Ferguson frowned. 'Let's have no more of that kind of b.l.o.o.d.y 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, s.e.xual 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.'

'G.o.d 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 d.a.m.n 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 Bellarmino on the Via del Seminario 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 a.s.surance 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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 a.s.sa.s.sin'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 G.o.d'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 n.a.z.is.'

'All right,' Ferguson said. 'Point taken. Anyway, you'd better get kitted out. Take him along to the Directorate, Harry. Grade A Security Pa.s.s. 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 ent.i.tle 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. T 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 Sat.u.r.day 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?'