Brotherhood of the Tomb (13 page)

Makonnen looked round. He felt the strength leave him all at once. O’Driscoll was pointing his Uzi straight at him. And Dunn had placed a large hand tightly around his arm.

SEVENTEEN

He stubbed out his cigarette on the bark of the tree. Above him, in the darkness, unseen branches shook in the wind. He shivered and pulled his collar up. From his vantage point behind the tree, he could just see the gate of the nunciature. His body tense, he craned forward, trying to get a better view without showing himself.

Since leaving the nuncio that afternoon, Patrick had been working on the assumption - or, rather, the certain knowledge - that the man had something to hide. From long experience, he knew that someone who has been rattled will take some sort of action. Balzarin had been rattled. Badly.

Patrick had taken up his position opposite the nunciature in order to watch who came and went. By now it was early morning, and he had decided that his stake-out was not going to pay off. He was close to throwing the towel in and going home: he felt cold and tired and hungry, and at the moment a telephone bug sounded like a much more pleasant proposition.

But then he had been stirred out of his lethargy by the arrival of the car, a Ford Sierra with military numberplates. The driver had stopped and spoken briefly with the gardai on duty at the gate, then driven on into the grounds. Patrick had still been trying to decide whether or not he should risk going in himself when Makonnen came out and started what looked like an earnest conversation with the two policemen.

But now things were hotting up considerably. The priest did not appear any too pleased by the arrival

of the men in black. They smelled of military, and Patrick was willing to swear that at least one of them was carrying a gun.

He moved out from behind the tree, eager to get a better view. Nobody was looking in his direction anyway. Makonnen was arguing with the gardai about something: he could hear his voice between gusts of wind. One of the guards had the priest by the arm and seemed to be holding him against his will.

The second soldier - if that was what he was - spoke briefly to the first, then disappeared back up the drive. There was the sound of an engine being started. Moments later, the car reappeared and the first man began to bundle Makonnen into the back. There could be no question now: the priest was struggling desperately. He had a case of some sort, which his assailant dragged from his hand and threw onto the front seat. Makonnen was no match for his opponent: a heavy shove and he tumbled into the rear of the car like a broken doll.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Patrick dashed back to his own car, parked a few yards to his right. He had hardly seated himself behind the wheel when the Sierra emerged from the lane and turned sharp left onto the road. He threw himself flat a split second before the car’s headlights spilled across his window.

When he came up, the Sierra had already reached Nephin Road. As he watched, it turned left, heading north towards Finglas and the Tolka Valley. He rammed the key into his own ignition and turned it. By what seemed a miracle, the cold engine started. Keeping his lights off, he followed the other car.

Trailing someone without a back-up team is hard. At half past three in the morning, it is virtually impossible. Too close and you may as well walk up to your

target and shake hands. Too far back and they get lost in a maze of streets.

As Patrick turned into Nephin Road, the Sierra had just passed the railing of the Bogies - more properly known as John Paul II Park. He kept his eyes firmly on the rear lights ahead, like a mariner steering by two red stars. Suddenly, he lost them. The car had turned left at a roundabout onto Ratoath Road, cutting back along the rear of the park. Where the hell were they heading? McRee, Clancy, and Collins Barracks were all a short drive south of here, the Department of Defence off to the north-east in Drumcondra.

He turned at the roundabout and caught sight of them again. Still hanging back, he wished he could guess their destination. He would rather take a different route and avoid the risk of being spotted. There was nothing out here but the Royal Canal and the Tolka River. It felt as though they were leaving the city already; the lights of the car in front caught trees and hedges as often as houses.

At that moment, the car ahead stopped. Automatically, Patrick stalled his own engine. The empty street filled with the sound of wind, sudden and desolate. Up ahead, the lights went out.

The Sierra had parked in front of a level crossing over the main Sligo railway line. The area round the crossing was lit by two street lamps, one on either side of the street. Patrick could see three men get out of the car. Makonnen, the smallest of the group, was in the middle, his arms pinned by the others.

Patrick opened the glove compartment and reached in. The gun felt cold and unfamiliar, like an old friend from whom one has grown distant after many years. He took it out, gripping it tightly, like a small animal he had brought to bay and conquered. It was a Heckler and Koch P7M8, his old handgun from Beirut.

He preferred it to the Brownings and Berettas he had previously used: he found it light, compact, and extremely accurate. It was permanently fitted with 310 Target Illuminator.

He stepped out of the car and was almost bowled over by a sudden blast. But the wind was an advantage: it would drown his footsteps, making it easier for him to get close to his quarry without being detected. From their behaviour, he was certain they had no idea they were being followed.

He saw them pass the level crossing, then vanish into shadows. Quickly, he made up the distance. For a moment he thought he had lost them. Then he saw the bridge. Immediately after the level crossing, the bridge took the road over the canal.

This was Long John Binns’s old waterway, a disastrous eighteenth-century rival to the Grand Canal in the south of the city. Its glories were long gone. Weeds and rushes grew tangled in its waters; its banks served for lovers’ walks and children’s races. Tonight, darkness lay stretched across it like a fine, unpatterned carpet. No lights flickered on its wind-tossed water. No night-birds skimmed above the towpath in search of prey.

He caught sight of them as they crossed the bridge and stepped onto the rough stone towpath. Patrick was much closer to them now. He could hear Makonnen arguing with his captors, his voice desperate and afraid. Patrick had no doubt why they had brought him here.

They did not go far. Patrick watched as the man on Makonnen’s right forced the priest to his knees, in a posture of prayer. He crept closer, concealed by bushes. Makonnen’s voice came to him with sudden clarity, brought to him on a gust of wind that blew across the canal. It was a prayer, though Patrick did

not know the language. Yards away, an old lamp cast a soft yellow glow down the path, too little to read by, but enough to show Patrick what was happening. He fumbled beneath the barrel of his H & R and switched on the illuminator.

Makonnen finished his prayer and crossed himself. The man on his right raised the silenced pistol to his temple. Patrick was already targeted, the illuminator’s powerful laser beam dropping a sharp red dot on the killer’s cheek. He squeezed the cocking mechanism and pulled lightly on the trigger in a smoothly practised movement. The shot echoed across the open fields and was swallowed up in silence. A second later, there was a sound of splashing as the dead man plunged twenty feet down into the canal.

The second man spun round, one hand reaching inside his jacket for his gun, his eyes scanning the area from which he thought the shot had come. Patrick did not reveal himself. ‘Drop the gun,’ he shouted. The man tensed, as though about to run. We have you in our sights,’ Patrick added, shifting the odds. ‘Throw the gun down and put your hands on top of your head.’

Without warning, the man swung himself sideways out of Patrick’s line of fire, taking Makonnen with him. When he came up again, he held the trembling priest in front, his pistol hard against his head.

‘If you so much as fucking look at me,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll give the church another martyr!’

Patrick beaded him with the laser, but he did not dare fire: the mere reflex of death would be enough to blow Makonnen’s head off.

‘I want you out here,’ shouted the gunman. ‘Now! All of you! I want to see you!’

Patrick stood, keeping the pistol trained on his target.

‘There’s just myself,’ he said. He could sense the gunman’s uncertainty.

‘Don’t fuck with me!’ the man screamed. He was frightened and wound up, and Patrick knew the pressure on that trigger was already half a pound too much. He had seen more than one gun fired accidentally under stress.

‘I’m not screwing you,’ Patrick replied, shouting to make himself heard over the wind. ‘I’m alone. There’s no one else with me.’

‘Get rid of your gun!’ The man tightened his grip round the priest’s neck, pulling him closer to him. ‘I said, get rid of your fucking gun!’

‘You know I can’t do that. If I drop the gun, you still have the priest. You can still shoot him. Now, get this clear: he’s all I want. I’m not interested in you. Let him go and you walk out of this. Kill him and you’re a dead man. You can walk away from here or you can float, like your friend. It’s your choice.’

Tm giving the fucking orders here! I’m saying who walks out of this and who doesn’t. Whoever you are, just put your gun in your pocket and get the fuck out of here. Don’t get mixed up in this. You’re out of your depth. Do you understand? You’re in deep water.’

All this time, Makonnen had been mumbling prayers in a frightened voice, Hail Marys in a mixture of Latin, Italian, and Amharic - a babel of invocations to ward off the inevitable darkness. Suddenly, his voice broke off in mid-prayer and he began to turn his head, slowly, against the pressure of his captor’s arm, until his face looked directly at the gun, the barrel sleek and cold against his forehead, right between his eyes.

‘Now!’ he whispered. ‘Kill me now, quickly, while I’m ready. Hurry, do it for the love of God!’

Patrick saw the man hesitate.

‘No!’ he shouted.

The man struck Makonnen hard across the face with the end of the silencer, then swung the gun around, aiming at Patrick. He fired twice in quick succession: silent shots, wide of their mark.

Patrick’s bullet struck him in the teeth, an imperfect shot, but mortal. His head jerked back, his finger clenched the trigger, firing wild shots into the indifferent wind. Makonnen leapt away, leaving him to topple sideways into the canal. The dark waters broke and formed again. A ripple surged outwards from the point of impact and was erased by the wind. The silence that fell was absolute.

EIGHTEEN

Milk-white light filtered through long curtains, simple, without form or substance. He had once thought the Holy Spirit must be like that: simple, dove-white, light spun from light, the Word made luminosity. Out of habit, his eyes travelled up to the wall above his head. It was bare: no red light, no crucifix.

Father Makonnen could not remember coming here: the bed in which he lay, the room, the plain rust-coloured carpet, all were unfamiliar. His head was aching, and it hurt to open his eyes. He turned away from the light and pulled the bedclothes over his head. Sleep returned.

He dreamed he was in a tomb. His body lay cold and anointed on a marble slab. On the wall someone had painted the outline of a fish in red. Around him, hooded figures chanted a litany in a language he had never heard. Candles flickered like gemstones in the dark. Echoes moved across the walls like shoals of fish twisting and turning beneath the tide.

Suddenly the voices fell silent. The candles were extinguished. There was the sound of a rock being rolled into place, a heavy rock. He could hear sounds of hammering, metal upon stone, orchestral almost. Then the hammering fell silent and he was utterly alone. And at that moment, in the darkness, in the silence, he heard someone moving.

His eyes opened and he was in the strange room again. He turned and squinted at the light from the window. In his head, he could still hear the sound of hammering.

Suddenly, memories of the night before flooded back with appalling intensity: Balzarin’s dead face,

white and uncomprehending; Diotavelli gunned down in his arrogance, his nightgown bright and angry with sudden blood. He relived the chase through the house and grounds, the wind that tore his flesh, the capture, the drive to the canal. But after that all was blank, as though someone had dipped a sponge in water and wiped it across his brain.

He threw the bedclothes aside and stood up. He had been sleeping in his underclothes, something he never did. His outer garments lay draped across a wooden chair.

Crossing to the window, he drew back the curtain. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he looked across green fields to a steel-blue lake. Wooded hills girdled the shore, and above a serried tracery of leafless trees rose a pointed tower of dull grey stone. In the water, the pale images of clouds moved slowly on the breeze like white smoke.

What was this place? Who had brought him here? He dressed quickly and made his way to the door. A small landing led onto a flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. Through an open door on his right he could see a wash-hand basin and part of a bath. The next door was closed. He opened it and found another bedroom, much like the one in which he had woken.

Coming out onto the landing again, he heard the sound of voices talking quietly below. Cautiously, he started down the stairs. A flagged passage led to an open door and a smell of fresh coffee.

He paused in the doorway. A man and a woman sat facing each other across a scrubbed pine table on which lay a heap of papers. He recognized the American, Canavan, but the woman was a stranger. Canavan looked up and caught sight of him. He smiled and pushed back his chair, standing.

‘Father Makonnen. I hope you’ve slept well. How are you feeling?’

‘I ... I’m feeling a little confused. Last night ... I can’t remember very well. Where am I? What are you doing here?’

‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. I guess you could do with a coffee and maybe something to eat. Oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t been introduced. This is ... my friend Ruth Ehlers, from the American Embassy. She knows who you are already. This is Ruth’s house, or her weekend cottage, I should say.’