‘It could catch him quickly, sir,’ Fox said mildly.
‘Yes, well they all expect us to do that anyway. Special Branch in Dublin have lifted his prints for us at his cottage. They’ve gone into the Dublin computer which, as you know, is linked with the security services’ computer at Lisburn which, in turn, is linked to our computer here and at Central Records, Scotland Yard.’
‘I didn’t realize you had that kind of hook-up,’ Devlin said.
‘Miracle of the micro-chip,’ Ferguson said. ‘Eleven million people in there. Criminal records, schooling, professions, sexual preferences. Personal habits. Where they buy their furniture.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘No. Caught one of your lot over here from Ulster last year because he always shopped at the Co-Op. Had an excellent cover, but couldn’t change the habit of a lifetime. Cussane is in there now and not only his fingerprints but everything we know about him, and as most of the big provincial police forces have what we call visual display characteristics on their computer system, they can plug in to our central bank and punch out his photo.’
‘God Almighty!’
‘Actually, they can do the same with you. As regards Cussane, I’ve instructed them to insert a deliberately amended record. No mention of the KGB or anything like that. Poses as a priest, known connections with the IRA. Extremely violent – approach with care. You get the picture.’
‘Oh, I do.’
‘To that end, we’re releasing his picture to the press and quoting very much the details I’ve just given you. Some
evening papers will manage to get it out, but all the national newspapers will have it in tomorrow’s editions.’
‘And you think that will be enough, sir?’ Fox asked.
‘Very possibly. We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? One thing is certain.’ Ferguson walked to the window and glanced out. ‘He’s out there somewhere.’
‘And the thing is,’ Devlin said, ‘no one can do a damn thing about it till he surfaces.’
‘Exactly.’ Ferguson went back to the tray and picked up the pot. ‘This tea is really quite delicious. Anyone like another cup?’
A little later that afternoon His Holiness Pope John Paul II sat at a desk in the small office adjacent to his bedchamber and examined the report which had just been handed to him. The man who stood before him wore the plainest of black habits and in appearance might have been a simple priest. He was, in fact, Father General of the Society of Jesus, that most illustrious of all orders within the Catholic Church. The Jesuits were proud to be known as Soldiers of Christ and had been responsible, behind the scenes, for the Pope’s security for centuries now. All of which explained why the Father General had hastened from his office at the Collegio di San Roberto Bellarmino on the Via del Seminario to seek audience with His Holiness.
Pope John Paul put the report down and looked up. He spoke in excellent Italian, only a trace of his Polish native tongue coming through. ‘You received this when?’
‘The first report from the Secretariat in Dublin came three hours ago, then the news from London a little later. I have spoken personally to the British Home Secretary who has given me every assurance for your safety and referred me to Brigadier Ferguson, mentioned in the report as being directly responsible.’
‘But are you worried?’
‘Holiness, it is almost impossible to prevent a lone assassin from reaching his target, especially if he does not care about
his own safety and this man Cussane has proved his abilities on too many occasions in the past.’
‘Father Cussane.’ His Holiness got up and paced to the window. ‘Killer he may have been, may still be, but priest he is and God, my friend, will not allow him to forget that.’
The Father General looked into that rough hewn face, the face that might have belonged to any one of a thousand ordinary working men. It was touched with a strange simplicity, a certainty. As had happened on other occasions the Father General, for all his intellectual authority, wilted before it.
‘You will go to England, Holiness?’