Satisfied with her appearance, the target turned on her heels and flounced out of the room. Passerell watched her enter the lift on the hotel security camera screen, and he waited patiently until he caught sight of her in the lobby. Security camera number five in the lobby showed Gillian enter the restaurant for breakfast. The MI5 man shut down the monitors, let himself out of the room and walked along the corridor to room 431. He slid the housekeeping room card into the slot, and when the light turned green he entered the Chameleon’s room.
The bathroom was a mess. Towels were strewn carelessly in the bath and on the floor. Moisturiser and toothpaste lay by the wash basin with their lids off. This was one untidy lady. Moving to the bedroom, he saw that underwear was draped over the back of a chair, whilst all of the occupant’s clothing, books and beauty paraphernalia had been left loosely packed in the suitcase. On the desk was an itinerary for Gilllian’s stay: Today the tour, tomorrow a rest day, Saturday a boat trip and Sunday a 4x4 trip into the country’s interior. At least the lady was organised in one aspect of her life. How she had survived in the service with such an untidy mind bemused Thom, or would have done had he given it any thought.
If Thom had been as alert as he should have been, he might have given some thought to the possibility that, as a trained agent herself, she had allowed him to see just what she wanted him to see. As it was, he left the room happy that all was well, in order to follow his quarry once she left the breakfast room.
***
Gil sat with two girls from Newcastle whom she recognised from the plane the day before. They amused and entertained her with their exploits of the previous evening, where they had cruised the local bars looking for olive skinned young men who would succumb to their obvious blonde charms. They had been particularly successful and, as a result, had just parted company with three such lotharios who had stayed the night, still hung over if the girls were to be believed, when they came down for breakfast.
“I hope this National Shrine is interesting,” Tanya said, moving on to the day’s outing. “If it isn’t I’m going to stay on the bus and have a sleep.” She paused and winked at Gil. “Cos I didn’t get much sleep last night, pet.” Both Geordie girls laughed, and Gillian frowned in mock disgust.
The bus ride to the National Shrine of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was short and uneventful. From the outside the Basilica, a minor Basilica in the parlance of the Catholic Church, is not especially impressive. It is a whitewashed building with three maroon coloured domes. The two smaller domes sit either side of the larger one, which tops the central tower. It is inside the basilica where the greater attraction lies for tourists. Once through the door and out of the glare of the bright Cuban sun, the interior comes alive with detail and history. The stained glass is bright and colourful, redolent of the art deco age from which it originates. The Basilica, built in 1926, also houses the famous brightly coloured original statue of the Lady of Charity. In this statue the Lady is depicted as a Rubenesque woman with well rounded proportions, dark skin and rosy cheeks. The National Shrine was, to the Catholic Church, no more than a sanctuary until 1977, when the Pope granted it the status of a Basilica.
When the old bus rattled to a halt outside the building, the tour party all disembarked and stood together as a Cuban Tourist guide with a blue pennant on a long stick approached. The blue pennant was emblazoned with a yellow logo and the name CubaTurista. After a brief shouted introduction, informing the group that the bus would return for them in two hours, the loud Cuban woman led them inside the Basilica.
***
Thom Passerell had secured an ancient Havana taxi, a 1958 Chevrolet Impala; it was a blue saloon version with masses of shining chrome, a deep ‘v’ symbol on the bonnet and a stretched Chevrolet badge nestling in the V. The seats were well worn leather which was so smooth and hard that if you didn’t hold on around corners you slid from one side of the car to the other.
With no conviction that the old car would complete the journey, he asked the driver to follow the old tourist bus that was carrying his quarry to the National Shrine.
Although it was only just after eight in the morning, it was already hot and sultry. Thom knew, from spending years in Cuba, that the elderly taxi would have no air conditioning. Nonetheless, this taxi did at least have glass in all of its windows, albeit two windows were stuck halfway down, never to move again, allowing warm air to blow in. At least he had a draught.
Forty five minutes later Thom paid the driver and listened as the tour guide explained that the tour bus would return around eleven o’clock. He watched as the tour group went inside, and noted that Gillian Davis was on the edge of the group. He reverted to Cafe Cubana, on the other side of a busy road, which was awash with street furniture advertising Havana Coffee. Carefully selecting a pavement table with a view over the entrance to the Basilica, he ordered a Cafe Americana and waited.
***
Once inside the Basilica, which is no more than a name for a minor cathedral in which a Bishop might reside, the tourists began snapping away at the colourful interior. The fact that the National Shrine was here at all, let alone be open to the public, was more to do with Castro’s fear of the population than his fear of God. The Catholics had ruled Cuba with a firm hand before the revolution, the people heeding their church more than their secular leaders, and the revolutionaries were deeply suspicious of the church and its influence. The visit of Pope John Paul II a few years earlier had led to the Sisters of Mercy being allowed back into Cuba in greater numbers to care for the Basilica, but even now the male clergy were few in number and were subject to constant surveillance.
It was the Sisters of Mercy who interested Gillian, and so she wandered down the aisle, past the altar and to an ornately carved heavy wooden door. The door itself and the walls around depicted the story of how the Virgin Mary, or Lady of Charity, had protected the three Juans as they journeyed to the Bay of Nipe in treacherous waters to collect salt. A nun was polishing the brass work beside the door.
“May I help you, my child?” the nun asked in Irish accented English.
“I’m looking for Sister Angelica. I have an appointment. My name is Margaret Rose and I am from England,” Gillian replied.
“You have fallen far for a convent girl, Margaret Rose.”
“I am always ready to be saved, Sister,” Gillian replied as expected.
The nun used a heavy brass key to open the carved door.
“Sister Angelica is studying in her cell; it is the last door on the right.”
Gillian went inside and the door closed behind her, the brass lock clicking loudly into place and the sound reverberating around the stone walls and stone flagged floor of the dormitory section of the Basilica. The passageway was brightly lit as the expensive stained glass in the public areas had given way to heavy clear leaded glass in the sparsely decorated private areas. A marble statue of Jesus, who looked distinctly Cuban, wearing a pained expression and a crown of thorns, was the only statuary in the long hall. Gillian tried to walk quietly, but there could be no silent approached in this stone clad echo chamber.
She tapped on the end door and opened it. Sitting in a high chair, peering into a giant illustrated text, was Sister Angelica. The Sister was wearing the traditional holy habit, or tunic. Made of black serge, it had the usual two sets of sleeves, the outer sleeves being rolled back for working. Over the habit she wore a white coif which covered her neck and head. The outfit was topped off with the traditional black veil which hung around the shoulders.
Sister Angelica removed a pair of half moon glasses and smiled. Her face radiated genuine warmth.
“Sister Margaret Rose, it is good to see you again. It has been a long time.” The middle aged nun referred to Gillian by her alias. “It is almost six years since you last spent time within these hallowed walls. I can only hope that it is not as long since you entered the confessional.” With that the nun came around the elevated desk and hugged Gillian Davis, then kissed both of he
r cheeks in a brief blessing.
Chapter 42
National Shrine, El Cobre. Cuba. Six Years Ago, May 2005.
The rainy season was almost upon Cuba and the temperature had fallen to around 76 degrees Fahrenheit, whilst the humidity remained high at around eight five percent.
Sister Margaret Rose was uncomfortable in her habit. It was just too warm for the full formal dress of a Catholic nun, but rules were rules. Sister Margaret kept her eyes on the thin stream of visitors entering and exiting the shrine, offering historical asides and anecdotes as the situation demanded. A popular and young nun, she was also very pretty, and many young men had suddenly started taking church attendance seriously in the week or so since she had arrived, fresh faced, from England.
About half of the visitors were locals who crossed themselves and lit candles. The others were foreign tourists who took photos and ticked another Basilica off their bucket list.
Margaret Rose smiled at the latest arrival, whose olive skin might have suggested to a casual onlooker that he was Hispanic and, although Margaret Rose knew differently, she still addressed him in Latin American Spanish.
“Bienvenido al hermano de basilica”.
“I do not speak the language, Sister,” the handsome stranger stammered, seemingly a little embarrassed.
“In that case, welcome to the Basilica, brother,” she intoned in a more familiar English.
The man seemed more comfortable as Sister Margaret ushered him inside and began to explain the history of the shrine. She repeated the story of the three Juans who were in peril on the sea when the statue of the Virgin Mary had appeared in the water and saved them miraculously.
“It is a great story of faith,” the man responded in an accent that bore traces of North Africa, perhaps Tunisia. “I myself am a fallen Muslim, but Allah remains my God.”
“I am sure that we can all learn much from one another. We all have a share of the truth. Perhaps you would like time alone to consider your status before God. I am sure Allah will hear your heartfelt cries from a Catholic Basilica as easily as he can hear them from a Mosque.”
“Indeed, God is Great, Allahu Akbar.” The casually dressed man nodded to Sister Margaret Rose and as she parted she offered:
“If there is anything I can help you with, please let me know.”
Once she was out of hearing distance, Sister Margaret Rose raised her hand to her face and adjusted her glasses.
“Sister Angelica, he is here! He is currently in the Nave and I suspect he will be working his way to the Apse. I will position myself in the North Transept and deal with any visitors in that area.”
***
Jamal Saeed Al Munawar was on the list of the FBI’s top twenty terrorists. Born in Algeria, Jamal’s family fled to Tunisia when the French sought his father on terrorism charges. There they lived in near poverty in a camp where radical elements from Europe and the Middle East came for weapons training, and for a better understanding of their religion and the Jihad.
Jamal himself was not interested in either Islam or the Jihad, to his father’s evident distress. He spoke English with an American twang and wore Arsenal football shirts whenever he was given the chance. Jamal wanted to live the American Dream and eventually his father allowed a rich, but radical, sponsor to pay for his son’s higher education in the USA.
Jamal was a good scholar. He was personable and well liked by all of his peers. His friends were drawn from all races and religions, and he was happy. In his sophomore year he was called back home, because his father was dying. Reluctantly he left his new life, temporarily, and flew back to see his father, who was now living in Afghanistan. After a long and circuitous route home he was taken to a desert compound, where his family were caring for his ailing father.
The compound was filled with earnest young men carrying automatic weapons and guarding heavy armaments in a stone built store. The men were suspicious of Jamal, who spoke with an American accent and wore western clothes. Then, early one morning, Jamal was awoken from his uncomfortable stone bed by a huge explosion. As he exited the primitive dwelling the family called home, he saw the storage shed ablaze, the occasional shell igniting and firing into the sky. Joining the other men in dousing the flames, he did not notice the stealthy approach of foot soldiers.
In an instant, numerous black clad figures appeared froa m all directions, silhouetted against the burning sky, fire spitting from their gun barrels. Boys who had been fighting the fire raced for their guns but were cut down before they could raise them in anger. Realising all was lost, the Taliban recruits dropped to their knees and either cried for their mothers or prayed to Allah, dependent upon their faithfulness. One by one the rebels fell and the troops started to clear the buildings. Under the cover of darkness, Jamal managed to get back to his family, who were huddled around their father.
Jamal heard the soldiers approaching and wisely knelt down with his hands behind his head. Still wearing chinos and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, he looked the archetypal preppie that he was.
“Don’t shoot, I am an American!” he yelled as three young marines came in through the door. The first held up his hand to stop his men firing whilst he considered the situation. Jamal was sure he could save his mother, his teenage sister Dalal and his eight year old sister Adara.
Disgusted at his son’s obsequious behaviour in the face of infidels, Jamal’s father sat up from his death bed and, wielding an ornamental curved sword, a saif, flailed at the lead soldier screaming “Alahu Akbar”.
Gunfire erupted in the small enclosure and in seconds the old man, his wife and all three children were riddled with bullets. When the Taliban returned to the compound, only Jamal and two others were alive, and then only barely.
Jamal’s rich sponsor sent the boy to Saudi for treatment, and when he returned ready to take up arms he was trained and sent back to the USA to study.
For the summer of 2001 Jamal was appointed as an unpaid intern for Galliard-Delaney, the contractors responsible for maintaining the fire protection services in the World Trade Centre, where he made it his business to copy and distribute every drawing, sketch and specification he could find on the twin structures to his sponsor back in the Middle East.
Since 2001 Jamal had been constantly on the move, but he was often caught on camera in locations where individuals had been assassinated to order.
***
Sister Margaret Rose was entertaining the visitors with the story of Pueblo the Catholic donkey when she noticed Jamal crossing the Apse and heading to the door leading to the nuns’ accommodations. She knew that she had to act. She quickly delivered the humorous punch line to the story and excused herself, her right hand slipping deep into her left sleeve as she moved to the door just feet behind Jamal.
***
Jamal had a pretty good idea where the traitor Hasan Yasin would be hiding. The Fatwah for the blasphemous author had been issued in Iran almost a year ago, and Jamal knew that the successful assassin would reap rich spiritual and monetary rewards. His leaders knew where Jamal was and what he was doing, and he carried their blessings with him.
From Muslim to Catholic: One Easy Step had been a New York Times and worldwide bestseller. Tracing one man’s conversion, the book belittled Islam and its Prophet, alleging that Islam was not a religion of love. Worse still was the author’s use of humour when referring to some of Islam’s most sacred texts. Hasan Yasin could not be allowed to profit from his blasphemy, and Jamal would ensure that he did not.
Jamal stood outside the library and took out his Sig Sauer P250 handgun. The polymer handgrip felt comfortable in his hand. He fired one shot into the door lock and then reached forward to push open the door. In the library he saw Yasin cowering behind a nun. Sister Angelica looked calm and serene and ready to die for her sanctuary seeker.
***
Sister Margaret Rose hated handguns. She was an expert in their use but they were notoriously inaccurate, prone to jamming and were just tools. Rifles, howe
ver, were a different matter entirely. They weren’t tools, they were works of art. When asked whether she could place a round in a victim’s heart from five hundred yards she didn’t say yes, she asked which ventricle. That was a real gun. Nonetheless, she could not use a rifle this time. It had to be a handgun, and so she slipped the safety off her Austrian made Glock 19. Over the last five days, since its arrival in the diplomatic pouch, she had assembled, disassembled and cleaned the gun no fewer than seven times. She couldn’t afford any failures on this assignment, hence the choice of the old school but reliable Glock.
She had already kicked off her flat shoes and was now following Jamal in bare feet and in silence. Despite the warmth in the air, the stone flags beneath her feet were cold to the touch. She liked the feeling. As she rounded the curve in the dormitory block she heard a shot and then a shout. As he came into her view, Sister Margaret Rose saw Jamal pointing his handgun into the library and ordering a nun to step aside or die.
Sister Margaret Rose did some shouting of her own.
“Drop the gun, Jamal, or I WILL fire.”
They were less than twenty feet apart when Jamal turned his head to see what was happening in the corridor. He almost smiled at the comical nature of the scene before him. He saw a barefoot nun holding out what appeared to be an old Glock pistol in target shooting stance. The nun was standing in profile to him with her right hand, her gun hand, extended and her left hand on her hip for stability. Her head was turned at ninety degrees and she was looking down the barrel of her gun.
She looked to all intents and purposes like a dedicated amateur, but he could not be sure. Why was she not adopting the double handed grip, so beloved of police movies? Why wasn’t she crouching to make herself a smaller target? These thoughts took barely a fraction of a second to process as he instinctively spun in the nun’s direction, the Sig Sauer P250 gripped tightly in his right hand and cupped in his left hand. As he completed the turn his finger found the trigger.
***
Sister Margaret Rose’s view on life was quite different from those of her counterparts in the service. True, there was a time for a two handed grip and for a crouch, but anyone issuing a warning in such circumstances would require the protection of body armour because, no matter how low a person could crouch, the chest makes a big target.