‘And Canterbury?’
‘That’s the following day – Saturday. He starts early with a meeting with religious at a London college. Mainly monks and nuns from enclosed orders. Then by helicopter to Canterbury, stopping at Stokely Hall on the way. That’s unofficial, by the way.’
‘For what reason?’
‘The Stokelys were one of the great Catholic families that managed to survive Henry VIII and hung on to their faith over the centuries. The National Trust own the house now, but it contains a unique feature: the family’s private chapel. The oldest Catholic church of any description in England. His Holiness wishes to pray there. Afterwards, Canterbury.’
‘All of which, at the moment, is on paper only,’ Halloran said.
The phone rang. Cussane picked it up. ‘Press office. Cussane here.’ His face grew grave. He said, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ A pause. Til see you later then.’
Halloran said, ‘Problems?’
Cussane replaced the receiver. ‘A friend from Kilrea. Liam Devlin of Trinity College. It seems there’s been a shooting incident outside the village. Two men taken to the hospice. Both dead.’
Halloran crossed himself. ‘Political, is it?’
‘One of them was a known member of the IRA.’
‘Will you be needed? Go if you must.’
‘Not necessary.’ Cussane smiled bleakly. ‘They need a coroner now, Monsignor, not a priest. I’ve plenty to do here anyway.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
Halloran went out and Cussane lit a cigarette and went and stood at the window looking down into the street. Finally, he turned, sat at his desk and got on with some work.
Paul Cherny had rooms at Trinity College which being, as so many people considered, at the centre of Dublin, suited him very well indeed. But then, everything about that extraordinary city commended itself to him.
His defection had been at Maslovsky’s express orders. A KGB general was not to be argued with. He was to defect in Ireland, that had been the plan. One of the universities was certain to offer him a post, his international reputation would assure that. He would then be in a perfect position to act as Cuchulain’s control. Difficult in the early days with no Soviet Embassy in Dublin and the necessity always to work through London, but now that had been taken care of and his KGB contacts at the Dublin embassy gave him a direct link with Moscow.
Yes, the years had been good and Dublin was the kind of paradise he’d always dreamed of. Intellectual freedom, stimulating company and the city – the city he had grown to love. He was thinking these things as he left Trinity that afternoon, walked through College Green, and made towards the river.
Michael Murphy followed at a discreet distance and Cherny, unaware that he was being tailed, walked briskly along beside the Liffey until he reached Usher’s Quay. There was a rather ugly Victorian church in red brick and he moved up the steps and went inside. Murphy paused to examine the board with the peeling gold paint. It said Our Lady, Queen of the Universe. Underneath were the times of Mass. Confessions were heard at one o’clock and five on weekdays. Murphy pushed open the door and entered.
It was the sort of place that merchant money had been poured into back in the prosperous days of the Quays during the nineteenth century. There was lots of Victorian stained glass and fake gargoyles and the usual smell of candles and
incense. Half-a-dozen people waited by a couple of confessional boxes and Paul Cherny joined them, seating himself on the end of the bench.
‘Jesus!’ Murphy muttered in surprise. ‘The bugger must have seen the light.’ He positioned himself behind a pillar and waited.
It was fifteen or twenty minutes before Cherny’s turn came. He slipped into the oaken confessional box, closed the door and sat down, his head close to the grill.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he said in Russian.
‘Very funny, Paul,’ the reply came from the other side of the grill in the same language. ‘Now let’s see if you can still smile when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’
When Cuchulain was finished, Cherny said, ‘What are we going to do?’