Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Possibly. Would you have me apply for it if it went against my instincts and my conscience?’

‘I would never have anyone deny his conscience, but that’s just a word you’re throwing around. You’re using it to mask your resistance to change. I know this because I’ve been there myself. I didn’t seek the office I now hold. . you don’t apply for this job, son. When it was put to me, I thought at first, I can’t do this. I’m a pastor, a priest among priests, not above them. But then it came to me that the College of Cardinals hasn’t made too many mistakes in recent centuries, and that my brethren calling to me with such unanimity were in a way the collective voice of God. I’m not bestowing divinity on Jimmy, here, but he’s a wise man and if he feels you’re his natural successor, don’t you owe it to him and to yourself and to your city to listen to him?’

‘But, Your Holiness, we’re completely different sorts of policeman. I could never do his job the way he’s done it over the years.’

‘Then do it your way,’ said the Pope, quietly. ‘He’s had you as his deputy. So what’s to stop you finding a deputy like him?’

Skinner laughed. ‘He’s a one-off.’

‘So are you. Bob, I’m not simply arguing my friend Jimmy’s case here, I’m arguing my own,’ he nodded to his left, ‘and that of Archbishop Gainer. We love this city and we want to see it in the safest possible hands.’

‘Your Holiness. .’

‘Think about it, that’s all I ask. . Well, that and one other thing. I won’t say that I don’t feel more holy in my exalted state, for it would be impossible not to, looking down on all those thousands in St Peter’s Square, but that title is an awful mouthful for evenings like this. Since my first days as a priest, my closest friends have called me Father Gibb. Please join them.’

‘Thank you, Father, for that honour,’ said the DCC. ‘In fact I heard that name for the first time a few days ago.’

‘Yes, and from my old friend Auguste, I believe.’

‘That’s right.’

Father Gibb frowned. ‘Angelo told me of the tragedies that befell his colleagues. Do they relate to me, do you think?’

‘They make me uncomfortable, but they don’t, not that I can see. To be truthful I don’t know what’s behind them.’

‘But there is a threat to me. Tell me, Bob, I can sense it anyway.’

It was impossible to dissemble before the man, to hold anything back. ‘Yes, there is,’ Skinner replied. ‘Two people. We believe they were planted here by al Qaeda, or by the greater network of which it’s a part, to await your visit. We know who they are, although not where they are or what they’re planning. Whatever it is, they’re long odds against now we can put faces to them. If I may say so, you don’t seem surprised.’

‘I have felt the presence of a threat since my coronation,’ said the pontiff. ‘And I have felt also that it would be at its greatest when I was among those closest to me.’ He gave a twinkling smile. ‘Without giving myself any more airs and graces, there’s a precedent for that, you know.’ He reached across and touched Skinner on the arm. ‘Try to do them no harm, please.’

‘Our first duty is to protect, Father Gibb, but we’ll try to shed no blood, I promise.’ He looked across at the chief, who nodded in support.

‘Going back to Malou,’ said Skinner, ‘we’re protecting him now also, and his bandsmen. Is there anything you can tell me that might help us identify the killers of Hanno and Lebeau?’

For the first time that night, John the Twenty-fifth looked his age; he frowned and closed his eyes, as if he was in prayer. Eventually he turned back to the DCC. ‘I can’t tell you all I know about Auguste Malou, because much of it came to me in the confessional.

‘He was a soldier when we met, a young officer. It was over forty years ago, but he was carrying a burden even then. Although he was absolved of his guilt, the letters we have exchanged over the years tell me that he bears it to this day.’

‘Have you seen him since your time in Belgium?’

‘No.’ He shot a bright glance across at Skinner. ‘But what makes you think I met him there?’

‘If not, where?’

‘During my time as a curate at Saint-Gudule, I joined a mercy mission to the civil war in Africa, in which the Belgian army was embroiled. Malou was a young lieutenant then. We met in the Congo.’

Neil McIlhenney was waiting in his office when the car dropped Skinner back at Fettes at ten minutes before one. ‘The New Yorkers?’ he asked.

‘Been and gone. When I showed Donegan the photograph of Aurelia Middlemass, the poor guy broke down in tears.’

‘How about the other one?’

‘Progress. I showed him the Kabul picture and the photofit treatments that we’d produced from it. He sparked on one, so I pulled in an operator and we worked up one that he reckoned was pretty much spot on for the version he met in New York. I sent that to Merle Gower on her e-mail; she was going to pass it straight on to her people at Quantico. She said that when she told them about the Franco link, they got quite excited. She called me back about half an hour ago, wondering where she could contact you. She’s expecting a preliminary briefing from them through the secure fax at the consulate and she wants you to see it ASAP. I told her that when it comes through she should bring it here.’

‘Nothing for me to do but wait, then. You should go home now, though.’

‘I’ll stick it out.’

The DCC shook his head. ‘No, you will not; I’m grateful to you as it is. That wife of yours is a very precious lady, even more so now. You go home and keep her warm, my friend.’

McIlhenney grinned and picked up his jacket. ‘That’s an order I can’t refuse. Once Gower’s been with this report, you should do the same.’

‘I can’t, Neil. I’m too wrapped up in this. Plus I’ve had a good slug of Jim Gainer’s Amaretto.’

‘What more can you do? It’s going to be all right, man. We’ve had a huge stroke of luck. The Pope’s going into a virtual fortress, we’ve identified the people who posed the threat to him and we’ve got the manpower to guard against anything they can throw at him. That’s if they come back at all; if they’ve got any sense they’re thousands of miles away by now.’

Skinner shook his head firmly. ‘I’m telling you, they’re coming back. That’s why they killed Mawhinney: to eliminate the risk of him spotting his dead wife in the stadium. And, incidentally, his huge stroke of luck wasn’t so good, was it?’ He pointed a finger at McIlhenney. ‘Has Dorward reported back yet?’

‘Give him a chance. Arthur will get results if they’re to be had, but he has to do it at his own pace.’

‘I suppose so,’ said the DCC, morosely. ‘I just feel so fucking helpless, Neil. I know all the answers, save one; we know where, we know when, and we know who. But I don’t know what they’re planning to do. . and until I know that, then I am dead certain the life of a very brave and very great man will be at risk.’

‘I know something else. The more exhausted you get, the less likely it is to come to you.’ Lights in the drive made him glance out of the window. ‘That’s Merle Gower now. Once we’ve heard what she’s got to say, you’re for my spare room again. . and no arguments.’

The big man’s sigh sounded desperately weary. ‘If you say so,’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s no point arguing, I suppose, since you’re one of the few guys in this force I can’t shout down.’

The internal phone rang. McIlhenney picked it up and spoke to Night Security. A minute later there was a knock on the door and Merle Gower was shown in. She looked at the inspector doubtfully. ‘He stays,’ said Skinner. ‘He’s cleared.’