How on earth did you find that?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you,” she beamed back, heading into the study.
He followed her through into the book-lined room, where she inserted the small plastic card into a slot on her computer, before flopping down into the chair.
“Now, what was so important it had to be passed on to Tel Aviv?” she muttered, as the screen came to life revealing the contents of the flimsy plastic card to be a single unnamed folder.
Ferguson moved in behind her, peering at the small icon that had appeared on the large flat-panel monitor.
Remembering the Trojan that Prince had planted on her phone, she scanned the card thoroughly for concealed code.
The Sword of Moses Page 57
