‘We’ll wait for you, Father,’ Sister Agatha said. ‘I think we’d rather go in with you.’
‘Of course. I shan’t be long.’
Cussane went past the bottom of the stairs and moved into the corner of the hall where the Monsignor was standing, resplendent in scarlet and black. He was an old man with silver hair and spoke with an Italian accent.
‘What do you seek, Father?’
‘His Holiness.’
‘Impossible. He is at prayer.’
Cussane put a hand to the old man’s face, turned the handle of the door and forced him through. He closed the door behind him with a foot.
‘I’m truly sorry, Father.’ He chopped the old priest on the side of the neck and gently lowered him to the floor.
A long narrow tunnel stretched ahead of him, dimly lit, steps leading up to an oaken door at the end. The pain was terrible now, all consuming. But that no longer mattered. He fought for breath momentarily, then took the Stechkin from his pocket and went forward.
Susan Calder swung the car in at the bottom of the steps and as Devlin jumped out, she followed him. His security pass was already in his hand as a police sergeant moved forward.
‘Anything out of the way happened? Anyone unusual gone in?’
‘No, sir. Lots of visitors before the Pope arrived. Couple of nuns and a priest just went in.’
Devlin went up the steps on the run past the security guards, Susan Calder at his heels. He paused, taking in the scene, the reception on the right, the two nuns waiting by the door.A priest, the sergeant had said.
He approached Sisters Agatha and Anne. ‘You’ve just arrived, Sisters?’
Beyond them, the guests talked animatedly, waiters moving amongst them.
‘That’s right,’ Sister Agatha said.
‘Wasn’t there a priest with you?’
‘Oh, yes, the good father from Dublin.’
Devlin’s stomach went hollow. ‘Where is he?’
‘He had a message for His Holiness, a message from Canterbury, but I told him the Holy Father was in the chapel so he went to speak to the Monsignor on the door.’ Sister Agatha led the way across the hall and paused. ‘Oh, the Monsignor doesn’t seem to be there.’
Devlin was running and the Walther was in his hand as he flung open the door and tumbled over the Monsignor on the floor. He was aware of Susan Calder behind him, was even more aware of the priest in the black cassock mounting the steps at the end of the tunnel and reaching for the handle of the oak door.
‘Harry!’ Devlin called.
Cussane turned and fired without the slightest hesitation, the bullet slamming into Devlin’s right forearm, punching him back against the wall. Devlin dropped the Walther as he fell and Susan cried out and flattened herself against the wall.
Cussane stood there, the Stechkin extended in his right hand, but he did not fire. Instead, he smiled a ghastly smile.
‘Stay out of it, Liam,’ he called. ‘Last act!’ and he turned and opened the chapel door.
Devlin was sick, dizzy from shock. He reached for the Walther with his left hand, fumbled and dropped it as he tried to stand. He glared up at the girl.
‘Take it! Stop him! It’s up to you now!’
Susan Calder knew nothing of guns beyond a couple of hours of basic handling experience on her training course. She had fired a few rounds from a revolver on the range, that was all. Now, she picked up the Walther without hesitation and ran along the tunnel. Devlin got to his feet and went after her.
The chapel was a place of shadows hallowed by the centuries, the sanctuary lamp the only light. His Holiness Pope John Paul II knelt in his white robes before the simple altar. The sound of the silenced Stechkin, muffled by the door, had not alerted him, but the raised voices had. He was on his feet and turning as the door crashed open and Cussane entered.
He stood there, face damp with sweat, strangely medieval in the black cassock, the Stechkin against his thigh.
John Paul said calmly, ‘You are Father Harry Cussane.’
‘You are mistaken. I am Mikhail Kelly.’ Cussane laughed wildly. ‘Strolling player of sorts.’