He stood in the gloom, at first by the door where religious pamphlets of one kind or another were displayed. There was a selection of prayer cards of various kinds, all at a price to help church funding, and there it was, that special "we who are ourselves alone" card. He helped himself, meticulously dropping a couple of pound coins into the box provided. He went and sat on the end of the rear pew and waited.
It was very quiet, the church smell, the guttering candles, but there was no one by the confessional boxes, and the lights had been turned off, probably to save on the electricity bill. There was a gloomy, medieval atmosphere about the place that some might have found menacing, and, in the darkness, things creaked.
A door banged from the direction of the sacristy, and she appeared by the altar and walked towards him, an old khaki trench coat over her shoulders. Her steps echoed hollowly.
He stood to greet her. "So there you are, Caitlin. You've done what I asked?"
She stared at him, proud and bitter. "If it's what you want, then let it be so. I'll not pretend to like it. That she shot dead one of our own while working with Ferguson is a known fact, and I think it's illogical to treat her differently because she's a woman."
"It's what I need, Caitlin, it's as simple as that. So you give me your word that Murray has your orders to abort?"
She crossed herself. "I swear it on my soul, and I'll swear it on anything else you wish-the Bible, if you like."
"I'll be content if you swear it on your own symbol of the prayer most precious in your life above all things." He held up the card. "Swear it on this."
"I swear before God and with all my heart that I have spoken to Patrick Murray in front of his comrades, who can confirm that his mission concerning Monica Starling is aborted."
She held out the card to him, and he said, "No, I'd prefer you to keep it."
"Then if you don't mind, I'll take my leave of you," Caitlin Daly said. "A great day tomorrow, God willing. Will we see you in the evening?"
"I think not," Holley said. "I'll leave it to you and the cell. Saturday will be the day to see what's been achieved."
As he turned to go, she caught his arm. "You still don't truly believe in all this, do you?"
His laugh was harsh and genuine. "A bit late in the day to ask me that sort of question. I stopped believing in myself years ago. Once you've made a discovery like that, it's difficult to believe in anything else, but it's your day if it's anybody's. I'll leave it to you and contact you on Saturday morning."
He went out, and she said to herself, "I thought so." There was a slight creak as one of the doors opened in a confessional box, and a man came forward holding a pistol in his right hand. "You heard all that, Patrick?"
"I could have shot him easy."
"Don't be stupid. What would we have done with the body? It would have ruined everything."
"So what happens now? Does what you told me in front of the others still hold?"
"Of course not. Go back to the original instructions and kill the bitch. Now, go on, get out, and keep this to yourself."
He withdrew, the door banged, and it was so quiet, only the Virgin Mary floating in a sea of candlelight, watching her. She looked down at the prayer card. She tore it into little pieces, her face quite calm, then walked back to the sacristy. Although not of the faith himself, Daniel Holley had seen enough of how important Roman Catholicism was to Irish women to believe that the oath she had given him, sworn on the Virgin herself, would be binding. The memory of his years with his beloved mother was enough to convince him. In the cab during the return journey, he felt considerable relief. He called ahead and told Selim he was on his way. A certain burden had been lifted, and it showed when he got to the shop and rang for entrance.
Selim bustled out wearing his black duster coat. "I could tell by your voice that you are a different man. Am I correct?"
"Yes, I have to admit I'm much relieved."
"Excellent. Five minutes to go for the eight o'clock show at the Curzon. They're showing Alain Delon and Belmondo in Borsalino."
"Gangsters again?" Holley said.
"Of course, and why not? Hurry, my boy. We'll just make it."
The film was as stunning as it had been the first time Holley had seen it, decades ago. Later at Al Bustan, they discussed it. "More than any other filmmakers, the French have portrayed the romance of the gangster, have been able to make him a genuine antihero, and there is a certain nobility to such characters," Selim said.
Holley shook his head, "You've been reading too many film magazines, Selim. The one thing that all such films have in common is the ending. Your antihero, usually on his back in some street, a gun in his hand, in the act of dying if not already dead. Where's the nobility in that?"
"But this is not always so, Daniel. You, my boy, are still here despite all the odds, the samurai for real."
"But consider the price, Selim. Has it been worth it? I think not." He got up and reached for his coat. "I'll see you in the morning."
He went out into the narrow street, turning up his collar against the rain, lighter now but still there. He felt a strange content, probably because of the way the problem with Caitlin Daly had resolved itself, and was reasonably satisfied with the way things were going. He assumed that Harry Miller had already departed for New York. What he didn't know was that the Gulfstream carried an additional passenger, one Sean Dillon, who had persuaded Ferguson at the last minute that he should go.
For the moment, all Holley wanted was sleep, for tomorrow would be one of the most important days in his life, and, arriving back at the hotel, he went straight up to his room and turned in.
He had the dream again, if anything more intense than ever, Rosaleen with him an even shorter time, leaving him quite quickly, assuring him that she would return but never doing so. There was the same sense of panic as he ran through those narrow streets and towering buildings in the black-and-white world. This time, it wasn't just the feeling of loss where she was concerned, it was experiencing the sensation that he was the only person in that dark world, and for the first time he struggled and came awake.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, aware that he was totally alone and always would be, that was his eternal truth and something he'd better face, so he got up, showered and shaved, put on his ankle holster, just in case, and went across to Shepherd's Market.
Selim insisted on making scrambled eggs and toast for them, and Holley sat there in the kitchen watching him cooking. It was absolutely delicious, and he said so, and Selim beamed happily.
"If I learned one great thing from the English when I was at Oxford, it was the art of making perfect scrambled eggs on toast, for it is a great art. Did you know that Ian Fleming is said to have virtually lived on scrambled eggs? He once said in an interview that he could eat them at any time, day or night."
"Selim, you're a good friend, and I know what you're doing. You're trying to take my mind off things, and, yes, I need that. If things go right, they'll start happening in the late afternoon New York time. The other things will happen here late tonight. I am on standby, if you like. It's other people who will actually go to war. The woman that was proving difficult? She is actually in charge of what's happening. I planned things, it's as simple as that. While others go into action, I have to stand back and wait for the result."
"And if it does not produce the expected success, one supposes Mister Big at the Kremlin gets to blame you?"
"So what do I do? The day stretches ahead."
"Care to return to my favorite spa? I could phone Martha and book us in overnight."
Holley was going to say no and then thought, Oh, why not? He could get the verdict there as well as anyplace else. And should the news turn out to be bad-well, he was really going to need that massage. At the club, things were very much as they had been before, even the weather was the same, late-winter cold and miserable rain. Sitting in the lounge bar at four o'clock in the afternoon on his own after a strenuous round in the gym, Holley received his first voice from the outside world. A call from Chekhov.