Fear of the Fathers (31 page)

“Are you okay,” he said.

“Yeah, I think so,” she whispered. “My head hurts though.”

“I'm not surprised,” said Cronin. “There's a nasty gash in it. I've cleaned it up as best I can though. I think we ought to get you to a hospital and get you checked out.”

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Just help me up.”

The first thing she noticed as she got to her feet was Alonso, gagged and bound on the sofa. “You managed to overpower him then,” she said.

“Just about,” said Cronin modestly. “Why don't you sit down. I'll get you a glass of water.”

When he returned with her drink, Stella pointed to Alonso and said, “That's a very professional job, are you sure you're a priest?”

“Yes, I am a priest. But I also did five years in the special forces.”

Stella looked at him with a new fascination, wondering who exactly he was, and whether she could trust him. “So, Father, if that's what you are, what the hell's going on?”

“Good question,” said Cronin. “It's a bit of a long story. Although I expect you know a lot of it.”

Stella sipped at her water. “All I know is that you've been lying to me from the first moment we met. It was no accident that you bumped into me outside the supermarket was it?”

“No,” confessed Cronin. “It wasn't.”

“So, come on then, tell me who you are and what you want.”

“First of all I need to get rid of prying ears,” said Cronin, picking up Alonso and slinging him into a fireman's lift. “Is there anywhere we can put him that's out of earshot?”

“Just dump him in the bedroom for the moment,” she said, pointing. “It's just round the corner.”

While Cronin removed Alonso Stella reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and breathed in heavily. The pain in her head was subsiding and she was gradually recovering her faculties. The blackout and Cronin's subsequent kindness had blunted her anger, but as her mind returned so did her mistrust. Whatever he said, she was determined to keep him at arms length.

“That's better,” said Cronin, re-entering the room. “Now we can talk freely.”

“Can we?” Stella grunted. “What makes you think I'm going to believe a word you say?”

“Nothing,” said Cronin. “And I don't blame you, but just hear me out and then make your own decision. Remember, I could have tied you up as well if I'd wanted – or killed you.”

“True,” said Stella. “But that doesn't mean a thing, you might just want to get me on side.”

“Fair enough. But let me explain before you make your mind up.”

“Go on then,” she said, blowing out a petulant puff of smoke. “Give me your blarney.”

Cronin chuckled and began. “My name
is
Patrick Cronin and I am in fact a priest. I was in the army for seven years, five of those with the SAS. I left and decided that a change of career was in order—”

“Some change of career,” interrupted Stella.

“Yes it was. During my years in the forces I cut myself off from the reality of what I was doing. I'm not sure I should have been there in the first place. It was one of those things – I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, so I ended up in the army. At first I enjoyed it – it gave me a sense of purpose and direction, and I was extremely good at my job – but then, when I was continually being dispatched to kill, I found myself questioning the whole thing…

“Anyway, I'm rambling. Let's get back to the point. I left the army and drifted around for a bit trying my hand at various things, then out of the blue I got a call from a colleague who said there was some work I might be interested in. There was a man of importance looking for somebody with my particular skills. I told him I wasn't interested in security work or being a mercenary, but he said it was nothing like that and arranged for me to meet him.

“I turned up at the Ritz for a meeting expecting to be greeted by some rich sheik or one of the Russian ‘oligarchs', but instead I found myself shaking hands with a Cardinal. His name was Miguel Desayer.”

“A cardinal?” said Stella. “I bet that threw you.”

“Yes it did,” said Cronin. “And what he told me threw me even more. He explained that he was looking for an assistant to help him with some research, and that I fitted his requirements. I explained that my forte was more in tactical manoeuvres, but he ignored the comment. He produced a dossier and said that he knew all about me. He had everything in there, right from nursery school onwards. I couldn't believe it.

“He told me more about myself than even I knew. He said he had been drawn to me because I was a disillusioned Catholic. I told him that there was no point trying to convert me back, and he replied by telling me he didn't want to. In fact he wanted the opposite.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Stella. “He wanted to rally you against Catholicism?”

“Effectively, yes,” said Cronin. “Desayer's story was quite amazing to me. His parents were killed at an early age and he was brought up in an orphanage. He and his friend Abdullah were set apart from the other children by one of the carers, a man named Gabriel. He looked after them well, and educated them far beyond their impecunious surroundings. The day they were to leave he called them into his study and let them into a great secret. He told them a story about Jesus surviving the crucifixion and how he had left a legacy to mankind—”

“The box!” exclaimed Stella, unable to help herself. “The symbols!”

“Ah,” said Cronin, with a grin. “So you do know.”

Stella immediately realized she had given too much away.

Cronin smiled kindly. “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm not going to push you for information. Shall I carry on?”

Stella nodded.

“Well then,” he continued. “Gabriel told them about the box and the symbols, and how they had been lost during the Second World War. They disappeared whilst being transported from one temple to another for safety. He told them of his concerns that the knowledge could fall into the wrong hands. He said that there were factions within both the Catholic Church and Islam that knew about the symbols and had been trying to find them for centuries. If either of them got hold of this knowledge the consequences for mankind would be catastrophic. Whoever found them first would use the symbols to create their own Messiah, and announce themselves as the only true religion, thus establishing them as the ultimate power in the world.”

“So where did the two boys come into it?” asked Stella.

“I was just coming to that,” said Cronin. “During their time at the orphanage they had both been given an excellent grounding in various religions, particularly Catholicism and Islam. Gabriel's request was that Miguel and Abdullah place themselves in these faiths and look for signs of the rogue factions within them, and make sure that they never got hold of the knowledge.”

“And Miguel managed to rise all the way to cardinal,” said Stella. “That's quite something for a non-Catholic. What about Abdullah?”

“He was a great Islamic scholar and imam.”

“Was?”

“Yes, unfortunately he was killed the other day. Murdered. He sent me a note from his hospital bed warning me that the Muslims were on the trail of the box.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Stella sympathized. “It must have hit Miguel badly.”

“Yes, I'm sure it has. But there is no time to dwell.”

“You know what,” said Stella. “You're story's remarkably similar to Alonso's.”

“I dare say it is. I would expect him to twist it to suit his purposes. But believe me, his sole aim is to get hold of that box and those symbols for the Church. It's my job to stop them.”

“So you say. But how do I know which one of you to believe?”

“You don't. But I expect you've already made your mind up.”

“Just one more question,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “Why did you become a priest?”

“In short, I had to – to allay any suspicion of my appointment as Desayer's assistant.”

“Makes sense I suppose,” she agreed. “As much as anything does in this sorry business. I don't understand why you had to lie to me though?”

“I had to check you out – see where you were coming from. See if you could be trusted or not. And also, I had no idea for certain that my theory was right.”

“What theory was that?”

“The theory that brought me here in the first place,” said Cronin. “The idea that your boyfriend had been resurrected. The idea that the symbols had resurfaced. To be honest I still don't know for sure. I need your cooperation for that.”

Stella looked into Cronin's eyes trying to gauge his intention. A part of her was screaming not to trust anybody; but way down deep, beneath the hurt, the betrayals, and the lies, something told her this man was good, and that letting him in was the only possible way forward.

“Well?” said Cronin.

Stone raced to the side of the bridge and stared down into the Thames. The lights of Westminster gave an adequate view of the rain stinging the surface, but there was no sign of Jennings. A crowd started to gather, leaning over as far as they dared, trying to get a glimpse of what they assumed was a dangerous fugitive. The gunfire hadn't scared them at all.

Davis tried to shuffle them along. “Nothing to see here!” he shouted, prising a gawky teenager away from the balustrade.

Stone grabbed his arm. “Listen,” he whispered. “Leave them. We need as many eyes as we can get. I want him found.”

Davis changed his tack. “Okay then!” he hollered. “If anybody sees anything then just shout.”

Stone assembled his team. “Right then,” he said. “I want all available police launches out there patrolling under the bridge; and I want officers on both banks. I want a net around this area, we can't let him get away!”

He and Davis walked across the road to the left side of the bridge. They looked over at the long riverside pontoon and peered inside for signs of the runaway.

“Where the hell is he?” muttered Stone.

“Probably underneath,” said Davis. “Taking cover in the arches. That's what I'd do.”

Stone nodded.

“Or he could have drowned,” Davis added. “The currents down there are all over the place. Doesn't matter how good a swimmer you are, if the undertow gets you you're fucked.”

A patrol boat pulled up beneath them and chugged slowly along parallel to the bridge, its blinding light scouring the arches for signs of life. Stone watched nervously.

“Don't worry mate,” said Davis. “There's no way that he's going to escape from this. We've got everything covered so tightly even the algae will find it hard to float through.”

“I know,” said Stone. “But Jennings is a survivor. I'm not going to be happy until he's back on dry land in front of me, preferably in a body bag.”

A shout from the other side caught their attention. Before long the whole crowd was baying and pointing. Stone and Davis sprinted across and barged their way to the head of the throng. Below them, thirty yards in front, a man was swimming wildly for the bank hotly pursued by a police boat. He struggled bravely against the tide, but quickly realized his efforts were futile and began to tread water and let the boat come to him. An arm draped over the side and hauled him up. The launch turned around and sped under the bridge to the pontoon. Stone and Davis ran down to meet it.

As soon as the boat docked Stone leapt on board, closely followed by his slightly breathless partner. “Where is he!?” Stone yelled at one of the officers, holding up his warrant card to confirm his superior rank.

“Over here sir,” said the slightly bewildered cop, and led him to the stern where the man shivered inside a towel.

Stone grabbed the man's shoulder and snapped his head round to get a look at his face. It wasn't Jennings. It was a young man, barely out of his teens. “Who the fuck are you?!” he screamed. “What the fuck do you think you're doing.”

“W…w…what do you mean?” asked the lad, cowering at the unwarranted barrage.

Stone's blood continued to boil over. “I mean – what the fuck are you doing taking a dip in the fucking Thames at nine o' clock in the fucking evening! That's what I fucking mean!”

“I got pushed in,” the lad whimpered. “I was looking over the side of the bridge and some guy came up behind me and pushed me in.”

“Fuck it!” said Stone slamming his hand on a rail. “Right! I want everyone back out there searching. I don't want a piece of fucking plankton getting by without me knowing. There's a homicidal fucking maniac out there in the water – I want him found. Now!”

Stella looked into Cronin's keen eyes and decided to relent. Stratton would probably go mad when he found out, but that was his problem. If he'd been honest with her in the first place then she wouldn't be in her current predicament. She'd already let slip her knowledge of the box to Cronin, there didn't seem any point in hiding the rest. There had been enough deceit, it was about time somebody started opening up.