Rogue Elements (30 page)

From his position behind the Sanctuary of the Rosary Basilica, Simon Arkell – who had broken three necks in his life without the slightest concern about eternal damnation – watched as the Brazilian close protection officers oversaw the preparation of the Eucharist. They were taking no chances. The chalice and paten had been carefully cleaned and then cleaned again under their supervision. New wafers, wine and water had been hurriedly procured from one of the smaller chapels by the river. Only the chaplain, a man who had lived and worked in Lourdes for twenty-eight years, was permitted to handle them, and then only under the strictest observation.

On the recommendation of Assistant Commissioner Henderson, the Brazilian team had given Arkell an earpiece radio and authorization to move freely around the great Byzantine rotunda and the other holy sites: he had mingled with the crowd of pilgrims singing ‘Ave Maria’ at the baths; he’d walked ahead of Andrade down the hellish line of
brulières
, scanning the faces of the
feutiers
who perfunctorily scraped fat candle stubs off the fiery grids; at the grotto, he had stood a little to the side, maintaining a clear view of the meadow and buildings across the Gave de Pau. The Brazilians had not given him a weapon. That had come from Margrave as he stepped off the plane.

‘Lose it permanently when you’re done,’ the CSIS director had said, keeping the Glock, shoulder holster and spare clip out of sight of the airside staff at Tarbes-Lourdes-Pyrénées. ‘If the French find it on you, you did
not
get it from a Canadian.’

Arkell was confident that Yadin was not inside the windowless building; every possible hiding place had been searched, and he had personally checked the face of every person entering the church. But there could be an accomplice. Stalking around the perimeter of the nave, past the fifteen side chapels with their mosaic depictions of the mysteries of the rosary, he kept a close watch on the expressions and gestures of the worshippers near the president. The Basilica’s domed construction, with no pillars blocking sightlines, made surveillance easier. His eyes followed Andrade up to the Sanctuary, and he tensed as the host and the wine were swallowed. Nothing. The president rose, crossed himself, and returned to his pew.

The gentle whisper of professional Brazilian voices in his ear faded beneath the much louder ensemble of a thousand joyous Catholic singers. It didn’t matter. He didn’t understand much of the Portuguese anyway. If something was important they’d tell him in English. Andrade was getting carried away, tears in his eyes as he sang. Arkell envied the strength of the congregation’s faith – if not their actual beliefs, built on the claims of a nineteenth-century teenager. He forced himself to focus. Where was he, right now, that resourceful Israeli? And what was he planning?

Arkell crouched down and touched the ground. A momentary sense of a very ordinary, earthy Gascon past – long before Bernadette turned her sleepy little town upside down.

He straightened up in alarm as a withered sacristan approached the president with a glass vial. This part of the ceremony was most definitely not on the official schedule. Touching the transmit button on his radio he said urgently, ‘I don’t care how therapeutic that water is, do not let Andrade drink it, touch it or even so much as inhale it.’

Standing on the threshold of the Rosary Basilica, Murilo Andrade paused a moment to enjoy the brilliant sunshine and the magnificence of his surroundings. To either side, sweeping stone ramps led up to the neo-Gothic Upper Basilica on the great Massabielle rock behind him. Ahead lay the broad expanse of Rosary Square, with the Esplanade des Processions beyond. Halfway down the esplanade, a long line of blue bath chairs pulled by youthful volunteers, sweltering in matching yellow tabards, transported the sick to a service of thanksgiving in the monumental underground Basilica of Pius X. In the distance, the ancient château fort loomed high over the town.

A few moments from now he would be locked in a car, and then a plane for maybe twelve hours. Despite his bodyguards’ pleas to keep moving, he allowed himself this short moment of luxury.

A crowd had gathered in Rosary Square, held back by two lines of municipal police manning hurriedly assembled steel barriers. Word of the Brazilian president’s unannounced visit had got around, and even in a town famous for more spiritual concerns there was no shortage of curious onlookers. Scouts in neckerchiefs and shorts jostled with tourists and sunburnt
stagiaires
for a view of the controversial premier. Andrade smiled to himself at the unease this holy mob would be causing his detail. He felt unsympathetic after the business with the water. Did they not understand that the Immaculate Conception herself had instructed pilgrims to ‘drink at the spring and wash in it’? Well, he had washed; now it was time to drink. But the officers were resolute, and Andrade had given way rather than cause a scene in church.

The cars, with their motorcycle police escort, were waiting in front of the statue of the Crowned Virgin. He wished they had not driven right into the centre of the Domain. Earlier, they had parked discreetly just inside St Joseph’s Gate, and he had happily walked the short distance to the baths. Now, it seemed, security concerns had trumped religious decorum. His protection detail hovered either side of him, using their bodies to spoil the aim of any gunman lurking in the crowd. The officers were all tall: if not quite as wide around the chest as Andrade, they certainly matched him for height. He felt, as often on these occasions, like he was walking inside a moving cage.

A flash of yellow and green caught his eye. Someone unfurling a Brazilian flag over the steel barrier to his left. A charming gesture! It was a young woman, a nurse in white uniform with a long black cape and two red ribbons crossing her chest. Her white headscarf, in the style of a nun’s veil, struggled to contain a curly abundance of flaming copper hair. Was she a compatriot, come all this way like him to honour Nossa Senhora? Or a friendly local, showing support for the visiting leader?

‘
Licença
 . . .’ he murmured to the officer next to him, edging diagonally towards the flag.

The man tried to dissuade him. But Andrade did not feel like being caged any more. It was this very officer who had snatched away the vial of sacred water, embarrassing both the old sacristan and himself. Petulantly, Andrade brushed him aside.

Along with her Brazilian flag, the nurse was holding a red rose. She really was very pretty, in a sweet, devotional kind of way. Andrade offered his most winning smile. ‘
Bom dia, senhora. Como se chama?
’

She hesitated charmingly. He had always had a weakness for red hair. ‘
Adriana, Senhor Presidente. Adriana Lecouvreur
.’

He was delighted. He’d named his own daughter Adriana! ‘
Nome bonito
,’ he declared happily as he took the proffered flower.

She made a little suggestive motion, bringing her hand towards her nose, inviting him to do likewise.

Really – how charming!

The president of Brazil raised the blood-red rose until its thick, velvety petals were brushing his upper lip – and inhaled.

In mid-sentence, urging the Brazilian officers to remove the flower at once from their principal’s hand, Arkell saw the woman in the nurse’s outfit turn and look towards a figure at the edge of the square, by the foot of the northern ramp. He was dressed differently from the night before, and was wearing a pale straw hat, but there was no mistaking the posture or the profile.

Arkell had left the Basilica ahead of the president, had taken up position among the ‘Malades’ benches on the north side of the square to watch for Yadin. Now that he saw him he knew it was already too late.

He did not wait for Kolatch’s poison to take effect, but sprinted towards Yadin, who saw him immediately and started running. Dangerous to pull a gun here, with twitchy French cops all around. Instead he yelled into the Brazilian radio: ‘North side of square! I need back-up! And grab the nurse!’ But he knew that the moment their principal fell the close protection officers would think only of CPR and ambulances. He was on his own.

Yadin ran straight at a pair of motorcycle gendarmes, the rearguard of the president’s motorcade, parked in the shade of a large linden tree near the Reconciliation Chapel. They saw him coming and half-rose out of their seats. One put his hand on his holstered pistol but did not draw it.

Yadin shot them both while running. The four gunshots echoed across the square, but at that same moment a collective gasp arose from the crowd lining the barriers, swiftly followed by shouts and one unearthly scream. It seemed to many that the shots and the collapse of the president were connected. Only a few people near the Reconciliation Chapel noticed the small, violent sideshow at the edge of the square.

The bullets lifted one gendarme right off his motorcycle. His partner teetered in his seat, somehow balancing the bike as his heart stopped beating. Yadin hauled him backwards, deftly slipping into his place before the motorcycle could fall. Firing twice at Arkell, he roared off down the tree-lined walkway.

Arkell had expected the shots, had dropped to the ground at the right moment, and now launched himself towards the remaining motorcycle. The engine was still running. Heaving the machine upright, Arkell climbed on and shifted into gear. Yadin had reached the end of the walkway and cut up to the esplanade, heading for the cluster of pilgrimage crosses and St Michael’s Gate beyond. By now, other gendarme units on the ramp and in the square had noticed the fate of their colleagues. Those last two shots had cut through the commotion around the president.

As Arkell sped away in pursuit, half a dozen different police and gendarme officers got a good clear look at his face.

He had been untraceable in the preceding days. A retired civil servant who eschewed email and mobile phones, Sir Matthew Milford had chosen to spend three blissful weeks touring the mausoleums, mosques and madrasas of Samarkand and Tashkent. The pilgrimage had put him in a generous, benevolent frame of mind, and consequently he was more than usually inclined to be helpful to his unexpected visitor.

He remembered her, of course; serving on the FCO Management Board at the time of her dismissal, the rumours of a stitch-up by colleagues jockeying for the Chief’s job had reached his ears. She was officially still an outcast, and on a different day he might have taken a dogmatically official line. But the mosaics of Uzbekistan had inspired in him a new hope for humanity, and this was after all a woman who, by common Whitehall consent, had served her country with distinction.

‘Rupert Ellington? Yes, certainly I remember him. What a sad time that was.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘Does one ever know your sort well?’ he smiled. ‘I liked him. We played tennis together, and he was generous with his time when my children wanted to try his guitar. I would say we worked well together.’

Madeleine Wraye, while perhaps a little frayed around the edges, looked as resolute as always. Whatever she was doing with herself these days clearly agreed with her. She was taking only tiny sips, he noticed, of the cardamom coffee his wife had prepared for them. But she had complimented the cups he’d bought in Tashkent. Sir Matthew had been unable to resist the mesmerizing blue Ishkor glaze of the Rishtan ceramics, though God knew he had enough coffee sets to entertain a sheikh’s entourage.

‘More sugar?’ he offered.

Declining politely, she said, ‘I’m sorry to bring it up, but do you remember what was going on the day he died?’

Frowning, Sir Matthew began to sense an object behind this unlikely social call. ‘I do, I suppose, yes.’

‘It’s a long time ago. Why has it stuck in your memory – apart from Rupert, of course?’

‘There was a bit of a panic on that day. I rather wondered, the next morning when I heard the news, if it hadn’t brought on the aneurysm.’

‘What kind of panic?’

Sir Matthew hesitated. ‘Is this something you’re looking into for someone? Should I be checking with King Charles Street before talking about it?’

‘I’m afraid they’ll tell you to show me the door. Call it unfinished business, Sir Matthew. Something rotten in the system that I owe it to the Firm to sort out. I’m not asking you to tell me anything you consider more than nominally secret.’

He considered that. It really was a very long time ago. Madeleine Wraye was essentially on the same team, notwithstanding the quibble over data security or whatever it was. And Deborah seemed to like her, which long experience had suggested was a pretty good indicator.

‘It was a panic without foundation, as it turned out. Brought on by one of your lot. Anthony Watchman rang me with an urgent terror alert. They’d picked up chatter about an imminent attack on a British compound near Old Diriyah. A bit frightening, if I’m honest, after the Khobar Towers bombing. Anthony painted a most alarming picture of jihadis overrunning the place on explosive-rigged motorbikes. So we were rather busy that day, liaising with the Saudi security forces, installing extra barriers and so on.’

‘Tony called you personally?’

‘I thought it a bit strange myself. Poor Rupert, I’m afraid it put his nose out of joint rather. I suppose Anthony felt that with such a serious and imminent threat he had to get the Ambassador’s attention PDQ, although of course if Rupert had come to me with the same information I would have dropped everything.’

‘This may seem an odd question, but did Rupert have anything else going on that day?’

‘No time for anything else,’ he laughed. ‘Can I offer you a fresh coffee? The bloom’s gone off that one, I’d say.’

‘Thank you, no. I don’t need to take up much more of your morning, Sir Matthew. Just one other question. Did Anthony Watchman send you something by courier that day?’

‘Goodness, how would I recall a thing like that?’

‘Perhaps related to the terror alert?’

He paused. ‘How odd! Yes, that’s right. I’d completely forgotten. The geranium man.’

‘
Geranium
man?’

‘Sorry, I should explain.’ He laughed at the memory, dormant for a decade. ‘Deborah planted splendid great urns of geraniums outside the gates of the Residence. Actually quite tricky to grow in Riyadh, for some reason, but she pulled it off. When Anthony’s man turned up with the file on the supposed motorcycle terrorists – who never materialized by the way – the night watchman said the first thing he did, before even ringing the bell, was take a close look at the geraniums. In the pitch dark too. Deborah was rather chuffed by that. Most visitors barely noticed them.’

She was a funny sort, reflected Sir Matthew after his uninvited guest had left. Professional and quick-witted – bit of a loss to British Intelligence actually. Yet he couldn’t be quite certain he trusted her. At least she hadn’t asked about anything confidential. He wasn’t entirely sure, on reflection, exactly what she had asked.

Driving out of Wimbledon, Madeleine Wraye was so distracted that she almost didn’t notice the restaurant. Only the vivid safari colours of Potjiekos drew her mind back to the present and made her pull abruptly onto the pavement.

On impulse, she walked in. Two waiters dressed in springbok-adorned polo shirts were laying tables for lunch. A woman, the manager perhaps, was at the bar, poring over a ledger.

‘I’m looking for one of your waitresses. I don’t know her name but she works Sunday evenings.’

The woman glanced up, jaundiced and distracted. ‘We’re closed Sundays.’

Wraye stood motionless. ‘Every Sunday?’

‘Yup.’

‘Is there another branch that –?’

‘Nope.’

She looked at the modest scattering of tables. In her mind’s eye, she very clearly saw de Vries and van Rensburg in the corner, lamenting the state of British foreign policy over boerewors and bobotie, even though she now knew it couldn’t have happened.

Oh, Edward. What were you thinking?