‘We passed it on the way to Maidstone,’ she said. ‘About three miles from here. But that’s an unscheduled visit. It’s not been mentioned in any of the newspapers that I’ve seen and everything else has. How would Cussane know?’
‘He used to run the press office at the Catholic Secretariat in Dublin.’ Devlin slammed a fist into his thigh. That’s it.
Has to be. Get your foot down hard and don’t stop for anything.’
‘What about Ferguson?’
He reached for the mike. ‘I’ll try and contact him, but it’s too late for him to do anything. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes. It’s up to us now.’
He took the Walther from his pocket, cocked it, then put the safety catch on as the car shot forward.
The road was clear when Cussane crossed it. He moved into the shelter of the trees and walked along the base of the wall. He came to an old iron gate, narrow and rusting, fixed firm in the wall and as he tested it, heard voices on the other side. He moved behind a tree and waited. Through the bars he could see a path and rhododendron bushes. A moment later, two nuns walked by.
He gave them time to pass, then went back to where the ground under the trees rose several feet bringing him almost level with the wall. He reached for a branch that stretched across. It would have been ridiculously easy if it had not been for his shoulder and arm. The pain was appalling, but he hoisted the skirts of his cassock to give him freedom of movement and swung across, pausing on top of the wall for only a moment before dropping to the ground.
He stayed on one knee, fighting for breath, then stood up and ran a hand over his hair. Then he hurried along the path, aware of the nuns’ voices up ahead, turned a corner by an old stone fountain and caught up with them. They turned in surprise. One of them was very old, the other younger.
‘Good morning, Sisters,’ he said briskly. ‘Isn’t it beautiful here? I couldn’t resist taking a little walk.’
‘Neither could we, Father,’ the older one said.
They walked on side-by-side and emerged from the shrubbery on to an expansive lawn. The helicopter was parked a hundred yards to the right, the crew lounging beside it. There were several limousines in front of the house and two police cars. A couple of policemen crossed the lawn with an Alsatian
guard dog on a lead. They passed Cussane and the two nuns without a word and continued down towards the shrubbery.
‘Are you from Canterbury, Father?’ the old nun enquired.
‘No, Sister…?’ he paused.
‘Agatha – and this is Sister Anne.’
Tm with the Secretariat in Dublin. A wonderful thing to be invited over here to see His Holiness. I missed him during his Irish trip.’
Susan Calder turned in from the road at the front gate and Devlin showed his security pass as two policemen moved forward. ‘Has anyone passed through here in the last few minutes?’
‘No, sir,’ one officer said. ‘A hell of a lot of guests came before the helicopter arrived though.’
‘Move!’ Devlin said.
Susan went up the drive at some speed. ‘What do you think?’
‘He’s here!’ Devlin said. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’
‘Have you met His Holiness yet, Father?’ Sister Anne enquired.
‘No, I’ve only just arrived from Canterbury with a message for him.’
They were crossing the gravel drive now, past the policemen standing beside the cars, up the steps and past the two uniformed security guards and in through the great oak door. The hall was spacious, a central staircase lifting to a landing. Double doors stood open to the right, disclosing a large reception room filled with visitors, many of them church dignitaries.
Cussane and the two nuns walked towards it. ‘And where is this famous Stokely chapel?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen it.’
‘Oh, it’s so beautiful,’ Sister Agatha said. ‘So many years of prayer. The entrance is just down the hall, see where the Monsignor is standing?’
They paused at the door of the reception and Cussane said, ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment. I may be able to give my message to His Holiness before he joins the reception.’