‘She’s certainly that. We done here?’
‘We’re done. Thanks.’
Eve takes her cue and hightails it out of the main entrance.
She spots a taxi rank and grabs a ride back to the shack. With any luck, there’ll be something there that gives her a clue as to where the other kidnapper is.
175
The plate on the uniquely customized Mercedes Benz M Class reads SCV 1 — Stato della Citta del Vaticano — and even by the pace of country traffic, it’s moving disruptively slowly.
Slowly, but perfectly on time.
It takes exactly ten minutes for the armour-plated Popemobile to make the journey from the improvised helipad off the A487 into the crowd-packed streets of Cardigan.
The Holy Father watches the adoration from behind four walls of bulletproof glass and warmly acknowledges as many onlookers as he can.
Invisible rings of security are already in place as the famous white vehicle stops. The Vatican’s Swiss Guards are closest, the British secret service next and then Owain’s SSOA operatives. There’s a deafening cheer as the new Pope appears at the back of the vehicle and descends hydraulically operated steps into the cool Welsh air. He smiles and looks around before kneeling and kissing the earth.
As the pontiff rises, the cheering reaches a new crescendo. He walks towards a prearranged spot where a seven-year-old boy and eight-year-old girl are waiting in newly bought school uniforms.
The Pope bends to talk to them. There’s an explosion of camera flashes. He accepts a bible from the boy and a bouquet of flowers from the girl. More camera flashes. A tidal wave of cheers. Clapping sweeps him along a red carpet and into a protected entrance.
Owain takes out his phone and calls his wife.
She doesn’t pick up.
He leaves a message. ‘Hi, it’s nothing special. I’m at the church and about to go in, so will have the phone turned to silent.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘I love you, Jenny. Love you more than you’ll ever know.’
‘Touching,’ says a voice behind him.
Owain’s blood runs cold.
He turns, and sees Josep Mardrid barely a yard away. ‘What are you doing here?’
The suntanned face oozes a gleaming smile. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.’ He makes the sign of the cross. ‘I’m a very religious man.’
‘You’re the personification of evil.’
Mardrid looks pleased. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He studies the ambassador’s face. ‘I love churches and graveyards, don’t you? So much history and ritual. Secrets buried beneath ground. Hidden but so close to disclosure. You understand what I’m alluding to, don’t you?’ He smiles generously. ‘I have one of your knights’ crosses, Gwyn. The first of many that I plan to collect.’
‘I’ll take that as an admission of theft, though that’s the least of your crimes. By the way, they won’t let you keep a cross where you’re going.’
Mardrid laughs and fastens the middle button of his jacket. ‘Sorry I can’t stay and chat but I have things to do — history to make.’ He tips his head. ‘I’ll be sure to return the cross. When I bury you.’
Owain calls Carrie Auckland as he watches his old enemy drift towards a party of Spanish diplomats. ‘Josep Mardrid is here.’
‘What?’
‘He’s with the Spanish contingent around the front of the church.’
‘I’ll have eyes on him in a minute.’
Owain signs off and joins the flow of dignitaries filing into the church. As he walks down the centre aisle, he recognizes English, Welsh and Italian ministers, the deputy head of MI5 and the Oberst, the Commandant of the Swiss Guard. There are TV celebrities that he can’t put names to and by the look of it, there’s also a small block of local parishioners.
Mardrid.
He can’t take his mind off the man. He’s here to ‘make history’. He’d sought him out to brag about it. And mention the cross. Owain looks around and can’t see him.
He takes his place on the front pew. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Carrie Auckland briefing two of her undercover operatives.
The temperature in the church is becoming uncomfortably warm. He glances at his watch. Five minutes until the start of Mass. His attention drifts to the big bronze statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. When Pope Benedict blessed it, back in 2010 during his visit to London, it was designated as the Welsh national shrine. Today the new Pope will follow in the footsteps of Pope John Paul II by blessing a candle and inserting it in the taper holder in the Virgin’s right hand.
The phone in his pocket silently vibrates with a text message. He slides it out and discreetly reads the screen.
‘Jade Fallon shot in head. In surgery. Suspect Tess Wilkins now dead. Eve.’
Owain returns the phone to his pocket. The doors at the back of the church clunk closed. Organ music strikes up. People stand and straighten out their best clothes.
The greatest Mass that Wales has ever witnessed is about to begin.
176
Chris Wilkins decides it’s time to ditch the Ford. He’s already run it longer than intended.
Stockton Airport lies less than fifteen minutes from the hospital. He’d hoped to have dropped the car there and been out of state before anyone even started looking for it. After the shootings, it’s too risky.
The road ahead offers nowhere for him to pull in and grab new wheels. He turns his burner on and calls Tess for the third time.
There’s no pick up.
They’ve been together for more than a decade and he’s never had to call three times to reach her. Wilkins turns off the phone, slides down the window of the Ford and tosses it. Through a side mirror, he sees it hit the blacktop and bounce into grass.
He’d put the first two unanswered calls down to the complication of killing the Fallon kid, torching the place and getting out of the area. Now he knows it isn’t that. Tess is a pro. She always understood the importance of following the plan and either phoning in or being around to take the call. He’s trying not to think the unthinkable, to imagine she’s been caught — or worse.
With Stockton no longer an exit option, he considers finding a small airport and paying cash to a hick pilot to get him out of State, but there’s a good chance the cops are going to be all over those kind of landing strips.
He rules out a run to Canada, even though Vancouver is only a fifteen-hour haul from Stockton and if he went a more roundabout route, he could hit Winnipeg in under a day.
As soon as he gets new wheels he’ll head south towards Mexico. Not down the fast lanes of the interstate where the cops might come hunting and the traffic cameras could pick him up. He has another route. One so windy and obscure, he’s certain God himself wouldn’t be able to find it.
177
Joe Steffani drives across town to meet with the brass in the NIA. The radio is up high and so is the sun. It’s been a hell of a successful day and he should be happier.
Locking up five major terrorists should pretty much make his career, and that’s going to bring the kind of security, salary and pension that will set him up for life.
But he’s not.
What’s eating him is that if Gareth Madoc is right, there are going to be three terror attacks in the next twenty-four hours and one of them will be right here in New York City. That’s why the top brass want to see him in person.