not remember. Blood pounded in his brain. Suddenly, it came to him. He ran across to his desk and opened the top drawer. Lying on top was his diplomatic passport. He snatched it out and thrust it into his soutane, then turned and dashed out of the room. He bundled the papers inside the case and snapped it shut. He heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, then the familiar creak of the front door opening.
The file! It was still in his bedroom. He ran along the corridor, his heart like lead in his chest, weighing him down. As he passed, dark portraits glared at him in disapproval. He could hear doors being opened below, footsteps on the stairs.
In his room, he unzipped the case and transferred the file to his briefcase. Hurriedly, he took his overcoat from its hook on the door and slipped it on. His hands were shaking with fear. And yet his mind was preternaturally clear: he had to escape and go with what he knew to someone he could trust, someone who had the authority to ask questions he could not. As he turned to go, his eyes fell on the wooden crucifix on the wall. He hesitated momentarily, snatched it down, and thrust it into his overcoat pocket.
He switched off the light and opened the bedroom door. Outside, the corridor was still shrouded in darkness. He turned right, away from the stairs, heading down another passage, in the direction of the fire escape. At that moment the lights flashed on. Like a badger trapped at the entrance to his hole by a man with a torch, Makonnen froze. Gripped by an agonizing fear, he turned to face his hunter.
Diotavelli was standing outside his bedroom door, dressed in a nightshirt.
‘Che succede, padre? he asked in a sleepy voice.
‘Niente, niente! Please, go back to bed.’
But Diotavelli was not to be so easily placated. It was three in the morning. He had heard a doorbell ringing. He was sure there were sounds of someone moving about downstairs. And here was a member of the nunciature staff, fully dressed and carrying a briefcase, sneaking about in the dark. The Jesuit took several steps towards Makonnen.
‘Che cosa sta succedendo? Che cosa state facendo qui?
‘An emergency, Father. I have to go out. Please be quiet: you’ll wake the archbishop.’
At that instant a man appeared at the end of the passage. He was dressed in black tight-fitting clothes, like a mountaineer. A tight hood was pulled over his head. In his right hand he carried a pistol fitted with a silencer.
Whatever Diotavelli may have lacked in physical courage, he made up for in self-confidence. He had served the Holy Office for over twenty years, hunting out heresy in all parts of the globe. He was accustomed to respect and obedience. Men with guns were nothing to a man who had faced down the minions of Satan.
‘Net nome di Dio! Chi...’
The stranger simply raised his gun and fired. He did not deliberate. He did not take aim. Makonnen watched in horror as Diotavelli bucked as though he had been punched hard in the chest. His feet left the ground, blood spurted from his chest. There was hardly any sound: a whisper from the gun, a broken cry, the smack of the bullet tearing flesh, then silence everywhere even before the body reached the ground.
The Ethiopian saw the killer move as though in slow motion. He watched the gun dip and turn, saw light reflected off the barrel, the man’s eyes reaching for him, snatching him, holding him, the gun lifting in an arc towards him. His body twisted heavily as if through treacle, and he threw himself sideways. He heard his voice cry out, saw the muted flash in the barrel of the silencer, felt the floor crash hard against his shoulder.
His hand moved without conscious direction to his pocket. He saw the gunman turn - slow, unhurrying, taking his time. His fingers gripped the crucifix, like a talisman to take with him into death. Hurried lips whispered Jesus - there was no time for prayer.
The killer raised his hand, aiming for a head shot. Makonnen jerked away from the bullet, crashing against the wall. He came up gasping, the crucifix in his hand now, as though to ward off evil. As the gun swivelled for his head a second time, he drew back his arm and hurled the cross at his attacker. The sharp edge caught the man on the forehead and fell to the floor. The gunman cried out and dropped his weapon.
By then Makonnen was on his feet. The light switch was a step away. He flicked it up and turned to run, his black skin and black clothes invisible in the sudden darkness. Someone shouted behind him and there was a low hissing sound, repeated and repeated. He kept on running.
The door at the end of the corridor gave onto the fire escape. The cold night air tore his breath away. A heavy gust of wind snatched at him, knocking him off balance. He stumbled and fell down the first flight of steps, winding himself further. A light came on in the corridor along which he had escaped. Behind him, he could hear feet pounding and a hoarse voice calling him to stop.
The briefcase had dropped somewhere in the course of his fall. He fumbled for it on the hard steps, in the unremitting darkness. There was a sound of feet on metal stairs. The wind howled round the corner of the building. His fingers found the briefcase. Lifting it, he half ran, half fell down the next flight. A metallic crash marked the path of another bullet.
At the foot of the stairs he paused only momentarily. The garage was to his right, by the side of the house. Rennealy had taken the Volvo, Stephens and Corcoran the Volkswagen. That left the nuncio’s Mercedes or his own bicycle. He had a key for the Mercedes on the ring in his pocket, but realized it would be foolish to take such an easily traced vehicle. The bicycle would be slower, but silent and almost invisible.
Keeping to the grass by the side of the house, he ran as fast as he could, the heavy briefcase dragging in his hand. Behind him, he heard his pursuer’s feet move from metal to gravel. Then the sound of a second pair of feet, moving round from the front of the house. The thin air slashed his lungs. He staggered, fell, picked himself up, and ran again. He had only feet to go. There was a shout to his rear, followed by the hiss of the gun firing. A window in the garage shattered with a brittle sound.
The bicycle was in its usual place by the garage wall. Here in the nunciature he always left it unlocked. He rammed the briefcase into one of the panniers and grabbed the handlebars, pushing the machine across the reluctant gravel, mounting as he ran. A man appeared in front of him, running. He swerved, missing him by inches. The bicycle was picking up speed. Gasping for breath, he pushed the pedals, knowing his life depended on it.
He was round at the front of the house. The running footsteps behind him were fading as he pulled away from them. Now he was on the drive. The ground rushed away beneath him like a dream of freedom. He glanced up and saw stars where the wind had sucked away the clouds.
With a sigh of relief he made out the figures of the two gardai manning the gate. He braked and stepped off the bicycle. The policemen turned and watched him approach. One of them switched on a powerful flashlight. The beam caught him in the eyes, dazzling him.
‘Father Makonnen, is that you?’
He nodded and the guard turned off the light.
What on earth are you doing out here at this time of night, Father?’
Makonnen recognized the voice as belonging to Sergeant Dunn. He had not remembered that the sergeant was on night duty this week.
‘Sergeant Dunn, I ... have ... to speak ... with you.’
‘Take it easy, Father. You’re all out of breath. Whatever is the matter?’ Dunn spoke in what Makonnen had been told was a country accent, Mayo or Limerick, he could not remember which.
Taking deep breaths between sentences, he tried to explain as well as he could, without sounding hysterical. The two policemen listened in silence. When he finished his story, he realized he was shaking. All around, the wind blew, shaking the trees on Navan Road.
Suddenly, there was a sound of feet approaching along the drive.
‘Sergeant,’ Makonnen began, ‘those men! Coming this way!’
‘It’s all right, Father, we’ll deal with this. You’re in safe hands. There’s nothing to worry about’
Wouldn’t it be better to call for help? They’re carrying guns.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Father. Constable O’Driscoll here and myself are both well enough armed ourselves. Aren’t we, Sean?’
‘Right enough, we are, Padraig. Don’t go worrying, now, Father. We’ll talk to these lads.’
The first man came into sight. It was the man who had killed Diotavelli. He drew near. Makonnen noticed that he still held the gun in one hand.
Dunn was the first to speak.
‘Good morning, sir. It’s terrible windy, isn’t it? Would this be the man you’re after looking for, sir?’
Makonnen looked round. He felt the strength leave him all at once. O’Driscoll was pointing his Uzi straight at
