From the checks he’s just done, al-Shibh, Korshidi, Tabrizi, Hussan and Iman Yousef Mousavi are still saying nothing.
The traffic in Lower Manhattan is worse than ever. Steffani’s Jeep grinds to a dispiriting halt part way down Wall Street. He shakes his head in dismay. There’s still enough time to get to his meeting but only just.
He stares around him, bored and impatient. A cute blonde in a Lexus to his left looks him over. Some idiot is trying to get a hot-dog cart through the traffic and is drawing horns. Down a side street looms a church an ex-girlfriend of his used to go to. Its neo-Gothic spire used to soar above everything. Now it’s dwarfed by the buildings around it. Such is progress.
The traffic finally moves and he loses sight of it.
Then something hits him.
And the jigsaw of clues comes together, almost like a miracle.
178
No one does theatre better than the Catholic Church.
Not for them, understatement, nuance or humility.
The way Owain sees it, any Catholic Mass is a grand affair, but one including the Bishop of Rome is the religious equivalent of a Cirque du Soleil premiere.
There are so many lit candles Cardigan could put Las Vegas in the shade. The opening act, a central procession of the entire ecclesiastical cast, is breathtaking. Finest silk and cotton vestments. Priceless golden incense burners and chalices. Intoxicating scents of frankincense and elevated voices of heavenly choristers.
All a distraction from the most important thing of all.
The Holy Father’s safety.
An army of well-regimented altar boys in crisp, black-and-white cassocks and cottas is usurped only by a legion of lavishly robed priests, bishops and archbishops who have insisted that they too must have a place centre stage. But none compare to the sumptuous sight of the new pontiff.
He is dressed in layer after layer of antique vestments. Each drips with symbolism as old as Christianity itself. A uniquely designed pallium, ornamented with red crosses that represent the blood of Jesus, is fixed to his chasuble with three gold pins, representing the nails with which he was crucified.
Owain notices a fanon, a shawl of alternating gold and silver stripes and a subcinctorium, a strip of fabric embroidered with a cross and the same Agnus Dei, Lamb of God, as featured in The Ghent Altarpiece.
Over the Holy Father’s left arm is a maniple, a band of priceless silk made of intertwined red and gold threads, symbolizing the unity of Eastern and Western Catholic rites.
Most striking of all is the long, open-fronted cope that the Pope is wearing: red, fringed with green, deliberately evocative of the Welsh flag. The Holy Father walks to the lectern, raises his gaze to the packed and hushed congregation, then greets them in stilted Welsh: ‘Bendith Duw arnoch — the blessing of God be upon you.’
All hearts rise.
All except one.
The appearance of Josep Mardrid has shaken Owain Gwyn. Deep inside the house of God, he feels the force of evil stirring.
179
The call from Joe Steffani leaves Gareth Madoc slack-jawed.
Being a foreigner, he simply hadn’t made the connection that his New Yorker contact has. Now it makes sense.
Perfect sense.
Madoc is gone from his desk in sixty seconds and gets himself down to Lower Manhattan via Metro rather than the car-jammed road.
At the intersection of Wall Street and Broadway, he sees what had got Steffani excited. There, as big as big could be, is the explanation of what Mousavi had meant when he was secretly recorded at the al-Qaeda safe house saying, ‘…the Trinity will be no more.’
Everyone thought it was a reference to three separate targets, but it wasn’t.
It was just one.
A National Historic Landmark. A place where people took refuge from flying debris when the first tower collapsed during 9/11. A building connected to the ancient kings and queens of England.
Trinity Church.
The sanctified bricks and mortar represent the long-standing special relationship between the Church of England and God-fearing America. Forged when the first stone was laid in the seventeenth century and strong enough to survive two rebuilds and more than three hundred years.
New York’s finest, cops from the financial district, are out in force turning people away, setting up barricades and trying to push sidewalk traffic further and further back.
But it might be too late.
Madoc catches a glimpse of Steffani on a phone. He’s walking away from the church, towards the graveyard where, among others, lie Founding Father Alexander Hamilton, the first US treasury secretary, and Robert Fulton, developer of the world’s first steamboat.
Trinity is the perfect target. It destroys history as well as lives.
‘Hey, Joe!’
Steffani looks up and acknowledges him.
Madoc wanders over and waits until he finishes the call.
The NIA agent clicks off his phone and turns on his smile. ‘We came up trumps, buddy.’ He points to the tower. ‘Up there are twenty-three of the biggest bells in the US. Half were replaced recently by a company from England. There was a service engineer in there yesterday, fit the description of Malek. The bomb squad just found several pounds of his handiwork packed beneath the decking boards.’
‘It’s defused?’
Steffani nods. ‘It certainly is.’
Madoc allows himself his first smile for a long time. ‘I’ve got someone to call, someone who’s going to be very relieved to hear that.’
180
The Gospel reading passes without so much as a stumbled syllable.
The pontiff ends by reminding everyone that in 1982, when John Paul II became the first reigning Pope to visit Wales, he called on the young people of Britain to begin ‘a crusade of prayer’. He adds, with almost passionate emphasis, ‘That crusade needs to be renewed. The enemies we face today are more insidious and demanding than ever. We must become increasingly united and devoted in our worship of the Lord, Jesus Christ, Our Saviour.’ He lets the message sink in, then adds, ‘Bendith Duw ar bobol Cymru! — God bless the people of Wales!’ The cheers of the crowds outside can be heard through the church walls.
The Pope leaves the lectern and heads towards the sacred statue for the final part of his heavily stage-managed Mass — the lighting and blessing of a new taper.
Owain’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He palms it so it can’t be seen as he reads the message. ‘Target was “Trinity” the church in NYC. Bomb defused. GM.’
Tension flows out of his shoulders. His worries about the Pope have been for nothing. He’ll call Gareth as soon as the service finishes.
Around him, expectation builds among the assembled congregation. A cherubic acolyte walks self-consciously across the altar. In his uncomfortably outstretched hands, he carries a long, narrow box fashioned from dark hardwood and fastened with a large clasp bearing the Papal insignia. It comprises the crossed silver and gold keys of Saint Peter, the triple crown of the pontiff showing his roles as supreme pastor, teacher and priest and most importantly, at the top of the clasp, a distinct cross on a globe, signifying the sovereignty of Jesus.
The Pope opens the box and removes a virgin candle, brought directly from Rome.
A second acolyte appears, somewhat older than the first and with steadier hands. He carries a long candle lighter, made of wood and brass. He waits patiently to one side.