‘Paul?’ he turned his head.
An arm slid round his neck, a hand clamped over his mouth. In the second that he recognized Cussane’s pale face under the brim of the black hat, the needle point of the stiletto the other held in his right hand probed in under his ribs, thrusting up into the heart. There was not even time to struggle. A kind of blinding light, no pain, then only darkness.
Cussane wiped the blade carefully on Lubov’s jacket, eased him back in the seat as if asleep. He found the Stechkin in the dead man’s pocket, took it out and slipped it into his own. He had been right, as usual. The final proof. He got up, went down the aisle, a shadow only in his black coat, and left through one of the exit doors.
He was back at the office in the Secretariat within half an hour, had hardly sat down when Monsignor Halloran came in. Halloran was very cheerful and obviously excited.
‘Have you heard? Just had the confirmation from the Vatican. The Pope’s visit is on.’
‘So they’ve decided. You’ll be going across?’
‘Yes indeed. Seat booked in Canterbury Cathedral. An historic occasion, Harry. Something for people to tell their grandchildren about.’
‘For those who have any,’ Cussane smiled.
Halloran laughed. ‘Exactly, which hardly applies to us. I must be off. I’ve got a dozen things to organize.’
Cussane sat there thinking about it, then reached for his raincoat where he’d thrown it on a chair and took the poniard out in its leather sheath. He put it in one of the desk drawers then took out the Stechkin. What a bungling amateur Lubov had been to use a weapon of Russian manufacture. But it was the proof that he had needed. It meant that to his masters he was not only expendable. He was now a liability.
‘So what now, Harry Cussane?’ he asked himself softly. ‘Where do you go?’
Strange that habit, when speaking to himself, of addressing Cussane by his full name. It was as if he were another person which, in a way, he was. The phone rang and when he answered, Devlin spoke to him.
‘There you are.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Dublin airport. I’m picking up a house-guest. A very pretty girl, actually. I think you’ll like her. I thought we all might have supper tonight.’
‘That sounds nice,’ Cussane said calmly. ‘I’ve agreed to take evening Mass, though, at the village church. I’ll be finished at eight. Is that all right?’
‘Fine. We’ll look forward to seeing you.’
Cussane put the phone down. He could run, of course, but where and to what purpose? In any event, the play had at least one more act to go, all his instincts told him that.
‘No place to hide, Harry Cussane,’ he said softly.
When Harry Fox and Tanya came through the gate into the arrival hall, Devlin was waiting, leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigarette, wearing the black felt hat and trenchcoat. He came forward, smiling.
‘Cead mile failte,’he said and took the young woman’s hands. ‘That’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes.’
‘Goraibh maith agat.’ Fox gave him the ritual thanks.
‘Stop showing off.’ Devlin took her bag. ‘His mother was a decent Irishwoman, thank the Lord.’
Her face was shining. ‘I’m so excited. All this is so – so unbelievable.’
Fox said, ‘Right, you’re in safe hands now. I’m off. There’s a return flight in an hour. I’d better book in. We’ll be in touch, Liam.’
He went off through the crowd and Devlin took her elbow and led her to the main entrance. ‘A nice man,’ she said. ‘His hand? What happened?’
‘He picked up a bag with a bomb in it in Belfast one bad night and didn’t throw it fast enough. He gets by very well with the electronic marvel they’ve given him.’
‘You say that so calmly,’ she said as they crossed to the carpark.
‘He wouldn’t thank you for the wrong kind of sympathy. Comes of his particular kind of upbringing. Eton, the Guards. They teach you to get on with it, not cry in your beer.’ He handed her into his old Alfa Romeo sports car. ‘Harry’s a special breed, just like that ould bastard Ferguson. What’s known as a gentleman.’