clear: he’s all I want. I’m not interested in you. Let him go and you walk out of this. Kill him and you’re a dead man. You can walk away from here or you can float, like your friend. It’s your choice.’
Tm giving the fucking orders here! I’m saying who walks out of this and who doesn’t. Whoever you are, just put your gun in your pocket and get the fuck out of here. Don’t get mixed up in this. You’re out of your depth. Do you understand? You’re in deep water.’
All this time, Makonnen had been mumbling prayers in a frightened voice, Hail Marys in a mixture of Latin, Italian, and Amharic - a babel of invocations to ward off the inevitable darkness. Suddenly, his voice broke off in mid-prayer and he began to turn his head, slowly, against the pressure of his captor’s arm, until his face looked directly at the gun, the barrel sleek and cold against his forehead, right between his eyes.
‘Now!’ he whispered. ‘Kill me now, quickly, while I’m ready. Hurry, do it for the love of God!’
Patrick saw the man hesitate.
‘No!’ he shouted.
The man struck Makonnen hard across the face with the end of the silencer, then swung the gun around, aiming at Patrick. He fired twice in quick succession: silent shots, wide of their mark.
Patrick’s bullet struck him in the teeth, an imperfect shot, but mortal. His head jerked back, his finger clenched the trigger, firing wild shots into the indifferent wind. Makonnen leapt away, leaving him to topple sideways into the canal. The dark waters broke and formed again. A ripple surged outwards from the point of impact and was erased by the wind. The silence that fell was absolute.
EIGHTEEN
Milk-white light filtered through long curtains, simple, without form or substance. He had once thought the Holy Spirit must be like that: simple, dove-white, light spun from light, the Word made luminosity. Out of habit, his eyes travelled up to the wall above his head. It was bare: no red light, no crucifix.
Father Makonnen could not remember coming here: the bed in which he lay, the room, the plain rust-coloured carpet, all were unfamiliar. His head was aching, and it hurt to open his eyes. He turned away from the light and pulled the bedclothes over his head. Sleep returned.
He dreamed he was in a tomb. His body lay cold and anointed on a marble slab. On the wall someone had painted the outline of a fish in red. Around him, hooded figures chanted a litany in a language he had never heard. Candles flickered like gemstones in the dark. Echoes moved across the walls like shoals of fish twisting and turning beneath the tide.
Suddenly the voices fell silent. The candles were extinguished. There was the sound of a rock being rolled into place, a heavy rock. He could hear sounds of hammering, metal upon stone, orchestral almost. Then the hammering fell silent and he was utterly alone. And at that moment, in the darkness, in the silence, he heard someone moving.
His eyes opened and he was in the strange room again. He turned and squinted at the light from the window. In his head, he could still hear the sound of hammering.
Suddenly, memories of the night before flooded back with appalling intensity: Balzarin’s dead face, white and uncomprehending; Diotavelli gunned down in his arrogance, his nightgown bright and angry with sudden blood. He relived the chase through the house and grounds, the wind that tore his flesh, the capture, the drive to the canal. But after that all was blank, as though someone had dipped a sponge in water and wiped it across his brain.
He threw the bedclothes aside and stood up. He had been sleeping in his underclothes, something he never did. His outer garments lay draped across a wooden chair.
Crossing to the window, he drew back the curtain. Squinting in the sudden brightness, he looked across green fields to a steel-blue lake. Wooded hills girdled the shore, and above a serried tracery of leafless trees rose a pointed tower of dull grey stone. In the water, the pale images of clouds moved slowly on the breeze like white smoke.
What was this place? Who had brought him here? He dressed quickly and made his way to the door. A small landing led onto a flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. Through an open door on his right he could see a wash-hand basin and part of a bath. The next door was closed. He opened it and found another bedroom, much like the one in which he had woken.
Coming out onto the landing again, he heard the sound of voices talking quietly below. Cautiously, he started down the stairs. A flagged passage led to an open door and a smell of fresh coffee.
He paused in the doorway. A man and a woman sat facing each other across a scrubbed pine table on which lay a heap of papers. He recognized the American, Canavan, but the woman was a stranger. Canavan looked up and caught sight of him. He smiled and pushed back his chair, standing.
‘Father Makonnen. I hope you’ve slept well. How are you feeling?’
‘I ... I’m feeling a little confused. Last night ... I can’t remember very well. Where am I? What are you doing here?’
‘It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. I guess you could do with a coffee and maybe something to eat. Oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t been introduced. This is ... my friend Ruth Ehlers, from the American Embassy. She knows who you are already. This is Ruth’s house, or her weekend cottage, I should say.’
The priest remained standing. Yesterday’s events were crumpled and blurred in his head.
‘I don’t remember coming here,’ he said. ‘I was ... I remember going to the canal. Two men ... drove me there. Then ...’
‘Come and sit down. You’ll feel better when you’ve had some coffee. How would you like it?’
Canavan took his arm and guided him to a chair.
‘I... Black, please. With a little sugar.’
He sat down. Deprived of the conventions of the seminary or the nunciature, his world was coming apart. He still had not said his morning prayers.
‘Coming up. What about some breakfast? We’ve got mushrooms - Ruth picked them this morning. There’s wholemeal bread from Bewley’s, plenty of real Irish butter, black cherry jam.’
‘Just the coffee, please. You said “breakfast” -what time is it?’
‘Well, perhaps “breakfast” isn’t really the right word. “Lunch” would be more appropriate. It’s just after twelve o’clock.’
‘How long have I been asleep?’
“We got here just after five. You were still pretty agitated. Ruth gave you a couple of sleeping tablets.’
‘I see.’ Makonnen paused and looked round the room. It was clean and bright, with tall windows that looked out on the lake. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘where is “here”?’
Patrick glanced out of the window.
‘Don’t you recognize it?’
‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever been here before.’
The woman spoke for the first time. She was beautiful, he thought, but troubled by something. He had been trained to resist beauty, but not distress, and he found himself unwillingly drawn to her by it. She wore a soft dress of European manufacture, without the gilding he had come to expect in American women. Even his African eye, calibrated more to the nuances of poverty than style, could sense how finely her limbs were habituated to well-cut garments.
‘This is Glendalough,’ she said. As she spoke, she raised one hand nervously to her cheek, and he noticed how her fingernails had been chewed. What was making her so ill at ease? ‘The valley houses an old monastic city founded by Saint Kevin in the sixth century. That’s the round tower you can see just above the trees. It used to be the belfry. And a place to hide when the Vikings came burning down everything in sight. There are ruins all round it. You’ll see it all later.’
The priest nodded. He had heard of the place and often planned to visit it. There were close links between the early monks of Ireland and those of his own church.
He turned to Patrick, who had just finished pouring coffee into his cup.
What is going on, Mr Canavan? Why have I been brought here?’
He was not angry, just frightened, torn from everything familiar.
‘We were hoping you would provide some answers to your first question yourself, Father. As for why we brought you here, surely you know your life is in danger?’
‘Danger. Yes, I understand.’ Again he could hear footsteps pounding after him in the dark. He had to force
